Fictional Character 1.2

"Lelaki, tak guuuuuuuna," Lelaki by Yuna.

He had a love interest. He knew that it was love, not just another crush. He's had hundreds of crushes. Crushes come and go. They're a fantasy, he says. An impossibly perfect version of what the person in question might be, without one ever getting to know the person. And by the simple logic of "if it's not this, then it must be that other thing," he has deduced it to be true, bona fide, pure love. 

She wasn't supermodel material, he knew that, but she was still the most beautiful person he has ever set eyes on. Many of his friends and even his family disagree, but he's pretty adamant on this. Ever since she came into his life, it's like girls the world over conspired against him to turn themselves ten times less attractive. But it's not just that she was beautiful to his eyes. She was one of the people whom he felt most in-sync with. She would complete his sentences and he hers, and he would think about a question and she would answer him without him ever asking out loud. They had similar (enough) interests. If they weren't already interested in the same thing, it would take very little effort for him to like what she liked and vice versa. They completed each other. He  hated waking up early, she loves it. She needs to get to bed early, he does whatever he can to avoid early bedtimes. Their existence in each others' lives helps them lead healthy lives. He had a feeling that they were made for each other. No other person could make him feel as miserable or as happy as her. She was the highlight of his day. Highlight of his life. It had to be love.

But (there's always a but, isn't there?) he couldn't help but feel that she's too good for him. There he was, as average and plain as a human being can be, with no particular talents, of average attractiveness, introverted and passive. And there she was, the most talented person he had ever met, beautiful, like, crazy beautiful, outspoken, intelligent, kind-hearted, lovable, all that good stuff. How could he ever hope to keep her to himself? How could someone ten times more attractive, smart, funny and talented not be able to spot a gem that was her and take her away from him? He knew that he was no contest to any actually worthy guys out there. He was a loser. Nothing. She was destined for greatness. Not nothing.

And so everyday he lives his life being miserably happy. Happy that he has the treasure that is her. Miserable that he knows, KNOWS that he won't be able to keep her. Not when there's a Joseph Gordon-Levitt or a Redza Minhat out there to pry her away from him with ease.  He's just too pathetic to compete. He is unworthy. 

Fiction Character 1.1

"I can't change, even if I tried, even if I wanted to," Same Love by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis feat. Mary Lambert.


He wanders. He wonders. About many a thing at a time. So many things, in fact, that he loses track and in effect gets distracted rather easily. Too easily. He could be in the middle of contemplating Khalil Gibran, for all he could, and a passing motorbike would make all those thoughts join the carbon monoxide to come up in smoke.

His focus is weak. He can’t pay attention to anything for more than ten minutes. He opens the Pages document on his computer to write something up and is scrolling through his Facebook home in less than two minutes. It not that he wants to lose focus. He just does.

At least that’s what he says to himself. Comforting is the thought of not having control of yourself. You are no longer responsible for your actions when you aren’t in control of yourself, and that’s the way he likes it. Not taking responsibility for himself. For his own development. For the feelings of the people around him. For his relationship with God. 

It’s not under his control. If it was, he would be the best human being ever. He would be able to do so many things. He would read a lot more. He would learn how to play every sport that he can. He would pray on time all the time. He would be helpful at every opportunity he can. He would work on his assignments as soon as he receives them and wouldn’t stop until they’re finished. He would proofread his work, thrice, making improvements every time. He would get high distinctions. He would get a first-class degree.

But it’s not under his control. He’s tired all the time, so he sleeps way too much and works too little. He’s too slow a reader, so he puts his books aside. He’s way too busy, so he postpones any actual work until the very last minute. He’s not fit enough, so he doesn’t go down to the field to play any kind of sport. He was always a one-sport-guy anyway. He oversleeps, so he misses prayers. He doesn’t like proofreading his own work, so his first drafts are his final drafts. His EQ is low, so he hurts the people who love him.

Ah, not being in control is the best thing that could ever happen to a person. After all, how can God judge a person for how He has made His creation? These flaws aren’t mine, he says to himself. They were given to me. I did not choose to be this way. If I was born hardworking, then things would be different. But I wasn’t. So I’m not. 

And that’s perfectly fine.

Fiction Character 1.0

"I want to sail away from here," Otherside by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis.

As he sits there typing on his MacBook Pro, his head is frantically looking for something to say, something meaningful, something truthful, something inspiring. But he isn’t feeling very inspired himself. He asks himself, “why do I want to write?” and the answer slaps him in the face: he doesn’t know.

He likes the idea of writing. Of people being able to get a glimpse of what is going on in his head. For what purpose, he’s not fully aware. It might be that he feels that writing could relieve his stress. He’s been feeling emotionally unstable of late. That is, if the past year can qualify for “of late”. It might also be that  he feels that letting other people read his thoughts would inspire other people to greatness. He admits that he is by no means great,but people seem to think that he is worth watching and listening to, thus he would like to reveal to people that any Muhammad or Atiqah could be twice as successful as he is, if what he is can be considered a success.

Or maybe it’s just for the ego trip that he gets when he receives feedback from people. He’s fully aware that his English is head and shoulders above the majority of those who use it as a second language and people tweet that his English is so fluent, they want to be like him, they want him to teach them how to be like him. Maybe that’s it.

But it’s not.

He hates the notion of people trying to be him. He knows himself. He sucks. As a teacher. As a writer. As a friend. As a family member. As a human being. He sucks.

And he is always intrigued by the idea that people actually think highly of him. Or maybe it’s disgust. Paralyzing disgust. Disgust in himself that he is still able to sleep at night and smile when he is awake and allow people to sing his praise. It’s disgusting how much he allows people to be deluded into thinking that he is a righteous person with very little flaws to show. And him? A role model? Please.

If people were actually like him, there would be a lot more cynical people in the world. Fake smiles would be plastered onto their faces while sarcastic remarks form in their heads. People would be sad all of the time, without really knowing why. People would be tired, and hate having to live through another day. People would be emotional. People would be judgmental. Most of all, people would be insincere. 

But they won’t do good deeds for money. No, much too “surface” for this type of human. That would be way too easy to judge, and he’s not anything if he’s not afraid of judgement. Or rather, negative judgement. He has to be seen as a flawless human being, a model citizen. The example for Muslims, or even human beings in general. Because he’s full of himself like that. Because he needs to be seen as a superior person.

So he puts on a mask for everyone to see. What he thinks everyone should see. The bright side. The smiles. The happiness. The righteousness. The motivation. The optimism. And right behind that mask rots the depression. The downright cynicism. The bitterness. The pessimism. The hypocrisy.

So he doesn’t want people to be like him. Because that’s too messed up. Even for him. I suffer alone is his mantra. Other people are too good for him. 

He still likes the idea of writing though. But why, he can never really say.