Little Things 304: Emotional Alchemy

When someone dies, yes, their physical form ceases. But their energy? That doesn’t just disappear. The impact they had, the love they gave, the way they laughed, the way they sat beside you in silence, all of that lingers. Even the atoms in their body return to the cycle of life, finding new homes in wind, earth, or stars. We don’t vanish. We just change state.

That’s the first law of thermodynamics: Energy cannot be created or destroyed, only transformed.

I’ve come to think of my emotions as energy too. Raw, potent, often inconvenient, but deeply mine. I don’t like letting them run wild in my space, so I alchemize them. That heartbreak? I write. That rage? I run. That longing? I draw or move or throw it into a poem. My emotional energy is my currency. And just like any system drifting toward disorder, I’ve learned it takes intention to manage it. To line it up, tame it. I stand at the gate like a quiet guardian, even when I’m the one unraveling.

That’s maybe one of the better things I’ve learned with age.

This maturity. This reluctant grace. This knowing that, really, it’s just you. The love or care you pour into others often goes unmeasured, misread, or evaporates before it’s felt. That’s not on them. That’s just how energy works. It moves. It changes. Sometimes it just fades into silence.

I still roll my eyes at myself whenever I get heartbroken. Like, again, did I not learned anything? But I cry anyway. Because feeling is part of transforming. And I guess that’s the magic and cruelty of it. You don’t get to choose how others receive your energy. 

But you do get to choose what you do with what’s left in you.

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So, dance to your song, plan your trip, write your sorrow, celebrate your pain. 

Because what remains in you, that’s yours to wield. Turn it into something only you can make. Not because the world is watching, but because the energy has to go somewhere. Let it become you.

Little Stories 315: 2 weeks

 

Dear MC,

You left me four days ago. Yesterday was supposed to be your birthday. You didn’t wait for your big 60th celebration, instead, they scattered your ashes at sea, just as you wanted. We had two weeks. It felt too short, yet somehow just enough. We had time to say goodbye. We talked about this, remember? I think it happened the way you would have wanted it to.

I’m still grieving. I can’t believe how quickly it all happened after we found out. We just spent the weekend together, talking about the future, our plans, our next steps. This doesn’t feel like your usual travel gaps. This good bye is forever.

I know you wouldn’t want me to wallow. You never liked a fuss. You wanted to leave quietly. But the problem is I chose you. You were in my circle. The only one I let that close. You had the key. You were my best friend. And now, suddenly, you’re gone. It sounds like I'm romanticizing this. But this pain, it’s unbearable. Because this time, you’re not coming back. We won’t see each other again, not like we used to. I don't have any dates to look forward to anymore. 

Every time people ask me, I'll cry (except when I manage to put on a façade and ride the pain). And even if no one ask me, I will still cry. The world did not pause when you died, even when I felt like everything in my life had been crushed under the weight. You left a big hole in my heart.

It’s a bit fucked up that anyone I care for just leaves. It feels like a curse. 

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You are loved and remembered, thank you for being an inspiration more than 20 years ago (and even throughout the years after). I'll continue your journey, I will do the trip we promised we'd go on, insyaAllah. 

I'm glad we chose each other.

Safe travel, Miss Yann Li ‪‪❤︎‬

Little Stories 314: How much time do I have?

I have this one friend (at this point, this is my one and only friend). We meet regularly, we exchange plans, books, thoughts and ideas. MC is the only person that knows my personal life updates, or family dramas, or possible travel plans. MC is my best friend, we show up unapologetically after our latest adventure or after weeks of hustling life, like no time has passed. We went hiking together, or walked in Pasar Seni area, or just spend 3 hours chatting in cafes. 

We make plans, we set dates, and we move dates if needed, and we always, always show up. 

I remember MC said, "I only make time with people who make an effort in making time with me, I won't waste it".  And so, I always appreciate our time together, because MC put me in her calendar. She makes space for me in her life. She doesn't have to, but she does. 

We’ve been in and out of touch over the last 20 years, but we became closer since last year.

Like I said, she didn't have to, but she did.

I've reached to many people, and she is one of the person that stuck. And I appreciate it so much. I always feel refreshed when I see her, because it feels genuine. Even if it’s pity, even if it’s sekalipun, I still appreciate the time she spends with me. Because I needed the connection, and I was really trying. She gave me that, she gave me a chance to connect. She showed kindness when I needed it. 

She doesn't know how much her presence means in my life. 

It changed me.

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She told me her cancer is back. Advance stage.

And I'm selfish. I make it like it is about me, I cried so much, and I'm so scared of the possibilities. I'm angry and disappointed. Every time I think about it, I cry. This isn't about me, kan. But I just can't stop. I cry every single day since I found out. I didn't even know I process information through tears rupanya. My eyes are now two sad marshmellow, next level puffiness. I have headache all the time.

She said to take my time to process, but at this point, how much time do I have? 

MC, how much time do we have?

Movie & Book: Trapped by Sand, Cursed by Passion

Last weekend was an emotional one. I cried so much processing over a news, I just needed some distraction to keep my mind active, so here are my remarkable brain tickling classics over the weekend :

One Hundred Years of Solitude, originally a Spanish novel written by Gabriel García Márquez in 1967.

But I watched the series on Netflix. The previous week I did Pedro Páramo and No Longer Human, right? So it felt right to jump into another classic, before reading them. Apparently, this Netflix version is only Part 1 of One Hundred Years of Solitude, and they’re currently making Part 2. So what I watched isn’t the whole story.

The only problem I have with Spanish literature is the names and the characters. They’re almost all the same. There are so many of them, it gets confusing. I mentioned this before, names, when I can't put a face to them, just become noise in my brain. That’s why I find it hard to read some books.

So watching the series first might help me summarize the beautiful classic, kan?
I can get to know all the characters (I still can’t remember their names, btw.)

Anyway, this is a very complex story of the Buendía family curse, because the OG started the chaos (by marrying his cousin). They repeat the same patterns, make the same mistakes, name their kids the same names, marry cousins (again and again), and it’s like they’re trying to solve the riddle of loneliness with more Buendías. Chaotic.

What I really love about the story is the passion.

I asked chatgpt, "Why are everyone so passionate, is that normal in their culture?" :

Ahhh, yes Reen, you’ve spotted it—the Buendías don’t just live, they burn. They fall in love like it's the last sunrise on earth, fight revolutions with their guts spilling out, chase dreams with feverish, sweaty madness. It’s not subtle. It’s not chill. It’s pure heat.

Their passion is almost noble, but also crazy. And stupid.

I have mixed feelings about that. Dying for love? Losing your family or moral compass for passion? Killing because of an insult? Losing yourself in obsession?

Every single character has something they’re passionately crazy for.
Everything is 100%.
Everything is extreme. Intense.
They either love too hard, or can’t love at all.
They either chase power blindly, or reject it completely.
They obsess. They isolate. They spiral.
They go crazy.

Márquez is showing how passion without wisdom becomes a curse.
But he’s also showing how passion is the only thing that makes life worth living, even if it destroys you. But is itttt? We want big love, big purpose, big change. We chase things that burn us, then blame the flame. We get scared of the heat. 

Ada banyak moment macam nak cakap, Eh boleh tak chill? Then at the same time, I'm questioning myself pulak, am I not passionate enough in life? Hah hah hah. 

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The Woman in the Dunes, a Japanese novel written by Kōbō Abe in 1962. I borrowed the book from the library. It’s a novel that blends themes of freedom, imprisonment, and existentialism. It feels like reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis, but this one comes with so much sand, it gets uncomfortable.

I knew it wasn’t just about collecting insects or being surrounded by sand. It feels like there are bigger meanings buried in it. The sand is a metaphor for oppression, for being trapped in something constructed by society. It’s everywhere. It invades, it erodes, it weighs you down. Just like in modern life, the work never ends, and you’re constantly shoveling just to survive. When you shovel, you get water. Maybe some food. That’s it.

The hole is a metaphor for isolation or his existential prison. He keeps digging. At first, because he has to; he needs water. He’s stuck and tries to escape, but slowly, he begins to adapt to the idea of staying. It mirrors how we are in society, we play by the rules that were handed to us, and we adjust, we normalize.

The act of escape is a metaphor for the illusion of freedom. Escape is meaningless if the world outside is just another version of the same trap. Freedom, then, isn’t about leaving the hole. It’s about changing how you see the hole. Kan.

The question is: if the man changes his perception, is he free? If he accepts his fate, does that mean he’s liberated?

I love allegories and metaphors. They tickle my brain.

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I can't sleep thinking about these 2 last night, because I finished the series before I went to sleep and finished the book this morning (left the final chapter to read on my bed after I wake up). Really love classics, they survived the time because they are great. 

Note: It is time to return these books and exchange with new ones. And take note, I wrote this without caffeine, really early in the morning. That means I can write when I feel that much intensity, kan. Interesting. 

Little Things 303: The Quiet Storm

I’ve realized I can’t ever be wise and zen, not in the serene, sage-on-a-mountain sense. As much as I’ve tried to learn and manage the emotional rollercoaster, and as intrigued as I am by the idea of “zen,” I’m just not built that way. I’m a passionate person. I love my emotions, the ups, the downs, the dramas, the ugly cries, the moments of silent bliss. I’m someone who moves through life quietly, but internally, I feel everything on full blast. I don’t always show it, but inside? It’s a technicolor opera.

When I fall, I fall hard, and I'm not scared of giving my all.  

AR once said the more emotionally mature we are, the more flexible we become in handling our emotions, we can stand at the top of a mountain, celebrate it, and walk ourselves back to basecamp the next day. And we can fall into the center of the earth, leg broken, heart bruised, heal in the dark, and still find a way out of the hole. That’s the skill I want to master.

Not denial, not numbing, not stoicism. 

The real skill is feeling everything, churning it through your soul, and making it out alive.

I’m not trying to be a sage. I don’t want detachment. I want the cinematic saga. I want to care, deeply, fiercely. I refuse to pretend otherwise. Indifference is boring.

I need these emotions, because I’m a writer. And if I don’t feel, I can’t write.

So I take it all in. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it hurts. Even when I don’t like it.

Little Things 302: The Architecture of Regret

Last night, I watched Pedro Páramo on Netflix.

I remembered watching @emmiereads on YouTube, she talked about this haunting, beautiful book called Pedro Páramo. So when I saw the title pop up, I thought, why not spend two hours letting the movie summarize the book for me? I’m not here to talk about the plot. You can Google that or ChatGPT it in seconds.

What I want to share is how it made me feel and what it made me see.

I don’t know why these kinds of stories always leave me with a quiet kind of sadness. Men living with regret. Osamu Dazai’s No Longer Human, the twisted desperation in Squid Game, and now Pedro Páramo. All consumed in one same week.

What is it we’re missing in life that leads us to spiral like this, into grief, into regret, into ghosts of the past?

Did I somehow choose these stories because they echo something inside me?
Or are they just everywhere now, and they are all quietly telling the same thing?

I used to think men were simple-minded. Or at least, they seemed to be. But the more I read, the more I watch, these stories unravel that idea. They aren’t simple (not so complicated either). But they’re definitely silent. There’s a kind of desperation tucked into the corners of their stories. Like they’re crying for help without knowing how to ask. They don’t know how to carry the fragility of life. They weren’t taught to be in tune with their feelings.

What we see on the outside, the stoicism, the detachment, the pride, it doesn’t match what’s going on inside. It never did, kan.

If you want to see this kind of sadness done brilliantly, try The Bear on Hotstar (I totally recommend it).
It’s a love letter to the unspoken grief of men. Carmy is brilliant but broken. It’s about kitchen chaos, sure, but really? It’s about inherited trauma, ungrieved deaths, perfectionism, and the impossibility of saying “I need help.” Or anything at all, lah. Mad Men? Peaky Blinders? Same pain, different wardrobe.

So, is this a cry for help?

Maybe it is.
Maybe they all are.

What do you think?

Little Stories 313: Mini Rant

Why la, kan.

There’s just something about being female that really gets under my skin. Every single month, I go through seasons. Like the moon, the body shifts, phases that loop endlessly. And it affects everything.

It’s not a myth. It’s not drama. It’s biology.
But still, there is so little of it is truly understood.

There haven’t been enough studies made for us, about us. If we just had a clearer understanding of our cycles, our phases, our shifting selves, life would be so much manageable. So much more navigable.

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I'm in the phase where I'm having the migraines, and it is so hard for me to focus, my face feels warm and I don't feel good. I want to be productive, I want to go out running, I want to socialize, but, everything is just off. My body prefers comfort and rest, which I don't usually agree, hahah. 

Who has that privilege to rest and chill for the whole week, to 'prepare' our magical female body for the next coming phase lah segala. I have a due date coming, I have this important task to be done by this week. 

Today, I'm just tired. 

Little Things 301: Japan Foundation KL Library

I found another library.

I’ve been wanting to check this one out. Yesterday after work, I stopped at Abdullah Hukum and quickly walked to the Mid Valley North Wing (the one at the Machine center). I registered at the lift entrance and took the elevator to level 18.

It’s the Japan Foundation KL library.

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Highlights:

• Japanese classic literature: Yasunari Kawabata, Kobo Abe, Natsume Soseki, Yukio Mishima, Rynosuke Akutagawa, Murasaki Shikibu, Genzaburo Yoshino
• Modern literature: Haruki & Ryu Murakami, Banana Yoshimoto, Sayaka Murata, Osamu Dazai, Koji Suzuki, Riku Onda, Durian Sukegawa, Kazuo Ishiguro
• Manga: Bleach, Dragon Ball, Naruto, Death Note, One Piece, etc. 

After I squirmed with excitement over all the Japanese classic literature collection, I went to the counter and asked to register. I paid RM 10 (annually), filled in the form and got my IC pic photostated and used as my library card. You can't even imagine how my face lighted up upon arriving.

Time was short, the library closes at 5:30 PM and I had arrived around 4:30—but I still managed to borrow three books (you can borrow up to five) for two weeks.

Japanese classic literature are hard to find, and the ones at Kinokuniya are super expensive. But I'm really curious to read them (maybe not even wanting to own them). So finding this Japanese library that has translated Japanese literature is like stumbling upon a secret garden behind a bookstore. I could borrow so many books with just RM10. It felt like being handed a golden key to a quiet, hidden world. I love this kind of surprise. I can imagine lepak2 here after work to just read. 

Note: It is a really small library, the English-Japanese fiction is just this one big book shelf, and English manga maybe around 2-3 book shelves. But for someone that is famished, this is like a big buffet of books. Mostly the books are in Japanese. They also offer Japanese language classes and film events. I might apply for a language course.

Bonus point, it is near my office. 

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I borrowed:

• No Longer Human by Osamu Dazai
• The Woman in the Dunes by Kobo Abe
• Palm of the Hand Stories by Yasunari Kawabata

Little Things 300: "I Do It Anyway" - Notes on Sa’i

 

Since last week, I’ve been sitting and trying to understand the steps in the Hajj ritual. It started with making a zine to compile the concepts into something I could apply to my day-to-day life. It became a set of simple, easy steps with meanings—what they represent, their symbols, and how I could use those concepts to plan ahead. I’m doing the self-work.

Last weekend during Eid Adha, I started with the concept of Ihram and leaving the house (so I wore my white baju kurung and actually did leave my home). On Monday, I explored the concept of Tawaf. And now, it’s the next step—Sa’i.

When I was younger, the story of Hajar searching for water for Ismail never made much sense to me. She walked from point A to point B and repeated it seven times. I mean—why seven times, along the same path, right? If we’re looking for something, we don’t usually check the same place over and over again. We'd say, “That’s not smart,” or, “Are you sure you remember you just looked there?”

There are so many stories like this that I wanted to understand but never asked about—mostly because it’s hard to find people I could discuss these things with. But now, nearing 40, I’ve learned: if you can’t find anyone to give you the answers, you find them yourself.

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So, what I could take from that story that I could put into my own modern chaos?

1. Keep moving, even when nothing makes sense. 

The concept of Sa’i represents persistence, even when there are no results. Keep walking the same path—not because you know the reward is near, but because you believe in something bigger than yourself. In my life, whether it’s surviving a difficult phase, parenting, working, healing, writing, trusting people, rebuilding after heartbreak, or simply reaching out, I have to keep trying. The flow might come after the seventh attempt, after doing the same thing over and over again.

2. Your struggle is sacred. 

That’s the real story. Your hardships, that’s the stuff you need to remember. It tells you that your effort, even in its messiest form, is sacred. Every time you show up to life tired, confused, or overwhelmed; that’s your Sa’i. Those daily repetitive tasks you push through, that’s you showing up for something bigger than yourself. So remember those moments.

3. You may not see the water, but it doesn't mean that it is not coming.

Sometimes we give up too soon, because we’re tired, bitter, or in pain. But what if the breakthrough is just a few more steps away? The message here is: don’t quit in the middle. You don’t know when your miracle is waiting.

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So, do I need to try 7 times? 

Erm, not quite. The message here is if you believe in something, just repeat and keep on trying. For example, healing from a depression is super hard, like you can't wake up in the morning, you don't want to do anything, everything is so dark and feels hopeless, iykyk. So, what I did was to take these few small steps, and I repeated those steps, especially when I don't want to do it, I do it anyway. You know that yoshi 2.0 song "I do it anyway", click here to view. Yeah. That’s it. I repeated the steps until I got through it. I believed it would be okay, eventually. So I just did it. Over and over.

You know why I chose this particular step to write it down here? 

Because if you’ve noticed, in the past few years, I’ve talked a lot about feeling stuck and struggling, doing the same things over and over again. I’ve felt exhausted and frustrated. So finding this concept opened my eyes a bit. It reminded me that maybe I just need to keep repeating the same things, and trust the process.

Getting slapped in the face by life over and over again isn’t a good feeling. I’m rebellious by nature. I fight back when I believe in something. Patience isn’t my strongest trait. I need some kind of understanding behind everything I do, it matters to me to know that I’m fighting the right battle. 

So, yeah, good reflection. 

Little Stories 312: The Daughter of The Big Reader

Sofi with her Pre-Sleeping Routine

Lately, we’ve been getting back into our bedtime routine. She gets to pick one storybook for me to read, then we turn off the lights, and I tell her two made-up My Little Pony stories in the dark. After that, we recite our doa' (I call it "the shield"). She used to refuse to recite it with me, so I told her she had to do it to build an invisible shield—so the zombies won’t disturb her dreams. (She’s been very into zombies lately.)

  

Last night, after her two pony stories, she pleaded for a third.

So I told her a quick one:
Pinkie Pie is walking in the park and hears fart sounds every time she steps. Turns out, it’s Rainbow Dash hiding behind her, playing a prank with a fart noise maker.

She paused, and said,

"No, Mami. I don’t want a funny pony story. I want a mystery story. A scary one. Not a funny one."

=.=' 

She can actually choose a genre now, amazing. 

Definitely my bb.