There are times when I feel detached from the rest of the world. Detached from the people around me. Detached from their feelings and havocs in life.

 

It’s as if I’m the only living being. It’s as if I have all the time in the world.

 

It is during these isolated moments that I could sit at the foot of the balcony door frame, look up at the swirling clumps of darkened clouds with flecks of sunshine poking through, a tub of chocolate sundae on my lap.

 

I remembered reading a featured article on MSN titled “Mahathir turns 85” with his list of achievements below it.

 

It made me wondered what mine would be when I turn 85. Or if I ever reach that age at all.

Deducting 65 years to my present self, I tried to look back at the measly 20 years I’ve had in comparison.

 

There’s nothing much, that’s pretty obvious. I’m someone with no past and an uncertain future.

I only have now. And now consist of trying to do my best and trying to come to term that one day I’ll be responsible for people’s lives.

 

I thought of how easy it was to feel comfortable, to be dependent. To stride on with my head held high, confidence deep within my bones.

How easy it was to overlook things I considered were of no worth.

 

And then I thought about the scars that forever clung onto me. The pain that I will never be able to overcome. The things that seemed so much of importance but now seem minute.

 

I thought of the pain I’ve yet to experience, the pain I know I will have to go through, eventually. And I know when the time comes, I’d welcome them into my life.

For without them I would be incomplete. I wouldn’t say my life is worth living.

 

And as I dragged my mind to the present, I knew at the very least that I’d never lost the essence of who I am.

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