The wind was harsh, the sun was weak, soon to be overpowered by the enveloping darkness. It didn’t look like an especial gloomy day, it was just like any other day autumn day. I missed my footing as I stepped out of the car. The warmth of the radiator was brusquely replaced by the chill of the autumn, and its corroborative partner played along its conceived plan of sucking the heat from my body. I swung the door shut, but it merely budged a little against the resistance of a wind that blew against it. I applied greater force, ensured the heavy door was safely secured against the front pillar. My hair was all over the place, dishevelled and messed up by the wind. I turned to look at the doctor. I saw a bit of semblance there; he looked like George Clooney.

During the journey to this man’s house, he had given me his history. He was a good teacher, always probing for answers before he provided the answers. If I fell short, he would give me hints which encouraged an answer. When he introduced me to his patients, he made me feel like his protege, his apprentice, like how it should be.

At the porch, he lifted the hinge of the knocker and struck it against the door. A loud, resounding noise was produced. His knock resonated his character: loud, brash, but gentle in spirit.

We were led to the living room by his wife. He was expecting us. We sat, then he talked.

In between his words, he would pause. He needed a moment to catch his breath, a moment to process the pain he was suffering from. It was obvious- whilst his wife sobbed, he conversed non-nonchalantly. He refused to choke, the idea of him leaving his wife a widow was probably worse than the suffering he was experiencing.

6 weeks.

We left. In the car, he asked me what I thought.

Pain management? His reaction was forged into my memory. It would be a sharp reminder every time I look at a terminally ill patient.

God, I want to believe in You. And I do.

That was a wrong mentality. Authorities are not always right. The higher powers are not infallible.

It was like any other day. The registrar was performing his usual ward round. He is a great doctor, nothing can be said against him. Inappropriate gestures and jokes aside, he is the epitome of a modern day physician.

A patient spoke to him that day with a sense of regret that was almost incomprehensible. He was not unwell, admitted for social reasons, and he was bothered by his burden on his doctors. In a tone of commiseration, the doctor deigned, whilst maintaining the patient’s dignity, and explained that he was paid to look after patients. It was his job, and he was paid to do it. Medicine is like any other job. Bankers are paid to look after our money, so are doctors paid to look after us. No, it is not a glorified profession. They are like any other.

The modern day doctor sits in the panel of judges. He looks through applicants and interviews them.

Why do you want to be a doctor?

The ones who have passed this test would know this is a trick question. An answer suggestive of nobility is chastised as naivety. And if I were to attend the interview again, I would still be a perceived as a naive person. They want to listen to answers suggestive of professionalism, and nobility is not born of professionalism, rather of naivety.

What is the perfect answer? The answer that would impress the interviewer? We all know the answer. It’s not difficult.

It is deeply disconcerting that a sense of righteousness must now be so regimented, so conceding to a implicit ministry of justice.

I am changing, this is undeniable. But I must remain the same. I must remember the reason I came here. I will change, but yet remain the same. The core values that distinguish me as an individual must remain. The outcome is an emotional struggle within. I hope I would emerge from this wrangle not a winner, but the person He wants me to be.

I once told Him: Lord, at this moment, I have to give you up and focus on my studies. But this can’t be the case. To give Him up is to give up everything I’ve worked for. Who do I live for? I made a decision to live for myself, and look where it has taken me. I have to make a turn around and reset my sights on Him, because He is my reason.

Selflessness and to live my life for others. This is His command, not mine.

I want a comfortable life. Medicine is the safest option at this moment because I know once I have graduated I will be guaranteed a job. Say what you want, but we all know this is the most agreeable answer.

What does He want? What do You want? If I continue to struggle, at least I have You to comfort me. I have once hated You for the disappointments You threw at me. However, if I must fail, I will fail. But at least, if I fail with You by my side, I will be comforted by Your presence.

You say I do not get because I do not ask. And if I must ask, I must ask not for personal pleasures, but with Your commands in mind. Therefore I ask You of this, I ask that I will be the doctor You want me to be. And no judgement from them would affect my belief. This is my faith in You. I hope You will answer this prayer.

I have digressed from my topic. It is not my intention to talk about geography.

Change, a big word thanks to a big man. Our belief in change has been cemented by the emergence of a world leader whose skin colour differs to that of his predecessors. But has anything changed apart from that? Perhaps a little, but not much. His contribution, nonetheless, must not be restrained to the development in his country, for he is a world leader. His rise to the top in the political scene has sparked a series of events in certain parts in the world, especially in the Middle East. Now, people are largely unsatisfied with their current government, and in developed countries anarchy is starting to be a gripping issue. In the future, it may be confused with revolution. When that time comes, distinction between good and bad will be a even blurry subject.

Change has since permeated into other areas of society. In my personal opinion, change has been the key word in my profession. And change- again I must stress that this is my personal view- has ran its course along the face of medicine that its badly sutured outcome is no longer a recognizable one.

Regret? Hardly. Disappointment? Very much so. I am disheartened by its malleability on the hands of its ambitious so-called leaders. My maturity may be dictating my views, for am I quite an idealistic punk. But these are my views, views which I tried bending towards that of the majority. I am an aberration in my profession, and this greatly disheartens me.

You ask why.

Nobility and integrity- these are the virtues the profession should uphold. But it has been replaced by accountability. You must not take my word out of context. I agree with accountability, it keeps everyone safe, and it keeps us clean and connected. But such is the grip of this virtue on its practitioners that a body now controls most of our actions. It still looks alright, but I foresee a horrible future, for me at least. Emotions are dumped into the bin, treated like trash because we were constantly taught that there’s no space for this whimsical nonsense. We are taught to be professional, and what awesome professionals we are turning out to be. The way we behave, even the way we talk now is being scrutinized.  The body is strong and domineering, so we must adhere.

Regulation is good, but fascism is not. I am not putting a label on anything.

My vision of a good practitioner remains close to my heart. I can’t allow it to be tainted, because this vision is what brought me here. If I change, I would lose this passion. I would lose sight of the model I made myself out to be.

I am disappointed, disheartened. But I fear I must persist and persevere.

It all began here, so a new beginning will be started here.

I saw her the first time, one of the many times I would continue to savour her appearance. I was smittened, clearly infatuated. It was immature, but it was real, at its height the purest sense of love would be borne. I didn’t realize at that moment the impact she would bring into my life; the decisions I would make, the values I would learn, the characteristics that would shape my personality and the ones I would shed to become who I really am. She was an intended presence, and God did not play with dice. 

The place where we first met. The day we usually met. I had it thought through. It felt right.

I picked you up with my father’s car at your parents’ place. Very soon, it will be all be different- all in good time. I watched as you made your way out, just like the very first time I saw you. Your long flowing hair, thick and beautiful under the luminous sun. It glistened brightly very much like a meticulously cut diamond under the influence of light. Then your face- emanating ridges of confidence when you smile, your set of determined eyes whose effect softened by your soft, kind lips-  singing in unison as your sauntered gracefully towards me. A smile was uncommon at this customary meeting, but I was never able to hold back mine. You sensed something was happenening, and you returned my goodwill.

You entered the car. I placed my hand on your lap, greeting you.

Hello, dear.

It was all so familiar, so recognizable. We took the same route to the familiar place, the place we usually met when we were young and immature. The same bend, the same junction I always had difficulty turning out of, the same traffic lights which always seemed to tease me with their yellow lights as I reached the tip of their respective intersections.

We reached the place. I took your hand, and you held mine. I was happy, I knew you were too. This was meant to be. I was hardly this sure of anything, but you were always encouraging, always pushing me towards the right direction.

From our relationship, I have comprehended the essence of confidence.

We took our seats. I waited. I stalled till the end, just like the first time; I hesitated. A hesitance produced not by trepidation, but by design. At the end, I asked, just like the first time.

*This post is for my brother. May he have a blessed marriage.

Just a few more hours- 11 to 12 hours more- and I’ll be home.

I imagined my parents greeting me with their puffy eyes and off-pitch voices; I would reach home in the wee hours of the morning, way past their bedtime. My dogs would be agitated at the unusual timing of the noise made by the house bell, and would fill the silent air with their incessant barking. At the sight of their master, their agitation would be replaced by joy, almost euphroric by their apparent expressions. Their hind legs would bounce off and land on the ground like a spring, their ears tucked back, tongues out, as if to tell me they have missed me and were happy to finally see my again.

My revelry was interrupted by the movement of the queue that led us into the plane. I looked past the glass at the tarmac. There were a row of aprons visible from my position; most were vacant. Strange, considering the size of the crowd at the gates. There was another plane whose freight was unloaded. The operation looked pretty efficient and speedy, I couldn’t comprehend the delay most passengers experience at the baggage claim area. This ill comprehension would be enacted in approximately 7 hours as I stood at the carousel, watching impatiently the Kookaburra bags going round and round on the conveyor belt whilst mine would take an hour past arrival before I dragged it into the hall in expectation of my girlfriend’s mother. She would be waving vigorously at us to catch our attention, like a tick of a piano pendulum after being pushed hard. She would reciprocate with a big smile and her walking speed would increase. They would hug, and I would greet with a polite hello aunty. 

Yes, the journey back is customary. Each experience replicating the next. And I hope it will stay this way for the next 10 years but not anytime more or less than that.

We were finally at the threshold of the tunnel and at the entrance of the plane. I flashed the boarding pass at the air stewardess, she took a quick glance, pointed at the right direction, and I squeezed my way through the narrow aisle. We placed our bags into the luggage compartment and took our seats. As we settled into our seats, a group of girls in red T-shirts made their way in, like an influx of a red flash. I would realize at the carousel, that those Kookaburra bags belonged to these athletes.

Soon, so very soon, I will be home.

The journey was smooth, save the turbulence at the Indian Ocean. I was soundly asleep, only to be awakened by a pressure in my hand. She squeezed it quite tightly. I realized the plane started to sway and dip and soar in the midst of an unrelenting weather. I felt blissful, this incongruous feeling due to ignorance. But her anxiety quelled my blithe and infused it with her apprehension. The turbelence worsened, so was the strength of her grip against my hand. It dipped quite badly at a stage, it felt like a brief plummet, and she let out a little squeal. I laughed a little in my heart at the exaggeration of emotions she was exhibiting. I let out a chill, chill at her childlike fear.

This word had never accomplished its task at mollifying her temper during her bouts of anger, so I didn’t expect it to pull off any magic at that moment. My expectations were confirmed when she hid her face behind my shoulder and wrapped her arms around mine. It was quite a funny scene, she isn’t one who scares easily. In her parents’ car on the way home later, she would recount the experience, and she would tell them that most of us screamed and sat back in terror during the ordeal.

In retrospect, it was quite an experience. Her emotions painted the gravity of the situation and it imposed its will on me. I thought, if I died, surely I would be welcomed by Satan and his minions.

The rest of the journey was smooth. And we reached home to the smell of haze and the hot air of Malaysia. I didn’t expect anything different from my home. Here we go again, and this time I’d better make it count.

4 kgs, here I come!

Fear, I could taste it, feel it, and it was almost palpable. I could sense its tangibility, and it resembled a snake crawling around me, wrapping its body around my neck, constricting its muscles. I found it more difficult to swallow, and only an occasional gulp would be allowed against my constricted throat. I tried to wrangle free from the serpentine creature, but its hold against me was strong.

I turned up and looked at the audience. I had done this countless times, once in the same venue, others at home. I had practised this countless times, just spit it out!

Good morning, I’m [blank]. My supervisor is Dr [blank]. The title of my research is [blank]. 

The rest was history. I could’ve handled the questions better, but that was that. It was done.

Then the emptiness set in. It was unexpected. I was supposed to be elated, jumping for joy, paint the town red, just go crazy.

Damn, I think I have gotten used to the rush, too comfortable with learning new stuff, that the idea of sitting down and rest with no immediate deadline to follow now seems to cause discomfort to my soul.

I have never had this feeling. Much has changed. The propensity to be stimulated by fear is still here, but I can’t escape from this fear; I have to succumb to it, and control it from within. I was once impeded by fear, but have realised that fear should not be cumbersome, but elevating. Everyone in the theatre felt it, even the most confident among us; their shaky targets at the use of the laser pointer betrayed their composure. But they performed well nonetheless.

But this unexpected lachrymosity is unrelated to recent events. After a turbulence, a sudden series of flashbacks exerts itself on your mind. It takes hold of sanity, forcing a burst of memories to flood your consciouness, to the deepest recess of your mind. No space is left untouched, at its climax is a strange redolence, so profound it is overwhelming.

I’m approaching something I’ve always dreamt of. It is so close now. So very close. I can almost feel it within my grasp. This thought, although motivating, seems quite demoralising. My mind skips a few beats and projects a vivid motion picture of a distant future. The race is never going to end. It will be incessant until death lays its touch on me. Then I’ll be gone. I might die a satisfied man, but all of it will be pointless.

Perhaps we’re arriving at an epoch of consciousness. The question: is there a distinction between mind and brain? I was involved in a study which involved the search of a clear definition of consciousness. In scientific terms, consciousness has many names. This may be due to the fact that it has not been clearly defined, therefore allowing itself to be characterized by various entities. The most evidential synonym is executive function; psychologists acknowledge consciousness to be the domain of executive function, and neurologists have mapped out the prefrontal cortex to be the epicentre of this activity.

Has a consensus been reached about the elucidation of consciousness? We’ll probably never find out the truth. You see, consciousness is a topic where no didactic reasoning could ever explain. It’s not academic, it’s something beyond the realm of physics.

Source Code, the story of a comatose man, with only half of his body remaining and kept alive in ventilatory chamber. Plugged into an alternate world in which he was tasked to identify a bomber, he realized there was more to the simulation than the designer of the device understood. Powered by greed, the scientist had no sentimentality towards the soldier. He only understood here and now, and showed no remorse towards the boundaries he was pushing. If the experiment was a success, he would be rich and powerful. If it failed, he would work on another project.

He did not experience what the soldier experienced. Therefore his understanding could only be in the present, his awareness limited by his knowledge. But if emotions and creativity were allowed, the end product would surpass the expectations of the designer. The soldier realized on his expeditions that the alternate world was not merely one that existed in the mind of a dead person, he would contrive a fail-safe plan to alter the future. His mind would persist in this reality, and he would not cease to exist.

He succeedeed. The scientist was intelligent, but he was also shallow.

Such an exposition has been attempted countless times. The most conspicuous examples are The Matrix, Source Code and Repo Men. The mind is a powerful weapon. We are what we want to believe, or maybe at times, what we are forced to believe.

The past is alterable, the present is now, and the future is how the present makes it to be. The future is not alterable, but it is subject to change.

In the Orwellian world of 1984, this exposition is clearly defined. There is no more rebellion. Even a rebellious thought is a crime. To control this thoughtcrime, the entire lexicon is degraded to a simpleton language. The dismemberment of language narrows thought and its expression, therefore allowing the government a better hold against its citizens. They strive towards mass stupidity. Any outlier would be viewed as a heretic, and they would be disciplined. This is done through torture. Very few of us have experienced real suffering, and we underestimate the power of torture.

History is constantly altered to suit the interests of the government. Citizens are merely puppets; anywhere they are, a camera or a microphone is present. They are abject against the approaches of the government. But there is no rebellion, because no rebellion of any sort is tolerated the slightest. Creativity and art are abolished, because these are mediums of free thought, and free thought is criminal.

Consciousness- how far will you let it wander. It could mean so many things. The consciousness of the mentally deranged is so different to that of ours. But the schizophrenics do share common traits, don’t they? However, measured against the standard of the general population, theirs are out of the ordinary. Yes, a point of reference is always relevant to delineate against what’s normal and what’s not. Abnormality is the derangement of regularity.

A person who thinks the world is flat can be either two things: stupid/ignorant or crazy if they hold on to this theory in spite of adequate education. These are standards we are measured against. What if we lived in a world where the standard were different, but the observations were the same. A government which tells you 2+2+=5, but the observation of 2 fingers adding to another 2 must give you 4 fingers, what could you believe in? You would be held ransom by this observation, but your refusal to let this truth go would lead you to heresy.

It is then we understand, that consciousness should never be regimented. It shall remain free, as should many other things in life we attempt to set a standard against. In our attempt to keep things clear, we have unknowingly created a prison of capabilities. How different are we than those tyrants? You know who the tyrants are, and there are many examples of such.

I am not propagating anarchy, neither am I supporting nihilism. Rules are good, but there are some things which should be kept free.

Many Malaysians share a common passion, or perhaps two common passions. A group of us yearn to corrupt our nation, strip it to its bones and leave it naked, shame it to the exhibition of our neighbours. Another group wishes to put an end to this corruption, this unspeakable defilement, and will continue to fight for justice for our beloved nation. And this passion is not born out of mere loyalty to our country, as our country does not yet possess a clear identity; the only identity we may familiarise ourselves with at this stage of time is our love for our food and our own version of English. No, we are merely loyal to one another, we want to create a Malaysia she deserves to be, that is what we seek out to do in all these demonstrations, the time we spend on arguing with each other the merits of returning home.

We are bastards, illegitimate produce of a bitch nation. But we don’t have to stay this way. We can create a new Malaysia. It doesn’t matter who is in control, as long as they are not performing to their utmost, we will give them something to worry about.

And the current government has been treating us like we’re retards, not for a year or two, but for 50 years. But we are not stupid, we merely did not care. We do not understand the fight to independence because independence was merely dumped to us after we were robbed; we do not yet understand the true value of independence. But we will get there. We must persevere, and God willing, one day we shall reach that place.

You may think I’m a bit of a drama queen, but it hasn’t been easy getting over this piece of shit. You worked hard, you knew your stuff, and you knew your weaknesses (and built on them), all in anticipation of the exam. You enter the exam venue, brimming with confidence because you know you’ve done everything possible. You knew you could work harder, but fucking hey, people knew less stuff, worked less, turned in less, what was the fucking merit?

That is because there’s none. There’s no best man. Not at this stage. Not with simulated patients in a simulated situation. It all depends on what you do in real life. How you learn from your experiences. How you handle those experiences in the future. I have done all of these and more, but the fuckers couldn’t see it, so I don’t really give a fuck.

I was watching Master Chef yesterday and found a particular character interesting. He was a vegetarian, probably a vegetarian chef as well. The week task was quite challenging, especially for him; it involved preparing a meal for the participants of The Biggest Loser. The meals comprised fatty meals like burger and pizza, you know, stuff that got them fat. The challenge was to prepare these same meals but they must contain lower calories.

The vegetarian guy was paired up with a contestant of The Biggest Loser who liked burgers. Not just any burger, but burgers with bacon and beef and cheese. The vegetarian guy decided he had to stick to his guns, so he prepared a vegetarian burger. The contestant didn’t like it, the judges didn’t like it, and the chef was eliminated from the competition.

Now, let’s examine his situation. Could he have made a meat burger? He probably could, maybe should. Something so simple to get him past the task, but he couldn’t swallow his pride and went along with the task. He had his principles, and if he were to win the competition by ignoring this, he wouldn’t have won it the way he wanted to. The victory would be pointless.

Many people would probably call him stupid. I don’t. I understand his situation.

I don’t want to lose myself in this violent torrent. Things are going to get tough, but I will not lose myself. I will stick to my guns. I will probably fail along the way, but I will have myself to keep. In the end, I will be as successful, and it will be on my own terms. I will not submit to your laws, because your standards are set by your terms. I can still get to where you are with my own terms. I am not cheating, I am not lying, I merely want to get there by my own terms. And I will succeed. And when I reach there, I will fix your fucking rules. Because human rules and expectations and standards can be changed by whoever the fuck is on top.

So I say, fuck this shit. And move on. I have to move on.

I’m starting to realize the strange paths I have to take in order to get back to you. I’m starting to understand the honesty I have to shroud myself in to be closer to you. The whole reason of my existence is my imperfection. I seek your forgiveness. I am learning, you’ve ensured that.

His pace was steady- not fast, neither was it slow. His gait was unremarkable- his left arm swung as he strolled but his right arm was as still as a piece of wood. He did not appear strange, not the way he walked at least, though his still right arm could be unsettling to a keen neurologist. He initiated each step with his heel- the quality of the strike wasn’t loud, neither was it sufficiently soft you could not hear his approach. In fact, if you pricked your eyes and listened carefully, you could hear the rhythm of his steps. If he was willing, he would probably make a decent tap dancer.

He wasn’t old, but he wasn’t young. You wouldn’t call him a boy, neither would you hold him in the esteem of an adult. Yes, you guessed it right- a young adult he was, seeing the world through the eyes of a youth but possessing the wisdom of an old man. He was a peculiar character. Fortunately, this was not translated in his countenance. His eyes were made small by perpetual squinting, his nose low-arched and tapered into a blunt tip, his lips thin and narrow, his hair constantly dishevelled- all in all, an average looking fellow. Perhaps his most conspicuous feature was his chin: round and distinct, perceivably sharp from certain angles, some might regard it a little effeminate for a man to possess.

When he spoke, he was quiet. He preferred keeping to himself, and his silence often boomed like a pandemonium created by the heaviest thud. He had little interest in trivial discussions- he spoke little nonetheless. His lack of communication could sometimes be perceived as repulsiveness. He wished he could tell them more, he wished he could relate to his peers more readily and genially.

His past was colourful, his present bland, and an unpredictable future lied ahead. Therefore, he persisted. He meandered, but his resolve was strong, almost palpable, almost tangible.

He reached a cross junction. Cars and buses pummelled past. He stood still, watching at the wave of colours created by the ongoing traffic. His mind wandered as his legs stood still; he imagined his pupils acting like the shutter of an advanced camera and his mind the processing speed which could be dialled down a few thousand notches. Then, only then, perhaps he could truly immerse himself in beauty which was dreadfully scarce in this depleted world.

He looked to his right and caught something out of the ordinary. He could not lift his feet, they remained firm on the ground. Very much like a voluntary spasm at selected muscles- his lack of movement was compensated by his visual intensity.

A lady was crying. She seemed to be in pain; her hands wound around her belly. The wanderer guessed that a few minutes earlier she should be prostrated in pain. She was wincing still from the residue of whatever violent impact she suffered from. He could see no injury or wound, but he supposed the aftermath inclined towards a psychological and emotional damage rather than a physical one.

Surrounding her was a police van and two law enforcers. They were talking to a man. His back was facing the wanderer so he could not see his face. He was continually shrugging his shoulders, at intervals his shoulders abducted and his elbows flexed, his palms facing the air as if to say I didn’t do anything wrong. A few minutes earlier, the wanderer would have witnessed the incident. He was late to arrive at the scene, so the truth was unknown.

He crossed the road. He walked. He strolled. He wasn’t tired, he wasn’t hungry. His throat was parched though, and he needed a sip of water quite badly. He felt his pockets- empty.

He came across a man on a tool at the sidewalk. He was strumming a guitar as his voice filled the square. The chorus of his song sounded something like this:

Scared of a world outside you should go explore
Pull all the shades and wander the great indoors
The great indoors 

The wanderer stared at the irony whichwas facing him. The performer didn’t look the part of one who enjoyed indoors. Quite the contrary, his skin was tanned, his hair swept back stylishly, the bulge of his biceps representing frequent exertion- he was clearly outdoor-sy. If anything, the wanderer should be singing that song.

Let’s just pause here, and listen to what else this performer has to offer, the wanderer whispered to himself.

He found a spot under the welcoming shade of a huge tree. He rested his bottom on the ground, pressed his knees together and held them with his hands. He felt comfortable. The man continued to sing, and the wanderer watched and listened.