The Sunday Currently no. 4

It has been over a year since I’ve touched this blog again, it’s now 2017 and I look back on these writings like artifacts. Life has changed so much. I definitely need to dedicate a separate time to sit down for it (the reflecting once again)—for now, just before I leave for a two-hour drive out of the city, a re-visit.

Reading, Writing

An assortment of books and I’ve the terrible habit of reading books but rarely finishing them. It’s been a mix: Flush by Virginia Woolf, I picked up Daring Greatly by Brené Brown (no shame) for my Sunday morning read, sorted through a few coffeetable books, some books on business. I have actually been reading more these days! As for writing, this is as close as I’ll get.


Ever since working, having a regular commute has made the practice of listening a joy to me. And of course, it helps the lull in the workplace that often needs something more fulfilling. Many good podcasts that I’ve discovered include The Broad Experience, and KCRW always makes good ones. Music has ranged from experimental jazz to classical jazz. I like listening, I wish I’d better at it.

Wanting, Needing

Well, at the moment, I definitely need to pack my things and get ready for the drive out. A few minutes left.

Wishing, Hoping

It’s this quote that has gotten to me: “luck is when preparation meets the moment of opportunity.” Today, it seems like opportunities are all around—but I realized they were always there, I just didn’t see them. I wasn’t ready to. But now faced with the option of choice, and getting my life in order, it’s strange: I can’t tell if I’m underwhelmed or just indifferent. At the same time, I had re-read this excerpt from an interview which I’d kept repeating to myself in university: “you must have will. In other words, you must want.”


My relationship with clothes has changed, or more accurately with the way I look in a mirror. I do feel more confident; at the same time, I’ve simply dressed for myself. I don’t need to impress anyone. And as it’s an early Sunday morning now, my hair is up and I’m in an old, oversized t-shirt from when I used to do public school tutoring for class.

Loving, Feeling

Enjoying the inconsequential. People-watching strangers in foreign countries. Knowing those strangers, knowing how to speak.


  • I’d wondered to myself how on earth I only heard about Casey Neistat till now!
  • Because they moved to Japan, enjoying their stuff more: Simon and Martina
  • P.S. More at a later time. It’s time to go.

On sincerity

I yawn very frequently. It’s the medication, not lack of sleep. Back on anti-depressants like nothing ever changed from four years ago but, of course, so much has.

Some days it’s difficult to concentrate, while others my “non-functionality” is cured. I wake up quite well (this is the part we don’t really talk about) and luckily have a bit of energy to open the seven-minute workout app on my phone a few times a week. Lately I’ve been listening to the same music. Someone gives me papers to sign. I type.

I often wonder how easy it is—going from intense and overwrought contemplation to not wondering much at all. It’s medication, surely, but I can’t tell if I’m satisfied with just that.

Midday. We all have some version of who we are at two, three in the afternoon. We drift off into no-man’s land, saturated beneath office lighting, and douse in a coffee or tea break as the day rolls on. Normally. As it should.

Where was I when history was being made, in some other place, some other period of time, and everything changed on an issue that I cared so deeply about? I clock in, clock out. Take the meds at night. It’s not profound.


The things that make our lives are so tenuous, so unlikely, that we barely come into being, barely meet the people we’re meant to love, barely find our way in the woods, barely survive catastrophe everyday.

People seem to be walking out of my story. That was a recent development.

(Life update: A bipolar depression diagnosis isn’t very comforting. I’d also like to avoid repeating history at all costs. Hope is a verb with its sleeves rolled up.)


This is just to say—

It’s just to say that—amid everything else—I must keep asking, “What’s making me miserable?” But I also want to say that rage can be a kind of fuel, which works simultaneously as: self-assuredness that I’m always right, that I’m still better than others. What’s making me miserable now? Well, “timing is key to corporate success,” as they say. What a sell-out.


On not having good days

Only professionals can diagnose our mental health problems to tell us “what’s really wrong,” but at least we have the Internet—that endlessness of data and distraction which will give me enough options I can at least resonate with. Whether that’s a thinkpiece on some personal drama, or a long-winded Facebook status from a friend, or the countless clinical psychology portals that will suggest their mildly fascinating terms, these permutations populate the empty space in my mind that says, “Maybe this one,” because the psychiatrist is too expensive, anyway.

I can understand and measure my illness when I resonate with certain words: A few weeks ago, I scrolled through the Wikipedia pages on “dysthymia” and “learned helplessness” and almost immediately appropriated them to my narrative—rightly so. This is the power struggle I have with words describing at me than just describing me. I stopped taking my medication two years back over how it defined me: type up a Google search of “lamosyn” and it’ll just say anti-epileptic. It’s not like anyone considers the sick patient a professional of their own suffering.

“You mentioned this bad behavior was because of your mood disorder and other related mental problems,” wrote the Verbal Reprimand. So I had to retreat to the blog I hadn’t revisited in months now to write down what this diminishing made me feel: the over-simplification, the irrationality that certain words could encapsulate how lopsided I was because I had a normal day, like I chose to be unbearable by necessity. I had a normal day then. But nobody seems to talk about how the routinary, the familiar, even the good days can have the opposite effect on your mind.

That’s why I classify in the mood disorder category rather than the depression category, my shrink says. And now, all I can do is grin and bear it. Suck up my unprofessionalism and thank the people who decided, yes, you can keep your job. Here’s the formal notice so you can never, ever do it again. Even though I meant the things I said to our HR officer—I’m happy this is not being excused, I’m working on myself, I’m saying all this because I’d prepared an itemized list in my head so you can treat my emptiness with respect—I look back on that bleak conversation and wonder if I really cared. Was I being authentic enough? angry enough? I don’t make the rules, I just describe at people so they can stop talking to me about it.

Today: I want to remind people they don’t even know who I am and overly-assert this fact. Pull out something from under the rug and say I was right. That’s how I really feel. Should I be impressed? I don’t wish to quell the obnoxious arrogance which I’ve made a part of who I really am.

Side note: This post is rarely edited and intended to be that way.


Diary entry #650192

There are two lines repeatedly crystallizing in my mind: one comes from the famous Oscar speech delivered by Matthew McConaughey, when he won Best Actor for his role as a homophobic electrician abruptly diagnosed with HIV in the film Dallas Buyers Club in 2013. Among the three things he needs, he says, it’s essential to “have something to chase.” The other line in my head comes from a pivotal song in the musical Hamilton—a line I didn’t think much of till I started to connect the dots between McConaughey’s lauding pronouncement to always chase the person you are ten, twenty, fifty years from present-day: “For the first time, I’m thinking past tomorrow,” says Hamilton.

Being a writer—”by definition”—who knows how a reader will conceive this association? Both of us, we’ve gone so unforgiving. The two lines dabble in the brainspace positioned externally on the back of my head, mechanical wind from a fan is directly grazing, which feels slightly below the area I imagine (if only to quell this contemplation) someone’s hand is now resting. Three options makeshift an interpretation: a) Warmth, but easy for you to say. b) How awkward would this be in real life? c) Do not clutch too hard, my dear. The body and blood—”the guts” by definition— will err out of my eyes and spill.

I look after myself properly. I’m a pilgrim past tomorrow.