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[notesbyfleur]

the world forgets that i am naturally, an introvert i allowed myself out of my comfort zone to build and honor connections because that is what life demands of me i embrace when i acknowledge you as my safe space my energy is limited and as i chose the best way to spend my social energy, the world forgets that i am naturally, an introvert

[notesbyfleur]

i remember when i was swimming in a lake of dreams—lake, because i am not an endless dreamer, just contained and content in letting my body afloat on the surface of a cold summer lake on a sunny day. beneath me were supposed to be long, thin weeds in the sea that could grip and grow around my wrists and ankles anytime, but i was too in love with the sun, too in love with the sweet lingering smell of non-existent romance, delusionally, it captured me and made me feel like every other day is a day i want to live in with you around.

i want to go back there, to a time where i'm didn't have to worry about the impending storm that came in the dark clouds hovering over my little house, to a time where i didn't have to worry about the rain bullets that would stomp over my torso, my chest. i don't want to worry about losing, or falling, or forgetting to swim back to the shore.

[notesbyfleur]

i try not to think about things too much,

But unfortunately, overthinking is the kind of hobby I'd (not necessarily enjoy) in the middle of the night, and it usually drags out to morning time where I find myself groggy, desperate for a nap at the corner of our office at TDV so that I could avoid nauseating from an anticipation of a panic attack.

As a believer of energies, I open my empath satellite to the people I chose, and that isn't necessarily a great thing. My Virgo tendencies overanalyses and asks a plethora of questions that was needed for me to desperately make sense of things. The thought of it-is-what-it-is slipped out of my grip, and acceptance has been weighing down my shoulders as I drown so deep into this murky lake.

I desperately rummaged through old notes and messages to remember how it felt like to be desired, to be loved. Maybe it's just a phase that I could do nothing with to change anything at all. Maybe all I have to do is just sit down and let it pass.

This nauseated incoming panic attack.

— april 11th, 2023

[notesbyfleur]

ruby-coloured stream.

i sit and watch you toss your champagne problems aside—trading it for clear water i dipped my hands in, the surface reflects the hue of blue that was present and you.

i sit and watch you search for red in all the wrong corners of the woods, the fire-coloured wildflowers that only grow on the soil that my hands have touched, that you cannot pluck.

i sit and watch you run towards the loudest things, louder than our greatest histories, you kept your grace when you tumble—you stood up and waited for the night to settle in silence before you laid your hands out before me.

i sit and watch you—and that's all i could do without dipping my toes into the ruby-coloured stream that is in between me and you.

[notesbyfleur]

notes, 11/11/2021 - slowly recovering and going back to balance.

damnit, i need to blog more.

we're entering november, and as i was planning to take a break and put my life together, i had several swarming opportunities that my overachieving virgo ass wanted to just instantly grab. and as an overacheiving virgo, it's there for me to grab.

i'm starting to record my friends and my daily doings again, slowly moving back to documenting—cause i want to keep things that i could look back and celebrate.

my 31-year old body, while getting adjusted to the busy lifestyle back, has been begging for sleep, which i will get enough of if i'm more disciplined. my theme for this november will probably be decluttering and falling into healthier routine.

managing work, passion projects, living space and self-care all with the energy of one person can be draining, but lately, i feel like the upkeep of friendships has helped made all these process more fun and bearable. it's worth investing quality time with the people i genuinely appreciate and care for, and i'm also trying to get used to more social interactions—after months being pushed into introversion back when lockdown started.

i wish i have more time and money to celebrate my friends.

but while i plan to sell feet pictures to fund whatever projects that may come my way next, i have until 31st december 2021 to declutter my home, my digital space, and create better routine for myself. possibly, a walk-hike this weekend, again.

[notesbyfleur]

notes, 23/10/2021 - i'm running out of time.

i would always sigh at any quiet moment i'm given, when i'm alone, with a glass of milk coffee that i magically favour more than milk tea lately, "i'm running out of time."

i've been rushing through life with all the things that i could get my hands on—hence the long, annoyingly narcissistic portfolio, if you'd ever get the chance to drag that out of me.

but around my (amazingly talented, none short of energy) friends, i feel like a speck of dust. you already have a legacy, a friend of mine said once, and at times i would definitely feel like, "fuck, yes. i'm that superstar." i would celebrate myself, i would cry in gratitude, and then, silence takes over.

i'd sigh. fleeting in like a recurring throb on my temple, i told myself, 'this is not enough. i'm not good enough.'

i don't know if it was a tiny speck of inferiority that pushes me to work even harder or the hunger to do everything i can before i die, that got me writing a short project proposal at the departure hall of the bintulu airport. that got me reading and editing my novel manuscript at midnight in my bed. that got me write iban lyrics in my Notes in between scrubbing bathroom floor tiles.

my fucking god.

"i'm running out of time," i almost spilled out to my then-lover, whom i barely see anymore by then. we were running out of time. i savoured the one-hour-per-fortnight quality time like a serving of mango sherbet i only could have once a year. i was angry at time.

my fucking god.

i was eager for more sleep—but if i don't do my morning walk, i'm going to kill my stamina when i get older! but i deserve this sleep! i worked so hard.

my fucking god.

how did i get here—becoming a fully-functioning adult with passion projects on the side, and still be feeling not good enough?

[notesbyfleur]

if you don't love me now

you're strumming on my heartstrings—a song that you could barely sing. all these years you kept tugging on the feelings, running around the bridge we're building—never crossing.

if you don't love me now

[notesbyfleur]

future amnesia.

I was in a dream several nights ago—a dream in which I was walking through places that are unfamiliar.

Little Aydan is close to three years old in reality, but in this dream, Little Aydan is six, or seven. His father introduced him to me—although in reality, I was the one who cradled his tiny body weeks after he was born.

An old friend showed me black and white, 3R printed photographs and showed me memories that weren't so familiar. She told me stories of each picture, as if trying to help me remember how did the captured moment went.

I walked through the room recognising the people, but their faces were filled with a certain sadness that was so silent and still. They were observant, but also cautious—looking out for the ground that I land my feet on one by one, and looking out for an anticipation of a breakdown.

It was as if I was having amnesia on a year further than today.

If I really will be—I wonder what kind of memories that I would want to keep in a box so I could reopen when the day comes?

I wonder if I would reread my sad notes and unsent letters. I wonder if I would choose to wear my favourite grey sweater, or will I start to pick up the white one that moment onwards? I wonder if I would remember how I make my Ribena—would I still mix it with peach soju, or would I not remember that too? Would I write in cursive as I always do, or will I revert back to my childhood computer-like handwriting? Will I still love red and green, or would I forget the colours that once made me so happy? I wonder if I would watch myself little screens—what would I think of her?

[notesbyfleur]

john and alizeh.

John is the most accurate definition of tall, dark and handsome. We have known each other since we were eleven, or twelve. We were in the same circle of friends—who grew up together from pre-puberty kids to teenagers with keypad mobile phones and independence—but sadly, we rarely talk. I never said ‘hi’ whenever we passed by, and neither did he. But he knows whenever I am present, and I would always secretly find his face when everyone gathers. We only exchanged smiles, occassionally, and communicates with each other via friends, very subtly.

There was a certain unspoken agreement that when your best friend has a crush on a guy, you do not talk to the guy. So despite not talking to John because Alizeh likes him so dearly, I have spend most evenings sitting at the bus stop down the school hill, watching the boys play football in their shorts. He was there. Tall, dark and handsome. His hair is always in a classic Frankie Muniz updo, and his eyes were dark, mysterious and calm. He was funny, and he likes cracking jokes, but he also retreats himself into a shy demeanour shortly after.

Alizeh talks about him nearly half of the time we hung out together in school and after school, so by time, I was able to get used to listening to stories of John. And when we were fourteen, they dated each other. I guess he must’ve liked her for so long too. Alizeh is a lovely person, and while she might not be the star student in our school, she walks with grace and beauty. Jet black spill of hair tucked behind her ears, and soft white skin with a subtle tan that reminds you of thick cheesecakes. There is a certain politeness in her smile, as if she was playing Dutchess all the time, but they were the most warm, genuine smile.

One afternoon when I was thirteen, I smashed the little glass swan John gave me for my twelfth birthday and practiced playing Game of Love on my father’s guitar until the tip of my fingers burned in pain.

Alizeh moved away when we were fifteen, and I still hadn’t talked to John in the most casual and direct conversation. By that time, I was able to recite the entire Science syllabus, played many songs on the guitar and sat with the boys of my class in my pinafore while they helped changing the strings of my father’s guitar.

John and I only started properly talking when we were sixteen, but not much words are exchanged. Most of the time, there were silence. Which had led us to this very moment—when he was waiting outside the gates of my house on his motorcycle on a Wednesday evening.

I refused to wear the helmet, because we were only heading a few blocks away from my house for Maths tution. I have no problem with walking, but our friend suggested that he gave me a lift.

“Okay, get behind me,” he said, already mounted on his motorcycle. His voice was slow and soft.

I climbed behind him and held on to my tote bag, which was sandwiched between us. He made a turn and we left. Again, very few words were exchanged between us—as it was in school and during tuition.

***

I remember evenings from my teenage years very faintly, but often times the recalling would come in the most beautiful form I could never explain—like old recordings of the five senses in the most comforting way that makes you feel like old memories are things that are so intangible, no matter how close they are to your heart. Often decorated with orange sunsets or gloomy skies, and framed with beautiful bokeh or grey diamonds of raindrops, my recollections of youth revolves around everything that was truly innocent.

Innocent, but nothing was within my grasp. Not the one I couldn’t control, at least.

Worn out debate cards tucked into my tote bag. Pages of my physics schoolbook turned chilly by the air-conditioning of my own bedroom, untouched and clean from scribbles. I lay in bed with my limbs sprawled, eyes staring into the nothingness that was on the ceiling. The five o’clock evening sun cast orange hues through slits of the curtains, on whichever surface it could touch.

Love Is Only A Feeling by The Darkness was playing. My lips mouthed its lyrics, my throat releasing nearly-inaudible vocals. It was an anthem. Music was my element.

It was also sad how music is something that guitar-playing John is something we could always bond over. Yet besides motorcycle rides and tuitions, our conversations were almost obsolete. Words exchanged between us could compare to the likeliness of solar eclipses.

Alizeh was long gone. Distance was a difficult barrier when you’re a highschooler of the 2000s—and the Nokias and Sony Ericssons were only promises on one end. Phone calls and instant messages with Alizeh became less and less, until one day, it stopped. Like a long-distance relationship with a faint ending, friendship faded into the background, like a slow score of an eventful scene.

Without Alizeh, eye contacts happened more often.

***

I have never had a proper conversation with John, and even two years after Alizeh has left us in this smaller, peaceful town, I still have not had a proper conversation with John. I regretted smashing the glass swan when I was thirteen, but we don’t carry or keep things that no longer serves us.

As Alizeh faded into the void behind us, making her presence no longer felt among our group of not-so tight knit friends, I breathed a new life into my courage. No, not the kind of courage you need to speak in front of the crowd, carrying the school’s name on your forehead and aiming for the grand prize.

Courage is a funny thing. It was as if we all exists on different planes and we view courage differently. One could fear the act of making decisions for a group of teenage mankind and strutting forward spouting instructions from his mouth. I have no such fear. One could fear the act of being left alone with a person she had known for five to six years, fear of stuttering and fidgeting not knowing what to talk about. That would be my fear.

For the rest of my high school days, I knew his full name. I knew his birthday. I knew his family, I visited his house. I knew that he broke his hand in the sixth grade from an accident. I knew how he liked his hair done. I knew he enjoys his motorcycle rides to and fro school in the evening. I knew what everyone else knew. I didn’t know what lies below the surface instead—insecurities, fears, everything personal and everything sentimental. Yet times spent whenever he was in my scene, my field of vision, and my presence; they felt somewhat cinematic. Time slows down to make way for the sun to give its golden warmth upon us, and whenever it was raining, alternative rock music often played in independent movies plays in its own plane. But that was ultimately everything. It was as if we have a cackling chemistry, but we never had an existing bond between us. It was like a metal bridge being built from both sides, having never met in the middle.

***

The town where I grew up in was such a small town, but when you have everything so close around you, physically and sentimentally, it becomes your entire world. There was nothing you could lose and even with the lack of this and that, everything felt sufficient. I have been fed with the idea of a wistful high school experience, from the sappy books I’ve read. I found out later that I was wrong, that I thought everything I had in my teenage years would stick with me throughout the rest of my life, growing with me. It’s such a beautiful thought—to be able to transition into a much more serious part of life with the people you grew up with.

Alizeh was the first warning that not everything lasts, and people grow apart. What the town gives you to nurture your growth doesn’t necessarily cling with you as you transition. Butterflies don’t bring their coccoon with them after metamorphosis. The first to leave was my best friend. And then, everything else.

John looked at me with obscure sorrow in his eyes. It was that one evening where our friends were as energetic despite the lack of sun. John’s hands clung onto his motorcycle as he stood beside it. Like everyone else, we weren’t in the rush to get home.

I was prepared—as usual—to go with him. After several times, he was used to giving me a ride from and back home. I forgot when did the favour turned into an unspoken one. Perhaps we took it as an arrangement, which unfortunately did not last under certain circumstances—changes.

But I was waiting for him to climb onto his motorcycle first, so I could climb behind him. That’s the way it is always, isn’t it?

He didn’t. Instead, he looked at me with obscure sorrow in his eyes. Head slightly tilted sideways, updo unwavered—he looked at me like someone looked at a nostalgic past, something he longed for but can never touch.

I didn’t ask questions. I never do. We never have proper conversations. I felt like asking would lead to and intrusion of personal space of his.

He opened his mouth and sucked his breath. My friends were already on the road, with laughter so loud it might have echoed the entire neighbourhood. He wasn’t curious enough to see what was so amusing.

And that was when I finally asked, “what?”

“I’m moving.” He said so with a tone that was only meant to be heard by me and no one else. I turned to the rest of my friends, but they were too occupied to be in the conversation—or perhaps John had only meant it to be a one-to-one announcement. The rest of our friends could probably wait.

“You’re moving?” I repeated rethorically—what else am I supposed to say?

He nodded. “I’m leaving next month.”

“Where to?”

“KL. The big city.”

I said nothing else. I clutched my fist, hoping not to look indifferent about his announcement of departure. But I couldn’t bring myself to produce a proper spoken response, or any response at all. I couldn’t keep the conversation going, mostly because asking things in which you could easily predict the answer is useless. He is moving because his father has to move for work—his mother is a housewife. He doesn’t know what school will he enroll in once he got there. He will come to visit—he has family staying in town still. And he will at least throw a farewell barbecue party for his friends before he leaves.

“How do you feel about it?”

“Sad. I mean, I grew up here.”

He moved away the month after. You’d think it would be cinematic. You’d think I would be sending him love letter like Lara Jean, and we’d be making out on an all-green football field under the sun, at least before he leaves forever. But it didn’t happen, I said nothing, and one day we stopped seeing his face around school.

***

A/N: This was written as a part of my memoir-themed novella, Oxygen and Other Dreams, that remained as unfinished as I left it in 2018. As much as I could recall a lot of details accurately, I couldn't bring myself to write the following part. It was something that I never have apologised to John for—but someday, maybe I will.

John and I remained friends on social media, as Alizeh too. They married different people now, and they're very blessed to have found lifetime love. I was never someone who could fit into their narratives comfortably—a misfit—and I feel like I am still the misfit. I'm still here, and I'm still me.

— steff fleur // july 2, 2021

[notesbyfleur]

the scariest thing in the world

the scariest thing in the world for some of us are having our thoughts flow out for the world to watch and be in the dark of what they might turn our thoughts into. i lost a private safe place several months ago in a storm disguised as a peaceful rainfall. so here i am in the middle of the pandemic, rebuilding a blog space for my written things.

welcome to writings by fleursteff.

–steff fleur // july 1st, 2021