Writing complete stories has never been my style. My mind wanders, seeking and focusing on moments and emotions that demand attention, even if they don’t always fit neatly into a beginning, middle, and end—like poetry. I find myself drawn to fragments of moments that exist between greater narratives. It’s in these fragments that I discover what I need to express, often eliciting more emotion with a single, still snapshot than an entire storyline.
This piece, His Days Were Long, is one such fragment. It’s a story of a man torn between his responsibilities and a yearning he can’t quite shake. It’s a little piece of a wider web of stories that live within me, ready to be told one at a time. These moments are disjointed and incomplete but filled with meaning, but these are where I feel most alive in my writing. So I’ll keep sharing them in bits and pieces, each with its own truth and emotion.
His days were long. His nights were even longer. He lived in a world of crime scenes, cold cases, and sleepless chases under neon-lit streets. Whether he was flipping through reports, putting cuffs on suspects, or driving while tailing someone through the rain, his hands were always busy.
But it didn’t matter how deep he was in a case or how many hours he worked; his mind would always go back to her.
He would often feel it in the quiet moments—between interrogations or right before he kicked open a door. The agony of missing her. He’d wonder what she was doing, if she was thinking of him too. Sometimes he’d reach for his phone, tempted to bridge the gap between them. But then duty would pull him back, and he’d shove the thought away.
But it was the nights that were the worst. Sitting at his desk, the only light coming from the flickering lamp above him. His body was exhausted, but his mind wouldn’t stop. He’d lean back, close his eyes, and there she was. That smile. Her giggle. The tilt of her head when she was amused.
And in those moments he hated that he wasn’t with her.
Maybe that’s why he pushed hard, worked himself to the bone because he was afraid that if he stopped, he’d remember how much he wanted and needed her.
I worked on this all day Saturday. I haven’t drawn in months because I’ve been focusing so much on writing these days. But occasionally I felt compelled to express myself via art, and I enjoy combining it with poetry. I will not explain the meaning of this poem. You may interpret it as you like since, to me, poetry is about capturing emotion at an exact moment and there is no need for a backstory.
I worked in pencils and sometimes graphite sticks.
Recently I came across an article in Futurism—The Science of Death: The Best Eulogy, According to a Physicist (Aaron Freeman). Yesterday, I wrote about my friend who passed away recently. I think it’s apt that I continue to write about death because, let’s face it, every living being on the face of this earth will someday face the vast unknown. We don’t talk enough about death, believing that by talking about it, we are somehow inviting it closer. But I’m not someone who shies away from reflecting on things that make most people uncomfortable.
As I reflect on Aaron Freeman’s words, I realize there is something both cruel and beautiful about loss. The way it strips us bare, leaving us searching for traces of someone who no longer walks this earth. But if the laws of the universe have taught us anything, we have learned that nothing truly disappears. The First Law of Thermodynamics teaches us that energy is never lost, only transformed. And maybe, just maybe, the ones we lost aren’t as far away as we think.
We are made of stardust.
Did you know that most of the elements in our bodies were forged in the hearts of stars, across billions of years and multiple star lifetimes? However, certain elements within us, such as the hydrogen flowing through our veins and the faint traces of lithium within us, could be as ancient as time itself—the remnants of the Big Bang. You and I, quite literally, are fragments of the universe, bound together by forces older than memory.
So when we grieve for an unbearable loss and feel the crushing weight of absence, perhaps we can take comfort in knowing that nothing is ever truly gone.
The ones we miss exist in a different form now. They are scattered across the cosmos, carried in rays of sunshine, drifting in the gentle breeze. The photons that once danced across their skin continue their journey through space. Their laughter still lingers around us, waiting to be felt by those who remember.
If we explain death by physics alone, the conservation of energy means that when we die, our energy disperses into heat, into the environment, and into the people we loved. We become part of those we left behind. We are reborn into new beings. As I think about this, I can’t help but wonder: what about ghosts and spirits? As a Christian, I believe in the existence of the soul, but does that differ from ghosts and spirits? I honestly have no answer.
Could it be that some parts of a person, let’s call it a consciousness or remnants of their memory—remain bound to the world even after the body is gone? Maybe. Some believe that energy, especially from those who have passed with unfinished business or intense emotions, leaves imprints of themselves that replay like a recording in places they once lived or loved.
Or maybe these spirits exist because we keep them alive. I don’t mean in a haunting way, but rather in the way we cling to the memory of love. It’s in the way we still feel them in certain moments and places, as if they never truly left. Maybe we sense their spirits around us because our own energies interact with their memory.
I won’t claim to know the answer. But I will say this, purely my opinion, of course: if spirits exist, if ghosts are real, then maybe they aren’t here to haunt us. Maybe they’re still here simply because they loved too deeply to leave completely. And they are everywhere around us: among the rustling leaves in the trees, in the blooming flowers, waiting, always waiting for us to recognize their presence when we need them most.
I like to think that when my time comes, I will not vanish. I will be among the stars, among the florets of dandelions, the dust on the palms of your hands, and the unseen energy beneath the fabric of existence. I will return to the ultrasound and infrasound, ultraviolet and infrared, beyond human hearing and sight. And if you ever look up at the night sky and feel something familiar in your heart, maybe that will be me. Not gone. Just less orderly.
I wasn’t close to Michelle, but when I received news of her passing, it stirred something deep in me. It’s a quiet grief that lingered long after the news settled. It reminded me how one person’s kindness can ripple through your life and leave marks you only notice years later.
Michelle came into my life over 20 years ago when I was at my lowest and at a pivotal moment of my life. I barely knew her; she was literally a stranger, but she opened her door and her heart to me. She took me in and let me stay in her home for several days. She drove me around, and for a few precious days, she made me feel seen and safe. She introduced me to her wonderful family, and they welcomed me as if I belonged. In that moment she became a safe place for me when my world felt fractured.
She didn’t have to do that because we weren’t close friends. But there she was, extending a hand when I needed it most. Looking back, I can see how God placed her in my path like a lit candle in the dark. Her kindness changed something deep in my heart that changed the course of my life.
Since then, that memory has quietly shaped the way I move through the world. I made a promise to myself that I would pay that kindness forward in my own quiet ways. Michelle showed me that even the smallest gestures can leave lasting ripples far beyond what we might ever see.
Although I didn’t attend her wake service, I watched it live on Facebook. The hall was full with friends and family grieving and also celebrating her life. Eulogies painted a picture of someone who lived fully, who loved deeply, and who touched countless lives. And before she passed, Michelle left behind a message that touches my heart. Here’s an excerpt:
“My dearest friends and kindred spirits, do not cry, do not grieve, do not be sad for me, I have already taken flight—gracefully! The beauty of life lies in its fullness, to love and to hate, to laugh and to cry, to sing and to speak, to run and to dance, to journey through this world with passion and abandon, to stand against injustice, to live boldly and fiercely. I have lived, truly lived, and I leave this world without regret. Yet the hardest part is leaving behind my family and all of you. My heart is bound to you by love, and it is love that makes parting so bittersweet. My beloved ones, be brave. Live with strength, with purpose, with an unyielding spirit. Do not waste this precious journey on earth! Though imperfect, this world holds endless surprises of joy, sorrow, and wonder—do not let them pass you by.”
Her words are full of grace and clarity. It is a farewell I believe most of us never get the chance to write. It really made me think, what if life doesn’t give us that opportunity? What if we leave suddenly without a chance to say goodbye?
That question stays in my mind. Not everyone gets to leave behind a final message, but perhaps that’s why we should live in a way that doesn’t leave room for regret. We should make sure our love is felt in the present, not just left for the end. We can write our goodbyes not in a single letter before death but in the way we live, so that if tomorrow never comes, the people who matter already know what they meant to us.
Michelle’s passing made me think deeply about the kind of legacy I want to leave behind. While I may not touch lives in the same immediate way she did, I hope my art and words—through my blog and poetry—will be my offering. I want my way of self-expression to become a soft place for someone else to land.
We don’t always get to see the ripples we create in others’ lives. But I believe they exist somewhere because Michelle showed me that. And I hope in my own way, I can leave behind something meaningful: a legacy built not on outstanding achievements but on quiet truths.
Maybe for some of us, it’s not about how many people pay tribute at our funerals. Maybe it’s about the small, beautiful things we leave behind—kindness, goodness, or the moments when someone reads you words and feels understood, or when your art brings them a sense of belonging. And that’s the kind of legacy I hope to leave when my time comes.
When I close my eyes, memories rise like smoke from a dying fire. I can still hear the gendang’s beating and my family’s joyful chatter from Gawai. I was ten years old and surrounded by the warmth of my people. The elders shared stories of our ancestors—Orang Kaya Pemancha Dana Bayang, Aji Apai Limpa, and Nakhoda Panglima Budin Gerasi—all courageous warriors of great renown. That courage, I’ve been told, is in my blood. But what does that mean in a place so far removed from their reality?
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I’ve recently been reading Xiaolu Guo’s Nine Continents: A Memoir In and Out of China. Her exploration of identity, displacement, and cultural heritage resonates deeply with me. Xiaolu often addresses issues of alienation and belonging in her works, and she has become one of my favorite authors. Her writing inspired me to think about my own journey, which led me to write this post.
Our Warrior Culture
The Iban were famed for their warrior culture, defined by war expeditions and headhunting. It was once an important aspect of our spiritual beliefs and society framework. To be Iban means to be a warrior. Headhunting was not a barbaric pastime, as outsiders may believe. It was a necessary way of life since it signified protection, honor, and a connection to the spirit realm. While the act itself faded into history, the essence of the courage has been passed down through generations.
I often asked myself, “What remains of the warrior spirit?”. Sometimes it feels like a quiet force pushing me forward. In moments of difficulty, I draw on the courageous spirit of my ancestors. Their legacy reminds me that I have the strength to persevere in the face of overwhelming odds. Perhaps it is genetic memory, the invisible link that ties me to my ancestors and passes down the legacy of courage across generations.
The Loss of Tradition
However, bravery alone cannot fill the gaps. Living in urban places like Kuala Lumpur has distanced me from the traditions that constitute my identity. When my extended family embraced Christianity in the 1950s, it marked a shift from animistic beliefs. Urban living also entails replacing the communal life of the longhouse. Many other aspects of our culture are disappearing, such as the extensive oral poetry tradition.
I am caught in a dilemma. On the one hand, I value the opportunities and conveniences of modern living. On the other hand, I mourn the loss of vibrant traditions that shaped our way of life. These losses make me wonder how we can honor the past while embracing the present.
Image sourceThe late Temenggong Koh (left), one of the last Iban warleaders of the 20th century, before headhunting was completely outlawed by the British colony.
The Sense of Alienation
Life in the city often exacerbates this disconnection. Here, I am just a fragment of an Iban: a name that suggests a foreign land, a face that others might find unfamiliar. When people ask where I’m from, my responses may seem inadequate. How can I explain a longhouse? Or, even if I can explain it, how do I dispel their misconception that modern Ibans still live on trees and wear loincloths? How can I explain our different Gawai, or traditional festivals, when they typically only celebrate one or two holidays, like Eid or Lunar New Year? However, in the heart of this alienation, I’ve realized that identity is not static. It is a fluid interplay of past and present, shaped by our decisions and circumstances.
Strength Through Cultural Roots
Nonetheless, I remain connected to my roots. They are not always visible, but they are present. My ancestors’ courage motivates me to face my fears and embrace the unknown. The warrior spirit is not a relic from the past but rather a driving force in my life today.
During difficult times, I found myself returning to the stories of my ancestors. They endured jungles, battles, and scarcity. I remind myself of their tenacity—if they can endure, so can I.
The loud proclamation of success does not equate to strength. Perseverance and the ability to adapt without forgetting are qualities that define strength. The warrior spirit is about enduring in a world that often forces us to forget who we are.
Preserving Tradition
My original poem from Sarawak collection of poetry
Poetry has been one way for me to preserve my culture. Writing has become a means of connecting the past and present, who I was and who I am becoming. It allows me to hold onto what feels like it’s slipping away.
I aspire to one day publish my poems and leave a legacy for my children. When the time comes for them to discover their roots, I hope my words will serve as a guide, helping them understand who they are and where they came from. Writing allows me to keep the stories alive as the world around us changes.
My identity is a patchwork of memories, stories, and dreams. I am neither fully of the past nor fully of the present. But maybe that’s what it means to be Iban today: to walk on a bridge, perpetually caught between two realities.
I am part of something bigger than myself, a heritage of power, fortitude, and endurance. While I may live far away from my people’s homeland, the essence of my heritage lives on, molding my journey and grounding me in a world that is often divided.
I carry the warrior spirit with me because I am descended from people who endured. So I take a step forward, not knowing where the journey will take me, but knowing it is worthwhile. Like the warrior spirit that runs through my blood, this journey is not always easy, but it is always worth it.
So, I came across The Last Guard the other day. No, it’s not the latest K-drama or Hollywood movie. It refers to the discovery of multiple fossilized psittacosaur cubs found alongside what appears to be an older sibling. The older sibling was guarding or babysitting the cubs when they were buried by a volcanic debris flow. This group of fossils was discovered by a paleontologist, Dean Lomax.
“The largest fossil does not have the dimensions of a sexually mature adult, so it is not it could have been one of the parents; most likely who has been the older brother of the little babies” The find is exceptionally preserved, and appears in his book “Locked in Time – Animal Behavior Unearthed in 50 Extraordinary Fossils” Source
It stopped me in my tracks and made me reflect. I mean, imagine that a big dino brother is protecting the younger siblings and its final act is frozen in time. It’s heartbreaking, but it got me thinking: why did dinosaurs even exist? Were they here just to live their lives and then become the fossil fuel that now powers our world?
It’s kind of wild to think about it. Now, just a side point: do you know that during the time of dinosaurs, the earth’s atmosphere was thicker due to higher levels of volcanic activity and greenhouse gases? The sky would be hazier, possibly obscuring the clarity of the night sky. So these dinosaurs probably couldn’t see the crystal-clear starlit night we enjoy today. These massive creatures never saw a sky full of stars the way we do, but now millions of years later, their fossils power our rockets, propelling us into that very sky. It’s poetic, isn’t it? That nothing in this world really lost. They were just transformed. Dinosaurs that once roamed the earth are now the force sending us into the universe. It’s all connected, a continuum of life, death, and dreams.
And millions of years later, here we are looking at their fossils and reflecting on their existence. An older sibling protecting the cubs. If this is not love, though instinctual in nature, I don’t know what is. Their story didn’t end with extinction. It lives on in the fuel that powers our world and in moments like this when we pause to think about them.
Have you heard about The Letter to Lee Eung Tae? The Last Guard made me think of that letter too. The Letter to Lee Eung Tae was written 500 years ago by a grieving pregnant Korean Joseon widow to her deceased husband Lee Eung Tae. The Last Guard versus The Letter to Lee Eung Tae. Two moments in history, so different but connected. One is a silent act of love embedded in ash, and the other is a deep grief written onto paper. Both moments are remnants of love carried through time.
I wept when I read the widow’s letter to her beloved husband. Five hundred years didn’t erase the pain and longing in her words.
“You always said to me, “We’ll be together until our hair turns gray, then die together”, so how could you go and leave without me? Whom should I and our child turn to; how should we live? How could you leave us all behind and go on your own?…Each time we lay together, I asked you “Dear, do other people love and cherish each other as we do? Are they like us?” How could you forget my words and abandon me?…I cannot live without you. I want to go to you quickly, so please take me to you. I cannot forget the feelings I had for you in this life, there is no limit to my sorrow. I don’t know if I can go on; where do I put these feelings that I have, while raising a child that misses their father? Please read this letter, then come to me in my dreams…” Source
Definitely stuff of K-drama.
This letter is like The Last Guard; it silently speaks of that protective love. This is love in all its forms, instinctual or deeply human, that transcends time.
And maybe that’s the real point. Nothing is ever really gone. Whether it’s a dinosaur’s final sacrifice or a widow’s grieving words, their legacies find us. They connect past and present, life and death, in this vast web of existence. Even in extinction or loss, there’s continuity and transformation that reached us at this present age.
It makes me wonder, what if millions of years from now, someone looks back at us? Someone finds our digital fossil buried beneath layers of forgotten time. And there they’d be reading our words and confessions, once alive and fragile but burning deeply. Would they feel the same reflection and connection we feel now when we look at fossils or read ancient letters?
In the end, maybe love is what truly matters. And maybe that’s also what it’s all about, leaving traces of ourselves behind. Traces of our existence, our love, our dreams, waiting for someone to find them and feel them all over again.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about something that pricks at my conscience—the hidden costs behind the things we do, even in moments that seem harmless. This thinking came about after I read an article in Forbes that said that AI is depleting the world’s scarcest natural resource, which is water. This is due to water being needed to cool the cooling systems to dissipate heat in data centers. And it’s not just AI; it’s the entire digital ecosystem. Every time we scroll through social media, stream videos, send emails, or even update this blog, data centers are working in the background, consuming energy, and using water for cooling. It feels harmless, but in reality, it’s not.
It’s strange, isn’t it? The idea that even our most intangible connections have a footprint.
At first, it disturbed me. I feel a lingering sense of guilt knowing that something as simple as writing, chatting, or even creating art online comes with a hidden cost. But then the more I reflect on it, the more I realize how much of life is built on similar contradictions. Take fast fashion, for example. It’s cheap, chic, and readily accessible almost everywhere, but at what cost? Somewhere in the world, cheap labor is working behind the scenes. Another example: plastic. Our modern life can’t survive without plastic. It’s so convenient to wrap our food and make life easier, but it ends up polluting our oceans, landfills, and eventually our bodies with microplastics that destroy our health.
We live in this web of contradictions where convenience often comes at an unseen price. And the hardest part is we can’t always escape it. Does it make us hypocrites? Maybe. Or maybe it just makes us humans who are stuck in a system we didn’t fully choose but still need every day.
But here’s where I found a sense of peace in all this. I can’t avoid all harm because, let’s face it, that’s almost impossible. But I can balance it. How? I’m not speaking for anyone else but myself. I can write and make art online with deeper purpose because knowing that even if it uses energy and resources, I can leave something meaningful behind. Words that comfort, art that connects, ideas that make someone feel seen. That’s how you and I can give back.
I think about my poetry art, my drawings, and how they carry pieces of my Iban heritage. If they can spark reflection or connection, then maybe they’ve earned their place.
I can choose to create with intention. If what I write and what I draw can offer someone a sense of understanding, comfort, or even just a moment of reflection, then maybe the cost feels more balanced. It’s like planting something in overused soil and hoping it takes root.
So yes, my writing on this blog or wherever I exist online, they do take something from the world. But I can use them for good and give something back. And that’s the kind of balance I want to aim for.
What about you? Have you ever thought about the hidden costs behind the things you do online or consume? And how do you find peace with it?
The handwritten draft of this post, the book I currently read, and a cup of cool tea.
It’s funny how the experiences that change us the most often slip by quietly. There is little fanfare, and we rarely recognize them until much later. However, in retrospect, I can trace my growth to the struggles and the soft, persistent ways life nudged me forward.
I believe it started with loneliness.Growing up, I often felt invisible and alone. I wasn’t the most outgoing, pretty, or popular. I was just…there, among other outstanding siblings and peers. It’s strange, but loneliness formed the foundation of who I am now. It taught me to listen to both myself and others. It taught me to be more observant and sensitive to details that most people overlook, which I now use in my art and writing.
Then later came love. It was messy, imperfect, but glorious nonetheless. My relationship with my husband—my lover—has been one of my biggest teachers. We’re opposites in so many ways, and those differences have forced me to stretch, to compromise, and to forgive. Being married this long (two decades), going through joys, heartbreaks, financial strains, and raising kids has all been a daily practice of choosing love, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
However, I believe that reconnecting with my Iban roots has been the most transforming experience for me. For a long time, I felt detached from my cultural identity, as if I were witnessing it from afar. It was not intentional. Life was tugging me in different directions. But being a mother changed that. I realized how much I wanted my children to know where they came from. I want them to learn and feel that deep connection I had almost let go of. Teaching them about my Iban heritage has been like teaching myself again by rediscovering the stories, the poetry, and the parts of me I had tucked away.
I am currently working on a collection of poems that explores my Iban roots and traditions, weaving together memories, folklore, and the cultural theme that continues to shape who I am today.
And then there’s the lifetime of inner journey: the insecurities, the doubts, and the fear of not being good enough. Those have been some of my hardest teachers. I’ve struggled with impostor syndrome more times than I can remember, particularly when it comes to my art and writing. Moments such as being harshly criticized for lack of originality, feeling misunderstood, or being dismissed had a deep effect on me. But these experiences also pushed me to create a space where I feel free without fear of judgment, like starting this blog.
All of these experiences—loneliness, love, the return to my Iban roots, and issues with self-doubt—have influenced me the most. These experiences didn’t come with shiny lessons, but they taught me to be more compassionate, patient, and a little kinder to myself.
I’m still growing and figuring things out. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that growth doesn’t always happen in the big, loud moments. Sometimes it is in the moments you least expect, gently nudging you forward, one tentative step at a time.
If I could go back and sit beside my geeky teen self, I think I’d reach out, touch her cheek, and say this:
“You are enough, just as you are.”
I know she wouldn’t believe me right away. She’d probably frown and give me that skeptical side-eye, thinking I was just being nice. But I’d say it again, assuring her I’m not being cheesy, hoping it would sink into her heart and seep through her doubts.
“You don’t need to be prettier, louder, or more extroverted to be seen or loved. Your sensitivity, the depths you hold, the way you notice the smallest details, and the emotions you feel so deeply: they are not to be ashamed of. They are your gifts.”
When I was growing up, I often wondered why people liked me. I didn’t see what they saw. I wasn’t the popular kid, or the prettiest, gentlest girl, and I definitely wasn’t the life of the party. I was scrawny, awkward, quiet, and always second-guessing myself and my decisions. I spent so much time trying to figure out what made me special.
I’d tell her this too: “Don’t waste time wondering why others like you or if you’re worthy of it. You are worthy just as you are. Let yourself be vulnerable without feeling weak. Let yourself dream without fear of not being good enough.”
There were so many time when I felt like I was running, desperate to catch up, to fit in, to be noticed, to be the best. I’d want her to know she could stop running and start breathing.
I’d tell her, “Trust your voice because it will take you places you never imagined. And when the world feels overwhelming, turn to the things that make your heart sing—music, poetry, art. They will remind you of who you are when you feel lost.”
If I could give my teenage self anything, it would be that sense of peace. The peace that gives her understanding that she didn’t need to constantly strive to be more. She was already enough and complete. And maybe, just maybe, hearing that would have made her journey a little gentler.
So, if any of you are reading this and feel like you’re still that teenager inside, this is for you too:
I bought Waiting by Ha Jin from a used bookstore some months ago. It had been sitting among the stack of books on my desk, untouched, until lately. I picked up this book to read since my unread stack was growing. I simply couldn’t quit buying new books. It took me weeks to finish it since life got in the way, but I finished reading it last night.
Waiting is one of those novels that lingers with you long after you’ve finished reading it. The book lacks sweeping romance, but you will be drawn to its exploration of human indecision and societal limits.
The story follows Lin Kong, a Chinese army doctor, who spends 18 years in limbo between two women: Shuyu, his devoted, traditional wife, and Manna, his modern, independent lover. Every year, Lin returns to his village to seek a divorce from Shuyu, who agrees but later refuses in court. The story is more than just a love triangle—it’s also about a man paralyzed by indecision.
What struck me the most about Lin was not his indecisiveness but what it showed about his personality. It became evident to me that his hesitancy was not about love but rather about his inability to confront himself. He didn’t know what he wanted, so he drifted through life, letting others’ expectations and societal pressures influence his choices. At the same time, I couldn’t help but understand him. Living in a rigid communist culture made it difficult for Lin to follow his heart. Divorce was frowned upon, personal desires were frequently sacrificed for the greater good, and external judgment had a significant impact on every action.
It’s easy for those of us who live in a freer society to condemn Lin and ask why he didn’t just decide between Shuyu and Manna. However, a closer look reveals a man trapped by society as well as his own passivity and illusions. He assumed that what he couldn’t have was what his heart truly desired, confusing lust with longing for love.
“His heart began aching. It dawned on him that he had never loved a woman wholeheartedly and that he had always been the loved one. This must have been the reason why he knew so little about love and women. In other words, emotionally he hadn’t grown up.”
Reading this made me realize how different I was from Lin Kong. I’ve fallen in love soulfully. I’ve taken chances, experienced sorrow, and allowed love to transform me. I’ve shown up in my relationships, even when it meant failing and starting over. Lin, on the other hand, never allowed himself to experience deep emotions. He lived on the surface, terrified of true vulnerability, and as a result, he never genuinely experienced love.
But I get it. I understand his fear and hesitancy. In his world, there was so much at risk. The tight restrictions of society, the dread of making the wrong decision, and the conflict between duty and desire all contribute to Lin’s personality. Lin’s story is tragic because he allowed life to happen to him instead of taking charge of his own happiness.
Waiting prompted me to reflect on deeper realities about love and marriage. Love is complex. It is not all romance. Marriage is not for the weak. It demands forgiveness, humility, compromise, and sacrifice. And sometimes the presence or absence of children may make or break a marriage.
This book offers profound insights into society, love, personal responsibility, and the delicate balance between desire and obligation. But I must be honest that it is a slow read, somewhat draggy and monotonous. However, it forces you to sit through the discomfort, just like Lin Kong did.
In the end, Waiting isn’t just about Lin Kong and his love triangle. This story is also a mirror, reflecting our own hesitations and the way we let life pass us by. The story also made me thankful for the chances I’ve taken, the love I’ve risked, and the courage to keep showing up even when things are difficult.
Do I recommend it? Yes, but only if you’re willing to live with the discomfort of indecision, the sorrow of unfulfilled desires, and the bittersweet realization that we may be our own worst obstacles.
Olivia's Atelier 