I am so angry I could burst.

Into tears. Into screams. Into marching for a strike.

I haven't been writing. All my words run dry. The world is crashing, burning around me. So it seems they just no longer matter.

My planet tumbles into a slow collapse. A baby stops breathing, suffocated by smoke. Animals go extinct, as rainforests catch fire. Oceans die. Riots erupt.

How dare I write about anything else? My favourite romantic comedies? The tea I drink in the morning, the "sunlit corners of my bedroom"?

Who the hell cares? What have I to offer from living in this bubble?


That's it.

I feel sick.

This is the angriest entry I've ever written.

I'm no longer slamming on the keyboard. Won't shout in all caps to prove a point.

No, my anger has reached its last phase. Where I choke up. My words run dry. My eyes go blank. My heart cold and numb.

Amazon. Kalimantan. Riau. They burn and I watch from a distance. An Instagram post tells me to share the word. I leave it be. What good would that do?

What good does any of this do? Writing about it and spreading word? As if our huge Internet cloud can cast rainfall to put the fire out.

Oh, if I could. I would turn my every tear into rainfall, if that means the burning stops. Would give my lungs away to trap all that smoke, if that means children can see the sky again.


Papua was in riots. So was Hong Kong. And wars in the Middle East. Tear gas, angry mobs, gunfire, fear and rage.

I imagine a mother watching her son carry sticks and merge into the protesting crowds. Wishing he would – at least – come home injured. Because it's better than him not coming home at all. She treats after all his bruises. Stitches his wounds up after a lost fight. And she would not rest. Neither would he. Both clinging onto their fight for better days.

I'm angry at so many governments. Including my own. Including a man I voted for.

The politicians discuss in towers. I'm sat in the lawn of public opinion. I know so little. I see barely anything. In an air-conditioned meeting room, they read through us like paperwork. Make decisions for us over fountain pens and cups of coffee. The sun is blazing above our heads. The lawn is scorching because of its heat.

We wait for change, and we wait some more. If sea levels catch up, it would swallow us first. So what good does this do? What good is it to write my feelings away? What good if I couldn't build lifeboats out of words? Shabby rafts out of shattered hopes?

What good does it do? To have lifelong dreams and a decent skill to create? What good is any of this, if the world burns, and all I can do

is watch?


Have I still the audacity to Instagram my favourite songs and pride myself on being – whatever it is I am? Refugees are stuffed into cages and I want to sing about a published article?

I haven't written in so long, but then again, what is there to write about? Feelings? The weather? Animals are bleeding and I preach in self-deprecating humour to sound quirky? Countries in destruction and I want to talk about mental health?

I'm not saying it isn't necessary. 

But privilege sure is an uncomfortable seat.

I am furious. Because I thought news headlines were "harsh realities." Yet my harsh reality only involves seeing them. Clicking "share" and forgetting about it 2 hours later. Ill-informed. Ill-equipped. Insensitively carrying on.

I never have to yearn for a glass of water. Never have to count handfuls of rationed food.

I'm furious we're floating quietly and happily in these little bubbles. Our 9-to-5's, our filtered group photos, our Sunday coffee dates. Busy caf├ęs play our favourite song. Crowded shopping malls. The world cries and we don't hear it.

I remember reading about Sudan. The crisis happened months ago, as photos turned blue as "act of solidarity." On their Facebook page, after two months, their donations still hadn't reached its goal. Excuse me for bringing it up – I'm just wondering what the colour blue could do. What it could've possibly done beyond spicing up an online profile.

I'm furious to have to revolve my future around the possible time this planet has left. I tell a friend I want to write a book before turning 30. I silently wonder if I'll get to turn 30 at all.

I imagine being a mother. My children whine because the vents needs fixing. The kitchen's too hot. The world's the warmest it has ever been. They're drawing in little colouring books. The skies coloured blue because I told them so.

They wouldn't know otherwise. They rarely get to see it. We put masks on before we leave. No longer able to fight for better days.

I'm furious of how helpless is feels. Furious that "furious" is the only F word I can use to describe it here. Because I know relatives and teachers read this blog and God forbid I express the slightest bit of ugly rage.

Through all this anger, my heart only aches. My hopes falter, buckle at the knees.

I want to sound optimistic, cheering for change, and a future, because that's what I always do. I write and it somehow makes people feel better. Like healing through way of words, lifting others just by being honest.

But no amount of shameless vulnerability can fix all of this world's sorrows. My hands are too small to catch all this pain, my voice too soft to speak in its place.

Yet I'm still talking about how it's affecting me? How self-centered. Completely narcissistic.

I am not in the fight! I am not even close to it!

What right do I have to describe how it aches?

I live in big cities. I complain about train delays and lukewarm coffees. I'm never anywhere near all that pain. Only writing, working, learning, thinking what good does any of this do?

What good is creating art or poetry if it diverts attention from what needs to be seen?

What good is anything I could possibly do, if it isn't reaching out and lending my hand?

It's what I'd rather – should – be doing. Lending a hand.

In fact, take my whole arm.

My lungs, my heart, I'd offer to this dying world, Just take whatever you need.


I can't bear to be poetic. I couldn't bear to even try.

My anger flickers, then reignites. A new tragedy breaks before it could subside.

So how do I close this? On a hopeful note? Or in my honest, raw despair?

Long, empty, exhausted silence. I have nothing else to show you.

I have no more to say. Too little power for tears.

Too little air in my lungs

to scream.