Life, Laughter and Everything Else

"Why do your read?" It was a perfectly innocent question and it took me aback for a while. If she had asked "Why read?", I could have given a plethora of answers, from the many 'xx Reasons why you should read articles there was never any shortage of online. It improves your concentration. Your vocabulary gets better. It makes you more empathetic. But were they the reasons I read? Not really. Yes I believed that reading probably had those benefits and I also believed I had gained superior intelligence and skills of language, refinement and empathy that was unmatched by the vast majority of the people around me whose skills were degraded by the countless hours spent watching videos on their smartphones ( I did never admit to reading making me more humble). O, that might be a bit far fetched but there was certainly a pleasurable sense of 'I am different from the technology controlled masses' that I derived from reading books. But was that it?

There is mysterious comfort in the written word. They emerge slowly and meticulously and like a painting, they visualize and they clarify, giving shape to the thoughts one usually repeats endlessly in the mind at lightning speed. Where the enemy can be seen, he can be fought. The words themselves are the weapons. However, they do not hurt the enemy, instead they allow you to stab deep into the recesses of your mind and your heart. There they find the torrent of emotion and thoughts within; the fear, the pain, the sadness. The words question the enemy and with each question comes an answer and with each answer comes another question. The words dig deeper and deeper and so reveals he truth. And the truth, if true, comforts.

The eyes are almost always lifeless. They stare blankly at the little screens in the hands while greedily digesting novelty after novelty. A pair catches my stare, perhaps wondering if I was going to get up and leave. I sit still and divert my eyes. My mind is still numb and my body inert. I rub at corner of my eyes, trying to pick at the morning particles that sit tightly. It feels like sand against the soft skin and my fingers slowly roll it away from my eye before discreetly flicking it onto the floor. I close my eyes and lean my head back. Sleep, it was never enough when the time ahead was unpleasant. Every other time, it was an opportunity to make way for something else. 

There is something about the way hate consumes you. It locks you in a state of mind that cuts out everything else around you. Your whole mind is focused on that object of hate, how it wronged you, trampled on you while sadistically benefiting from your pitiful state. As you recall event after event, suddenly very word and action it spouted had an intent to hurt you and bring you down. These events are interpreted to justify opinions you have about it. More events, more feelings of despair and humiliation and rage. Your body is very tense. The breath is shallow and quick. Retribution! You mind scrambles for ideas to get back or ways in which you could have got back. You go back to the events and hypothesize alternate scenarios, scenarios that would have turned the tide and made him the victim. You imagine your victim cringing in pain, hiding his face in embarrassment and most importantly regretting having ever hurt you. You feel the triumph of having restored justice. But wait, not ye

The weather forecast did not get it wrong this time. It was in blissful ignorance and unfounded hope that I had made my way there for a jog. As I stood in the shelter, I could see the dark clouds hovering above the skyscrapers of Johor across the Johor Straits, clouds that produced the intermittent lightning to warn the human inhabitants of the impending torrent. The winds swayed the tress in front of me. Then I noticed that for the Malaysians, threat had turned to attack. It was no longer a question of if, but a question of when. It started suddenly, as if the clouds on a whim had decided to let go of their contents. Malaysia disappeared from view as the rain hid it away like a curtain.I was stuck in the concrete shelter with a bunch of teenagers, one who had a loudspeaker which blared Malay rock to my annoyance. They were lost in their phones, some smoking away right in front of the 'No Smoking' signs. I waited for my friends to arrive and rescue me, diving my attention

"She's been on the phone a lot lately, don't you think? Probably way more than usual", I asked out of genuine concern. It was almost as if she was addicted. "Well we use it a lot too, so we are not in a position to judge", my sister pointed out. Sadly true, but still, when you see someone scrolling through the unending stream of messages received and forwarded by people bored like her, it created some concern. Most of the videos were rubbish (and I was being nice in using that word). The interesting videos dulled our capacity to be surprised by present life, the messages of the good ones were drowned out by the messages of other good ones and the bad ones enraged and shocked us unnecessarily. She had to be rescued from this venom but all the statements pointing out her obsession did nothing more than produce a retort. "Ma, why don't you come and join us for breakfast instead of sitting there by yourself", persuaded my sister. She p