I am tri-literate. I can speak and write Vietnamese, English and Mandarin. I am fluent in the former two and efficient in the last.
It’s a hard thing, balancing between three languages. Three cultures. At any point in time one of them has to be temporarily pushed to the back of my mind to make space for the other two. It’s like raising triplets. Can you talk about friend problem with this one, check the other’s homework and tug another one into bed at the same time?
I’d go mad.
I’m struggling, and sometimes I just got a bit panicky when I couldn’t translate a thought into the other language as smoothly as needed. Sometimes it just struck me that I haven’t used one of them in a month. My language skills become rusty if I dont practise often enough. I can feel the rust. I can feel ot slipping away.
Balance is the hardest thing there is to maintain.
Use your privilege to serve the world
– The Selfish Artist | Puttylike –
There are people who would tell you that your dreams are offensive because they themselves have been unable to follow their own dreams. Don’t let their disappointment infect your idealism. Because they are just that: jaded by failure, dulled by age.
I’m not immune from failure. Nor am I barred from success. They will be my last stop if I keep my eyes on the final prize. Because I know that the highest point on a wheel will eventually have to go down. I have to go down to go up.
I jump and leap over their heads.
They crane their necks to see but the sun blinds their eyes.
They complain I’m too incomprehensible,
that I should get back down there and be responsible for my life.
The fact is that they are too rooted to jump.
They are unable to lift their feet above the ground.
They are scared of height and falling down.
They want me down so they can hold on to their belief
that being rooted is a good thing
while the ground got too crowded and shaky.
As I acquaint with the sky and its risks and freedom
they struggle to protect and scrape more land for their roots.
Let’s imagine a femme fatale. She changes her men like she changes her clothes. She lavishes them with bespoken suits and expensive adornments. She keeps them in her private corner where daylight cannot creep in. Like clothes, they get to touch the deepest core of hers. Unlike clothes, they do not last after the next week.
In the past, I have blogged like a femme fatale. I got myself a new blog, a new name, a new alias. I decorated my blog with widgets, themes and pictures all in one night. I might have even written one post. Then the next day, as I changed into another outfit, I got bored with it. Into the discarded pile it went.
But things have changed. Now I have a reader. Just one reader which actually makes a huge difference. It’s not like pouring my heart out in front of a cold wall that cannot utter a single word. At least, I will get responses.
So this, I do hope, is a page being turned in my storybook of life. I’m writing for this one blogger – Intelligent Countess – who encouraged me to keep a blog for her sake. That, I think, is one of the most flattering thing a person has told me in quite a while. She is strong on commitment; maybe it’s time I turn off the femme fatale in me, and start working towards the seasoned writer I have always yearned to become.
Thank you Countess. And this blog, for you.