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It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything shamelessly honest. I’ve always been afraid of writing things that exposes glimpses of weaknesses, of things that might allow people to dangle precarious words behind my back, and of a million other things that I’m so wary about that I now have clear-cut representations of myself that I utilise at will depending on the occasions that arise.

All those entries with their comments shut close by myself – like a person who begins to vaguely tell you things that either make no sense or appear to be ramblings like a lyricist gone mad, and then slams his or her door shut in your face without waiting for your opinion – mean a great deal to me. They are entries that I’m struggling to be completely honest with what handful readers I have, but at the same time, paradoxically they’re something I’d rather not have them entirely known. It’s almost rude, I know, because it’s as if I’m telling you: I have a problem, but I’m not going to let you know what it is.

I have friends whom I’m still quite close with back from high school, and they are still the most amazing bunch of people I’ve ever met. Laughters always resonate, silly floating discussions about the generic, occasional intimate moments where we share violently private things – but problems were always listened to for about 5 minutes and they’re swept aside to the nearest available monsoon drain to be flushed away with more laughters and thinly-veiled insult-jokes and Oh-you’ll-be-fine’s and other stereotypical things that men (and the occasional women) do to avoid dealing with difficult things that challenge the psyche.

But in the midst of the thickening, poisoning air of alcoholic breaths, we accept these answers in silence. Perhaps indeed when the head clears, our problems are insignificant compared to the various global catastrophes occurring at an alarming rate. The great Sichuan earthquake. The fearsome Cyclone Nargis assaulting an already poverty-stricken Myanmar. The 9/11 terrorist attack. Rising oil prices and its multiplying effect on world economies. All of these, and more, against the backdrop of when-will-I-finally-find-the-partner-of-my-life’s and problems of finding backpacking companions and pondering ways to keep myself occupied in the holidays and grieving over the loss of a pet and a host of other seemingly unimportant things.

Each of us has our own problems that occasionally cloud the mind, and I’ve always maintained that none of these problems are less important than the other because they’re significant to the sufferer, regardless of the degree of the difficulty of these problems. We’ve formed all these worlds and enclosed ourselves in, and by doing so, we’re nearly always more concerned about pressing issues that affect our own individual worlds than others’.

I watched The Happening earlier today with Jon, Ding, and their girlfriends (where we also met Esther and Adrian who were watching the same movie at the same time) – and I felt like the odd misfit lamppost sitting right in between the two couples. I didn’t think I would feel that way when I was perkily asking them to come for the movie I’ve always been anticipating for some time now, but I did when I finally sat down in Cinema #10. Hand upon hand upon lap. Hushed whispers. In a darkly-lit room. It made me feel incredibly alone, that lovers will share quarrels and kisses and ice-creams and cuddles and bland stories about yesterdays and what happened to so-and-so and exaggerated opinions about The World, while I am here, spinning pathetic entries to no one in particular of arguments and love and dairy food that I cannot eat and hugs and hopes for tomorrows and anecdotes of others and still exaggerated opinions about The World.

I fear this feeling. I remember exactly the last time I felt this irrational fear was the day I recovered my passport in Thailand and my backpacking partner, Siew Kiat, was flying off from Krabi while I make the grand one-man journey to the lesser known town of Satun. To the unknown. Alone. It was only going to be a single night of our entire trip where I would be entirely on my own, but I hated it. It felt as if I was ditched – which was entirely untrue – and I was in such an isolated place that I met nearly none of other travellers that it amplified this singular loneliness by a dozen, and I tried as much as I could to adapt and make small talks to the locals.

When I got back home from the movie, fatigue assaulted me and I thought it was going to be one of them weird temperaments that I can sleep off. I woke up some 30 minutes later feeling a little more anaesthetised of the big 10-letter L word, but that feeling came back. I made a short, raspy yell. I still feel it gnawing inside me like an alien parasite.

I’ve never been able to articulate my feelings as perfectly clear in writing as communicating them orally. And this is one entry that I’m writing from my heart about my fear. That I’m writing wilfully about one very private weakness. That I’m allowing a small glimpse past a sturdy wall into my bare heart. That I’m sure the future me will regret writing this and cringe whenever I stumble upon it. That I am still a lonely child at heart.