Chasing Motivation

Damn he's fast... :O

An Analysis of Limbo

The very word “Friendzone” strikes fear in the very hearts of men (and sometimes women) everywhere. The harmless-sounding word has been a source of pain since the written word was invented millennia ago. The toughest man can crumble at its very prospect (hiperbola).

Admittedly, the Friendzone isn’t scary for everyone. Nor is it scary all the time. The vast majority of people are happy to stay in each other’s respective Friendzones. The system, in equilibrium, is constant, predictable, and in that it is comforting. The Friendzone is like a mother’s womb, or a warm blanket in the morning, or like supporting Manchester United – you will always be sure of a win.

BUT (because there’s always a but)…things get tricky when one tries to step out of this zone. As 9gag wisdom states:

Those who have attempted to leave the Friendzone will discover that the comfort it gives is very deceptive. The warmth of the Zone can thus be likened to the warmth of a pit of quicksand – comforting but asphyxiating.

Still it is not totally impossible to leave this Zone. Countless souls over the generations have taken the leap from the Friendzone to the More-Than-Friends Zone. But beware: few make the jump. Many others fall to their deaths, or worse, the No-Longer-Friends Zone.

Besides landing (or falling) into the More-Than-Friends Zone or No-Longer-Friends Zone, there is a third possible outcome of this ‘leap of faith’ (to use a line from Inception). It is, in my personal belief, the worst outcome of the three – being caught in ‘Limbo’ (to continue the Inception analogy).

A person condemned to the terrifying fate of Limbo finds himself in a strange land between ‘friends’ and ‘more than friends’, while at the same time hanging ominously over  the ‘no longer friends’ drop. This is best illustrated by our friend Mario below:

This Limbo region has been the subject of much study by nuclear physicists and relationship gurus alike. The only consensus about Limbo is that it is somewhere where the laws of physics do not apply. Other than that, numerous conflicting theories arise regarding its nature and composition. Some believe that the Limbo region is a tangible element yet undiscovered by science, others say it is an imaginary concept with real-life applications (like Mathematics), while others still insist that it is made up of equal proportions of dark matter and pixie dust(the theory, though absurd, is yet to be discredited).

The paragraph above can be ignored. Saja nak merapu.

Those in Limbo are often given advice by concerned friends and family along these lines:

• Just get over her lah…!
• Dude, if she’s the one, go for it man!!
• If you love a bird let it go, if it belongs to you it will surely return.
• You have to fight for love…stop sitting around doing nothing you idiot!
• Kalau ada jodoh, you guys will end up together…
• Kalau jodoh pun, mesti ada usaha…

As you may very well notice, the torrent of advice is often contradictory. Thus, on the subject of Limbo, I have grouped advice-givers into two schools of thought:

1. Interventionists – This group of people recommend a gung-ho approach to love, preferring action over waiting. People of this group generally recommend a “listen to your heart” approach which borders on the impulsive. They suggest direct displays of love and get mad at the prospect of “sitting around and waiting for the One”. The Interventionist approach is usually criticized as being an impatient idiot’s approach to love.
2. Market-Oriented Advocates – This group of people recommend a more patient approach to love, preferring waiting over action. They are staunch believers that the many tentacles of Fate will deliver you to the One regardless of whether you try or not. Trying, in fact, may make things worse. So why try? This approach preaches “listening to your head” and is generally more rational, but is also a biggest test on patience. They have a “what will be, will be” mentality and frown upon displays of affection which they believe has a negative impact on the course of the relationship. The Market-Oriented approach is usually criticized as being a cowardly idiot’s approach to love.

Typical when it comes to the issue of Limbo, the dispute between the above groups is far from resolved. Due to the unnecessary stress it causes, I believe that someone stuck in limbo listening to such advice is – well – unadvisable.

I write much of this post from personal experience, because currently I am in Limbo. How I got here was via a strange combination of Interventionist and Market-Oriented policies. Reporting from the Limbo, I can tell you that it is a place full of questions and insecurity. It is a blind drift in a thick fog. It is not fun.

But, perhaps surprisingly, the Limbo is not my biggest worry. I end this post with a message to my Mum* (a lady whose basic tenet is ‘no relationships while studying!’):

Your son has grown up, and his mind will drift to thoughts of marriage. I guess its inevitable. But I know how important a good IB result is to me…and the family. Don’t worry Ma, I won’t do anything without your consent. I know my priorities.

*Mama is a staunch Marked-Oriented Advocate. She believes in ‘jodoh’ but tells her children that romantic relationships are permissible ‘once you have a career’. It is not just talk; Mama takes concrete steps in preventing such relationships. In that way, her believes are Market-Oriented, but her actions are Interventionist.

This contradiction isn’t that weird though…I understand that it comes from the heart of a mother. One of the rare types of love which doesn’t involve Limbo. 

A Placement to Happiness

“OFFER LETTERS Threaten to Tear the Very Fabric of KMB Society”

BANTING: Emotions run high and friendships strained as a portion of the KMB student population receives offer letters from foreign universities. An emerging divide between the ‘haves’ and the ‘have-nots’ threatens to tear D’Batch into two warring factions.

The recent IUMC placement announcement, in particular, has led to the emergence of a large chunk of discontented students ready to strike out with violent acts. Those who have received such offers, on the other hand, live in fear of those who did not. Meanwhile, a third group of those ‘in the balance’ (awaiting an offer letter) are caught in between.

As tension continues to mount, students have resorted to panic buying everywhere from the dormitories to the college Kooperasi. A faulty ATM has not helped in calming frayed nerves. All this has occurred in anticipation of a college-wide outbreak of chaos.

“Yes, the koop has seen sales go up in the last few days,” commented Kuchai (name changed to protect identity), former ALK member-turned-economic analyst. “But hey, its nothing personal, just business” he added with a grin.

The current MPP, expecting a Second Year revolt, has bolstered security. Checks on the MPP financial record reveal the purchase of bullet-proof windows for the MPP office, highlighting the potential magnitude of the imminent mayhem. The head of the Public Relations Bureau, though, refused to remark on this worrying development when questioned during a recent press conference, preferring instead to announce the details of upcoming college activities (go figure) =.=”

Authorities have called for calm in the coming months – D’Batch president calling for “a batch spirit which transcends the award of offer letters” in an interview at the local Surau.

Regardless, there is no denying that the placements are a very real threat to KMB security. Everyone live in a climate of terror, seemingly surrounded by enemies who were once friends.

It seems only to be a matter of time before the Banting Spring explodes into life – AP

Disclaimer: Comments from the ‘sources’ quoted above (Kuchai, MPP financial records, Head of Public Relations Bureau, President of D’Batch) are totally made up and should not be taken seriously. Everything in the above ‘article’ is a work of fiction and is a product of my overactive imagination only…

Or is it?

Okay, okay, fineeee...the situation isn’t THAT dramatic, but isn’t it true that the offer letters have divided KMB-ians? And isn’t it true that little joy can be found on either side of the divide? Those without offer letters (obviously) are saddened; but those with offer letters too feel only temporary delight before a creeping sense of guilt overtakes them. Guilt stemming from the feeling that they are somehow leaving their friends behind.

“Somehow I don’t want this offer, placement anymore if it only destroys happiness”, an IUMC-bound friend of mine told me in a bout of such sadness. She wanted to comfort friends who didn’t get offers, but was countered with comments like “those who got the offers will never understand our situation”.

Such a situation is not unique to her. KMB-wide there exists, not anger, but a feeling of despair+guilt+helplessness that definitely isn’t fun. But take a pause and think about it: should we really be feeling this way?

I it as a blessing that we have secured a place in KMB anyway: that we have had the opportunity here to meet roommates, classmates, maybe even a soul mate, whom have found a place in our hearts. And it is not a blessing that we have that heart in the first place?

This offer letter fuss has made us yearn for what we do not have, instead of treasuring what we do. By painting a mirage of what could happen, it has made us forget of what already has.

Yes, some would argue that I am in no position to tell people to ‘cheer up’. I am, after all, one of those who have received an offer letter. Which means that if a Banting Spring really does begin I will probably be on the receiving end of a beating (I can’t run very fast).

But my gratitude today does not stem from that offer letter alone – although I really, really am grateful for it. No, I am thankful for ALL that I have. A non-comprehensive list of things I am blessed with in the past 19 ½ years on this Earth, off the top of my head right now, would look something like this:

1. an awesome family,
2. a complete set of body parts in the correct proportions (lazy eye notwithstanding),
3. great friends everywhere I had the privilege to spend time in which includes:
4. an awesome neighbourhood called Puteri 8,
5. an awesome school called SKPJP,
6. another awesome school called SMKPBP(1),
7. an awesome PLKN camp called Kem Temasya Rimba Templer,
8. an awesome college called KMB,
9. committed teachers at 5, 6 and 8,
10. a neighbourhood futsal court,
11. a neighbourhood playground,
12.  neighbours to play futsal and ‘Dinosaur’ with at 10 and 11,
13.  a wonderful childhood,
14.   enough food and oxygen for the last 19 ½ years,
15.  the mere but profound fact that I’m alive –

And I’m sure I’m not alone in this. Look closely enough and we are all blessed.

So, as long as I can say it, I’ll say it: friends…please cheer up. As we are all blessed, the next step is to be happy. Because:

“…And We will reward the grateful” [3:145]

An EE of An EE

4.0 Results and Findings:

  

It is uncanny how similar the growth curve of my Extended Essay is to the growth curve of an average human being.

But then again, why should I be surprised? To me, my Extended Essay has taken an almost human quality. Even though this sweet child of mine has given me sleepless nights, played with my mental state and won my hate and love in equal measure…I cannot deny that she has found a place in my heart.

5.0 Evaluation:

5.1 Birth

It all began months ago, when she first popped into my head – and into my life – as an adorable little Research Question. She was barely a thesis statement and a hastily-put-together list of research objectives then, but to me she was my world. Proudly I showed her to Miss Melor, who agreed to be my EE advisor (for the rest of this blog post, Miss Melor will be referred to as “the Godmother” for dramatic purposes). 

But like any new father, I was nervous. Horror stories abound from seniors and teachers about EE’s which have gone bad; RQ’s which had to be changed halfway, EE’s which have gone down the dark path of plagiarism. But I was determined that she was not going to be one of those EE’s.

5.2 First procrastination phase

That determination though, did not last long. It is this point of the story of which I am most embarrassed: I became a negligent parent.

I don’t know whether it was my other assignments or my responsibilities as a student rep, but I ignored her. I left her in my laptop, alone and overlooked. Referring to Diagram 1, this part of the story is the nearly horizontal part of the graph slightly above the number ‘0’ number of words.

The deadline for your first check-up came and went, but still I did not send her to the Godmother to be inspected. I was a man on the run, ready to bolt at the sight of the Godmother. At one point I got pretty good at escaping her. The key to escape, I learned, was not to run, but to hide. I never did get caught – or so I thought.

5.3 First growth spurt

But one day I got a letter from the Godmother, my full name and class neatly typed out on the front. In it was a memo:

“…due to your poor and bad commitment, you will now handle your IB exam registration directly with the Head of Academic Affairs…”

To the Godmother I sent a text:

“Teacher, I am sorry…can you extend the deadline to next week please?”

To which the reply (in true Godmother fashion):

“I don’t want excuses. I want a first draft.”

This leads me to believe that EE advisors must have been trained in the art of psycho-ing their advisees…

The weekend after that marked the first growth spurt in Diagram 1, as I did not leave my laptop for two days to shower my EE with the attention she so lacked. With the words I fed her, she grew from slightly above 0 words to 3000 words in a matter of 48 hours.

5.4 Second procrastination phase

Unfortunately, this was not to be the feel-good part of the story yet. The Sem 3 examinations rolled along, and once again my EE went unheeded. I promised myself that I would once again shower her with attention once the holidays began. But procrastination, my arch-nemesis, reared its ugly head as per usual. I did look at her, and fed her the words she was so hungry for – but they were far from enough.

As it was then, she had no citations whatsoever yet. This sweet child of mine was heading down the dark road to plagiarism – it was going to be a potentially hazardous puberty indeed.

5.5 Second growth spurt

The second growth spurt was brought about by mother (a.k.a. my second EE advisor) who persuaded (read: forced) me to work on my EE towards the end of the Sem 3 holidays. So when Sem 4 began my EE had exceeded 4000 words. In other words, she was overweight. Still I fed her more words as the deadline approached. Eventually she would approach 6000 words. It was at this point that I had to submit to the painful truth – she was obese.

5.6 A painful weight-loss programme

When I submitted her to turnitin.com (which checks for plagiarism) it felt like watching my baby been checked for drugs. But my faith in her was justified – my baby was clean. Only 10% of her content was ‘un-original’ – something which could easily be solved via citations.

Her weight problem, though, was still a big issue. She could not be submitted while exceeding 4000 words… I had to do it – I had to put her through a weight-reduction program. I knew it was going to hurt me as much as it hurt her.

Deleting months of hard work at the click of the backspace button was not easy, but I knew I had to do it. It was her health, after all, which was at stake.  Eventually she was down to the ideal size. And after her citations were included (after a sleepless night), this sweet child of mine was absolutely stunning.

5.7 Submission

The day she came out into the world (from the printer) was a day I will remember for quite a while. The feeling when I sent her in to the Godmother was like that of flying. My baby has left me, and regardless of how many points she wins, to me at least she will always be beautiful.

6.0 Conclusion

ARGHH!!! Who am I kidding?? The only reason that I am writing this 999 word post (graph included) is because I have nothing else to do! I miss that sweet child of mine :’(((((((((((((

Listening for Faith in A202

“Salman’s Room”

For us A202 will always be that, although you no longer stay there. Somehow part of your immense personality still lingers in a room now half-empty.

The night after I learnt of your departure, I sat on your empty bed. I don’t know what I was trying to achieve. An answer to why you left, perhaps? Perspective? Maybe a way to get over my guilt?

Because I am guilty. We were best friends in Sem 2, but drifted apart in Sem 3. We climbed roofs together, sat together in a corridor eating ice cream (and subsequently got told off together by the counselor who was passing by), got into all kinds of s***. Good times :D

So I should have known better. I recognized the signs, but I didn’t put them together. I knew things were going wrong, but I should also have known that they were falling apart.

On that night I sat on your folded mattress, on an empty bed, in a room right next to mine. I stare at the wall beside your corral, once covered with memos you wrote to yourself. Stuff like “There is no right or wrong, just right now”. But right now that wall is bare.  

I should have done something – anything – to ease your burden. Because behind that now-bare wall of A202 is my room. Where I stood by doing nothing, while you were silently (and not silently) crying for help. Behind that wall I stood by idly as you sank deeper into a personal hell. Of that I am guilty.

Sitting on what was once your bed I see the things you must have seen in your darkest hours. The ancient ceiling fan, the modest locker, the ordinary yellow door. Things you must have seen differently then than I do now. And again I question: where was I?

I couldn’t have advised you – mainly because I didn’t know what to say, or how to. I still don’t. But looking back I realize I could have provided something more precious than any piece of advice: a listening ear, and a shoulder to cry on. But where was I?

Now I sit in a room half-empty, trying to listen to someone no longer present. I am too late. I am sorry; I did not help you reach for the faith you needed so much.

After that night, we finally met you in the corridors of our college. Your decision was final, we did not attempt to shake it. We know how stubborn (read: principled) you are. We are just glad you have not given up. By yourself you seem to have rediscovered faith in yourself. And although you are now “living outside the lines, [where] its nerve-wracking and disturbing, no road in front of you”, somehow you inspire in us a belief that you will make it somehow. I don’t know how; but God willing, you just will.

On that night I did not yet know all of this. And on an empty bed, and just a little too late, I sat a while longer; listening for faith in room A202...

5-Hour Existence

Raja died aged 5 hours old.

Raja had a fatal birth defect called anencephaly – which means he was born with much of his skull missing, and most of his brain exposed. His optical nerves failed to form normally, so he was totally blind. Anencephaly strikes 1 in 10000 babies. Raja happened to be that baby. He was not expected to live long –babies with anencephaly, after all, often die almost immediately after birth.

Raja’s mother knew about her baby’s condition 5 months into her pregnancy. Needless to say, it was devastating news. A typical expecting the birth of a child would spend the pregnancy preparing for the arrival of a brand new individual – their own flesh and blood. Raja’s family spent the pregnancy preparing for the death of the child. There would be no baby shower, only a funeral. Instead of preparing a crib, they prepared a coffin.

Raja’s 5-hour life was longer than anybody expected it to be. Some expected him to, quite literally, drop dead instantly after birth.  Yet he stayed around long enough to spend time with his extended family, who was all there. He spent his brief life close to his mother, a cap covering his vulnerable head.

The most touching part of the documentary was after Raja had died, and his diminutive body was being passed around the room, to be held by his family members. Watching the love in their eyes, love for a family member they would never watch grow up. Then he was lowered into his coffin, like any baby being put to sleep for his afternoon nap.

Watching this documentary on TV made hit me hard. I compared myself to Raja’s parents, his family. To Raja himself.

Am I as strong as Raja’s mother, who chose to carry her baby to term despite knowing about her child’s fatal birth defect?

Am I as supportive as Raja’s family, who dropped everything to travel from afar and comfort a loved one in need?

How many lives have I touched in my life…the way Raja has touched so many lives in 5 hours?

Do I value the gift of existence…a gift denied to Raja?

We always complain that 24 hours a day is not enough to do anything. Raja teaches us that you can do so much in just 5.

I admire Raja. He was blind, but he inspired others to see. He died young, but he inspired others to live. He did not leave any last words, but his message is priceless:

Thank God every day for the simple gift of existence.

Raja’s full story below:

http://www.aljazeera.com/programmes/witness/2011/12/201112148390546755.html

Pedas Giler? Challenge Accepted

The sign said ‘Nasi Goreng Kampung – Pedas Giler!!!’

A cheap, cheesy sales gimmick, admitedly– but I fell for it. The sign felt like a challenge to the very integrity of my tastebuds, and if I could answer the sign in two words or less, it would be this:

“Challenge accepted”

Order up; I called for “Nasi Goreng Kampung” with a voice which conveyed authority and confidence. My tongue never felt so ready to face the barrage of spiciness I was sure it would face (or rather, taste).

But I was careful not to let my confidence blind me to the trial I would face. In preparation for my showdown with NGK, I ordered a cup of laici susu (which turned out to contain more ice than laici susu) due to milk’s properties as an antidote to spiciness.

The chef played a good psychological game. For one thing, he took a really long time to prepare the meal. In the meantime I was subjected to air laden thick with cili padi particles from the kitchen. Sneezing uncontrollably, I soon realized that it was a cunning, sinister move by the chef to undermine my tastebuds through my nasal cavity. Well played, chef. I have to admit that I was slightly shaken. A sip of laici susu to calm my nerves.

My resolve stood strong – I was not to be defeated before the fried rice even arrives. For 30 minutes I waited; once again, a sneaky move by the chef to build the suspense. Several more sips of laici susu to calm my nerves.

Finally the much-awaited plate of nasi goreng kampong appeared before me. My laici susu reserves were already at half its full capacity. The plate of NGK looked innocent enough. It was not deeply-coloured, as I expected. For a while I mistook it for nasi goreng cina, until I looked closely and spotted the flecks of cili padi hiding malevolently among the rice. A tentative taste confirmed it – it was definitely nasi goreng kampong. And as promised, it was ‘pedas giler’.

How do I describe the taste? It wasn’t the type of spiciness which attacks the tongue alone. Rather, it carried out a carpet-bombing tactic; the spiciness travels slowly, inevitably down your throat. The only way to overcome this was to eat continuously. Occasionally I would slow down to savour its “oomph” (and because it was quite hot), but I was doing it at my own risk.

The entire meal was a strange chase between these two sensations – the “oomph” and the spiciness.

But I am proud to say that I won the overall battle while hardly breaking a sweat. Sure, my tongue was slightly numb in the end from the heat of the meal (temperature-wise and spiciness-wise), but I can safely that the plate has been safely neutralized. If there were any parting words I would say to NGK it would be to compliment it for a battle well fought. But it has met its match in me.

Credit to the cup of laici susu which helped me through this battle. Although the cup was more ice than laici susu, I couldn’t have done it without you.

Overall, NGK lived up to its tagline.

Still, ‘pedas giler’? Challenge accepted. Challenge overcome.