homing

There is an us and we have a compass.

Pigeons are homing. They always want to go back home.

_{– 1000xRESIST (Occupant/Watcher)}

I’ve been back home for a year now and I’ve definitely gotten more comfortable. I still move between houses in two bags, but I am blessed to be home within two places. One cannot be greedy, just like how others have to accommodate to my living patterns too. There’s still no set rhythm I can move my body to, but it inconveniences me less now. We make do. I tend to pride myself in my adaptability, a personality label bestowed to me, but I wish things would stay still. Actually no, that was a lie. I’m always thinking of moving because stillness invites reflection.

I’ve got this bad habit of never looking back at the work I produce, but always looking back at my own memories. Memories are so malleable, sometimes I feel as if they’re fiction, warped and kneaded to self-satisfaction (or self-flagellation). It’s so easy to live inside your past experiences, to be trapped inside. Who am I if not my own memories? Who am I with my memories? Better yet, who am I in your memories?

Recently, I’ve finally made visible this long term project of having all my work housed on a website (still work in progress). Faced with the task of looking back, writing notes on each project has unfurled itself to be rewarding, in spite of my initial reluctance. The main confilct being why am I still sharing on a scrappable web? Without overthinking, I think part of me still believes in the web. Still believes in sharing something that friends and strangers can lurk, click, read about, anytime and anywhere. Believes in the position of inviting in (posting on a navigatable web portal) instead of sharing out (posting on social media, vying for attention).

My reluctance on looking back at work I’ve produced has always been an issue of avoidance. I’m rarely proud of the work’s end result, not due to the quality of work but because of my own insecurities. I rarely think about outcomes when I create. When the work is done, I feel as if it no longer belongs to me. So, I don’t really feel the need to revisit it. The process however, have always been something I’m eager to share, happily. Is it something about endings? Though, I did say this project of cataloging was a positive act. The oldest project dates back to 2016, ten years ago as of writing. Distance definitely makes the heart grow fonder. I find myself looking back at these works by younger-me with affection and pride. With practice, I want to instill that same feeling for future work, to be a better creator.

During the days up to my flight back, I had Ocean Vuong’s quote stuck in my mind:

What is a country but a life sentence?

Before, I’ve felt slightly disappointed in myself for having a desire for Malaysia that I can’t ignore. I cannot leave her. Heavy on my chest. I cried for days. Why can’t I just feel normal about it? Envious of those who are able to let go of their homeland easier. From conversations, these can be people who have minimal interpersonal ties back home – no family, no friends. It wasn’t as if I was ashamed, in fact, I felt plenty proud to call Malaysia my home. Could I be a homing pigeon? Pigeons always want to go back home.

Now that I’ve been home, it turned out to be such a silly feeling in hindsight. I think the love I expected to receive in Malaysia was so overwhelming, coddling, suffocating that I felt weighted down. Undeserving. Scared. Confused. I was going through the realisation of what it means, to be prescribed a home you had no say in and agree with it.

It feels lighter now. To be homing, to be returning to a new set of rhythms, to know where I should focus on. There is a compass in me, and it’ll always point back home.