I am currently 9, 754 meters above ground, flying at the speed of 854 km per hour towards Kuala Lumpur. Rumours have it that one is inclined to feel something at this point. Intense reluctance, perhaps – for I am going back from the Great Capitalistic Yes-We-Can America to the Aiyah-Out-of-Stock What’s-the-Point-lah Malaysia. Annoyed, even, for I am leaving a year of freedom and autonomy to go back to Living with The Parents. Terrified, most likely, for I am currently unemployed, crossing the roads like a Californian (pedestrians are god, no? Hey, why are you still driving towards me?!), have the defense mechanism of a wide-eyed person living in the a safe American suburb with houses that seemed to be designed by burglars (my brother-in-law calls it My Little Pony Land), and could possibly choke from humid heat and contract something deadly (like Extreme Irritance. I never said it was deadly to whom.)
In short, this should be a flight I’d hate to take.
Which is why I found my cheeriness a little unsettling. I am more used to freaking out and going bananas, and worrying about everything and then consoling myself that it is nothing, but go on worrying anyway, just in case.
Except I can’t remember how to do that. I remember the general worrying and conjuring up what-ifs in my head, but somehow my heart didn’t seem to be in it.
It’s probably because my heart is actually… pretty excited to go back to Malaysia. It also probably because this flight has so many awesome movies waiting to be seen and the refreshments just kept coming (Singapore Airline rocks!) It is also likely that I’ve just had the most amazing travel month, especially the last two weeks, that the giddy residue of it all is still pumping in my veins.
Call me optimistic, but I am really just looking forward to some nasi lemak done right. I sometimes suspect that I would fight for the betterment of our country just so that prawn mee have a place to exist.
But even I, in my less hungry moments, realise that while Malaysian food is Something, it’s not everything. One day, I may too get disillusioned again and complain about the government and shed longing tears at the miniature Lady of Liberty statue I bought for my mom. One day, I may regret coming back. One day, I may become bitter and reminiscent about the good old year that was America.
And that would be the day I forget what it really means to live.
It is not about the place, the food, the weather, and the people. It is not even about the government, and the policies, and the facilities, and the economy.
Life is what you make it – the place that you allow yourself to see, the food that you allow yourself to savour, the weather you allow your body to get used to, the people you allow yourself to love. It may even be about the government you allow to rule, the policies you fought to be made, the facilities you make the best of, and the economy you help to flourish. And – because we all need to maintain sanity – the complaints we love to dispense.
I have known Malaysia all my life. It takes leaving it to realise that everything I know is nothing – not about my own country and the potential and beauty it has, not about living in it, and definitely not about deserving it.
I know nothing.
Luckily, that’s a good start to Learning.
An even luckier thing is that I found Someone to learn it with (I wanna fly a Wau next! *hint* :P)
Malaysia is as imperfect as a country gets. But whaddyaknow, imperfection is my defining trait. Looks like we’d hit it off just fine, don’t you think?
