"What should I do, Steve? I yearn to be out there." I said. "There's still so much to see."
"Well, go then. Trust me, you can do it," Steve assured. The American CSer who has been travelling for 7 years, stared back me, offering silent encouragement through his intense gaze.
"Just quit your job, pack and leave. "
"I wish it's that easy."
"It is. Take the plunge. Who dares wins."
"But where am I going to get the funds? It's different for me, mate. You are an American. I am but a poor, idealistic Malaysian. Being a rebel is one thing but this is crazy."

"You've always been crazy, retard." "You're the craziest Malaysian that I've ever met."

I was 22 years old at that time, an overworked journalist for a dodgy youth magazine. Already the bane of my dearest daddy's existence, I live just to be that consistent irritant that he cannot rid off; a discord struggling amidst the ordinary and the banal. He wished to have a normal daughter; I wished to be extraordinary.

The very scene still plays in my head. Steve and I were then in a reputed fast-food chain in Kuala Lumpur. Whenever boredom consumes us, we amuse ourselves with public poetry recital and after that, ruminations on life. And when we tire of each other's company,we'd leave.
That evening, I remember pushing the glass doors outwards and then stopping mid-tracks to gawp.

In front of me was a solitary, defiant motorcycle parked under the pouring rain; on it, a huge bumper sticker screamed: "Go!!!!!!!!!"

Steve turned to look at me. "Even the divine conceded that it's your destiny to roam."

And I've never stopped since.