Monday, September 4, 2017

you me + the highway


Tonight we are lost and camped by a beach where he is doing his assignment and I'm writing. That's what I do, that's what I wish I could always do. Write and write and write. Stories, poems, letters and heartfelt blogs. I wish I could type money out the same way.

One of my first ambitions was to be a writer but I wrote it off because I knew who I was. I could not put enough thought together to see a story through. I have so many unfinished ideas and scrapped plots. I never knew how to end them. But with age comes experience, and with experience comes skill. I have learnt to plan, to go from point A to Z. Laboriously, of course, because nothing worthy ever comes easy.

Of course, getting publish will not be some small feat either. And maybe that's why I've never pursued it. I know that's why he pushes me to go into journalism instead. He calls my writing a talent. It is far more validation than I've ever received from him.

Who would have known that something as stressful as a roadtrip will bring us closer together? I had expected fights at every turn (literally) about my poor navigational skills and exasperation when things don't go according to plan. But it has shown me how much teamwork and patience we have, enduring every hiccup and devising new solutions together. And that is both exciting and comforting to me, knowing that we are able to work hand in hand without driving the other mad.

When morning comes, we'll skip down to the beach and enjoy the clear waters, the peace, the beauty.


Then we will say a silent goodbye before hitting the roads once more.

I have always loved roadtrips but now I think I'm obsessed with them. I want to move away, buy a van and make it a home.

Sunday, September 3, 2017

time.


We went back to old haunts and favorites. Eating up a storm, reminiscing and funnily enough, feeling like we're home. Already I regret not taking more pictures because I know I will forget and I don't want to lose all these emotions.

All I remember of Melbourne was an aching heart, wanting to go back to Kuching. But those were the intense first few months, by the time the second year rolled around I had grown up a little more, began to appreciate Australia a little better but it was over too soon and before the year was up, I was back in Malaysia, wrapped up in my bubble of comfort and friends.

I was falling in love with this place and never even knew it until now that I'm back. When the bus driver sent us to Southern Cross and said welcome home, it warmed my soul in a way I didn't expect.

I ran back to Glenferrie and swung by the deli by Woolsworth, eager to buy my beloved spinach pie and baguette but the store was emptier than I remembered but it's also later than when I'd usually drop by. I told the storekeeper and baguette man I used to study nearby but I'm back, specially for some pie. He knew instantly the pie I was talking about.

It was made by his wife.

The love he has for her made me emotional. He talked about how everyone says that pie was their favorite. He showed me pictures of her when she was working at the store. He told me how grand her funeral was. I wanted to give him a hug but we both stood on wrong sides of the counter. I felt horrible for bringing it up but I stopped.

Because isn't it better to be reminded of how adored your lost love was, rather than to see her forgotten in a time and place nobody else remembers? I'd like to think so. I would hate for someone I love to disappear into nothingness just because someone was afraid I would be sad by mentioning them.

If one day someone I care deeply about leaves me for the pearly gates, don't say sorry. It is a word devoid of comfort. Tell me how they touched your life, tell me about the good times, the bad. Because no matter where they go or how long they are gone, I'll never stop wanting to know more about them and having extra to love.

I will be back, Melbourne. I will come home for good, one day.