ON LOSING (AND FINDING) MYSELF.

♥


"What's the rush?" asked the
old woman from the supermarket.
"You have nothing but time;
you have nothing but time
and a can of beans.

- Zeier (2017)



Ever since graduating from university, I've been diligently dedicated to my craft,
which is mastering the art of being a working adult. The equation I've been fiddling
with looks something like this: (1) waking up + (2) going to work + (3) coming home
+ (4) wondering where has the time gone + (5) checking social media and getting sad
+ (6) questioning the meaning of my life + (7) going to bed = (8) repeating 1 to 7.
Like most of my fresh-grad peers, I've had high hopes for my future prospect.
"I would find a job with a good pay that I really enjoy, go on expensive vacations
with my uni best buddies whom I still keep in touch with, AND! LIVE! MY! FUCKING!
BEST! LIFE!" I said to myself in my mind, fully envisaging an intricately & beautifully
painted picture of myself laying on a bed full of Malaysian ringgit (hmm... kinda eww
but that will sadly make do) that I've earned by myself, walking into Sephora like it's
my garage (umm #goals!), and last but not least, hanging out in Zara like it's my own
closet — basically be on my best shopaholic behavior for 24/7, like nobody's business.

( Ain't that a fucking dream hElLo?! )



Dreams like that can be fun to have, until it's crushed by the reality, coldly and
dismissively, like a carton of spoiled milk returned to the grocery store — stale
and embarrassed. Little did I know, my life after graduation started off with a
whirlwind of panic & loss of momentum in life. The idea of losing my (glorious)
final year university student identity completely threw me into panic-calculating
how many privileges I'm currently losing before I set foot in the working adulthood.

This list isn't logically unsound. I will fight anyone who disagrees with me, thanks.

After 16 years of learning how to be a student, my journey stopped two months ago

after passing up my last final exam paper all the way back in July. It was a really weird

feeling for me. I remember going for a celebratory lunch with my friends after my final

exam, and surprisingly, I did not feel elated at the slightest. All I could think about was

finding a job — and possibly living the rest of my life being a sad slave, to the money.

I was lost, in all the possible

ways I could ever think of.

As a writer and online creator, sharing stories and curating visual content are baked into

my personality. Making my readers embrace their quirky side and feel more empowered

(and hopefully amused, lol!) has been at the core of my writing since I started out. But

when I graduated from university this past July, something in me changed. A part of me

died. I was no longer motivated to share my stories with my readers anymore, neither

was I feeling creative to create any content anymore, be it on my blog or YouTube

channel. I was devastated. It felt as if there was a gossamer-light pair of reins

holding me back from doing the one thing that I love. I took a long, long break

from creating content, while trying to figure out my sudden loss of artistic

momentum. While devastating at first, my creator block has become

increasingly persistent — and I've been wondering what it implies.

Ever since the commence of my blog, many readers had written to me that I was

being "very negative and whiny". I am a natural pessimist; I've always been a huge

sharer of the shitty — shitty tinder dates, shitty movies that I've watched, shitty

roommates (ps: pay a visit to my blog archive & you shall find more!). Growing up, I

really wished people would've been more honest about a lot of the truths in regards to

adulting, instead of cultivating an unrealistic overview of what adulthood looks like in

its full glory (which is why I'm really appreciative of the book Almost Adulting by Arden

Rose, go read it!). One thing I dislike about the internet is that, there's always this idea

to be "politically correct", even to the absolute minuscule of things. There's this idea

that you must always hide the mucky sides: the mess, the pimples, the frustration

(unfortunately this doesn't apply to the internet "comedians", which is why the

internet is making more & more stupid people famous). In recent times, I've

reached a point of not sharing anything anymore, fully knowing how some

stupid people will respond to my content. I've stopped using Twitter since

the past February, and Facebook since June — and I've seriously never

felt better than before. In this age of oversharing, privacy is the only

thing that I want to hold on dearly to (besides my Sephora card).

Call it selfish (I prefer calling it self-protection), in order to thrive, I have to subscribe

to the notion that I do not owe everyone, everything. Uncles and aunties who want

to know about my salary (yes I found a job since August did I tell y'all that?) for some

after-meal gossips? People from the internet who just felt obligated to comment on

my lifestyle when they have nothing to improve on theirs? Y'all can go fuck yourself.

I am withholding;

I am not withdrawing.

I no longer have the capacity, or the want, to offer myself up like a buffet on

the internet. Sharing on the internet used to be caveat-free for me. Perhaps I'm just

older. Perhaps it's that I don't feel the need to use other people's opinion to validate

my life anymore. Perhaps I just grew out of all of it. I am still figuring out my life.

Conscious sharing is my way to protect my emotional epidermis as well as I can,

cause I know now that what I choose not to share are my most precious truths of all.

Until next time, take care!

♥

          

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