Amor fati

    

    

I can be harsh sometimes, in wanting people to realize their full potential. Yes, full and not true exactly, because the truth can be so bitter sometimes. Our neuroses don't really allow us to become the persons we are meant to be. You can say I'm prone to "tough love". It's not about watching someone make the wrong decisions but more about seeing them misinterpret the cards they have been dealt with. I want the people around me to be more flexible, if not stronger. I would like to see more affirmative action and less whining. I have learnt to enjoy life as it comes––enjoyment being subjective, of course––and it pains me to see people neck-deep in a spectrum of negative emotions that's bound to drown them long-term. I just want you to know in your bones that time passes, and nothing remains the same. Not the ups and certainly not the downs.

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I'm still reeling from Fatima Farheen Mirza's A Place For Us. I ended up giving it 3 stars for the effort and solidarity with a brown Muslim female writer, and took away a star because I felt (like many other readers) that it could have been better in terms of character development. I also think it could have been a much shorter novel, however, it's one that had me gripped completely––and isn't that what a good novel is supposed to achieve? I'm now on Essential Labor, which I'll most likely race through in a few days as well. I already have a rough plan about what books I'll be reading next but we'll talk about it when I get there.

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I've been thinking a lot about my years alone; the time I left home for what I didn't know would be forever, and all those instances of navigating a totally new life entirely on my own. The first day was a blur. I didn't know it could get so dark at 4 PM but it did. The evening was pitch black. I awoke from my nap in a panic, the first thought of my parents in my mind. By the third day, I couldn't remember why I was there in the first place––all my ambitions seemed futile and meaningless. I remember being lucky enough to secure housing on the fourth day, and having to drag everything that was my life back then, i.e. one large suitcase and a backpack, into a cab that would take me to the new place. That place would be my home for the next two months, that is, before moving onto another one for four years, and then another, and then another.

When random people try to relate to me and find similarities, I can barely smile. You'll never know what it's like to have been in my shoes, I say, only to myself.

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It's very warm today, ever so suddenly. I'm reminded of how brutal the summer gets . It was quite nice to step outside without a heavy padded jacket weighing me down though and I enjoyed watching the sun glitter on the river's waves. Only yesterday, when I was speaking with a dear friend from the past life I wrote about earlier, I was asked how I like my life now more than the one before. I thought it was a silly question because to me the answer should be obvious to anyone: I'm not alone anymore. I'm not living in somebody else's house, being unanswerable to them even in my 30s. What an odd question and proposition, I thought. I miss nothing of that old life enough to give up what I have now. Why would I want to go back and relive my sad bachelorette days in a country (and a house) where I'm constantly reminded I'll never belong? And what of being employed at minimum wage do I really miss?

But anyway. The weather today. The weather today is quite warm. Warmer still indoors. I've officially turned off the heating system and hope we won't be needing it any longer (yay, reduced bill!). I'm all cozied up in my blanket, wearing my new honey bee yellow XXL t-shirt that I pulled off the men's clearance rack this past weekend. And I'm reading Essential Labor. Or was. Until I got distracted and started writing this.

What a restless year this has been so far, in trying to find a rhythm to the circus of life––and losing it, only to restart the search again.