Pavilion of Identities: Exhibition of Suffering

- This is a work of fiction -

"You know, sometimes there's this pent-up tightness that's smothering my heart; this weird cure that can make me a better person, similar to a fantasy that rises day and night.

Inside my heart, what I used to be was something irreplaceably stupid, indescribably ignorant, but ultimately natural. What do you think? Do I not deserve any human rights? Look at me in the eyes and tell me I'm not human. I dare you."

I take two steps back. His words are sharp. Stern. Solid. I find no meaning from it, yet one glance at his bizarrely normal face is enough to understand the fact that he didn't choose this life. He was forced into it. Since birth. Since the day he spoke his first word, "Bye". 

Oh man, you gotta be a mathematician to calculate the number of goodbyes he had to experience. His mom and dad. Tossed him in the trash can five hours after he came to earth. His adoptive mother. Died in a car accident. His adoptive father. Killed himself. All happened before he was eight.

He's twenty-two now. Had five adoptive parents who left his life. He lost all contact with his adoptive siblings. He had friends. Twenty-five of them in primary school. All died from a fire caused by the school principal, who was also his third adoptive father. "I wanted to watch them burn, these so-called 'friends' of my son, who tossed him around and beat him and stabbed him with pencils! Who burned him with cigarette butts! Why the fuck can't I just do something good for my son for once?!"

Middle school. He became an alcoholic. A drug addict. A sex maniac. It was middle school, so those kids looked up to him Rumors were spread about him fucking every girl in the school, by force. Rumors were also spread about him fucking every guy in the school, with consent. Truthfully, he was none of those.

He wanted people to look up to him. The bottle of vodka he brought to class every day, was just a bottle of water. The white powder he showed off in class, was just plain old baby powder. The sex part? Sure, if sex with his right hand counts.

But the rumors. The fucking rumors. They hurt. He was respected for a month. A fucking month. The remaining thirty-five months of middle school was hell. 

Did he bring that upon himself? He just wanted some much needed respect. Love. Fuel for his pride. But could I blame him for wanting fame? He's a broken spirit.

"Look around you. You're standing on the Aisle of Hatred, yet people still seem to love you. Why is that so? You're just a faker, a sordid piece of shit! Trying to conform to the so-called 'norms' of this fucked up world, how thick must your skin have to be?

I'm just sitting here, begging for spare change, begging for attention, begging for someone to look at me in the eyes and tell me I'm a motherfucking human. But no! All I did was telling them my story, the origins of my scars, the reasons behind my mental collapse!"

In the last year of middle school, he was desperate to end his life. Yet, he was afraid of pain. He was afraid of the sudden darkness that accompanies life's end. 

At that moment, he was living with his sixth adoptive parents. They cared for him too well. They loved him. They were the reason why he stopped himself from ending his life. He knew that if he inflicted pain onto himself, they would weep, hysterically, for years to come.

"There was one night. I couldn't resist it. I had to execute the plan. I left a farewell letter in my room. My suicide will not be symbolized through my death. That is far too plain and simple. No. What I did was walk. Walk far, far away. To a place where no one could find me. And I found this place.

The Pavilion of Identities.

But fuck it, what's the point of exhibiting myself, if no one is going to listen? Ain't my story interesting enough? Ain't I interesting enough?"

Truth is, he ain't interesting enough. His story was cliche, boring, overdone to hell. A typical sob story. To get attention. To leech onto the compassion of others.

To leech onto my compassion.

But no, the fucker talking shit about corneal hysteresis over there has more eyes looking at him. A whole bunch of brainwashed people, sucking up to him, licking his shoes, rubbing his dick.

And guess what. His research was fake. His study was fake. All he did was pretending to know everything. Taking his own sweet time doing things and blaming the difficulty of his study.

Bullshitting that his results were real.

But people look up to that. He's contributing to the world, they say. He's making a difference, they say. He's gonna fucking cure glaucoma, they say.

This poor dude here, with his boring, stupid story. At least it's real, no? His sufferings were real. His life was really affected by his real sufferings.

And that corneal hysteresis dude faked his study. He talks so much about his sufferings, his pride, his instantaneous response and his hard work. Fuck my life! How the fuck am I still here listening to his fake-ass bullshit?

Yes, he sacrificed half his vision. But he did that to make for an interesting story. People will be talking about him. How he sacrificed his vision to illustrate a stupid point. Some stupid hysteresis. And this poor dude who had six adoptive parents sacrificed his happiness. Sacrificed his human rights just because he wanted some respect. That's worth fucking more than half your eyesight.

Is life fair at all?

Why do some people suffer so much to get nothing in return, while some people suffer so little and get everything they want?

What about me?

I suffered a lot too.

But you know, I'm just living through life. Going with the flow. Waiting to see what happens.

Truth is, I'm a lost soul. I don't know where to go. I don't know what to do. I don't know what is the meaning of life.

But I guess that's why I'm here, no? The Pavilion of Identities. An open space that everyone can visit. A safe place to let out all our sorrows, to share our happiness, to make friends and to understand each other. To learn to be human.

Hey, you know what?

I honestly don't give a fuck about all that.

Really, I don't give a fuck

about all that.

I really don't.










































help

Pavilion of Identities: The Presentation Stage

- This is a work of fiction -

"PhD students these days, they only know how to participate in extra-curricular activities, be a part of those shitty societies, those dumb poetry clubs that the undergraduates joined, and they had the galls to invite me to skip two days of research to holiday in some damn beach!

This is very unlike me; I did my research fifteen hours a day, published five papers and excelled in five modules during my first year alone. My friends were staying up late celebrating some birthday. Who the fuck has time for that? They were not doing it right! They were not true PhD students! This is what I call the culture of students these days.

Hysteresis can be defined using one word: lag. A lag in reacting to a stimulus. A delay in response. It's like if someone presses their finger onto my eyeball, and I feel the intensively painful press. But when they stop pressing, it takes me two seconds to realize that my eyeball is no longer being pressed. That is hysteresis.

But in the end, my eyeball would have bled, no? Actually, it's bleeding right now. And I can't fucking see using my right eye. My demonstration of hysteresis to you has costed me half my sight. 

But I do not have any right to complain, for I pride myself in the lengths I would go to achieve greatness. To be honest, I'm not that great. I just do my best, like everybody else in the world. 

But to fucking sacrifice half my sight just to illustrate a stupid example to you, that is some next level shit right there. But I want you to learn. I want you to understand what I do. 

I have written a paper on hysteresis.

To be precise, corneal hysteresis, or the cornea's lag in response to external stimuli and changes in environment. It's a concept that is so vague, so misunderstood, so... intriguing. Think about it; don't we all experience hysteresis every day? We are slow to respond to changes. We see an assignment going to shit and procrastinate for twenty-one days. And what do we do a day before the deadline? Chugging thirty Red-Bulls while bullshitting all ten-thousand words of the assignment!

Oh, I'm sorry. I'm not part of this "we". I'm different; different from all you shits in the audience! I respond quickly, effectively, and greatly. A task assigned to me will be instantaneously responded with a high-quality completion the very next day. This is so that I can spend the next twenty-one days improving on my already perfect assignment!

But that's all gone to shit! I'm half-blind now, and I need two eyes to produce great work. Who's to blame now, huh? It's not that I don't want to be great, it's because of you shits in the audience who blinded me, who actively tried to stop me from surpassing you, so that you shits can celebrate some birthday, so that you shits can holiday in some damn beach, without worrying about me stepping on your sorry heads!

It's your fault. If you knew what hysteresis was in the first place, I wouldn't have to instantaneously respond to your confused expressions with a live demonstration of corneal hysteresis! A demonstration that costed me half my sight, my life, my future, and the happiness of everyone who love me.

Just kidding, shitheads. I was gonna go blind anyways. The intraocular pressure in my eye has reached an astonishing high level, and I was at a severe risk of contacting glaucoma, which would've rendered me blind anyways.

But my eye still hurts from that demonstration.

Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm just stating facts.

The fact that my paper has been published before you shitheads.

The fact that I blinded myself in front of you shitheads.

The fact that I made you shitheads feel guilty for five minutes.

The fact that...

all I want

is for someone to stay up late

and celebrate my birthday..."

Pavilion of Identities: Aisle of Hatred

- This is a work of fiction -

A lonely group of people embraced the quietness of the pavilion. Shivering from their own shadows. They walked down the aisle of hatred and they tried to love others. They told me that they needed me to help them feel love again.

A truth from the worldwide culture of alcohol and sex and drugs and doing absolutely nothing. A norm, yet we accepted and lived through it. A norm, yet aren't we but normal people?

But they still sought my help. They wanted me to prove them wrong; that they could love and be loved. Having lost all sense of direction, they were in a bleak state of utter despair. They anticipate nothing, not even their state of living. 

But they wanted me to give them a reason to be missed. They wanted to end their lives, yet they wanted their legacy to remain. A corrupted sense of pride, I thought. But what if I used to be them? Have I ever considered how human it is to feel loneliness and having thoughts of giving up?

Do they understand the truth? Do I understand them?

I used to be them. I used to be me. That was the me that I hated, but that was the same me that defined the present me. Until they're gone, I would have never known of their importance in my life.

I step forward and peeked over the bridge. An endless abyss, all leading back to the same pavilion. The same dark pavilion. The same dark place I never wanted to be in again. Yet, I learned the way out, but not how to figure a way out.

We're learning something every day, aren't we?

But we all dream and we all wake. It's a cycle of life, between cold hard reality and the comfort of a personal fantasy. Yet, if this fantasy looms over you like a dark cloud of your very own shadow, it would be better not to dream at all. Reality ain't that bad.

Or so we thought.

But which is worse, to live in a dream or to dream to live?

We're just so damn tired from it all.

And I used to think that I'm different. I thought I was unique, deserving of all the friendships and love and praise. I thought I have escalated past the pedestal of being human.

But I'm them and we're we.

We stare at the aisle of hatred from an isle afar. We swim closer. Those great white jaws and those electrifying jelly stings. We risk it all. We are almost there. 

Why are we swimming towards an aisle, much less an aisle of hatred, if the isle is connected to all the world's lands and seas through the very same blue that is leading us to the aisle of hatred?

A cramped aisle, dirty yet comforting, for we feel protected, by all the rubbish around us, from all the rubbish around us.

As we walk down the aisle, what can we possibly witness, other than the cries of our own shivering shadows?

Galactic Wind Tunnel

Written as part of the Malaysian Poetry Writing Month.

They walked me through the laboratory
filled with some very oblong
very expensive equipment
a wind tunnel, in fact
and they left me alone in the laboratory
for I was to discover the purpose of the experiment
the purpose of life
alone

Then, they threw some other poor souls into the laboratory
and we are to suddenly bond
suddenly become lifelong friends with one another
for the sake of the experiment
that is only worth a tiny bit
in the grand scheme of life
death
and everything in between

So I was to lead the poor souls to success
and thus I started my journey
to understand the purpose of this
life...?
Because... you know,
isn't life but an experiment
for us to play around with the equipment given to us
to walk through the valleys of hope and despair
and witness the results, with our very own eyes?
Or maybe
our eyes are just a simulation?

They bonded with me in this outer space
this weird galactic equipment
designed by some foreign hearts
some deserted mindset
and some simulated eyeballs
and they expect me to discover the truth to everything
using ancient equipment
but really

All I have to do is
fly far, far away from this planet
swim through the galaxies
the astronomical winds
and I will die trying to figure out
the purpose of this
never-ending wind tunnel.

Simulation of an Eyeball

Written as part of the Malaysian Poetry Writing Month.

eyeballs are staring at me

all day until the tomorrow

comes and breaks the windows to this

eternally shitty slumber

in the slums

sly smile shivers 'so sorry'

why do we seek to fulfill the plight

of the other good people

when the truly bad are confined

in the hearts of the brightest

b'light

stop being so negative about the world

but sometimes the voices misspoke

and the images are vivid

eyeing faces on the bottles of vodka

putting a halt to the dizzying party

and all the dumbstruck

flashing lights and humans

fleshing out the impunity

when we raise our water guns and aim

at one another, but sorrily

yet unapologetically murder the

worldly desires of one another

but this is all just a simulation

and they lambaste the culture

of loving one another

in exchange for sucking the eye-dicks

of those unsexy books

and those unappealingly stupid

dog politicians

the eyeballs were just a simulation

made with this senile program

and eye see these eyeballs every day

but seeing the humaner eyeballs

is not an everyday occurrence

in this brilliant month of

may

The Human Nature

Simply put
I dreamed of a world where no one will die
walking down the streets with smiles on their faces
not needing to hide their imaginary sorrows
never wanting to mask themselves from the truth
that they love each other

But also simply put
I thought of this dream as a dream
and dreams are but an escape from reality
but what if
someday I live in
a world where people could never lie
and will look at each other in the eyes
and say, with all their hearts
my brother, my sister
my love for you cannot be expressed
even with the dreamiest words
even with the sweetest soul

Yet a sickly person would have spoken
soft
yet strong words
about the ways and the truths of life
death
and everything in between
for this world would never have survived
the onslaught of a thousand fallacies
hammering down the truest desires of this
bloodied, battered world

Simply put
we could have just looked away from the
dying lands of this world
couldn't we?

HAPPY

- This is a work of fiction -

Hallucinatory Arm Pretense ParalYsis (HAPPY) is a medical condition whereby an individual experiences varying degrees of hallucinations, in addition to partial or complete lost of arm control, with the possibility of the arm moving reflexively, due to extended periods of self-inflicted conflicts between reality and fantasy. In simpler terms, an individual who fakes his/her emotions will have a small risk of being diagnosed with HAPPY, with this risk exponentially increasing with continuous self-infliction of fake emotions.

HAPPY is a relatively new medical condition, with its causes, symptoms, and treatment not fully understood; this is made worse by the fact that many leading medical experts outright refuse to believe in the existence of the condition. These experts generally claim that the condition is simply a scare tactic used to frighten individuals out of embracing fake emotions, or for a better term, pretense.

A number of renowned philosophers, however, have continuously advocated the existence of HAPPY, due to its simple and effective nature in minimizing pretense in a society that is booming with selfishness, indifference, and greed.

These renowned philosophers are now begging on the streets.

Yet, Richard is a teenage boy who was diagnosed with HAPPY. This is his story.

Richard has learned to fake his emotions ever since his father started abusing him when he was three. Outside the "comfort" of his home, Richard and his family seemed to be perfect, full of smiles and generosity and eagerness to lend a helping hand. At home, Richard was beaten, burned with cigarette butts, cut with knives, called "retarded", "crippled", and was raped by his father on a nightly basis.

At age twelve, Richard's mother was killed by his father, and he was left alone on the streets. An elderly couple, who were a pair of philosophers that refused to believe in the existence of HAPPY, found him, adopted him, and raised him to be one of his school's friendliest people.

Richard was never without his signature laughter. He was always so eager to be there for a friend in need, and he would never fail to make them happy. On online messaging services like Facebook and WhatsApp, Richard has a habit of overusing positive emojis and "haha". In fact, he would begin most of his messages with "haha", as he believed that it would make him seem happy in the eyes of others.

Yet, the trauma of his childhood continued to haunt his dreams. There were so many nights where he started screaming and wailing; there were also days where he was one hug away from hanging himself. His adoptive parents were very supportive of him, and will do anything to keep him alive and happy.

In his teenage years, Richard had his adoptive parents convinced that he has successfully rid himself of the trauma. They were finally confident in leaving him alone at home while they went for a short walk in the park, just the two of them. It was their first date in twelve years, as they never left Richard alone during those years. They were so afraid that Richard would lose control that they actually followed him to school and waited outside his classroom until his lessons were over.

So they left to the park. Richard was alone. He has been hiding it all along, the fact that his right arm can no longer be directly controlled. It seemed to move by reflex. He was just so good at pretending that his right arm was fine. Once, Richard right arm reached for his adoptive father's pants. He pretended that he was just helping his adoptive father to zip his pants. His adoptive father did not suspect one bit, for he did not believe in the existence of HAPPY.

Having recognized the paralysis and reflexive actions of his right arm as a possible symptom of HAPPY, Richard decided to seek a counselor for support. He did not opt for a doctor, one due to the controversy surrounding the legitimacy of the condition, and two being his belief that the condition is psychological, not physical.

He was warmly welcomed into the male counselor's room. He sat on the sofa, with a cup of hot coffee sitting on the wooden table in front of him. The counselor is seated on a simple plastic chair to the right of the table. The counselor smiled and softly bit his own lips.

'How are you feeling, Richard?'

'Haha... It's all good, except that I think... I faked my emotions a lot... Hahaha...'

It is clear that Richard was still trying to make light of a very dire situation. The counselor questioned Richard, and Richard eventually told him about his dreadful past over the course of an hour. Noticing the haphazard motions of Richard's right arm, the counselor gradually steered the conversational topic to that of HAPPY.

Richard's eyes lit up. He was very interested.

'According to several unverified reports, there are five stages of HAPPY; the first involves losing control of one or both of your arms. Based on these reports, the very act of pretending, or faking emotions, will require so much brain power that the brain had to sacrifice the functionalities of several body parts, and in this case, the arms are usually the main targets for sacrifice. The term paralysis grossly undermines the severity of the problem, as these sacrificed arms will still move by reflex, potentially causing... problems.'

'Haha... The reason sounds a bit unbelievable, I think. But I ain't a doctor so... I don't know... Hahaha...'

'Ask anyone in the medical community and they will most likely shoot down such a ridiculous and unproven hypothesis, but, think about it, the brain has the capability to make you feel both happy and sad at the same time, as years of forced smiles and laughter made you genuinely believe that you're happy, yet you're still weeping somewhere inside.'

'It can therefore be theorized that this very act of balancing facades require tremendous brain power, which explains the symptoms of HAPPY.'

'With your brain too occupied to resume control of your arm, the spinal cord, which processes the reflexive reactions to any stimulus, will go... awry. At least, that's what I think.'

'Think of the body as the father and the arm as the son, with a sacrificed arm being equivalent to a son who no longer loves his father. The father will still have his son, but will have lost control of his son, and the father will be desperate to regain control of his son, for that is what fathers do. For your case, your body is desperate to regain control of the sacrificed arm, and thus explains the spinal cord's sad, sad attempt to regain control of your arm by heightening the sensitivities of its reflex sensors.'

Richard was pleased with the explanation. Richard wanted to seek more advice, however, the counselor noticed something peculiar.

'With your right arm effectively paralyzed, I highly doubt you can... masturbate, can you?'

Richard was appalled. It was a disgusting turn of topics. Richard no longer looked at the counselor in the eyes.

'What if... I help you masturbate?'

'Haha, that wouldn't be neces-'

The counselor was already in front of him. He unzipped Richard's jeans and stripped him off his undergarment. His right hand was already wrapped around Richard's penis.

Richard wanted to scream. Richard hated it. Yet, the daily abuse by his father when he was a child conditioned him to take pleasure in it. It was a self-defense mechanism.

Richard moaned during ejaculation. He enjoyed every single moment of it, yet tears started waterfalling down his face.

'Please stop... Haha...'

'You enjoyed it, right?'

'I do... But pleas-'

Richard's right hand reflexively moved to the area of the counselor's crotch. The hand started to rub, to unzip, to fondle, to grip, to move.

'Second stage of HAPPY is when your sacrificed arm start repeating your most often executed actions, and in your case, it seems to be...'

'I used to do this... to my... father... Haha... ha... Please don't beat me.'

Richard's right hand moved faster and faster. Richard screamed, his eyes bloodshot, yet he still continued smiling. Richard laughed and sobbed. Richard desperately tried to regain control of his right arm, yet, it was too late, for the counselor ejaculated.

'That was amazing, Richard.'

Richard ran to the door, yet his sacrificed right arm could not reach for the doorknob. He tried lifting his left arm.

'Paralyzed? Richard, We talked about this for so long, stop pretending, if you didn't like what I have just done, you could've just told me.'

'But... Haha... I-I was, I-I felt... p-p-powerless...'

'I'm just a kid... right? I should l-listen to a-adults... Haha...'

Richard, still exposing his lower half, fell to the ground. The counselor approached him.

'Third stage is where you start hallucinating, son of a whore. Who the fuck asked you to be so fuckable?'

Soon, he was on top of Richard. He stabbed his penis into Richard's bottom. He moved his hips. Richard could not resist, for both his arms are sacrificed, and his legs were quivering. He bit his own lips so hard it bled. Blood flowed down his cheek and stained his shirt. Richard could no longer perceive his environment; the only thing he noticed was the cup of coffee on the wooden table. When Richard first entered the room, it used to read 'Be happy!', then it changed to 'World's Best Dad!'

The counselor retracted his penis from Richard's bottom. The counselor's penis enlarged and elongated upwards, past his own height.

'It's your fault, Richard, for you did not resist. You could've told me to stop, but you always sat there crying, powerless, so blame no one but yourself.'

'If you need to blame someone for giving you such a tight asshole and fuckable face, blame me, for it is my sperm that produced you!'

Richard realized.

'Dad... Why are you in my... room...? Please, hahahaha... please leave me alone... please!'

'You like it, Richard, it is written all over your face. You're just prompting me to fuck you more, eh? Son of a whore, you are just like your mother, pretending to feel pain and trying to beg me to stop. Your whore of a mother dressed like a whore, and so she would've enjoyed being fucked like a whore, yet she screamed for help when I tried to fuck her!'

'Don't lie to me, you loved it all, son of a whore!'

The father stabbed his elongated penis into Richard's bottom. The tip of the penis emerged from Richard's throat.

Richard was dead.

The father pulled out the umbrella from Richard's bottom.

'They said the third stage of HAPPY is a self-defense mechanism to convince yourself that you're in a good situation although you're in a shitty one.'

'Were you really so depressed that you deluded yourself into seeing me as a counselor? Thinking that I would help you? Bullshit.'

'My verdict? Fuck off, you weakling. I did you a favor by killing you off, so fucking bless me from hell, son of a whore.'

'Here, I moved you to this chair in front of your computer screen, with a picture of a whore on it. Stare at it with your dead eyes, for you, your mother, and this picture of a whore are all the fucking same!'

And here I am.

Dead.

The fourth stage of HAPPY only kicks in once the individual is dead.

The sacrificed arms continue moving reflexively after death.

Except the arms are reflexively executing what the individual wanted to do the most before death.

And Richard... He really wanted to type this essay out.

I really wanted to.

I wanted to let society know.

I wanted to let you know.

Please, don't do this to us...

Respect us...

Is loving us normally... such a difficult thing to do?

Don't... hurt... us...

Please, haha...

i just want to be happy

fifth stage of happy is

all i did was

laugh
laugh
laugh
am i happy
dad dont beat me
dad why are you showing me your
peepee

dad i'm not crying
i'm laughing
hahaha
see

dad
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