You are staring in front of the mirror, watching your face slowly transform into that ghastly, unrecognisable figure, a cool contrast from the screams of the playing children just outside your window. "You'll be beautiful", you hear her whisper, as she picks up yet another one of those numerous brushes and paints your face another coat of pink blusher to match the pink roses in your hair. You've lost count of exactly how many times she's said those words, but in your mind, you're anything but beautiful. In fact, beauty isn't even in your mind at all. Instead, you're filled with a worry, a worry that should have been long discarded by now, because weeks before, you had said yes. Caught up in the shrieks of your friends as they whisked out cameras, and blinded by the flash of the ring as it sparkled on its bed of maroon velvet, you had, childishly of course, accepted the proposal. How strange, you think now, that one monosyllabic utterance would change the course of your life. How pathetically immature.

"Close your eyes", she said. You let your thoughts jog to a halt and then obediently obey her. For a few moment, all you can feel are the tugs at the corners of your eyelids as she swept over your shivering eyes with yet another stroke of the pencil. You hear her murmur that the eyeshadow was too thick, then felt the cold, impatient swipe of the makeup remover. You felt this, you felt that -

"Have you ever felt what it was like to be at the other end of the pencil?" she asked. 

Yes, you have. Of course you have. You have felt what it was like when the only worry was that your eyelashes had too much mascara, or when the greatest fear was when there wasn't enough makeup remover in case you put too much on your client. And you wish that you could feel like that again, when the cold engagement ring didn't sit heavily on your finger. 

You watch as she steps away from the canvas of your face and surveys her handiwork, before letting out a tired sigh. "I think I look great", you tell her, and then smile at her.You have to reassure her, because at the end of the day, that's all she's concerned about. She finally relaxes and with one final glance at your face she leaves the room, and you are alone. She has done a great job, spending hours covering up the tiny creases under your eyes, working her way around to mask each worry and each fear that was tucked away into the folds of each crease. She had done an excellent job, no doubt, and for that you were glad. No one now had access to those creases. 

Least of all was her would-be husband, who was the one who put those creases there in the first place. But these of course, he never knew. Like how he never knew her shoe size and her favourite food. Like how he never knew that she wanted to be an untouched virgin till the night of her marriage, how he never knew, till just two weeks before the marriage, that his actions had resulted in the two double lines in the window of the pregnancy kit. How he never knew that she had her wedding dress altered to fit her gradually bulging tummy. After all, the standard wedding dress never measured more than a size ten. When you eventually told him that you were pregnant, he was horrified. Of course. Any husband would be, especially before they had even been formally engaged. He had begged you to marry him, to hold the wedding quickly because he didn't want such "things" to tarnish his reputation as a family lawyer. And you had graciously said yes. Of course. You were a makeup artist, after all. 

A sudden shriek made you make your way towards the window, where you watched three girls playing in the garden. In identical pink frocks, matching pink hairbands and pink shoes, it was hard to tell them apart, but soon it became clear. The girl with the longest hair was pretending to be a bride, arm in arm with another short-haired girl who was the groom. The third was the cameraman, standing at the end of the aisle and pretending to capture the memories of the wedding ceremony. The shriek you had heard earlier was from the girl-cameraman, who was slowly getting tired of holding out a make-believe camera and pretending to click the it in the air. You couldn't help but smile at the sight of such innocence. Such audacity, you thought, but then they were children, and you rationalised that they couldn't possibly know. Then you heard another shout, an adult's voice this time, calling the children in to wash up, and watched as the girls abandoned their game play and run out of your sight. 

The garden was empty now, but at the far corner of the garden near the gate, a solitary withered rose broke the uniformity of the green lawn. 

To whom it may concern

To whom it may concern:

Dear _____

I write this letter to you with pity. I'm writing to you because, after all these years, it's about time that I made this known to you, because you've spent the the last few years living a happy delusion. And that delusion doesn't just extend to me. It extends to the way you live and your mindset. That all that time you've been happily believing (in denial perhaps, but that's only for you to admit) in your little fantastical dream. A dream that I started off detesting but for which now I merely scorn at. Hence the pity which I first started this letter off with.

I want to tell you that I've grown up. To all those who have not had their eyes veiled by delusion or myth, then it's not a surprise to them, and that is something I applaud them for. They've seen me through and through, and where I am today, in a university studying the subject I like, is because of them.

It's not because of you though, don't get your hopes up. You're the one who's been living under that beautiful rock , you're the one who's been viewing the sky through the opening of the well entrance.You're the one whom, I'm sorry to say, have been thinking that you've done it all right when in fact, you couldn't be further from the truth.

I grew up a long time ago. I grew up when I was bullied by all those girls back in secondary school. I grew up with I cried myself to sleep because I couldn't talk to anyone about it, because I tried to tell you and you brushed me off - you didn't understand. I grew up when they picked on me for my thin, skinny arms and flat chest. I grew up when I met those bullies years later and they realised that the girl they'd been picking on now had larger boobs then them. Or perhaps the time I had my first kiss, the first time I had my heart broken by a boy, the first time the boy learned that I'm not the kind of girl to mess with. Or the time when the boy you thought was a great catch was abusing me behind your back. You never knew all this. Your knowledge of me was as superficial as the delusion you live by.

Overtime, I learnt to stay away. Emotionally, I disconnected myself from you. You believed that that I was as untouched as a fresh rose petal, you believed that I was as as unharmed and unhurt as the fresh strawberries you ate for breakfast. And I don't blame you for feeling that way. In a way, it was my fault, because I didn't update you on my life. But I blame you for being so blind. You chose not to see the person I was becoming, and instead of accepting it, you thought it was smart to try and force your way to ensure that I fit within your scope. That couldn't have been a more wrong decision. As with the creepers you grow in your garden, you cannot dictate where they will grow. "Let them grow and if they're out of control, I'll snip them", you often said. That's unfortunately not the case for me. You cannot dictate the growth of a person, and even if you could, you'd be too blind to see it. You're watering in the wrong pot of plant.

And while you were so busy watering your pot of soil, I was busy too. I was busy growing up in a pot that nurtured me with the love, and kept me alive by constantly giving me hope. That was something you never gave. I grew up differently. but to you, it wasn't growing up at all. It is only growth if you cultivate it. Your plant isn't the plant you wanted, and you pretend its not there.

End of the day, my message is simple. You don't have to change your way of thinking. In fact, I don't want you to change the way of thinking even if you could, because frankly speaking, it's too late. You don't have to scramble around desperately for some connection with me, because any connection you tried to make was severed years ago and now there isn't one. In fact, sometimes I wish you'd continue living in this delusion, because no matter what this letter has said, you can choose to ignore it, and live in denial, just as you've always done. You'd be happier that way.

Just remember though, that the day you choose to look at me the way I am, don't be too surprised. Don't let the shock overwhelm you, because that's not good for your heart. Because all these years, you choose not to listen, and that is something I cannot control. Just as you cannot control how you want me to grow.

Till then, you can keep watering that empty pot of soil.

Cheers,
XXXX

Sometimes I feel like I'm running a race that I'll never end. I know I've blogged about school for sometime, and that I've whined repeatedly about my fears for school, but nothing preprared me for this amount of work. This amount of... stress.

I don't know. MAybe it's part of uni life, you know, getting used to all this nonsence. The fact that you are always worrying about something or other, the fear that something remains incomplete. The worry that has carved a permanent hole that now seeks to constantly be refilled with more worries. It's a vicious cycle, and amidst all of this, I'm struggling to keep my head afloat, to keep it from going under. Still waters run deep, they say, except that in this case, the water isn't still but its still deep. The waters are turbulent and disturbing, and with each wave they threaten to drown those who keep their heads afloat. And I'm clinging on, hoping that something will come my way that will buoy me up and provide a short, temporal relief.

Strangely enough though, it seems that I'm a lot calmer this semester. I remembered how I still struggled to prevent myself from cracking, and I did crack in class once (Oh God I still remember the faces of the people in my table, but mortification aside..). I'm not sure if this inability to crack is a good or a bad thing anymore, to be honest. Socially, it's a good thing. I'm keeping myself from falling apart so I exude a more refined, perhaps less rickety demeanour this sem. Yet sometimes it worries me, this calmness, because I'm not sure if it's because I 1. have gone beyond the ability to break down or 2. the fact that I will break down sometime later in the sem and that it's going to be worse that whatever I might have seen so far. It scares me.

"Hey Ju", I hear a voice and I turn around. It's my friend, and I smile and wave, because that's what I've been taught is socially acceptable. To be polite. To be nice to your friend. Singa the Lion says you must be courteous. So that's what I do, because its a mechanical action but for which, in my opinion, has lost its meaning.
" How's your essay?" she asks, and I respond with a nod and a smile. A smile that conceals a grimace. "So-so. Haven't done much. Don't know what he's asking for in the essay also. Suka suka." I have learnt that that is the best way to reply. She doesn't see my grimace. Thank God, I say to myself.
The next question I was posed to ask would be one that kills me, I know, but I can't help it. I ask it anyway. "Oh, not much. I sacrificed this essay for the sake of another essay tha'ts more pressing. Yknow, sua la, get C then get C lo. Haha!" she says, with lying happy eyes. Lying, because you know that she's not telling the truth. Someday you and her will receive your results and she will act all surprised at the fact that she "scraped" ("I have no idea how I did this, seriously") an A. And it kills you, because you know that unlike her, you haven't just taken a "sua la" attitude with this essay. I turn away from her and from behind, I hear a soft murmur. I turn back to face her and in an instance, I see a set of fangs in my face. A soft hiss ensues. "You-" I say, but before I could continue, I felt a sharp tug along the based of my spine and then, turning around, I see a red liquid bubble from where the tip of the fangs made contact with my skin. I could see the droplets of this red liquid on the floor. One, two three, I was counting, before I felt myself being lifted off the ground. "It's not over yet", the creature murmured, its fangs still deeply embedded in the skin near my tailbone, from which now the blood was freely flowing. The creature, with me hanging from its fangs, swung around and in that instant, I saw, in those creature's eyes, the eyes of my friend. The same pair of lying, happy eyes that whisked by me as the creature let go of its grip and I fell to the ground.

It's the elephant in the room that I haven't addressed for a long time.

I think it's been 2 years, yet I still feel so awkward. So odd. So... judged. And sometimes its painful and its tiring to have to search for topics to talk about. But what can I do? I hate feeling like I'm any less well-liked. And in fact, my boyfriend is just about as well liked as me.
But why in the world do I feel so empty even when I'm laughing and being happy? Somehow beneath all that laughter there's still this emptiness that this happiness cannot penetrate, and thus, cannot fill.
I don't know what's up.