Homecoming (it takes an ocean not to break)

One of the great things about jet lag is being up at 3 AM in the morning and feeling like you’re the only person in the world. 

Sooooo, I’m back in sunny Singapore. It’s way too soon, it’s a long time coming, it’s what I have craved, and what I have dreaded all at the same time just kinda crashing surging building and collapsing in me.

I think I made a promise to myself to keep up this blog, especially to record the intricate details of my travels and the insights I’ve collected, the way my passport collects places. Not much of this promise has panned out, and most insights I’ve had I kept to myself, save some short bursts of anger, exasperation, sadness and joy on both here and Twitter. But I think I want to repromise myself this, even as I am in ‘boring’ old Singapore. But the growth and changes of these few years should bear some fruit, wisdom-wise, and words-wise, so I feel I should take up this blog with renewed vigour. Also, as always, one of my new year resolutions is to write more and write better, and blogging, I maintain, helps.

So, here I am. And I’ve tried to publicise this blog as much as my self-esteem would allow, so if you’re new here in 2013, hello, let’s have a conversation. 

But before that, lemme just ramble on about being home and the new year and etc. 

Meeting up with friends in London and just seeing so much of the world has got me so so so deathly afraid of the future, and that’s kinda new to me, because I’ve always been preparing for this Future with university applications and self-affirming monologues. The 18-year-old me was so certain of this future, so looking forward to it, and so bursting out of her shell. But as the date looms, the more I fear being thrust into a merciless world of endless working and mortgage payments. Even something as gorgeous as spending the rest of your life with someone is tainted by a cycle of questions of how you’re going to afford this and how everyone else is doing it.

And I guess closely intertwined with that fear (more closely than I would like to admit) is the perpetual unnerving feeling of never being good enough. The fact that I’m such an ill-disciplined writer (though rather well-disciplined in most other endeavours) is no comfort at all. 

I guess the words captured in parenthesis relate to how quick I am to sadness nowadays, and I so so hope that this is a temporary affliction, and that I will soon move on from the rawness of things. 

But, anyway, welcome invisible audience. 

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