Goals to do before the next semester.

1. Finish this fucking semester with ease and no regrets.

2. Get a blazer

3. Get a pair of boots

4. Get abs

5. Go on a day trip out of state

6. Paint something new

7. Clean up room and wardrobe

8. Do something about my hair

9. Get myself either a book on basic constructions or the Neufert's Architect Data

10. Bake something fancy

This was meant to be a list.

Single worded titles, enigmatic endings, lots of hyphens, lots of semi-colons: for anyone who has ever at least read my blog once, we could easily agree that I am quite the dramatist. And I don't quite mean this in the good kind of way.

It's been too often I pursued myself in the metaphor of a baffling ocean, or the midnight space - but sometimes, just - where does the point go? I send my words off in a rocket, shipped away into a millennium of empty time frames, hoping someone would pick them up and return them to me.

No one ever does. There, they are left to brace the nothingness - barely moving, barely breathing. A mission aborted the moment it set foot away from my fingertips. 

So for once, let's not be poetic.

Forget the adjectives, forget the metaphors, the hyperbolas, the crescendo of speech, or the pin drop pause - the point here is certain - always has been, and perhaps always will be.

Life sucks. 

Life really fucking sucks.

Excuse my French - my horrible accent, my inexcusable pronunciation. I am only a linguist of the language I make up in my mind. All these other words are simply foreign to me.

Excuse me.

Excuse me while I kick the pebbles my toes grow too fond to stumble upon; excuse me while scream into my pillow in the quarter-past midnight; excuse me while I gawk and awe at my month old scars on my right leg; excuse me while I tear up in this desolate corner, here.

Yes. Do excuse the drama.

Ignore the masks that hang on my wall, the costumes in my wardrobe, the microphone on my dresser. Forget they exist. Forget the color of my skin, and hair. Forget the sound of my voice.

For I am a play still being written, I am gestures of a hand that forms silhouettes in the spotlight, I am heavy red curtains drawing down with dust, I am - wait - I am growing poetic again.

Excuse my English - my disregarded articulation, my blundered grammar.

What I mean is: life sucks.

It truly, truly does.

Bury me, God forbid. Cast me away in a coffin built from the wood of my own madness - bolt me shut with the needles that stagger the silver line between my lips. Wrap me in a drying canvas, painted fashionable in the pallet of my favorite colors.

Life sucks, and I'd tell you why.

I'd make a list in fact, that is, if only I'd know what to fill the numbers with. If only I'd know how to pick up the pieces of my shattered thoughts - I would puzzle them right, like a cheesy love quote - I'd draw diagrams, of problems and solutions, and photograph it to hang on my clipboard.

Yes. If only I knew.

Now excuse me, again. I have a stutter to trip over.

Weightless.

I have so much better words to write about in the seat of a moving car, than when I am staring at a paper or a screen. How diminishing my inspiration to be looking back at their impatient eyes.

There is just something very eloquent about the passing drivers, the rolling clouds, and the tress that run away too quickly.

(Here's an attempt at recreating said essay from this morning's drive) (TBE if I remember more)

--

Sometimes I hate it so much just simply being around you.

How you make me feel so small beneath your gaze, as you look down upon me. How short I become, how shallow my waters: from the surface where it ripples you see through me to the core of my sandy dunes, and polluted sea bed.

You are the deepest trench of the deepest ocean: how petty it is that the smallest of you that crashes to the shore becomes only almost of what I fully am.

I hate being around you.

You, with the world you boast on your shoulders, the past you gloat on your smile, and the future you praise in your eyes - how wonderful, as compared to I.

What about me?

Me, I am nothing.

Only a fickle breath to breeze that wipes off trees, and rooftops; I am merely a whisper whose words forever remain unspoken; I am so very little to you. 

When you tip the scale with the weight of your poise and your glisten, on the other end, I dangle desperately, fumbling my fingers over its creaking edge.

I am as light as a feather. I am bustled away by the wind that blows, landing only softly on the shoulders of strangers, only to be shrugged away: to dance again in the whistles I am unable to battle.

All this, while you - darling, you are everything: the galaxy and the universe. And if not the purples and blues of the atmosphere, then you are at least the sun: how you orbit the planets, how you gravitate the Earth, and how you may offer light to even the nighttime by lending yourself to the moon.

You - you are a proud lion, with glorious mane, and golden body - your roar quakes my gravity.

How can I ever be anything compared to you?

This feather, whom you may pick and prod at, and peel away my furry bits, to leave me bare and naked like a fish bone: seamless, and almost blinded - you see me only to pry me away from your blistered throat, and toss me to the floor, to clatter to absolutely no noise at all.

How small I am.

If I were to get lost in space, there would be no end. Or no beginning either. Only empty wandering amid the air I cannot even breath in; levitating in the world you have created around me.

The stars may be so far, and seem so small: but no matter how close I may ever get, I always lie a little further. Because there is no greater distance, than the silence we have, between you and I.

Greed.

I think you may call me a masochist.

To indulge in pain: it must be a curious thing. What a pique to simply question why.

Truly, to answer you, I do not know.

But there is just something so pleasant about the stench of a tragedy - the growing ill that creeps through your nostrils, the pungent air that fills your lungs, the gagging sensation that taunts your throat with its almost ivy-like poison.

The little things are always better exaggerated.

Name me insane, if you please, I do not mind - in fact, you may perhaps be quite true. Insane it is, the thought to expand the realms of reality with the strategy of a long worded poem.

Aren't we rash, disgraceful things, us writers are?

How indignant to spill the language of a simple stutter with colors we bothered not to mingle; How bold the canvas becomes, with its reds, and blues, and yellows - how they do not shadow, nor do not fade, but merely blind you with horrible vivaciousness.

Sometimes even I stun myself.

When I am slouched over an unfinished paragraph, my fingers irking to dance away with the words of a galaxy I have not yet even met, the air purposes to still me with a pause, holds my breath for a moment that passes so quick, I fail to count the seconds, then puzzles my eyes around the room.

Here, in utter honesty, I often grow uncertain - wary, almost - of whether my story presents to you either a novel of fact or fiction. Though you may find me boasting a slaughtered heart, laced beneath my essays - I truly do not know.

You see, to indulge in pain is a curious thing

Curious, but indeed a habit so keen to my kind.

Words that stand proud with agony and distress are what we consider the better. We plant our sorrows the same way the farmers plant their lives within the soil of their homes.

It is the growth of gold we can toy our knuckles with, inside our gaping pockets; it is the shingles that shelter our heads from the drizzles - it is what makes us.

But alas, as do all things favorable: it is also the coming to a doom we only create.

It is an evil - a shadow man of whom I met as a child. To he, I surrendered the furthest musings of my mind to.

Yes. Name me insane, but it is the slow death that tastes as sweet as honey - and I savor every golden tear that coats my cracking lips; licking my tongue almost erotically, so that I do not lose even the slightest of it away, in the dripping faucet of reality's limbo.

Musings, Musings, Musings...

(I write the worst when I'm not diving in depression. Excuse me)


As always, it's 4 in the morning, my playlist sings something in its usual fashion of melancholy, my coffee is cold and stale, my stomach is churning from the lack of dinner and my nose has just finished bleeding over several sneezing fits.

I have delayed work on my left, but a conscience that ignores it completely - all I do have in mind is a half-ass'ed love story I can't quite word out.

I'm a terrible writer, you see.

I'll never be able to write myself a love story. I know this because I've tried - many times, in fact. I always come out sounding too cheesy or too shallow, as if love only meant being nice; or as if it were something pretty, or rare.

Love isn't rare. And love isn't at all merely nice, or pretty. Such a foul take on the movement of love - especially that god-awful phrase "I love you," people so feebly exchange. It is a dreadful sentence that lacks an array of adjectives.

What does that even mean - this word, love? If I were to think of you, the word love would be the last one on my mind, because I simply do not, and cannot. The word love means nothing. It does not in the nearest way explain at all the way I feel about you.

So no, I do not love you.

I so-much-more-than-that you.

But how does one even say that? How can one say you so-much-more-than-that somebody?

There should be a better word in the dictionary to say love better than love. How can we tell people that they're so more to us than what our vocabulary limits us to? Because I know for a fact, I do not just simply love you, and you are not at all just something nice or pretty to me.

How can I say that you are the most wonderful human being I have ever met; that you don't shine light nor grow my blessings, but instead that you are.

How can I say that when I sleep each night I pray to meet you in astral space, because there, I get to see the insides of you - I get to wrap my fingers around your heart, and kiss your thoughts and float in your ambitions?

How can I tell you that you are my everything: the moon, the sun, the stars, the galaxy, and the universe; tell you that you are my atmosphere, and even just the smallest memory of you - a moment's glimmer of your eyes, your skin, or your silver hair - I breathe in like oxygen to keep myself alive?

How can I say that you are so much more beautiful than perfection, and that each misalignment are constellations I would love to trace with my fingers each morning I'd wake up - because all I want, is to wake up next to you.

I want to tell you that your eyes are like daggers and my face is scarred like a horror-fiction film antagonist, and sometimes I bite the cuts on my lips so that I can taste the way you look at me.

I want to tell you that every time you touch my skin, or say my name, I drown in your voice as if it were the Indian Ocean - that you ripple me with waves and currents I am too greedy to fight against; that I get intoxicated with the taste of salt that fills my lungs as if it were a party drink.

How can I say that?

There are too many things I can only wish to word out in novel, or blurt out in an irrational conversation; things I wish I could tell you before your face, so that I can watch how your skin turns hues from the words I may finger-paint you with.

Like how I want to tell you that I need you.

If there were a word better than need, that is exactly how I would - just like if there were a word better than love, or nice, or pretty, because you are all that, and more.

Though I probably need you more than I love you - for without you, I am only but blank corners and empty spaces - I am words that carry nothing but the weight of themselves for being used too much or too little by everyone and no one all at the same time.

With you I become full.

But - how can I ever tell you?

"

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind


Joel: I can't see anything that I don't like about you.

Clementine: But you will! But you will. You know, you will think of things. And I'll get bored with you and feel trapped because that's what happens with me.

 Joel: Okay.

Clementine: Okay.

This and That.

Long paragraphs are my favorites. I love how they manage to describe so much in what would seem like a single breath-span. It says a lot about confidence too - how it seems to brag about the nearing obvious with flourishing lengths of language.

--

What a familiar scent in the air.

The crisp breath of a creeping dawn, the damp sweat of dew painting chilly images outside my living room window; My sketchbook lies open-faced by the end of my elbow, pens scattered, and the tune of a song I've been playing on repeat over and over again hum silently from this brightly lit screen that now seems to only sting my eyelids with whines and irritated murmurs.

This is a familiar scent indeed.

I can only wonder how many times it has been 5.30 in the morning, with this same image of myself, deeply slouched, tickling over my keyboard as if these were keys to a baby grand - the sounds it makes, full of its tip-tap's, fill my desolate corner with only echoes of words that will not speak themselves.

These are words that do not demand to be read, but only offer - like silver platters, they are open arms, with fork and spoon on the ready - take as you may, decline as you please - lick the flavors I may offer you, swirl the wine of my thought 'round your tongue zealously, or then spit me out to not sink yourself, intoxicated by the poison it is aged with.

Yes. This familiar scent of almost-passionate writing has claimed residence in me for so long, I often times don't even notice it's there. I may raise my nose once in a while and flare my nostrils in search of something new - perhaps something bitter, or morose to inhale - but easily enough I find this: a subtle smell, lulled with a dank sweetness: like roselle, or chrysanthemum.

I call this comfort.

Though sometimes I find it beneath the bend of someone else's arm - there, I indulge in the sniffs of the owner's long days, his warm showers and tedious phone calls, and the nights he has either slept too well or too little. Yes, he is hot cups of spiced chocolate on the days that's skies would not stop sobbing.

He is a quiet wonder - the candle lit road to a bigger fire. Ahead is the hearth that embraces my face; the kind that kisses away frostbites, and licks blusters into whirlwinds.

I imagine myself many years from now: it is 5.30 in the morning. The room resonates with the tip-tap's of a keyboard - perhaps a one that is shiny and new - while the sun is rubbing his eyes of dust, ready to rise from his bed behind the horizon.

To my right is my candle light, scented with further age, with a love that has grown both battered and bettered - he smells like an alarm clock waiting to ring; Like groans and toast on the dining table. He feels like a heartbeat; Like rough stubble over my wrinkling cheek; Like tossed sheets.

I would almost call it comfort.

Though comfort, then, would a be word I'd only stutter. It would be a word I'd have only an urge to give, but always pull back to hide beneath my over-sized t-shirt, shy by the way it calls itself true.

No. It would be so much more than that.

Because alongside that familiar scent in the air - then, I would call it sanctuary.

Lust.

Caramel affogato. One word: amazing. There is simply nothing better than the marriage of ice cold textures, with hot-off-the-stove kinds. So fabulous. There really are no words to describe this more than what already comes to mind: bittersweet perfection. 

Okay, yes, I admit, the camera has made damage to my blog posts. You can't blame me really. When you can take pretty high-def photos of foods, and yourself and your best friend - you should. 

I promise I'll write properly for the next post! It's just that.. I am getting quite tired of writing such indignant things - and gosh, those are the only things I am actually able to write about. All the happier, good things in life come so difficult for me to paragraph. 

So thus.. yeah, pictures speak a thousand words, no? 

Isn't he adowables (embarrass him buahaha) (poke cheek)

I knew I loved you the moment I met you.

Delayed.

So I've been keeping lots of things on hold lately. It's the month's motion just passing through, I'd assume, surfacing all these strange obscure emotions I thought I had left behind. Insecurities is a bitch.

Oh well. Moving on: I am a week late due of my blog post to Penang. How was it, you ask? Well, aside from the awful social integration among my society - it was pretty swell.

I know from my obvious indulgence of petty emotions, and my lack of time in anything else besides my internet, boyfriend, and work: I come to seem like a non-adventurous kid - y'know, the kind who likes tea over coffee.

As almost true as it is - it really isn't. I love walking, I love the outdoor's fresh air (or, as fresh as it gets that is, here in Malaysia), and I love sight-seeing. I may be a horrible sport in actual physical activities (cough cough fucking Escape Park like climbing and balancing shit), but I can't help but love to just.. roam, once in a while.

Getting lost is a hobby I have so out of reach, but something I would so dearly wish to acquaint to.

Yes, this little socially retarded introvert likes to see the world. My eyes may be chinky, but I see quite well beyond the actual image of the naked sight. I am the dreamer, after all.

Let's talk about this for a second: Before coming over to Kapitan, we dropped by a few of the "best places in town," but nothing came to impression until this. By all means this is the best tandoori chicken I have had by far - and I've had my share, mind you. This chicken, with it's little tray of sour cream by the side is... amazing. And to pair such great flavors next to a garlic butter naan - heaven. 

I know there probably isn't any purpose to me writing about it, but I really just felt it deserves the praise. Thanks Kapitan. I will be back again soon.

Okay, I think that's all from me. Thanks Penang for being such a good host to this little introvert who needs a slice of the world's enormous sized cake once in a while. I miss the broke life of street wandering, getting lost, blistering feet and blazing sun. Gone too soon - it's back to sleepless studio nights again. :')

I'll be back again Penang, promises Munif, sure he'd give me the best days of my life. Well I don't expect to be disappointed. 

And after that: Bangkok, please.