Yee Sian

I am trying to be humble; I really am. I have seen too much when someone asserts themselves excessively, and I am well aware of the spiritual pitfall they might fall into. And I do not want to debase myself for my own sake. I am not sure at what point I realized that what I have been doing in my life has always been subject to decadence. I do something just to spiritually decay, even though because of this I rose to prominence in the physical world. But what is the point when one wears ornaments just to hide the ugliness within? Is it self-deception? I am trying to be humble not for the sake of achieving goals. I want to be humble because I truly am sick; the sickness lingers, and I can’t seem to shake it off. I want to be a human again, for this current version of myself has always been acting. The inner does not correspond to the outer, and the imbalance will soon take over my whole being. I say this just to express my desperation to achieve that perfection, and hopefully it is not another disguised form of humility that makes myself feel good. Let it be true always. True humility, in my opinion, must always be done unconsciously when one simultaneously asserts themselves naturally. If it is done consciously, it is just a veiled version of ego. On the other hand, if it is done when one does not assert themselves, this is just a form of self-belittlement. But who knows when one is truly humble or not? And that is the point of perfection!

I am looked at every time I show myself. As I only walk around in familiar places, everyone seems to know who I am and what I am in relation to them. The feeling is definitely so good, so good that I have lost a sense of the uncertainty that makes my life what it is. I am embedded in a place full of gazes; they mold me into what I am and what I am going to be, and the process is unfortunately participatory and voluntary. I must remain under the shadow of the gazes, for if I am not, I would be a nobody—consequently thrown into a deserted place where uncertainty roars and familiarity has sunken into the core of the earth. My whole life is haunted by the gazes. Life as a whole is a haunted house: every step taken, every breath inhaled, is being looked at—quietly, subtly, but powerfully enough to make you stay vigilant every single minute. I do not know myself, because I am flattened and exposed, like an open source where everyone has a say in it but me. And how does something that’s flattened have an inside? Without an inside, how can one claim to know oneself? It is impossible!

I have a friend whom I’ve known for a decade. We parted ways after graduation in high school and, for quite some time, we’d lost touch with each other’s lives. Then, fate itself manifests through our mutual hobby and binds us together again. The years through which we have been separated have apparently shaped us into different people. I pride myself on having dived deep into the complexities of life, as a result of which I see something others can’t see, I feel something others can’t feel. By right, such insights would transform the way I exist in relation to the world, but somehow they lead me nowhere. Instead of a haven full of pure lights, I see an endless abyss constantly devouring my soul. However, that scarcely humbles me, for if I could intellectually comprehend and grasp reality, I am still superior to those who have absolutely no idea at all. Right? There, I met my friend and since then, we have been exchanging views whenever we get to meet. He is the only one who is able to render my ego powerless; it is as if my ego has nowhere to project itself, hence is forced to stay dormant for as long as it can. He looks content with what he has and always stays true to his own principles, his success does not lead him astray but only reinforces the kind of person he is. In my view, success, if not harnessed with wisdom, has the potential to befoul one’s soul. He knows what he wants, how his life in the future would turn out if he handles it with authenticity, his freedom lies not in how much he can acquire, but his power of self-restraint to not muddle. Surprisingly, he is both an outlier and someone who is totally “common”, the way he exercises his own human-ness in the sick world makes him both. He does not concern himself with the profundities like I do, but in some way, he is the embodiment of the profound values that I am desperate to integrate into my life. If only mankind could see the world as it is, most of the problems would be gone instantly. Without the knowledge of perceiving reality without interests, he shares with me how he appreciates observing his surroundings, and without the knowledge of universal love, he shares with me how he prioritizes others’ wellbeing over his. “I am jubilant as long as you are jubilant” is his philosophy, it does not come from the books, but his being integrated with the totality of his life. There, he met the love of his life, and the universe gave him something he always knew in his heart in the form of tangible love. People have always been confused by the possibility of unmediated love, a love so pure that nothing could appropriately define what it is, and it is because it is nothing that nothing could ever harm it, for it cannot be stripped away by something higher than itself, it is the highest, and my friend knows it too well to make it a part of who he is.

I went out to run some errands, stopping at a few stores, but I couldn’t get what I wanted. I called my mother, and she told me that a store at the far end of the shop lots had it. I decided to walk there. As I was walking near the store, a woman selling Yao Zha Guai on the roadside asked me to purchase some from her. My head was occupied with the task at hand, so I responded rather coldly. I simply nodded my head and continued toward the store. I came out of the store holding a few bottles of floor cleaner, feeling relieved. I walked back along the same path. This time, upon passing the same woman’s stall, I decided to stop and buy some Yao Zha Guai from her. A different sense of relief emerged inside me, and I was certain that it was quantitatively different from the relief of having bought the floor cleaner. She thanked me for stopping by and even went so far as to give me an extra piece. The immensity of this kindness cannot be overstated; it was God manifested. This encounter might have seemed mundane from the outset, a simple exchange of kindness between the giver and the given, but in reality, it was sacred. As I turned and headed back to my car, I laughed. It was something so rare and at the same time worthless that it might as well be left ignored. However, I felt more accomplished in that single moment than I ever do pursuing the things people are so obsessed with. I was happy. I was a true human being again.

I have long been haunted by a suspicion: that the cursed is always the blessed in disguise, and I wonder how long I need to really realize this. To me, the most cursed thing is my existence. I am somehow thrown into this world without my consent, and I will be thrown out of existence, also without my consent. Given this innate incapability, I hope to take charge of the in-betweens—those moments that seem maneuverable, if only my will is strong enough. Unfortunately, things have always been not what I thought they should be. If life and death render me powerless, then the life, in between life and death, is perhaps the true disaster. How so? I could not be sure whether there was any pre-existing will that constituted my life, but I am sure that, at this current moment, I would not want to exist. My existence is tied to this world so strongly that it has become a parasite, perpetually feeding on the world’s grand cultural landscape. And I would say, things are chaotic right now: the people, the invisible cultural trap that besieges one with existential threats. The thing is, it might not be existence that is loathed, but this very specific type of existence that is blindly worshipped. But to think more deeply, everything somehow circulates back to where it all started. The first instant of being born is the first moment of limitation; one’s being is exactly his own cage, without which there will never be any conceived threats at all, nor will there be anyone who’s faced with such an existential crisis and takes the way to freedom very seriously. The adventure to freedom must be very thrilling! It gives one experience granted by his own limitation; without such limits, the concept is superfluous, and so is the one who longs for freedom, because there was no trap and no one trapped in the beginning. So I am wondering again, is the curse of existence a blessing in disguise? Something-ness and nothingness, which one?

Everything is the reminder of death. As I was taking a walk around the park, a sense of fear suddenly kicked in and there I was, left absorbed in the abrupt sadness. I started to question the very instant with which I was currently engaged. If every instant is merely a prelude to what will happen next, does this not make the current instant worthless? Of course, no one feels that way because they are always motivated by the feeling of anticipation; that feeling, I guess, appears to be the only antidote that puts meaninglessness at bay. I suppose other than myself, everyone, without exception, is eased by this feeling of anticipation, without which the horror will be too unbearable! I imagined being stuck in the same house where I grew up for the rest of my life. What used to be a lively house will soon be a place of damned solace. My parents will be gone, and so too my siblings. What will be left are the memories I had of them. What a curse if I am the one who is left to reminisce! Everyone in the world seems not bothered by this, because they always have to leave the house for their future! I hope that I exist not for the sake of anticipating; I want to die along with my old memories, especially those that involve my grandparents, parents, and siblings. For when anticipation implies the projection of the future at the expense of the past, the totality of my existence is therefore interrupted. It is not the new memories that worry me; I am concerned only with my innate impotence to keep the old, because there seems to be an irresistible urge for me to live for my future. My death, hopefully, will signify the integration of the totality of my memories, rather than the stacking of one on top of another—a process that unavoidably leads to fragmentation. I will stay exactly where I am while moving on; it is a sin to not be everything that constitutes what I currently am. For if I become a father and not a son on my deathbed, how sorry I am to my parents! Then I am not honoring my death, because death is everything; it takes away my life, not one of my lives. Though it will be overwhelming at first, hopefully, the whole will crush me, leaving me in peace. A complete death is what I need; a partial death will always bother me, in some sense.

I live in a world too full of ideas and beliefs. Everything that is demanded of me appears to be metrics that are socially constructed, whose sole task is to inform myself of my identity in relation to society. As time passes, everyone around me seems to be falling into the same trap, cherishing the representations that best suit them. I am no exception, of course; by investing in ideas that constitute my being, I invariably run the risk of perpetually seeking a new idea to make myself a little bit better, a little bit more caught up with the idea of personal evolution. At this very moment, pressure comes not just from outside spectators; it also comes from my own volition to make myself one of them. But somehow, unfortunately, the faces have started to look the same, and I cannot differentiate my own voice from theirs. It is as if the angelic voice of society has penetrated the core of my soul and simultaneously confused my voice with its own. I often wonder why it is the case that we wishfully demand NOTHING from other people, for it seems to me that doing so effectively prevents us from making ourselves a means to their end. On the contrary, we hold a totally different standard when it comes to our own treatment: we impose the weight of everything on ourselves, hoping that one day it will take us to a higher ground. This notion implies a logical inconsistency: how would the imposition of heavier weight make us any lighter? And from that, I started to doubt whether freedom and peace are what we truly long for, or whether we want something else so outrageous that it masquerades as something we think it should be? When asked to describe ourselves, we intuitively provide the best answer we can. By carefully weaving words into a cohesive narrative, the idea of ourselves is established and this instinctual idea always comes first in such circumstances, for it has proven to be a decent strategy to rescue ourselves from the embarrassment of having nothing to say with respect to who we are. In this case, having nothing to say about ourselves is a deadly sin to be avoided at all costs. However, there are people out there who are polite enough not to execute someone with their one-sided prejudices, but nonetheless, no one remains silent when it comes to describing themselves, even though they are greatly mistaken for who they really are. The advent of technology has made it possible for us to express ourselves in many different ways, and everyone seems desperate for such moments of expression in the modern era. Some have made themselves into a beautiful craft. They stimulate others’ senses, leading viewers to stop at the world of the exterior. The arousal of the senses gives great pleasure, and for someone who is able to cause such a huge influence on others dictates the world. Some have made themselves into a glass, being overtly honest and transparent about their inner struggles in having a meaningful life on their own terms. People like this are greatly admired for their refusal to change their exterior; to them, their interior is the secret weapon. They believe the struggles they’ve encountered will one day culminate in something majestic, thus expelling the old for the new. However, the incessant posting of such honesty to the public has baffled me. The usefulness of such an honest and internalized struggle essentially lies in the subjectiveness for its existence. It helps forge the person’s will to transcend by being reflexive within itself. Posting the process to the public means stripping its subjectivity and objectifying its presence for consumption. As a result, it no longer serves the purpose for transformative experience, but is only meant to be a performative deed that deceits the performer. I live in a world full of deliberations. The obsession to become lies at the heart of our modern civilisation, and it is precisely because of this that people conflate their wellbeing with doing more. Progress is worshipped and stagnancy is seen as something that goes against nature. No one realizes that it is not peace they seek, for peace does not come after something is done, it comes when the need to do more is obliterated. The core problem, at least to me, is not what to become, but why we need to become. To better serve humanity, I just wish to be nothing, to share nothing, to wish for nothing. I am also learning to be a total loser, someone with whom people feel secure due to my lack of competence and baggage, they can be sure that I don’t project myself onto them, and I am just there to listen with nothing to offer. It is in these moments that two souls really meet, when there is no ego, at least in one party, wanting to direct the conversation to himself. Ironically, what appears to be the most natural thing turns out to be something that needs a certain will power and discipline to achieve, what a world!