#1.5

Have you ever given a thought on why you are placed where you are now? Like why is this your path rather than that other paths that we would've preferred?

"I'm sick of this town, this blind man's forage, they take your dreams down, and they stick them in storage. You can have them back son, when you've paid off your mortgage and loans…"

Many years ago, four years, to be precise, that part of the lyrics from Passenger's Life's for the Living became my daily mantra. Fresh from failure, very lost in life, and filled with a never ending stream of regrets, I cursed myself for the lost chances in life, for the innocence and stupidity of youth, and for the times I was foolish enough to believe that I was heading in the right direction.

I wasn't.

I took a path, reached the end, and found that it was, after all, a dead end.

I spent many months in the pathway of recovery. Walking back to the starting point hadn't been easy. In fact, it would be appropriate to say that it didn't take me months. It took me years. And maybe it's still ongoing. Maybe I'm walking backwards right now. I'm not sure.

I recalled the days when I was a bright-eyed kid, filled with hopes and dreams to become someone big. "What would you want to be when you grow up?" they asked me. Oh, I was certain of my answers. A forensic scientist. A doctor. A whatever-occupation-society-sings-praises-to.

I was blinded, of course. At the age of 12, I had my first guitar. But no one ever told me I was good, that my passion was to be nurtured. They left me alone in the path of musical discovery, and it soon became a lonely path filled with self-doubt. "I'm never going to be good enough to get a career in music," I told myself. When a schoolmate, who at the age of 15 was already sure of pursuing a career in music, told a teacher that that was exactly what she was going to do after leaving school, I secretly asked myself, well, that surely won't help her to pay the bills, will it?

I had many other passions as I grew up. Thai language, writing stories, none of those passions had any relation to chemical reactions or how the organs function,  or even how you can get the value of x from messing up with the other alphabets in Greek. But none of those passions were conventional either. My exam results became the thing I held on to, shaping the belief that I was doing well, and would continue to do well as long as I studied and did my best.

It wasn't until I was 18 that I realised perhaps I had been deceiving myself for years. Books laid in front of me made no sense. While classmates discussed about chemical reactions and biological processes I buried my head deep in my curled arms, hidden beneath the protection of my ever-faithful black hoodie.

And it took me two more years to realise that I was a huge liar to myself. Because when I hit that brick wall, unlike my other friends who also had fallen under the curse of the brick wall, I turned away, walked away, and abandoned that path completely. I know two or three friends who marched onwards and are doing well.

But Randy Pausch said in The Last Lecture that it is when we hit the brick wall we truly know our heart's desires--whether we really wanted that thing in the first place. When I hit that brick wall, I was already certain I no longer wanted it.

Hence here I am, in yet another long path towards rediscovery. The days haven't been all sunshine and rainbows. Some days I lie awake thinking how things would've been if I tried harder, or if I didn't walk away from the brick wall but climbed it instead.

And do I think this path is exactly what's meant for me? Truthfully, I'm not sure. Because a pathway isn't a destination, and I realise that for each point in life where I thought I've reached a destination, I've actually just went past a checkpoint to reflect and ponder about what I've learnt.

Some days it feels as if I'm a waste of resources, being part of society with nothing to contribute. Some days when I feel like rebelling against the words of the people around me, I question myself on why do I need to feel superior, and perhaps that shows how I'm in a wrong place with nothing to learn other than humility. And the lessons had never been easy. It's always a constant battle between feeling inferior and superior at the same time. Some days I look around me and scoff, hah, sheep! while some days I scroll through the news feed on social media and feel so small for not being to travel around the world and live independently like most of my peers.

But more often that than, I ride buses. I repeat the same routine for nearly three years and there had been countless times on my ride I find myself being sure than ever that I am exactly where I'm supposed to be, right here, at this very moment. I smile at random strangers, I help the blind and the elderly to shut their windows. I offer my seat whenever I have the chance to do so. I initiate conversations with passengers and drivers. And sometimes I'd like to imagine these bus rides without myself. Indeed I am an insignificant being, so small, so powerless, just like in Casting Crown's lyrics of Who Am I, I am a flower quickly fading, here today and gone tomorrow, a wave tossed in the ocean, a vapour in the wind. Yet I'd like to think myself as a little Perodua Kancil driven extremely slowly in front of a speeding bus. Small and powerless, but whatever I do still makes a difference in someone's life, be it small or big.

And with this belief, with each passing day I grow more and more in confidence that the world around me would be so different if I weren't walking in this path right now. Sure, the world would still work as fine, but it would be different. And I'd be different.

And in the famous words of Douglas Adams, I guess "I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be."

#1

Writing Prompt: Red String of Fate (Jini)

He was tapping his feet. That was the first thing I remember about him. It wasn’t because of the action itself. It was because he was wearing the same pair of shoes as mine.

Sometimes I lie awake and find myself trying to figure out which song he was tapping his feet to. If I could find the answer by just counting the number of beats per minute with each time his shoe hit the floor, I’m pretty sure I could use that answer to find out more about him. They say the music that you listen to somewhat defines you. I’m not really sure about that, but if it’s right, wouldn’t it be great to use that as a key to decipher someone’s entire character?

I watch him gaze out of the window. There’s a tale in that gaze. I’ve seen hundreds of people on this ride, but they never had a gaze so intriguing like this. Most would glue their eyes to their phones, scrolling blindly. Some would fall to their side at an almost comedic angle, getting drowsy albeit the bumpy ride. But he was different—he stood out. He stood out just because he chose to do nothing but to stare into the nothingness. Or was it really nothingness that he saw? Perhaps he was looking at paper planes, or flying fishes, or multiple moons appearing in the sky on a sunny afternoon. Or maybe he was summing up the digits of the plate numbers that he saw. I’ll never know, because I’d never get to ask him.

“Excuse me.”

I almost leapt from my seat.

He had his head turned towards me. His eyes were meeting mine—bloodshot eyes, weary and watery. I glanced behind. No one was there. He was really talking to me.

“Did you see that?” he added, not waiting for my response.

I searched for any clues on his face. “See what?” I simply asked.

“Dandelions,” he said, and then smiled. He pointed out of the window. All I could see were dust and falling leaves. When I was just about to answer him, he had already left his seat, walking along the aisle to the front, telling the driver to stop the bus. He was gone the moment he hopped off. I watched him vanish into the shop lots, the sight of him blocked by the parked vehicles, and all I remembered the most was his funny gait, body slightly bend backwards.

That wasn’t the end. I saw him again two days later.

He smiled at me, but I didn’t smile back. I pretended to not notice how he watched me before taking his seat, that seat two rows in front of me. As soon as he was seated, I scrutinized the back of his head. His hair was short at the sides. His ears were pointy, almost elf-like. My eyes darted towards his feet. They were tapping the floor of the bus lightly.

And that’s the exact moment when I saw a dandelion, carried away by the wind, landing itself on his left shoe.

“Dandelion!”

That word left my mouth like an unguarded prisoner, a pigeon freed from an opened cage. I gasped after realizing what I’ve done.

I made that man turn around, looking at me straight in the eyes again.

“What did you say?”

I glanced uncomfortably to his shoes. The dandelion was still there.

“Dandelion,” I said lightly, while pointing towards his left shoe.

He smiled, but soon this smile broke into a wide grin, and then a chuckle. The moment he had the dandelion in his hand, he was already sobbing hard, with streams of tears flowing freely down his cheeks like a river running fast.

I panicked. This wasn’t the kind of reaction I expected. I could feel the curious eyes of the other passengers piercing through the back of my head. Even the driver was taking glances at his rearview mirror, distracted by the man’s hard sobs.

“I’m sorry,” he said amidst all the sobbing.

I patted his shoulder. That’s all I could do. Then I rushed to the frontmost seat near the driver, not wanting to have anything to do with the man anymore. I remained there, confused and shaken, for the last time I had seen an adult man sob was when dad watched my big brother Danny’s casket being lowered into the ground, six feet out of sight.

*

“Death is a cruel old friend,” said the driver to me the following week when I paid my fare for yet another ride home.

I remained silent, bemused by the sudden greeting about death.

“You have no idea, do you?”

I pursed my lips.

“He’s from the mental institution. No one talks to him. You’re the only one besides me on this bus who has had the guts to talk to him,” the driver said.

I said nothing. There were so many things to ask, but I didn’t know where to start.

“Fred. His name is Fred. Don’t be afraid to talk to him,” he added.

*

The opportunity came exactly 21 days after that. It took me that long to see Fred again.

I sat next to him when I boarded. He didn’t budge. We didn’t say a word for ten whole miles. Not until he became the first one to say, “Dandelion.”

I waited for him to continue on. My goal was to become the listener here, not the talker. But then I realised Fred wouldn’t talk if I didn’t start responding.

“Did she like Dandelions?”

Fred nodded.

“Tell us about her, Fred,” said the driver, eyes still focused on the road, yet I knew he was paying full attention to us. “Tell us about her like how I’ve told you about my late darling Jane,” he added.

“She was full of life. Her giggles took away my pain. She loved dandelions. Her name was Annie. Annie was the only one who understood me. She brought me out of my addiction. I was so wrong to have fallen back. If only I listened to Annie, I wouldn’t have killed her that night. I swear I didn’t know the road was that slippery. Annie told me to slow down. I didn’t.”

There was a little sigh at the end of his short narration. I wasn’t sure whether he was relieved to let it all out, or he was reliving his past regret.

My phone rang.

I looked with resentment at the pale line across my left ring finger as the name appearing on the screen gave me a pang of pain and bitterness. I answered the call.

“Why didn’t you attend the court hearing? You’re making it hard for all of us. Please just sign the papers.”

That’s all she said before she ended the call abruptly, with no greetings as how she began her words, and with no goodbyes as how she left me to be with that bastard. I squeezed my knuckles.

“Everything alright, buddy?” asked the driver. I smiled and nodded. And at that same moment the smile formed on my lips, I noticed one thing.

“Hey Fred.”

He looked at me.

“Hey boss,” I called out to the driver.

The traffic light turned red. Both men were looking at me now.

I felt an inexplicable connection with the two of them. If I could be Fred’s Annie, I would. If I could be the driver’s Jane, I would. But at this moment, there’s nothing I could do to escape the life I’m living.

I pointed at my shoes, specifically at my shoelaces. They were red, just like Fred’s and the driver’s.

“What if this is our red string of fate?” I asked.

Fred looked down at his shoes, with his mouth agape, symbolising a mixture of amusement and bewilderment. “You’re crazy,” he muttered, before shutting his mouth, realizing the choice of word he had just used.

“I do feel a connection with you, man, but not in that way,” said the driver, this time letting go a hearty laugh.

I wouldn’t have married that woman if I knew that the red string of fate could come in many forms.

“Coffee sometime in the near future?” I casually asked.

They both said yes.

Prologue

So..this is where all of it begins.