Musings of a daughter (stolen from my Facebook)

I guess my friends will find this funny, because I have been constantly battling with my parents for as long as anybody can remember. The wrath and degree of control my parents exert has practically become the stuff of legends to my friends by now. In fact for as long as I myself can remember, I have, for my whole short life so far, harboured an excessive amount of anger towards my parents. It's not been an easy 20 years on either side. With the three of us having extremely volatile tempers and stubborn personalities, it's a wonder (and sometimes a blessing) that my sister is the type to hold her anger in. 

So anyway, cliched as this may be, I think that many people (including myself) have always failed to understand that our parents are human too. God, it does sound ridiculously cliched. Let me explain. Why do we fight with our parents? More or less, the answer is that we disagree on certain sentiments because of our different personalities. Being merely human, we are all flawed in some ways, some more so than others. But that's okay. We forgive ourselves, our friends and even complete strangers for not being perfect: "oh, to err is human", "nobody's perfect". Yet, we cannot find it within ourselves to comprehend and forgive our parents at the same time. Forgiveness implies that the one doing the forgiving was right in the first place and in a parent-child relationship, it only seems natural for parents to forgive their children's transgressions but never vice versa. Perhaps we are uncomfortable with the fact that we could, at times, be better, smarter, more right than our parents. Or perhaps we still hold onto the notion that our parents are always right (however subconsciously). Or even perhaps some might feel uncomfortable having to 'forgive' our elders, attaching to it the connotations of a warped sense of self-gratification at triumphing over those who are older and wiser than us. Personally though, I feel that we must realize: forgiveness has nothing to do with yourself and everything to do with the person you are forgiving. And technically, one does not forgive a person but a person's traits or actions/words. What I'm trying to get at is that forgiveness is not bestowed from a lofty, 'holier than thou' position, regardless if this person is figuratively in a 'higher' position than you. You do not elevate yourself above them but instead, you pull them off their pedestals and seriously examine them on a basic level as a fellow human being. In any case, forgiveness is the second step. The first one is understanding.

Maybe there are people, like me when I was younger, who assumed that the phrase of "oh your parents are only human, you must learn to understand them more" meant that my parents are also prone to being angry, tired, having a long and annoying day at work and therefore is highly irritable. Those are all true, of course. Yet, what we don't often examine is the side that not many people want to see. That our parents could be angry and irritable not only because of a long, tiring day but because they may be people with ridiculously short tempers. They are quick to anger. They are unreasonable. They are narrow-minded. The list is endless, as is the list of sins stemming from our fault of being 'merely' human. These aren't particularly terrible traits. Many of us possess one or more of these traits ourselves. So is it really so hard to imagine that our parents, the people who passed their genes onto us, can have these characteristics too? And if we can forgive ourselves so readily for being 'merely' human, why do we hold our parents so much at fault for being like us too? As we grow older, we realize that our parents aren't perfect. However, there seems to be a gap between realizing and understanding. We may realize, but we do not understand the implications of our realization. And in failing to do that, our attitudes will forever remain clouded and narrow. It wasn't so difficult for myself to realize that my parents weren't perfect. What took me a lot longer was the understanding part that hey, it's okay that my parents have these flaws that I dislike. And I can't stress this part enough. Because I went through a very angry, though thankfully short, phase at being bitterly disappointed at my parents for not being as morally righteous as I was. Or open minded, or whatever. It was very hard for me to accept this at first because there are certain values that I hold very dearly onto and I was just unable to back down from my stand that others should believe in these ideals too. However, I guess it occurred to me after one too many times of feeling disappointed that I can't blame my parents for not being a certain way. If I don't blame my friends for not being like that, I figured that I can't blame my parents too, nor anyone else. And that's when I fully realized the extent to which we are blinded by the current lines dividing the roles of parent and child. As we grow older, we expect our parents to treat us like adults. But do we treat them like the adults they deserve to be treated too? Kids (of all ages, may I add), can we ever look beyond the pigeon-holed labels of 'Mom' and "Dad' and actually treat them with the respect and consideration that all human beings deserve?

Our parents may be lots of things. Some positive, some negative. From what I've heard, they can be bigoted, selfish, narrow-minded, racist, chauvinistic, tyrannical, unreasonable and sometimes just plain mean. But so can we. So what gives us this moral high ground to judge them by? Their age? Wisdom? Life experiences? Surely these factors do not make them (or us) into perfect people. And if we can find it in our hearts to forgive them, there'll be a lot less hate in the world. Because seriously, "I hate my parents" is no longer an acceptable form of talking about one's parents the older one gets.

I'm not advocating for a drastic change like some crazy parent-child role-reversal situation. Nor am I asking for parents to treat children as their friends and for children to absolve their parents of all faults. I just think that it'll be good to see how terribly flawed we all are as human beings, and to maybe show some understanding to the people who perhaps need it the most, our parents. It may not be much, like I'm pretty sure the relationship between me and my dad won't be all that different, but at least it removes some of the hate and anger from the equation. I guess that's a good start.

- Wen Zhen

Elbow Grease

I never understood the term elbow grease. Dad used to use it all the time, but he never once explained where it came from. The details of it never bothered him. It was “just something people said”, and that was good enough for him. It wasn’t quite good enough for me, though. The where of it kept nagging at me, buzzing around like one of those fat summer flies, teasing, mocking, then darting just out of reach. 

I had an inquisitive mind. My dad used to say it was like a squirrel before wintertime, running around collecting scraps from just about everywhere. He said that proudly, said he’d never be as smart as me, said I’d do great things if I put that little squirrel to work. Put in some of that elbow grease, he was so fond of saying.

I did well enough in school to go to college, a decent one at that. Dad wasn’t doing too well by then – a life working, spraying the fields under the sun gets to you. But you could still tell he was over the moon. School was a long way off and I had to move out, but every time I called home he’d say the same old thing – don’t forget to put in some of that elbow grease.

Dad passed away suddenly, during my fourth year in college. I dug his grave myself, right there beside my ma’s. I dug and dug till my back was sore and my arms were as numb and as raw as my heart. But I guess, standing in that hole, I finally understood. Sweat, dirt, blood and tears – those are the things that go into making that good ol’ elbow grease.

- Adrian

Clutter

Where did I leave my mind now.

- WenZhen

Love is neon coloured

"When a person is in love with someone, that one person stands out brighter than anyone else. So no matter how many people are around, that one person will be the only one to stand out in your eyes." 

-G Dragon, 2012

Jiyong can't remember when exactly it started but he has always been extra perceptive if Seunghyun is nearby. Perhaps it's the deep rich timbre of his voice or the mischievous twinkle in his eyes that make him stand out, but Jiyong finds himself naturally gravitating towards his hyung. During interviews, concerts, even when it's just the guys recording in the booth. He can't help it if he clicks better with his hyung. Who else would Seunghyun look for when he needs a cigarette break? Honestly, he's being such a good dongsaeng doing his hyung a favour. And Seunghyun is such a good looking man. It's only natural to look, right? Jiyong can't help it if his eyes are naturally drawn to beauty. It's the artist's condition. It is also of course absolutely natural to want in on his stupid jokes, to try and catch his attention, to want to stay pressed up to his sides all the time. Right? After all his hyung is very tall, and very charming, and also very handsome. Jiyong honestly can't help it. Even when he's surrounded by thousands of people. Maybe especially when he's surrounded by thousands of people. Seunghyun just... stands out.


No not this one, no that's not gay enough. No, Yongbae hyung's in this shot. Seungri sighs again and wonders why he's so invested in keeping his hyungs in the closet when they're just gonna start screaming and banging on the panelling at the next available chance. Don't they know how obvious they become when they start acting like lovesick preteens?! The fire alarm could go off right over their heads and they'd still be giggling at each other. Seriously, where is all the credit due to Seungri! Their wonderful and caring maknae who's ruining his chances with women simply by always having to promote Nyongtory. Not that he doesn't like the attention Jiyong hyung lavishes on him. But it's certainly different when the attention is directed at Seunghyun hyung. Jiyong hyung literally blossoms in Seunghyun hyung's presence. Seungri often feels like he (and the surrounding scenery) automatically become ten shades darker whenever Jiyong hyung gets that fond look in his eyes. He would be retching into his mouth if he wasn't so busy trying to deflect the attention away from them. Finally, he decides on a sufficiently intimate photo (that also happens to capture his best angle) and quickly uploads it to Twitter with the caption "Nyongtory! S2! Jiyong hyung saranghae!!" before he changes his mind again. The things he does for his hyungs!


Soonho awkwardly twists his fingers while waiting for the coordi noona to be done with addressing the costuming department. "Ah, noona... So sorry to bother you again but uhh the management was wondering if you could give Jiyong more sunglasses for when he goes on stage or for interviews?" He doesn't tell her that it was actually his own idea, nor does he tell her the reason though he's sure she guesses it. How would he explain it anyway? Jiyong keeps making puppy eyes at Seunghyun and it's getting a bit out of hand so we need to cover him up. "Ah... Eyebags is it? His eyes... are too... revealing?" Definitely too revealing. The way Jiyong looks at him you'd think that the sun was going to start shining out of his nostrils or something. Or that Seunghyun was a precious historical work of art. Groaning internally, Soonho remembers Jiyong's comparison of Seunghyun's half naked body to the Statue of David. These kids...


Scrolling through Instagram, Seunghyun notices a phrase from one of Jiyong's old interviews. Love is neon coloured. He never really understood what Jiyong meant by that. But then again, Jiyong was a much more exuberant person. Much more careless with his heart and his feelings, and much less afraid of showing them. Seunghyun isn't sure if he would dare to attach such a vibrant colour to love. What if it attracts the attention of others? What if they disapprove of the colour? Or even worse, want it for themselves? Seunghyun frowns, mindlessly scrolling past post after post. When he finally looks down at his phone, he pauses. It's a silly photo of both him and Jiyong in Singapore last year for the YG Family Concert. Jiyong looks nice here. So bright and happy. He double taps on the screen and feels extra pleased when the heart icon appears.

- WenZhen

Tissue

We waste a tree. Just for this?

The most malleable metal is gold

If you were a metal you would be gold. Shining proud as day, lustre never fading.
Your beauty is unparalleled because it is timeless. Other metals, lesser metals, may have their time in the sun, but they could never hope to replace you.

Gold is not fragile, simply because it yields. It bends to the whims of stronger hands, true. But there is grace in its easy surrender, for it to be transformed into something new, something beautiful. No, gold is strong because it adapts and changes. It bends but does not break, like wild grass in a storm. You are not weak if you succumb to their taunts. You will come back stronger than ever.

You are gold because you are number one. The pinnacle of excellence. With all eyes on you, you shine brighter than the stars. Despite so much pressure, you climb ever higher. People just want to watch you crumble and fall. Nonsense. Gold doesn't crumble. They can try to hide you, shame you, drag you through mud. But after everything that happens, you will still shine; beautiful, as you are meant to be. Do not be afraid when people try to change you. The essence remains regardless.

- Wen Zhen

Orthopaedic love

"You have really great bone structure you know."

Jiyong pauses mid snuggle. "Is this you... Hitting on me."

"Umm"

"So... what about my bone structure" Seunghyun decides that Jiyong really needs to stop with his shit eating grins, they're awfully distracting.

"You have ummm. Really nice... Elbows."

"Elbows"

"Elbows."

Jiyong does have nice elbows. And ankles. And knees... As an orthopedician, Seunghyun can't help but notice. It's in his nature to do so. He notices that Jiyong's humerus tapers rather thinly towards the joint. The thin layer of muscle that envelopes his arms only serve to emphasise the jut of bone, especially when Jiyong unconsciously flexes his double joints. Like now.

Seunghyun's eyes follow the movement of Jiyong's arms as they stretch above his head, delicately intertwining at the knuckle before being pulled upwards, his elbow knobs gently jutting out both ways. He counts six notches in Jiyong's spine and three ribs before they are covered by cloth.

"My eyes are up here"

Seunghyun's head snaps back up, feeling sheepish. But Jiyong's eyes are warm and full of unconcealed affection, "stop ogling my bones".

"But you have beautiful bones" Seunghyun catches Jiyong's hand and raises dainty fingers up to his lips. "Phalange... Knuckle... Carpal... Wrist..." He murmurs each name into smooth skin and kisses the corresponding bone, committing them to memory.

"You're so weird" Jiyong pulls his hand away and turns, cheeks pink.

"But I haven't reached your elbows yet"

"I'm gonna be late for work." He pauses at the door. "Maybe... later...?"

"Later..." The thought of seeing Jiyong again so soon fills him with inexplicable joy. "Okay. Good."

"I'll see you tonight then" Jiyong laughs and quietly shuts the door.

Seunghyun thinks of elegant bones and delicate joints, of slim arms and knobbly elbows, of gummy smiles and bright laughter. "Tonight."

- Wen Zhen

Misconceptions

People seem to think that, when you get up into space, you're leaving gravity behind. It's a pretty notion, one all wrapped up in poignant symbolism worthy of Tennyson himself (or whoever your favourite poet might be - I don't really give a shhhh--- shoestring). Leaving everything that could possibly hold you back down to Earth in those few moments of gut-wrenching, blackout-inducing, rocket-boosted acceleration, blasting off into the great unknown. As the g's build up and your stomach tries its very best to emerge out the back of your spine, you feel yourself moving faster, faster, faster fasterfasterfaster - tearing you from the grip of all the lost dreams, bitter disappointments, iron-bound heart-hurts and spirit-hurts, all the lead weights sitting pretty in the depths of your soul. Just before you lose your vision (and your lunch) -poof!- out you come the other side, floating, spinning, free-wheeling among sparkling diamonds set in that immense black velvet-ness of space. You're free.

It's a pretty notion, sure enough. But any tenth grader worth his A grade in Physics can tell you - it's complete and utter bullshit. Gravity isn't that easily hoodwinked, and you sure as hell - or, well, gravity - can't run away from what's inside of you. You're still burdened, still falling - just that now you're falling around the earth, not towards it.

- Adrian

I dream of freedom

Consciousness.

"Am I dead yet"

The air around me seems to pause.

"I wish you'll stop saying that"

"I gotta prep for it Mom. It's a life changing event." With some difficulty I turn my head. Mom's lips are pressed into a thin line, her brows deeply furrowed. "Don't joke about things like that."

I close my eyes with a huff, feeling infinitely more tired than I was before I woke.



I honestly don't mind it so much. Death.
Because the alternative, clinging onto this deadweight, useless lump of a body is beyond bearable. I barely have any control over it left. These days, it's just a continuous shuttle between hospitals to salvage the remaining pieces. It's depressing and exhausting and everything hurts. At the very least, death must be an escape from all of this. This immobility and heaviness and waiting to die.
I want to die. I can't wait for it. I feel like I'm hanging on the edge of a precipice, a steep drop to a thousand feet below. But I'm not scared. Some people are afraid to fall. I can't wait to fly.

Everything feels heavy, I feel so heavy. Lying here on this bed all day everyday. I can't wait, to be light and free again, to move my limbs with an ease that does not warrant conscious thought. I used to dance. Now, even the thought of crawling is a mere illusion. With every breath I suffocate, heavy hands pressing on me, holding me down. Creeping tendrils tying me to this Earth, this body. I want to fly but I can't. Not anymore.

When I sleep, I dream of technicolour. I dream of an unimaginable freedom and being able to breathe once more. In my dreams I am light, lighter than stardust. I drift and I fly and I soar higher than any cloud. It is thrilling and tingly, and I've never felt so alive. In those moments, I am free.

-WenZhen

ghosts

We are all haunted, whether we like it or not.


Only the unhappy become ghosts.
It has to be. The happy dead stay dead and gone. For what other business would they have still with the mortal world?

It is not only people who become ghosts.
Memories, experiences. They die also, and they become ghosts as we mourn their loss. Happy memories are bittersweet ghosts tinged with longing; while the unhappy ghosts stay lurking, in the dark recesses of the soul. Never truly gone, or forgotten.

It is not only people who haunt us, but also their memory.
A tender smile that could light up like the sun, sharp words that cut quick and to the bone, butterfly kisses soft and fleeting across fevered flesh.

We remember, and we mourn. Because ghosts are the only things we have left to remember them by.

- WenZhen

4 cups of coffee too much

You've been through this before. A new deadline, a new challenge. It doesn't faze you. Not anymore.

When the boss says that the deadline's been extended, you rejoice internally and think: great. I don't have to start on this til next week. A tiny voice tries to intervene, pesky thing. But you're confident of your abilities. My bullshit's never failed me before. Why worry now?

But the work starts to pile up and the page remains blissfully blank as it was five days ago. The late nights start turning into later days, shorter tempers; and your heart starts doing strange palpitations in your chest. Maybe that last cup of coffee wasn't such a good idea. Coffee makes you antsy! You can't work like that, damnit!

The tiny voice is back. sure it remarks drily, keep telling yourself that.

You wonder why you keep putting yourself through this.

-WenZhen

No. 12 Cherry Blossom Lane

He stood in the middle of the room, waiting. Moonlight seeped in through the tall, full-length windows that lined the wall to his left, filtered once by the grime that covered them, and then again by the worn, translucent curtains that were drawn across them, bathing the room in a pale but sickly glow. What furniture in the room - two small armchairs and a chest of drawers - had been pushed against the opposite wall, draped in white sheets and layers of dust. The house was old; he could feel the memories that were embedded in the thick stone walls that muted the sound of traffic outside, and the fragments of the past roosting in the beams that ran across the high ceiling above his head. Silence reigned, except for the soft ticking of his pocket watch, which hung out the left side of his robes, chain held loosely between his thumb and forefinger.

An insistent prodding came from within his mind. He willed it to be quiet. Patience. His prey would reveal themselves soon enough. Family of five, brutally murdered. Violence always twisted and tied departing souls to this world, tormenting them with a need for vengeance, contorting their forms with pain and hatred. He felt them dimly, floating through the stale air and the musty corners of the empty, foreboding house. He checked his pocket watch. Less than a minute. He kept it carefully within the folds of his robe. With his right hand firmly grasping the midnight-black scabbard on his right hip, his left hand reached over to rest on the hilt of his ken. Overhead, he sensed rather than saw the shadows coalescing into an inky, oily fog, sliding slowly down the wall in front of him. A rising sense of anticipation flooded his mind, coming from the same source as the earlier prodding; a large white wolf, fangs bared, eager for the scent and the taste of blood. You enjoy this too much, sometimes, he thought.

You know I live only for the hunt, came the reply. She was more eager tonight, he sensed. He could feel her quivering in his hands, waiting to be set loose. Ahead, the oily shadow had begun to take form.

Here we go. Drawing her out in a smooth, fluid motion, he flowed forward to meet their foe.

- Adrian

Procrastination

She is a thief with many guises, an artist of considerable talent. She comes, sometimes, with a gentle caress, like the lightest of breezes, a brush of rose-scented hair across your cheek, to draw you slowly away into her empty embrace. She comes, sometimes, with promises of treats and assorted goodies, a trail of hollow breadcrumbs that leads you deeper into the darkened woods where she lairs. She comes, sometimes, more forcefully, tugging at your sleeve, your trousers, your ears, your heart, demanding your attention, your adoration, your supplication. She is a thief with many guises - she is an experienced and familiar lover, an enticing new prospect, an adorable child with an infectious personality. She comes each time, intently, insistent, and inexplicably you follow her, as you lead her down to where you keep your most sacred treasures. And as her arms wrap ever tigher around you, her fingers reach down into your soul, and draw out the most precious hours of your life. And as the sand slowly falls out from your hourglass in cascades of gold, she bathes in it, delightedly, coldly and beautifully, immortal.

- Adrian