Just a few posts ago I was writing how in recent times I have lost the desire to write as I no longer needed it that much as a crutch and as a medium for catharsis. I was learning to live a more physical life: doing deliveries, going for long bike rides, exploring the world. Well, all of that is mostly gone, except my daily morning bike ride, which I am not sure how long it’ll last for since we may go into a full lockdown, and we may get sick.
Many a time I’ve always wanted to write and publish more often, but there is a considerable amount of self-censorship. Who wants to read my mundane or cynical thoughts?
I used to keep a livejournal back in the early 2000s, and I would update it almost everyday even if there were only one other person reading it. It was a time when I wrote because I wanted to. There were no considerations of the repercussions. People like to read hopeful, positive stuff, and I write about my inner truth. Sometimes that inner truth is hopeful, sometimes it carries beauty, but most of the time it is simply dark and cynical. I do not disown this in me, but I am cautious of being a perpetual wet blanket to the world.
I once wrote to someone that all my life I’ve just been trying to free myself, over and over again. No matter how much work I’ve done on myself, sometimes I still feel like I walk around with a rope tied around me. An elephant with invisible chains, as they say. I consider too much of what people may think, still. Some frightened seven year old inside me still has abandonment and rejection issues.
But this whole virus thing is making me angry and sad all over again. The last time this happened was when Trump was elected – I went into a deep depression. How can they? I felt betrayed when some friends on facebook made it sound like a good thing. I wish I had screenshotted those, there’s a part of me that would like to see those faces now.
Anger makes me childish, but the suppression of it is not a sign of maturity either. The past two days I’ve just allowed to feel the anger that’s been building inside me for a while now. There are people I care about who are at risk because they have chronic conditions, and their very lives are endangered by people who go on their lives as per normal. There are medical workers who are risking their very lives this very moment. Sure, the number of cases in Singapore are not a threat to our capacity. YET.
I tried to make my case, but trying to change human behaviour is a mostly frustrating and fruitless exercise.
There is an asymmetry of information, as most people rely on mainstream media to inform them, while I read up as much as I can to placate my anxiety. I realised, not to my surprise, that many people are not interested in more information even if we put it on a silver platter and serve it to them. They were only interested in their own lives.
Today. Something clicked in me. Something inside me went dead. Again.
I am a very selfish person. I have known about climate change for years, but I wouldn’t say I’ve altered my behaviour significantly that much. That’s partially because I know the main bulk of power still lies with political leaders and the industries.
But this thing, this is a thing where one person can start a whole butterfly effect on the system. This is a thing that will affect the elderly in our families. The is a thing that will kill the people who have chosen to take on roles as healers in our system. Now. Not in some undetermined timeline in the future.
I tell myself I am a hypocrite for being angry, because this affects me on a visceral level whereas maybe other issues that are equally as important to other people fell on my deaf years too.
But I have decided that I will write about my hypocrisy. And anger. And sadness. All of it.
I can only say I am the person I am because of the life and psyche I have. The world is a giant rorschach test, and we can only see what we can see. So I will write about what I see.