Today I just had a nice “overthinking session” with an old friend back in high school, and realizations came rushing like flash flood on this rainy day. I couldn’t even trade it for a caffeine’s high.

We were talking about new things, but inadvertently discussing our old selves. There are things that may change with age, but character often persists. It may be modified, but cannot be totally altered.

I was twelve when I left the comfort of living with my parents, trading innocence with independence, masked in the pursuit of getting the best high school education. Since then I could not remember how I became 25. All I knew was, I was building a mind of my own. I was only as good as the books I read and the music that I appreciate. So I chose nothing but the best. I have friends who were as freakishly weird as I am. And they keep me sane, in moments when nobody else could dig that which was I, and which I am.

I am often misunderstood for caring too little, or not at all. Truth is, I like obsessing about things for a day, solving my own puzzle then re-creating them. And just like that I let them go. When my fascination over things fade, today becomes yesterday. I am too lazy for my own good. I believe that people and things are dispensable, just as feelings are. But dispensable does not always equate to unimportant. I have had so many important things in my life that I let go because reason was more important than my intentions.

I know I am easy to like, easier to hate, hard to appreciate. And that’s what I love about me. My complications enable me to choose the right people with whom I could share my wicked thoughts. I know these are the people that I could laugh with without having to explain. I don’t like stressing over building connections. If we click, then good. If not, go. I wish you happiness.

But so far, I have kept the longest friendship you could think of. We have had our moments, silent disagreements ending in planar voids, verbal sparring, and what have you. They were mostly about myself and my obsession over “unjust things” that she sees was my case, and that which she could never swallow. Since I am more inclined not to hate, she ends up hating me. LOL. But without really talking about it, we talk again, as if it was just a bad dream. Then we laugh again. Until I repeat. She is my hero. She likes being that, so I give her the benefit. She likes fighting for me, even if she ends up fighting me. But I end up appreciating.

More often, I like being silent about things. Not because I’m wrong, but because I know WHY I’m right. My decisions were always about reason, and morality is often a one-way dead end street where choices are psychological. For me, as long as I understand and things fall logically into place, we can do away with the shit talks. Lying is fine, I can tell the difference anyway. I just want to know if you can be honest.

And if you are, explanations are often unnecessary for me. I only like doing re-runs with watching my favorite TV series. With discussing the same matter all over again, no. I hate routine. I know this sounds a little bit reckless and insensitive at times, but even adjectives have different meanings for me. I am my own version of my own woman. I hold the box from where you think. The way to understand me is to not even try, just be.

I know. My emotional strength is my handicap.

Very Pam Chan.