Iridescence

All right, enough is enough. I'm not going to post any more emotional rants here for this week.

Dare I say this...?

I wrote that last post in anger, on impulse without thinking clearly. I'm almost sorry for being so harsh. But am I relieved to get it out!

I still don't quite trust blogging. It's too...open, impersonal. I might say something hurtful unintentionally, or reveal something about myself and realise later that I'm not ready to tell anyone about it.

A paradox, eh?

Iridescence (n) : Iridescence is caused by multiple reflections from multi-layered, semi-transparent surfaces in which phase shift and interference of the reflections modulates the incident light (by amplifying or attenuating some frequencies more than others).

I've been wondering about this word since yesterday. Can iridescence be used to describe a person?

We don't have a permanent self, after all. We are born, we die, and we lose everything we had before in life. We come into existence empty, lonely, and we leave the same way too. So why do we keep holding on to things and people that we know we have to lose some day?

Along the way, as we live, we change, shifting constantly from colour to colour. These changes can be called diversity, I suppose, the diversity and variations of our self. But I wouldn't know...I don't understand it myself.

I can't understand myself...can you?

I have changed a lot since I was twelve, since I turned fifteen. I was reading my diaries last night, and those changes in my personality happened so gradually I didn't quite register them till much later.

I'm only harping on some tired subject other bloggers have elaborated on for so many times, aren't I?

The wonder of my changing self and the diversity of the people I know and have known remains intact till now. I can look in the mirror three times a day and see three different variations of myself in it almost every time.

Science is killing imagination, hmm? We demand and expect logical explanations for almost everything at this age, not quite accepting the fact that the world, people, life, don't have to have explanations.

Is there any explanation why I was born in Malaysia, in such lucky circumstances, and not in some war-ravaged country instead? Is there any explanation for why I am so lucky to have amazing friends who have given me their time and support so many times over?

But yet I still want more! Isn't that ludicrous?

It boils down to dissatisfaction and attachment, I suppose. I can talk for so long about letting go and moving on, but it's not that easy.

Our mind, being dead, wishes to have time die
For we being ghosts cannot catch hold of things.
~ 'August', by Louis Macneice ~