The trouble with being self-aware

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Cloudy Melbourne, 2017

Dear Seafarer,

I believe that some of the hardest people to help in the world, are the ones who are the most self-aware. Self-aware people, as the name suggests, have great insight into themselves — lot more than we might ever notice, as outsiders.

They’re the ones who have taken a problem they’ve identified within themselves, and analysed it through and through, multiple times inside their heads. That perspective you so cleverly thought you’re giving them for the first time— they’ve thought of it ages ago. They know everything that’s broken within them, and they probably know how to fix it.

When talking to people, I reflect consciously on their levels of self-awareness. I recognise that there is something presumptuous about parroting a problem or issue that might seem obvious to them. There is nothing much I can say, that might be helpful at all. It’s like telling a blind man that he can’t see. Perhaps this is why I put in effort into offering the most genuine, and novel insight I can think of, whenever someone confides in me. Bland, generic advice or feedback doesn’t do much at best, and demotivates at worst.

Perhaps deep down, I too, wish that when I’m troubled, that someone would say something that I’ve yet to realise. I feel like some of the most powerful moments in life are when I’m shown that there could be a different perspective to things. I want to feel alive, I want to experience paradigm shifts! I want someone to say something that will move me. Perhaps it will be akin to getting a sign from the Heavens. I’ve always been drawn to eloquent, deeply reflective people for this very reason. When they speak, more often than not, I am learning something new.

However, the truth is, very rarely can someone say something perfect, in the immediate moment. So much can happen, merely within an iota of vulnerability. I am often at a loss for words. It is both a humbling and confusing moment, to watch someone else in pain.

Words do not solve problems. I have to remind myself, that for a self-aware person, this might not be the first time they’ve grieved over a vexing problem. They’ve probably tried every solution in their book, and nothing seems to have worked out.

It is a painful situation for anyone to be in.

And so, sometimes, the best thing I can do, is to hold my tongue, and wait with them, within the discomfort of their emotions. There is a time and place for silence, just as there is a time and place for offering solutions.

Truly hearing someone out is a difficult art. I have yet to master it myself.

All said and done, I’ve always believed that transformation requires two main steps. The first step is awareness of the problem. The second step is internalisation, and is what I believe to be the game-changer.

Knowing something, and internalising it, are two different processes. If knowing something was enough to change our behaviours, many of us would have stopped procrastinating, a long time ago. I myself am terrible at internalisation, which is why most of my problems start, and stagnate at self-awareness. Internalisation is also the reason why I recognise that some people need to come to terms with things within their own pace, even if it seems obvious to me.

Ultimately, everyone helps themselves, just as I need to help myself. All this self-awareness is for naught, otherwise. I have a boatload of problems and perhaps, within me, I’ve already come across the solutions.

I’m working on internalising that.

To those who already know their demons, I sincerely wish that you’ll find the courage, wisdom, and discipline, to let your self-enlightenment guide your path.

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The day drips slow

Morning

I woke up to the sound of birds. The room was flooded with a gentle, morning light. Through the blinds, I could see that the ground was wet outside. It was raining lightly.

My mind still veiled with sleep, I tried my best to grasp at the threads of last night’s dream. I recalled that I was staying in a haunted house.

The air in the room felt chilly. I am reminded that autumn is here.

I turned over and rested my hand on my boyfriend’s chest. It felt warm, flat, solid. No matter how many times I’ve touched it, I continue to marvel at how men are hard and angular, while in contrast, my body is soft and pillowy, dipping in some areas and peaking in others.

I’m cold, I’m cold. Warm me up, warm me up. 

He drew me closer.

I lazily reached for my phone, and played some piano music from my Spotify playlist.

The rain fell harder.


Today’s outfit is:

Cat tights, with white overalls, and black, thin eyeliner.

It was still raining.

I waterproofed my boots with a protective spray.

Ready to go!


Afternoon

I was greeted with a plethora of colourful parasols, hanging from wires. The cultural fiesta was busy, despite the rain. There was a good energy about the place. Different stalls were displaying an array of food, each representing a country and culture. I saw bubble tea, German pretzels, baklava, tea eggs.

It was a little hard to navigate because people were holding up umbrellas and walking about. I closed my umbrella and stayed close to my boyfriend.

A boy from the Hong Kong society asked me if I wanted to try waffles. It looked soggy, from the rain. I politely declined.

We ended up getting rose apples, rice wrapped in vine leaves, African curries, rendang, curry puffs, and seri muka (a green coconut kuih).

From our tent, I could see an Afghan dance going on. It started slow, with a few people hesitantly joining in. As the music picked up in speed, more and more people joined in. There was a young man in a Turban, a tall South Pacific Islander with flowers in his hair, some Chinese girls, an Asian boy, and some other youths dressed in flowing robes.

Somewhere, a group of Pacific Islanders crowd together for a photo.

An elegantly dressed lady in a pink saree glides through the crowd of people in drab jumpers and jeans. She had silver spectacles. Her soft belly hung out, exposed.

It was a beautiful sight, like four corners of the world had connected in a lively ring of dance and merry-making. A true melting pot of cultures.

However, somehow, within me, I did not feel the desire to dance.


Back home.

He stroked my stockinged thighs. We sipped hot chrysanthemum tea.

“I’m listless,” I tell him. I wanted to drift far, far away.

We fell asleep again, and woke up in twilight.


Evening

I finished my bowl of ramen, right down to the last drop. Tonight, I ordered gyokai (fish based broth) with karaage. He ordered tomato ramen. Something new.

It was good. My stomach was full.

What about my heart?


Night

On the fogged up glass, I drew a dick. And more dicks.

I giggled at its absurdity.

The car was stopped by the side of the road. Droplets of water on the window looked like tiny golden orbs, as light from the outside headlamps dispersed through. It was a chilly, misty night. Songs from my Spotify blared through the radio. Some tunes we could sing, some we couldn’t.

I traced a smiley ghost in the condensation, and took a picture of it with his handphone.

“Here, your new lock screen.”

He kept it, obligingly.

Fin


What can I do to plug my emptiness?