Translated lyrics after the cut. Source.

きっと僕は尋ねられたんだろう。
I think I must have been asked this once.
生まれる前、どこかのだれかに。
Before I was born, by someone, somewhere.
「未来と過去どちらか１つを見れるようにしてあげるからさ。
“Choose one: the past, or the future, and I will allow you to see it.
どっちがいい？
Which will it be?
どっちがいい？」
Which will it be?”

そして僕は過去を選んだんだろう。
And I probably decided on the past.
強い人より優しい人になれるように、なれますようにと。
So that, rather than just strong, I could become kind, become kind.
想い出ってなんだか分かるように。
So that I could understand what memories are.

続けて誰かさんは僕に言う。
Next, that ’somebody’ told me this.
「腕も足も口も耳も目も、
“I’ll give you arms and legs and mouths and ears and eyes,
心臓もおっぱいも鼻の穴も
Hearts and breasts and nostrils.
二つづつ付けてあげるからね。
I’ll give you two of each one.
いいでしょ？
Isn’t that great?
いいでしょ？」
Isn’t that great?”

だけど僕はお願いしたんだよ。
But then I made a request.
口は１つだけで良いです、と。
I said, I’d be fine with just one mouth.
僕が一人で喧嘩しないように、
So I wouldn’t argue with myself;
一人とだけキスが出来るように。
So I could only kiss one person.

忘れたい。
I want to forget.
でも忘れない。
But somehow, I can’t.
こんな想いをなんと呼ぶのかい？
What do you call this kind of feeling?

少し不機嫌な顔のその人は
Looking a little disappointed,
また仕方なく話し始めた。
The person continued with his explanation.
「一番大事な心臓はさ、
“The hearts are most important,
両胸に付けてあげるからね。
So I’ll put one behind each of your breasts.
いいでしょ？
Isn’t that great?
いいでしょ？」
Isn’t that great?”

またまた僕はお願いしたんだ。
But, once more, I had a request to make.
恐れ入りますが、この僕には
I’m awfully sorry, but to be honest,
右側の心臓は要りません。
I really don’t need a heart on the right.
我が儘ばかり言ってすいません。
Sorry to keep troubling you like this.

僕に大切な人が出来て、
It’s so that when I find that one special person,
その娘（こ）抱きしめる時、初めて
And hold her close to me for the first time,
二つの鼓動がちゃんと胸の
Only then will I finally be able to feel
両側で鳴るのが分かるように。
Two hearts beating, one on each side.

左は僕ので、右は君の。
The left one mine, the right, yours.
左は君ので、右は僕の。
The left one yours, the right, mine.
一人じゃ何処か欠けてるように。
So that alone, I’ll always be lacking something.
一人でなど生きていかないように。
So that I won’t be able to just go on living alone.

忘れたい。
I want to forget.
でも忘れない。
But somehow, I can’t.
こんな想いをなんと呼ぶのかい？
What do you call this kind of feeling?

胸が騒がしい。
My chest is pounding,
でも懐かしい。
Yet somehow it seems familiar.
こんな想いをなんと呼ぶのかい？
What do you call this kind of feeling?

「そう言えば最後にもう一つだけ。
“Ah, that reminds me, there’s one last thing.
涙をオプションで付けようか？
Would you like us to add in tears as well?
無くても全然支障はないけど。
You’d have no problems without them,
面倒だからって付けない人もいるよ。
But some people find them annoying, so they opt out.
どうする？
What would you like?
どうする？」
What would you like?”

そして僕はお願いしたんだ。
In the end, I asked him to add them in.
強い人より優しい人になれるように、なれますようにと。
So that, rather than just strong, I could become kind, become kind.
大切って何だか分かるように。
So I could understand what it means to hold something dear.

「あ、ちなみに涙の味だけでも
“Oh, while we’re at it, the tears will need a flavour.
君の好きな味を選んでよ。
So I’d just like you to choose which one you’d prefer.
酸っぱくしたり、しょっぱくしたり、辛くしたり、甘くしたり。
We have sour, salty, spicy, sweet.
どれでも好きなのを選んでよ。
You can choose whichever you like.
どれが良い？
Which will you have?
どれが良い？」
Which will you have?”

望み通り全てが叶えられているでしょ。
Everything was put together just as requested,
だから涙に暮れるその顔はちゃんと見せてよ。
So wipe those tears away and let me see your face.
さあ、誇らしげに見せてよ。
Come on, show it to me with pride.

本当にありがとうございました。
Thank you so much for everything.
色々とお手数をかけました。
Sorry to have caused you so much trouble.
最後に１つだけ良いですか？
But could I just ask one last thing?
「どっかでお会いしたことありますか？」
“Have we met somewhere before?”

Like everyone, I don’t feel all that patriotic this Merdeka eve. Maybe it’s the son-in-law’s fault. The politicians. The blatant corruption, the subsequent denials when said corruption is uncovered, the attitude that if you say something loud enough and long enough it’ll be true. 2 + 2 = 5! True story.

This isn’t going to be the typical (as expected of someone at my age) bitter, cynical, world-weary message you’ve come to groan and cherish, though. While signs point to a Thailand-sque situation where the unenlightened working-class masses are in full support and the middle-class minority dissent since they know the full picture, I’d like to think we’re better off. Or not.

I don’t watch TV anymore, but I caught the most eye-rolling inducing advertisement today. It’s the one where that Chinese boy in primary school professes his love for his Malay girl friend to the camera with a little prompting off-screen. I personally find the “interracial-marriage cures all racism and evils!” propaganda disgusting, and I thought our dear Yasmin Ahmad could do with a little less self-insertion. Yes, we know you have a Chinese boyfriend. Get over yourself already.

And ending on that note, we all could do with a little less rose-tinted glasses right now. Who really cares about that kid sampling our national anthem (notice, boys and girls, that splicing it to fit into a song is not the same as mocking it)? We’ve got more important things to take note of. Good thing we’re all sitting up and paying attention.

Happy Birthday, Malaysia. I’ve never felt so indifferent about a birthday before — would usually just forget about it or remember it — but you’re getting along in age. It’s time we stepped in and cured your Parkinsons before it gets worse. Happy 50th.

Young Writers Camp 2007 was an unexpected groundswell of growing up. A newly-discovered pocket of maturity. Somewhere along the lines of always being the follower, I was none too abruptly grafted into the role of leader, complete with a little screaming and kicking along the way from the inside. It’s a weird feeling, surely, a far cry from being the small kid the older ones would dote over and indulge in their little ways; from being the one laughing at the jokes to the one cracking them.

But I’m sure I’m the last of the old crowd. Almost everyone’s left, as people do when they grow up. Some have university to attend. Others — well, alright, most — aren’t even in the country to begin with. Then there’s that multi-headed Hydra, that tenuous beast called Work. A terrible fate indeed.

It goes without saying, then, that this was one of the best YWCs ever. An emphasis on the writer before the writing ensured it was a cut above its previous counterparts. The cuisine and location were at an all-time high. And the campers? They seemed tailor-made for the camp, what with their rousing, stellar pieces and all. Well, almost all.

As I related to the guys over apple pie and Diet Coke yesterday between mad bouts of laughter, changing the world was tough. Is tough. Well, alright, maybe let’s just say changing Malaysia is tough. There’s the risk of you getting arrested if you go about it the wrong way, as I was gently told. What terrible burdens we satirists wear.

On the brink of 21, I’m glad I actually went through the tiring yet immensely fulfilling 4 days and 3 nights. Old faces and new will continue to be etched in my mind for some time to come. There’s that long-term writing project I should as well face now and get over with.

More importantly, it’s a nice reminder on the way out. I’m on my way to tertiary education, and there’s that wistful sense of longing grasping at things thoughts dreams faces I can’t seem to reach. To see this camp was to see hope in the next generation or so of writers that, like me, should hopefully fix what’s gone bad in this country.

I also wrote a little poem inspired by Mei Li’s Journalling workshop. History behind it (also the speech I forgot in my haste to say pre-reading): it was a tip of the hat to the girls I know in my life who journal. There are a few, perhaps more. Their lives are distinctly private, yet they’re immensely approachable.

They have real distance; exclusive, elusive, and more often than not the recipient of my respect with regards to how they live their lives. They’re awesome people, even if I only know some of them vaguely in passing, and some a little more than I’d have liked. I digress.

A fellow camper, in her intuition quizzed me about its origins. Had I, she asked, wrote this as a result of a someone, or from the experience of life in general. I thought for a moment, and then quietly replied, “Both.” It would do either side too much injustice to deny either, but such are the sum of things.

Friday night — an exhilarating session of Quake 4 and Counterstrike, in salutary farewell for Kin Yan, who goes back today. Take care, will ya? I realise that as I age I tend to sleep less and less the night before the camp. Given my procrastinating nature and how I haven’t really gotten my things in order at the time of writing this (close to 5AM), I guess I’ll skip sleep just this once.

Lack of sleep is a magical thing. You generally grow more articulate (something about sleep deprivation being equal to a certain amount of blood alcohol) and chatty, less reserved. Time seems to take longer and longer. Short-term memory goes. What was I talking about? Oh, yeah.

I don’t know why I go to the Young Writer’s Camps anymore. Maybe it’s a force of habit. I’ve learned all I’ve needed to know these past few years: 4, 5, maybe 6 camps that I’ve been to. Faces have came and went. There’s probably something along the lines of nostalgia, a sentimental maudlin mood that usually accompanies our meeting and parting. There’s the comfort in being around people who pick up puns and wordplay faster than the norm. Or maybe not.

This will probably be my last time attending the YWC as a participant. Was supposed to help out but exams stood in the way, although I’m not too bothered about it myself. With Ethan and Alicia attending this time round, and what with the inevitable group leader mantle I expect and dread to shoulder later on, I guess it’s a good “last camp” as any. Here’s to hoping I don’t run out of lip balm while I’m up there.