the right to be wrong

ipoh is such a wonderful place. every time i go back, i feel like i’m that 6 years old superhero that owns the whole wide world again.

trekking along the old railway tracks. walking the jungle paths into the rubber estate, collecting rubber seeds for our slingshots. trekking down into the valley where a series of huge fishing ponds lay. running along the long aisles of the vegetable gardens, which is as far as the eyes can see. catching grasshoppers, spiders and fishes. flying kites and splashing in the waist high streams. spending the afternoons climbing trees and staking lands from the top for our imaginary forts and castles.

this is the simplicity of life that i miss, sans the headache and heartache of city living and the realities of growing up. i try to make it back a few times every year but there’s one thing that’s keeping me from going back more.

relatives.

i wouldn’t call them nosy. village folks are simple, straight to the point and i guess it’s their way of caring. but i can only take so much of questions like ‘where’s your gf?’ or ‘when are you getting married?’

and i always say to them: i have the right to be alone. but in truth this loneliness is emotionally disabling me. but then there are much more important things in life i would like to achieve now, by hook or by crook.

so i reserve a right to be wrong, for now. i was once known as the sickly kid that refused to die. i can deal with almost drowning. i can deal with the physical pain of being in surgery for 6 hours and the months of recuperation period after that. but emotional pain is another level that i have yet to conquer.

thus i put on a brave face for them and smile, even though my insides are all slowly falling apart.

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