I’ve always enjoyed writing. It’s a form of self expression, from writing random prose, opinions on the state or musings on life. I’d like to work with National Geographic one day. Although my current career path is far from the dreams of being a simple writer, looking at the world both realistically and idealistically.

I grew up speaking English in my home. But I can still converse in my mother tongue. Naturally it exposed myself and my siblings to a world of both the new and the old. On weekends we’d go back to the kampung, and experience living without all the comforts. Mosquitoes, heat, local TV, silence. But the smell of an open flame, as the wood fire crackles, crickets and frogs belting off a medley of sounds, the darkness of the sky that’s almost absolute, and that still, tranquil silence, lay like a blanket on everything.

I’ve lived in air-conditioned rooms, and fanless ones, by the light of a fluorescent lamp, and by a kerosene lamp that makes your nose turn black with soot, bathe with warm shower water or by scoops of frigid rainwater, shitting in the comforts of modern plumbing or just behind the pepper tree.

Development came, things began to change. Tracks of rainforest turned into plam oil fields, shopping malls began springing up, roads became wider, things got more expensive, old school grocery shops began closing down, people moved away, culture became forgotten, identity in crisis.

The silent stillness is still there, gently eroded by the passage of time.


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