Today, on the first day of Ramadhan in the 52nd year of my life, while I was rummaging through some old stuff, I came across a letter written to me by my mother, folded and enveloped into a prescription drug package. My mother taught herself to write in Rumi, so some words are quite difficult to figure out. She was probably more comfortable writing in Jawi, but she knew her son is useless at reading it. The letter was not dated, but I would say it was written circa 1985, the year that I dropped out of UTM. The letter was an angry letter, as angry as my dearest mother would be. I cannot remember the occasion that warranted such letter, but I think I must have said something that hurt her. She wrote that I should have told her or father (unlikely) or my brothers and sisters that I am having difficulties in my studies. She wrote that I have ostracized myself from my family, and she understood that I did this because I do not want to be any more a burden to my parents and my sibli...
Hello... It's me, again. I don't know how anybody is going to read this, because I have deactivated my Facebook account... my Instagram too. It's interesting to see people's reactions when I told them this. Mostly, it's a sharp intake of breath and a sympathetic "why". I guess they assumed I was cyberbullied into deactivation. No... It was a mistake. I should never have even registered for any socmed (social media for those uninitiated). I hate it, people sharing their lives, what they eat and drink and where they were eating and drinking, how far they have walked or run or cycled, with whom they are doing things, who they met today or yesterday, where they are now in the world, what their cute babies or cats are doing, what plants they are planting, what fruits they have harvested... I don't really want to know about what you guys are doing with your lives unless I am responsible (partly) for bringing you into this horrible place. For that, my child...