They say remembering is a curse.

“But nobody ever forgot anything, not really, though sometimes they pretended, when it suited them. Memories were permanent. Sorrowful ones remained sad even with the passing of time, yet happy ones could never be recreated - not with the same joy. Remembering bred its own peculiar sorrow. It seemed so unfair: that time should render both sadness and happiness into a source of pain.” 

― Rohinton Mistry, 'A Fine Balance'

Imprinting memories of ingrained permanence,
Of a comfortable periphery that nostalgia exudes,
A sense of familiarity revisited,
Frequently.

Ceaseless rewinds,
Of saying "so..." with that sheepish smile of yours that followed,
Of an effortless free fall; similar to those amber leaves during autumn,
Of an unwelcomed Friday the 13th.

How it permeated,
How it precipitated,
How it terminated.

Hastily gathering incoherent thoughts; only to verbalize none.
Long fond gazes that now falter,
Warm pleasantries altering to frigid shards of silence.

An overwhelming brazen fervor,
Surpassing every rational recess,
Satan's handiwork perhaps?

Blowing off the grime,
Trivial vacillation with a stalwart spirit,
"Suppress it.. suppress it" her feeble whispers say,
Only to find herself on memory lane. Once again.

She walks. Hastens. Gasps.
But continues the remote labyrinth of liberation,
Only to find cessation in steps,
A halt so enticing, yet punishing called "looking back".

Try.

Forever flustered.

I've always thought that I should thank you.

Looming.

It's so dire that it erupts fear in me.

I for one know that I am not ready.

That time of the semester again.

A familiar path.

An uphill path.

A path that I will overcome once more, Insya Allah.

Ready, set, don't go.

This may seem a little juvenile since it's a throwback. It's an essay I wrote back in 2010 for English. My English teacher asked us: "who is the most unforgettable character you've met?". The subject I chose to write about was a no brainer.

There's a saying that goes "like father, like son", something that I found pretty ironic since I'm a girl but I'm highly influenced by my dad.

He may not have the height of Brad Pitt or the looks for that matter, but there is a feature about him that you can't erase from your mind- his wide forehead or 'fivehead' in my own terms, whichI proudly inherited though concealed by my three and a half inch fringe.

His colleagues ceaselessly praised him for being a man who exudes charisma. I couldn't help but agree as one-liners constantly punctuate his presence and he has that added hint of mischief in his smile. Contrasting to his role as a father and a family leader, he's no stranger to bringing up the persiflage in the household although it may have made my mother's blood pressure rise on several occasions.

I've always perceived that my dad was potentially bipolar. I made such an assumption because of his firmness when it came to my studies. I recall the time when I did quite an awful job with my Mathematics exam paper and how it infuriated him. But as a compassionate father, he knew anything numerical was never my forte, hence he tutored me and claimed that an ounce of procrastination, indolence and my lackadaisical attitude was intolerable. It gave me a certain sense of encouragement and it paid off since I managed to score an 'A' for the UPSR examinations. Like all fathers he too was overprotective. My peers endlessly teased me on not getting out of the house to hang out like they would normally do. It made my years as an adolescent a little glum, convincing me to think that I'd most probably get my first date at the age of 40! But deep down, I know that being overprotective was one of his characteristics since i'm his only child, his only little girl.

There were uncountable interests we both indulged in. One that we were absolutely zealous about had to be watching football. My first memory of watching a broadcasted game with him was the 1998 World Cup although I was completely hazy on what was happening. As a kid, I always thought it was a game that required 22 men donning shorts on a green pitch chasing after one ball. But when I reached the age of 10 or 11, I could comprehend why my dad was so fanatical about it: the euphoria of seeing your team succeed. I was green with envy when he told me about the numerous games he attended, yet I was completely grateful on the knowledge about the game he shared with me. It fueled me to secretly give him the sobriquet 'my personal football encyclopedia'. He was also the catalyst behind my dream to be a sports journalist in the future. I'm sure he'd be proud to see my name in the glow of a nine-point byline in the newspaper one day.

Football wasn't the only thing he loved. He was also a baking connoisseur. It's quite ironic in some ways because baking is largely perceived as an activity done by women, not the opposite sex. My dad couldn't care less on what most people thought and continued making lip-smacking delicacies. He soon transformed his favorite past time into a small business, taking in orders from family and friends especially when Hari Raya rapidly approached.

My dad may have found his strong points in baking and being an amateur football pundit, however he had feet of clay when it came to fashion. Being a person who is super fashion conscious myself, I couldn't help but criticize his rather strange choice and terrible taste in clothes. I remember that one day when he turned up at school to fetch me home. He was clad in baggy three-quarter pants, a polo shirt in a vivid fuchsia hue and an atrocious pair of Nike sneakers. My friends giggled as I blushed uncontrollably with embarrassment.

So, my dad clearly wasn't close to being on any best dressed list that existed, but it was the simple gestures that he did which made him 'Best Dad in The World' to me. From braiding my hair ala Rapunzel when I was in kindergarten to bringing me along to watch a Star Wars film (although Sci-Fi genre flicks aren't my cup of tea). I always expressed a grin when he apologized for not shaving properly as I ran my hands through his stubble that felt similar to sandpaper.

Sadly, I couldn't enjoy those blissful moments anymore as my beloved dad, my hero, succumbed to cancer in 2007. It was inevitable that I was going to lose him and at first, life without him was unfathomable. But reality sank in swiftly and I realized that I had lost the most unforgettable character I have met forever.

However, there's still a remnant of him that will remain with me as life goes on and though time passed, my love for him is invariable. His message to work hard and to endure through hurdles is drummed into my mind and I vow to reflect it in my studies.

He may have lost his battle with cancer but my dad is still and always will be a true warrior in my eyes.

A note to self.

Oh look another sappy ass post, six o-clock.

This is involuntary,

It waltzes in unannounced; catching me off off guard.

This is conquer,

every alcove under it's reign; defenseless.

This is a void,

sheer destitution; incapable of being a whole.

This is yearning,

interminable; though not palpable from the other side.

This is uncontrollable,

irrepressible; completely out of my hands.

It was free fall,

affixed on the illusion; utterly neglecting reality.

This is ephemeral,

transient at best; though it's intensity sky-rocketed.

And most importantly,

This is not a reason for you to crawl back.

Occasional withdrawal.

I failed to apprehend why words flow out so easily when the subject i'm writing about is you.

The fact that you tend to become this intermittent figment of my subconscious has left me pondering away too; leaving me with a cloud of questions to answer or worse, be swallowed by remorse as I try to get through the day.

I recall how heat would emanate from my cheeks; a superfluous of pink exuding off them as I elude your presence in the class corridor; desperately wanting to be somewhere else to blush our encounter out of my system yet at the same time I'm longing to be a stone's throw away from you, valuing the vicinity of your presence.

My memory does not fail me in remembering how I had to refrain  from smiling to myself as if I'm resembling  someone utterly moonstruck when you speak. It does not get any better when you're conversing to me. How I would agilely pretend to be gracing the image of a decorous young lady as you're speaking; immensely articulate with a good balance of wit and wisdom together with a hint of humility as words roll pleasingly off your tongue. But deep down my heart wants to be liberated from my thorax as it's practically leaping from the palpitations with every syllable that zephyrs through me; replaying ceaselessly in the confines of my mind.

I reminisce the day I murmured a half-hearted congratulations to you. And from then on wards my mind kick-started a countdown along side a despondence knowing the fact that the impermanence of it all is the only thing that is certain. 

There's one thing my usual timid facade never does and that is take a valiant leap of faith. My chivalrous act was unfortunately one I'd eventually lament, as soon as I found out about your rather abrupt change of heart. In many ways I was thankful for distance for it provided a remoteness from you after how you managed to fortify my feelings prompting my naive self to perceive the tangibility of what transpired.

My soul was tinged with acridity; I incessantly compared myself to who your heart took a liking for but at the end of it all I reluctantly realized that I commenced my own episodes of a heavy heart by my insolvable inability to let it go, to let you go despite my arduous effort to do so.

When you swiftly appeared again genuine shock took over me up to the point where it was overwhelming. My mind was baffled on the logistics of it all but my heart, my conscience was   plumbed with vacillation. The internal debate carried on in solitude staring vacantly at three empty cubicles in my white dress. Whatever speech my throat managed to put together were nothing more than mere quivers and a safe distance was kept with the aid of an arsenal consisting of sheer oblivion that was regretfully fueled by pride.  

And that was the first of many chains of remorse. I was purely petrified history would repeat itself; a recurring sense of dejection from you was not something my heart wanted to endure and so my modus operandi turned to making decisions using my pensive brain. 

I had always hope you'll be the one to get past these walls I eclipse myself behind; but ultimately I mentally constructed more of them, shielding myself from the potential pain you could elicit. Encounters that proceeded reflected perhaps the highlight of my lamentation. 

I've always been a guarded person, often letting self-consciousness chaperon the way I carry myself towards others. But the front I put up was rather extreme one. My face would be stoic, for I was fearful I would go back to being that girl who was flushing pink at the sight of you. I tried to keep whatever dialogue you initiated to a restrained exchange of words with  minimal pleasantries; devoid of affinity and completely stolid. 

 It was out of sheer refusal; a defiance of reverting to the state of how I initially felt. Every droplet of delirium you sparked in my heart had to be brutally evaded. Although no matter how much I tried to champion this refusal I've failed to suppress what my heart was telling me miserably.

Among all people, why did you have to be my first?

I gave in; but I was too late. 

I was mindful at the detriment I had dismally conjured, even more aware that the steps to rehabilitate any ounce of friendship we had would be absolutely futile. And the idea of a feasible relationship that I naively and subconsciously assumed that would ideally fall into place  is completely perished. 

Soon, I got a taste of my own medicine. The sting of disregard of my presence as I watch you carefully divert your gaze elsewhere; the pang of agony as I try to get closer to you but the radius between us is stretched by merciless avoidance. But what  aches my heart the most is how I caused it.

Amid all those mixed signals I couldn't decipher, I lost myself and got tangled in getting even. I built up my walls that ended up burning a bridge so dear to me, and this guilt is perpetually engulfing my mind.

I failed to verbalize the words I still withhold, but my priority now is just to say "I'm sorry. I really miss you." 

But we're suspended by this cold thread of silence.

We all scream for ice cream.

The last conversation I had with my dad was about ice cream.