So 2015 is coming to an end and I feel the stronger need to pen down the year in review. I had wanted to do a review for my 'A' level journey, but honestly, the correct mix of inspiration and motivation has been terrifyingly lacking in that department. I would love to give the excuse of my being busy and occupied with so many Post-A level activity, but I think it's a terrible excuse. You make time for the things that matter to you. So there's that.

Then again, 'A' levels did take up the bulk of my time and emotions this year so it's almost impossible to do a 2015 review without 90% of it dedicated to that particular journey.

I'm just glad that I pulled through this year, and all the daunting obstacles that came with it. Until now, I can't believe my 'A' level journey is over. It was terrible, to say the least, but I braved through the storm and actually made it in one piece, despite the blood and bruises.

It's cliched, but I really can't seem to owe my ability to pull through to any other than the company that was with me. My loving teachers, my friends from years ago, the new friends I made, and my dear family. The company I was incredibly blessed to have made my mountains turn into molehills.

Whatever task that seemed unconquerable became surmountable, because of my external environment. And I'll always be thankful for that. The sessions spent with my teachers as they tirelessly go through all kinds of concepts for me to grasp, the hours I spent with my friends studying at various venues, the games we'd slip in study sessions to make them more bearable -- they are the little things amongst many others that helped me pull through the hardships of the year.

And in the final month of December, my soul for travelling was more or less satiated when my family visited our relatives in Melbourne. That trip was indeed quite the eye-opening adventure. To more wanderful moments in the future, insyaAllah. :)

And now, with 2016 lurking and ready to pounce in a few minutes, a lot of thoughts and qualms for the future clouds my mind. If I were to summarise all my concerns in one question, it would be: Where will all my time go?

I just pray that it'll be invested wisely and timely (no pun intended).

All in all, happy 2016 anyone. Here's a somewhat incoherent post to end the year.

After my first H2 Literature paper, I came home to my Abang's questions on what I wrote for my All My Sons essay, because he did the same text two years ago when during his A's.

Since a few weeks ago, (yup, the very weeks leading up to 'A' levels, but you didn't need to know that), I've got myself hooked on Comedy Central's Inside Amy Schumer, a super funny series of short sketches that pokes fun at the many seemingly small problems that plague American society — and a lot of other societies, for that matter.

People usually say that in an examination, it's just you, your prepared knowledge, your pen, and the clock.

But in actuality, there's so much more than that. For starters, there's your mental well-being. You can't do a paper when you're way too jittery and stressed out. And then there's that cursed bell curve, designed to either propel or ruin a person's life, depending on where they stand on the said curve. And then there's the state of your memory — it can either make you or break you. And then the examiners marking your paper, are they in a good mood? Are they strict or lenient? Do they all truly follow the same criteria when they're making all the thousands of scripts? And what about the external factors? Who's to say you've got control over the temperature of the room, or the noises a ceiling fan makes. They may seem minuscule, but cumulatively, they have the potential of ruining one's exam experience.

So many things. So many traps, obstacles, hindrances. But that's life, I suppose. Certain things are beyond our control, and even after so much I'm still trying to internalise that. I'm trying to remind myself that the world doesn't always go according to how I planned it to. It actually goes according to how HE plans it, and that's something I've got to remember.

Sigh. GP didn't feel like a good start. But that's okay. And even if it's not, there are still eight papers to go. Press on, persist, and persevere.

My dearest,
as your tears roll
down your cheeks,
and your silent suffering
is translated through your
stifled sobs,
my heart can't help
but to break
alongside yours.

Oh, my dearest,
how do I tell you
that your brave soul
that burts with strength and dignity
is not one to give
any dedication
to the grieving over a man?

A man rightfully unworthy
of your pearly breath
as he uses his
to utter truthless affections.

My dearest,
"Love" is what you say
but what if I tell you:
in your heart
is none but a disease.
Spreading, conquering
the depths of your being.

Unrequited; cast aside;
a heart uncared for;
bruised and abused;
left empty...

That is not love.

My dearest,
as I hold you close
in my embrace,
I wish nothing
other than your heart
to harden
against the lies men tell,
the stories they plant,
the promises they speak,
nothing but with the false
air of seducation.

Because you don't deserve
such pain, my dearest,
you don't deserve this pain.

The Quiet World
By Jeffrey McDaniel

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

The pen is, indeed, mightier than the sword.

A few weeks ago, I was visited by the urge to write a letter. I was impulsed to write a letter to none other than my school principal, regarding an issue that has bothered me greatly since the start of school.

I wanted to write about how the AJC examination timetable did not allot time for practising Muslims to perform their zuhr prayers, because the three-hour papers in the afternoon are from 1pm to 4pm. (And if we were to count preparation time plus paper-collection time, it's actually around 12:45pm to 4:30pm) Essentially, all this while, I had to rush like mad for prayers either before or after the paper, just so I can attend one without the expense of the other.

And gosh, only God knows how that rush had deeply affected me. How I was filled with stress and frustration, with trouble and disturbance. I felt sad and I felt torn. I consulted so many people for their advice, and most tell me my situation is such that I can be forgiven, but I still felt dissatisfied. While I mostly felt like I could not do anything, I felt like I should do something.

So, after my 2015 Mid-Year Common Tests, I felt urged to write a letter to the principal, and I acted upon that urge. With the help of my wise mother and beloved senior kak Syaira, it took ten soft-copy drafts and three crumpled papers (which okay, may not seem very impressive) to come up with the finished product. The letter was very satisfying to read and re-read, before finally meeting my principal and personally handing it to him. (The letter is posted below)

Afterwards, I asked myself, why didn't I write earlier? And I suppose, honestly, it simply never occurred to me. I didn't feel it was probable to write to a higher form of authority regarding something very, very personal — something the addressee may not fully understand. It just didn't seem fathomable to me, let alone possible.

But I've always somewhat known the impact of letters. I've always loved letters. Composing and receiving. There is a certain satisfaction and intimacy in running your eyes through another's handwriting, which is but one of the windows to their personality. And considering the time they allocated to expressing a portion of their heart as they scratch their pen on a piece of paper, it's amazing. Letters are amazing.

And then I realised how letters can actually stir the authority. I was told about how letters are written to appeal into certain schools, letters are written to maintain clubs and societies, even some of the important events in history are turbulences caused by letters (think Roosevelt and Fidel Castro). Heck, it was even a letter that made Apple inc. alter its usually rigid policies.

With your thoughts penned into the right diction, tone, and attitude, you can move an entire mass of people. Amazing, huh?

If you ever want to stand up for something you truly bear strong feelings for, don't hesitate, don't wait, just express it. All you need to do is to translate your feelings into words, and words onto paper. Of course, at times, you will not get what you want. Sometimes, the authorities won't think about you twice nor will they even consider you. But that's the thing, you don't know. You will simply never know until you try.

Today, upon receiving my prelims timetable, despite the whole daunting notion of prelims itself, I realised that all afternoon papers now started at 2:00pm. I was filled with utter elation. Not only will this change benefit me, it will also undoubtedly help all the Muslims in AJC from now on. I'm beyond glad that both current and future students wouldn't have to face the same depressingly torn feelings I did. Alhamdulillah.

This Ramadan, my heart goes out to those who have difficult family members.

When I say difficult, I don't mean the energetic little brothers who won't stop poking at their elder siblings just to incite annoyance or gain attention. I'm not talking about the tired mother who nags at her children to assist her with the endless house chores. Nor am I talking about the joking father who chides his kids' attempts at cooking iftar.

They're not truly difficult if they mean well, and they're not difficult if harmless annoying traits happen to be in their nature.

When I say difficult, I mean the family members that cause little else aside from true pain and sadness around the household, even in the holy month. My heart goes out to people who have to deal with them.

The one who has to cope with the high-tempered brother whenever he shamelessly allows his anger to spill out of him onto everyone else, especially during times of hunger.

The one whose father stubbornly and inconsiderately carries on with his smoking habits in the household during the day. And when the father is advised not to for the sake of his own health, he scolds and scolds and scolds...

The one who gets demoralised when the sister relentlessly ridicules and belittles the attempts to perform good actions for the first time in a whole year.

The one with the heart that grows heavy when the mother spews nothing else but poisonous negativity from her mouth despite actions being done well and well-intended.

The one who tirelessly attempts to wake the daughter up even when she continuously refuses, only to have her exert rage later on for "not being woken up properly enough".

Wrath. Anger. Rage. Fury.

This, is one of my most, if not the most, biggest tests. It is my deadliest sin, my most toxic vice.

I surpass even my worst self when I'm angry. My entire body reacts; mentally, physically. I'm overcome by the urge to scream, to snap, and my fists are ready to rain down on anything near me. Though only a glimpse, it clearly isn't exactly the prettiest sight. But it happens. It happens.

Most of the time, though, I stop. I overcome that horrifying urge. I restrain myself.

And God, God. How difficult. How utterly, tremendously arduous it is to control my anger.

In times like those, I remember the hadith about how the strong man is not the one who wrestles others; rather, he is the one who controls himself in times of anger. I feel that only those who have faced such an awful state of weakness and difficulty can truly appreciate and empathise with that hadith.

If not for Islam, I realise that patience to me will be a mere foreign concept that I wish not to touch, because it will simply take too much of my effort. If not for Islam, if not for the main source of my patience, almost all my relationships would have been severely afflicted.

Patience, to me, is the most valuable and important virtue. It comes in all kinds of aspects that apply differently to various people. It doesn't just encompass controlling yourself when you're angry. It's restraining yourself from becoming ungrateful, from complaining too much, from seeing the wrong in everything and viewing things in a negative light. It's the prevention of ill feelings towards other people, in situations when you feel like it's not enough. It's the clearing and cleansing of the head and the heart from contempt and dissatisfaction.

Patience is basically the beautiful calm all of us human beings need in our heart. It's the ultimate chicken soup for all our troubled souls.

But for some of us, it can take so much to instill patience in ourselves. So much. This Ramadhan, only God knows how much patience was needed for me to overcome the multitude of tests and obstacles that were in my way.

Sometimes, the place where most of our tests lie are in the people and things we love the most. And it's in these tests where we need the most patience...

PS, This was very personal for me to actually translate into words. But it may be one of the very few things that serve as a remedy for my unsettling thoughts. Writing has never failed me in giving me its unique therapy.

I haven't written a proper post in a very, very long time. And I miss it so much. I miss the therapy of it all, and I miss the gratification I'd feel when I hit "Publish". I miss it.

I still write. I think I'd go crazy if I don't. I mean, my Notes app is still constantly updated with short sentences and mini paragraphs, collected as captured fragments of my random disarrayed thoughts. But that's the thing: they are only fragments. I want to piece these fragments together, and make more sense out of them — something that requires more of the time and focus I, for some lame reason, am unable to give at this very moment.

But a hectic life and a busy schedule shouldn't be valid an excuse to not feed your passion, right? It shouldn't hinder you from allowing yourself the time to do what you truly enjoy with the people you love. That's what I truly believe, and yet... it's what I've been doing.

It's depressing, because I can feel my writing weakening. I feel that my ability to render my feelings into words strung into proper sentences has become debilitated. It's depressing, because, well, depressing is how you'd describe when a skill bred out of passion declines, isn't it?

I miss writing for leisure and not with the requirements of a certain structure, though beautifully made for the ease readers (or examiners, to be exact). I miss writing out of my own whims rather than under time constraint and pressure. I miss the writing that is therapeutic to me, rather the one that swells stress in me.

Ultimately, I miss writing for myself.

So thank God, for the ability to express myself through this very short and mediocre post. For one of the many written fragments of my thoughts to fail in being neglected. Thank God. Just... Thank God.

Because he will crash land on his head, assuming it to be
The strongest part of his body.

Because someone will put up a sign that reads:
Do Not Step on the Cirrus Clouds.

Because it does not even take a man hundreds of feet above
Sea-level to learn contempt.

Because there will be new categories of handicaps: bow-wings,
Ostrich disease, scaly feathers, carousel flight syndrome,
Or at a freak show: The Amazing Wingless Wonder.

Because he will have a new weapon, gravity,
And everything he releases becomes a missile,
Even glass marbles, books, the fatal music box.

Because he is lonely enough without being able to
Frame the house he lives in between his forefinger and thumb.

Because then the sky will shed its metaphors of freedom
And become another path for him to carry his burdens.

Because there will be a popular form of suicide:
Flying into foreign airspace and being gunned down;
All it takes is a nose-tip to press an invisible blue button.

Because each death in mid-air, each comic comet plunge,
Will be another enactment of the fall of Man.

Because in concentration camps people will break wings
And use the feathers for quills to write sonnets
And pillow stuffing for innocent dreams.

Because he will have less to fantasize about, less of miracles
And the word ‘levitation’ will not exist.

Because there will be children who will empty their bladders
Under cloud cover in an attempt to make yellow snow.

And because he might get the wrong notion that he is closer
To heaven, when he has not even come to a mile
Within the presence of angels, despite the resemblance.