I'm not someone hard to read. Essentially, if I was a book, you can read me entirely in half an hour.

I take pleasure in simplicity. I like to keep arguments and confrontations at bay. I despise hatred and humiliation. I advocate for respect and sincerity. More often than not, I only tend to see the good in people. And often...much too often, I view those I'm close to in an idealised.....even perfect state.

I believed that there were genuinely good people in the world. Genuinely good.

Only a few months ago, this unrealistic notion began to unravel itself. The horror of the world slowly seeped in. I've been too protected, too niave, too innocent to realise the multidimensional layers of the human condition. Still, I felt like I have been acquainted with this reality, sometime long ago. The thought that humans tend to wearing different personas in certain circumstances, in ways that only benefited themselves, was definitely not a new notion.

My family members tried to send fire drills long ago. Sounding the alarm sporadically so I could design my own evacuation route, so I could familiarise myself with working the fire extinguisher. Their voices overlapp each other like a continous chant in my head. Nevertheless, I managed to push it all somewhere to the back of my mind, inbetween the nightmares and the secrets.

I did not want to believe it. This could not be right. It could not be possible that everyone had a second motive to the way they do things, until a close friend woke me up.

"It's part of being human".

This revelation hit me harder than anything before.

I became overwhemlingly nervous and buried myself in long periods of doubt and mistrust of those around me. I only saw negativity, the cruelness of the world, the anger and frustration that life bought on people and the injustice that descended upon humanity like a plague.

Most days, I was paralysed with fear. Fear of the future and uncertainty about people in general. I doubted if loving someone for a lifetime was possible, if all the novels and movies were all lies, carefully disguised with elaborate romantic thematics to lure the ignorant.

All these things were uncharacteristic of me.

I tried to go about life as I always did. The usual routine of university, dance classes, lunches and dinners with family, music.

And then, I snapped.

The break off was slow at first but it was a clean cut, crisp, like separating a square piece of chocolate from the block.

The aftermath was messy, it involved numerous sessions of quiet reflection and free falling tears. Often, I found myself sketching by the water near Darling Harbour and paying weekly visits to the Chinese Gardens.

I felt that time would finally lay my insecurities to rest.

Now I feel an odd notion of worn-out peace, like a old man with both frown and laugh lines around his wrinkled face.

But my spirit has been internally dampened. Marked by the rainstorm that had passed. I'm determined to revive it though. Somehow.

I don't know whether to be glad or sombre.

I guess the process of being human is quite fair in a way. The salt in tears will always be balanced by the sweetness you drink in from laughter.