Friday, November 14, 2014
Friday, July 25, 2014
Only fiction
“Good night, my--” He stopped, bit his lip, and abruptly left me.
― Jane Eyre.
Often times, caught in the midst of confusion and fury, I dream of vast and infinite paddy fields, or deep troublesome waves over a dark titanic ocean. Last night though, was oddly different.
I woke up in a backyard garden. Petite, and ill prominent as such: with a bare green lawn, mid-sized shrubs in their over-sized zen potteries, and nude paved patios - nothing particularly eerie, or pretty about it to be deemed metaphor to my worries or fears.
But on this soft carpet grass, beneath a sky, speckled with artificial stars, the warmth relaxed me of the chills from my midnight's woe.
I twirled myself around, as if the hills (despite them not being there) were alive. Surprised, almost, that I had forgotten I had come here with company - or at least, tried my best to - I caught you boasting a smile.
A smile I hadn't seen in so long. A smile I thought I'd had lost. A smile I thought was no longer mine.
You drew our distance smaller. My relief, that - in the glory of this simple solitude - was once left bare, and out, naked in the open, felt tarnished - invaded.
In the space between us, the wind whistled; Between us, there was nothing more but the aura of your presence and mine: lay there no cracks or rugged edges, it was clean, and polished, like new shoes or like floored marble - I could have put my hand out and probably feel your skin without even touching you.
For once, I'd much rather to have been swept away by deep ocean ripples, or even lost endlessly in open fields - rather you steal my breath with water, or kill my thoughts barren dead - anywhere, but here.
But here, before you, my stomach fluttered with wings. Time stopped, and the brimming noise from a crowd away, was silenced numb. I could hardly breathe, but I doubt I had even needed to. I felt immortal.
Here, in a world without space or time, without gravity or air, nor sound, nor rhyme or reason - here, you pumped by heart with ecstasy; filled my lungs with memories; damped my eyes with melancholy.
I think a song began to play somewhere in a distance that could only be measured in eons. We danced there. Beneath the moon, and the lacing of light bulbs, barefoot, on the grass behind a house I wasn't sure belonged to whom, to a song I can't remember the tune of.
In the comfort and confusion, my soul wept against your chest.
"We're alright."
But we weren't. And you knew it. You were keeping your tears away, collecting mine to mask them: you had them slipped inside your back pocket, but I caught your lie beneath the smile you struggled so desperately to hold.
You could've kissed me with those lips and I'd have died of its poison.
But what is death if I could have one last time to meet your mouth again? Your mouth, stripped without its words that so long pushed me away, without its voice that lulled my nights lonely: your mouth whom I'd kiss forever if I could.
The wind blew, and there it was: the distance again.
We didn't really dance. Perhaps I only made it up because I wished so badly we could have.
Maybe things would've been a lot different waking up had we did.
Though I suppose that doesn't matter. I could throw away all my questions of what could have been, but I'll still always be left with knowing that it just never was.
But oh.
Darling, if only.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Kind of.
Oh, why hullo there.
It's been a while hasn't it? (Blows pixel dust away)
Welp. In its most obvious form: I'm back because the semester has ended. Hurrah!
Relaxed at home, it's passed midnight and I've not a single worry to weight my brow. I am a free man, with shoulders broad and tall, and a grin I am mustering my strength to hold.
It has been yet another tiring semester: days gone, lulled by too much sleep from the nights of too little; And my heels still callus against the pavement.
To be just as tired and relieved is both a curious feeling, and a splendid one. It's a feeling that speaks of a journey well traveled, and a course - exhausting as it may be - well hurdled.
Despite my trivially occurring lack of will along the lines; despite my blistering failures and downfalls - it has been quite a success this semester. I have learned more language than I could have possibly gotten from any book: the weights of the world that once trembled me, have made themselves glorious - in plaque - on my chest.
Like Superman's much valued "S" I stand proudly the same, but without much ado of the word "super," I carry the word Survivor, and cradle it like a baby, afraid to drop its fame to the ground.
It may not seem like much to many - or any, at all - but to me it's my everything. To lose my faith to survive, has in fact almost lost my faith to live.
Triumphed I have, to step back, away from the border line.
Call me dramatic - go ahead - you're probably right.
But if you knew at least my nights at yonder, or even at all: have you know I have escaped tight ropes with the skim of my shoulder. I still have this unnerving (flesh) wound to show you.
Thank you, to my everyday, to every semester, and probably to every year that teaches me to be stronger.
Though I my falters may be steep, I strive harder with every stroke on the back, or every bullet cocked in its barrel, to make it better.
And I hope (despite what I may on other days hope otherwise).. that I will always strive, to a someday's forever.
Here's to another finished semester, and also, in utter rarity: to a blue moon's positive note, from yours truly.
Cheers!
It's been a while hasn't it? (Blows pixel dust away)
Welp. In its most obvious form: I'm back because the semester has ended. Hurrah!
Relaxed at home, it's passed midnight and I've not a single worry to weight my brow. I am a free man, with shoulders broad and tall, and a grin I am mustering my strength to hold.
It has been yet another tiring semester: days gone, lulled by too much sleep from the nights of too little; And my heels still callus against the pavement.
To be just as tired and relieved is both a curious feeling, and a splendid one. It's a feeling that speaks of a journey well traveled, and a course - exhausting as it may be - well hurdled.
Despite my trivially occurring lack of will along the lines; despite my blistering failures and downfalls - it has been quite a success this semester. I have learned more language than I could have possibly gotten from any book: the weights of the world that once trembled me, have made themselves glorious - in plaque - on my chest.
Like Superman's much valued "S" I stand proudly the same, but without much ado of the word "super," I carry the word Survivor, and cradle it like a baby, afraid to drop its fame to the ground.
It may not seem like much to many - or any, at all - but to me it's my everything. To lose my faith to survive, has in fact almost lost my faith to live.
Triumphed I have, to step back, away from the border line.
Call me dramatic - go ahead - you're probably right.
But if you knew at least my nights at yonder, or even at all: have you know I have escaped tight ropes with the skim of my shoulder. I still have this unnerving (flesh) wound to show you.
Thank you, to my everyday, to every semester, and probably to every year that teaches me to be stronger.
Though I my falters may be steep, I strive harder with every stroke on the back, or every bullet cocked in its barrel, to make it better.
And I hope (despite what I may on other days hope otherwise).. that I will always strive, to a someday's forever.
Here's to another finished semester, and also, in utter rarity: to a blue moon's positive note, from yours truly.
Cheers!
Monday, June 30, 2014
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Perhentian.
Rest stop.
A break from model making, stuffy studio drama, bed room back aches, and social media disintegration. Even for a depressed person like myself, sunshine can do a lot on the mood (and skin - and yes, I'm talking about bad over-tans).
Alas, no studio trip was complete without our syllabus slicing through the fun. Took a kayak a few hundred meters off the sandy coast to the outer rims of the island.
Rocky (and devastatingly slippery) cliffs greeted us, claiming bruises and cuts upon my legs and toes as friendly souvenirs. So many secular pools carved the stones - it was a good pick, deserving back claps to the boys of my team.
The way back was less exhausting (as in, no more rowing against waves) but a lot more terrifying. Life jackets thrown aside, I had to rock climb my way back to land and salvation, burdened with a backpack full of measuring equipment, and completely barefooted.
Never thought it'd feel so nice to brace my feet on flat land again.
Last breakfast of the trip. Adieu beautiful sandy beaches, as I bid greetings to the 12 hour bus ride back to Shah Alam.
Being back home, face fixed on the laptop's blaring screen, back planted on the mattress - it brings me great regret that I must amiss my eyes from the wonderfully blue ocean skyline, of white sandy carpets, that wrap around my toes like cool blankets from the midday sun.
How sad it is to watch photographs, but no longer feel the salt stain my cheeks and lips, or the sun shimmer against my hair. The sound of waves only reminisce in my mind, an undulating pattern.
The skies here are not nearly as vast, and no matter how far I reach my hands, all I manage to feel is the distance between me and the shrouded moon.
Take me back. Because there is never a better place, than a place away.
A break from model making, stuffy studio drama, bed room back aches, and social media disintegration. Even for a depressed person like myself, sunshine can do a lot on the mood (and skin - and yes, I'm talking about bad over-tans).
04.
Getting a full view of the island took us up a 30 minute hike, where the peak boasted clear blue skies, and an ocean as reflective as glass. Going down flights of stairs brought us to a lagoon perfectly shallow and secluded. The waves crashed strongly, and the water tasted surprisingly pale of salt.
It was - I would say, - the highlight of the trip.
Alas, no studio trip was complete without our syllabus slicing through the fun. Took a kayak a few hundred meters off the sandy coast to the outer rims of the island.
Rocky (and devastatingly slippery) cliffs greeted us, claiming bruises and cuts upon my legs and toes as friendly souvenirs. So many secular pools carved the stones - it was a good pick, deserving back claps to the boys of my team.
The way back was less exhausting (as in, no more rowing against waves) but a lot more terrifying. Life jackets thrown aside, I had to rock climb my way back to land and salvation, burdened with a backpack full of measuring equipment, and completely barefooted.
Never thought it'd feel so nice to brace my feet on flat land again.
Last breakfast of the trip. Adieu beautiful sandy beaches, as I bid greetings to the 12 hour bus ride back to Shah Alam.
Being back home, face fixed on the laptop's blaring screen, back planted on the mattress - it brings me great regret that I must amiss my eyes from the wonderfully blue ocean skyline, of white sandy carpets, that wrap around my toes like cool blankets from the midday sun.
How sad it is to watch photographs, but no longer feel the salt stain my cheeks and lips, or the sun shimmer against my hair. The sound of waves only reminisce in my mind, an undulating pattern.
The skies here are not nearly as vast, and no matter how far I reach my hands, all I manage to feel is the distance between me and the shrouded moon.
Take me back. Because there is never a better place, than a place away.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Soliloquy.
I can't even write anymore.
10 minutes near the 2 am finish line of sanity, my laptop glares dimly in the dark room; the sound of finger tips thud at the backlit keyboard, my breath heaves in the warmth of my broken air-conditioning - it is a tiring sight for eyes that should lull themselves to sleep.
My forehead starts to itch. Perhaps thought is brewing beneath my skull: passion riding wild in the nimble folds of my pink, squishy brain. I scratch until my skin is warm; until it is red, and sore.
The itch crawls down my back, but now I hold back the urge. I must write this piece - short, and erred as it is - I need my hands.
5 minutes to 2 am.
These minutes are crucial. It's the lift off I must tightly fasten my seat belts to. I am a passenger in this fortress of worry: I am sweaty palms clenched to my armrests; I am quivering feet, and the whispering of prayers beneath breaths; I am eyes shut tight, with loud engine revving and wheels tucked in, a black skyline grazes over.
Bare. I am mouth agape, trying to catch air back into my lungs.
Dry tongue, and chapped lips. This is a thirst not for water but for words.
I inhale. I push my newly trimmed fringe to the back of my ear, only to have it fall back to my face again. I let my eyes, damp from distress, stain my sockets, then wipe my nose.
3 minutes to 2 am.
The silent breaks, slicing through the throbbing air like a blade. In the secluded distance of neither space nor time - in an atmosphere without gravity: you hear a gun cock. Bullets loaded and the barrel swings.
I inhale. There is smoke, ash and debris. Black clouds gently find solitude on my taste buds, bitter with the pride of a massacre. My eyes pulse, but my screams cannot silence theirs.
I am sweaty palms clenched to armrests, quivering feet, and the whispers of prayers - of pleads - of begs.
God.
I simply cannot write anymore.
10 minutes near the 2 am finish line of sanity, my laptop glares dimly in the dark room; the sound of finger tips thud at the backlit keyboard, my breath heaves in the warmth of my broken air-conditioning - it is a tiring sight for eyes that should lull themselves to sleep.
My forehead starts to itch. Perhaps thought is brewing beneath my skull: passion riding wild in the nimble folds of my pink, squishy brain. I scratch until my skin is warm; until it is red, and sore.
The itch crawls down my back, but now I hold back the urge. I must write this piece - short, and erred as it is - I need my hands.
5 minutes to 2 am.
These minutes are crucial. It's the lift off I must tightly fasten my seat belts to. I am a passenger in this fortress of worry: I am sweaty palms clenched to my armrests; I am quivering feet, and the whispering of prayers beneath breaths; I am eyes shut tight, with loud engine revving and wheels tucked in, a black skyline grazes over.
Bare. I am mouth agape, trying to catch air back into my lungs.
Dry tongue, and chapped lips. This is a thirst not for water but for words.
I inhale. I push my newly trimmed fringe to the back of my ear, only to have it fall back to my face again. I let my eyes, damp from distress, stain my sockets, then wipe my nose.
3 minutes to 2 am.
The silent breaks, slicing through the throbbing air like a blade. In the secluded distance of neither space nor time - in an atmosphere without gravity: you hear a gun cock. Bullets loaded and the barrel swings.
I inhale. There is smoke, ash and debris. Black clouds gently find solitude on my taste buds, bitter with the pride of a massacre. My eyes pulse, but my screams cannot silence theirs.
I am sweaty palms clenched to armrests, quivering feet, and the whispers of prayers - of pleads - of begs.
God.
I simply cannot write anymore.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
3am.
You deserve to acquaint with my bed sheets
For you see, my mind has known you
And thus, have planted pictures of your face
Like rubber stamps on my pink silk pillow case
They reap beneath the sunlight of smile:
That, the dawn that you give me
So, water my dreams with your presence, please
For my blankets are cold now
Lost, without strong arms around me
Ease this midnight with the moon
That be both your grace and glory:
Ruffled hair, heaving breath, and nestled posture
To me, in this 3am madness - to me, my love:
You are the most beautiful now than you probably have ever been
And yet, you are miles apart.
But dear, believe me so
For these eyes will not ever know of rest if you were here with me
As I watch your gesture set in dreams
You will drive me sleepless - mad!
Forever.
For eternity.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Anxiety Club: Session 1
[3.00am] Stomach churning, head light, head spinning. I should make the call.
[3.15am] Sensation rising, palms sweating, heart beating faster.
[3.18am] Legs shaking, hands twitching, losing breath. Body racing away.
[3.30am] Explode.
[4.00am] Tears. The sheets are no friend. The walls are only enemies.
[5.00am] Blood pumping. Shivering. Sit up. Get water, piss, lie down.
[5.30am] Implode.
[6.00am] Purge.
[6.05am] Confess. Apologize.
[6.12am] Breathe.
When you've got something to lose, every second you live in fear of losing it.
Call it paranoia.
Call it caring too much.
Call it a gentle suicide, maybe.
And murder weapon?
You.
[3.15am] Sensation rising, palms sweating, heart beating faster.
[3.18am] Legs shaking, hands twitching, losing breath. Body racing away.
[3.30am] Explode.
[4.00am] Tears. The sheets are no friend. The walls are only enemies.
[5.00am] Blood pumping. Shivering. Sit up. Get water, piss, lie down.
[5.30am] Implode.
[6.00am] Purge.
[6.05am] Confess. Apologize.
[6.12am] Breathe.
When you've got something to lose, every second you live in fear of losing it.
Call it paranoia.
Call it caring too much.
Call it a gentle suicide, maybe.
And murder weapon?
You.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
We.
Blank paper walls.
You rub your eyes over and over 'till they fill with your favorite color. You hands reach further than they ever could; the room grows larger.
You could almost swear it's raining now - damp cheeks, flooded eyelids.
Does the taste intoxicate you?
Does the taste intoxicate you?
You rub your eyes over and over 'till they fill with your favorite color. You hands reach further than they ever could; the room grows larger.
You could almost swear it's raining now - damp cheeks, flooded eyelids.
Does the taste intoxicate you?
Does the taste intoxicate you?
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Monday, January 27, 2014
The art exhibit (a):
Teenage idiocy is a hard hump to roll over.
The need for constant attention, the thrive for rebellion, the demand for interest: it's a hurdle race, and none of us participating are well-trained athletes.
In fact, we're all just fat kids, with ego sagging down our bums, potato chip ambitions, tv screen realities - going through life is not an easy task. We need the plush cushion between our thighs; we need them damp with our agitated libidos of personality pursuit.
Don't judge us, don't pinch your brows together - paint us a picture - like a French girl - paint us. Paint us with your most hated of colors for all we could care.
Strip us naked.
Awe at the bulges beneath my breasts, the excess skin my belly demands, the sweat and grime behind my neck, the untrimmed hair I boast with pride. Paint it all in oil, but on your cheapest canvas.
And don't forget the details: let my scars guide your stroke. I am hap-hazarded; I am an order that requires your conduct.
Then frame our portraits on your walls. Let it glisten beneath your yellow lime light. Keep the room dim. Keep the floors clean - the walls white-washed.
Glorify us.
Tell the tale of the fat kids' dinner plate filled with disagreement, then pour the crowd a glass of conformism: get loud and drunk beneath the wine of our swollen eyelids.
Fill the room with laughter. Point around those fingers - those nail-polished fingers, stained with the blood you name 'wisdom' - point them at us and 'rouse us with hunger.
Slobbering lips, rumbling stomach: let us us eat ourselves away in your gentle dismay.
Cannibalize us.
Let this spotlight glimmer burn away distinction. Let our names be written in the same bronze plaque of your father's urn.
Let us all be this: equal.
The need for constant attention, the thrive for rebellion, the demand for interest: it's a hurdle race, and none of us participating are well-trained athletes.
In fact, we're all just fat kids, with ego sagging down our bums, potato chip ambitions, tv screen realities - going through life is not an easy task. We need the plush cushion between our thighs; we need them damp with our agitated libidos of personality pursuit.
Don't judge us, don't pinch your brows together - paint us a picture - like a French girl - paint us. Paint us with your most hated of colors for all we could care.
Strip us naked.
Awe at the bulges beneath my breasts, the excess skin my belly demands, the sweat and grime behind my neck, the untrimmed hair I boast with pride. Paint it all in oil, but on your cheapest canvas.
And don't forget the details: let my scars guide your stroke. I am hap-hazarded; I am an order that requires your conduct.
Then frame our portraits on your walls. Let it glisten beneath your yellow lime light. Keep the room dim. Keep the floors clean - the walls white-washed.
Glorify us.
Tell the tale of the fat kids' dinner plate filled with disagreement, then pour the crowd a glass of conformism: get loud and drunk beneath the wine of our swollen eyelids.
Fill the room with laughter. Point around those fingers - those nail-polished fingers, stained with the blood you name 'wisdom' - point them at us and 'rouse us with hunger.
Slobbering lips, rumbling stomach: let us us eat ourselves away in your gentle dismay.
Cannibalize us.
Let this spotlight glimmer burn away distinction. Let our names be written in the same bronze plaque of your father's urn.
Let us all be this: equal.
Monday, January 13, 2014
A letter to those who left,
Dear friends,
Isn't it a wonder how time has sure flied? Away the years passed, with its ticking minutes, and its distance that stretches further beyond our reach of the telephone. It has been too long since I've dropped you your hello's.
Hello.
It's nice to see that all of you are doing well. Age has grown over every one of you gracefully, with as much joy and purpose any youth would dream to achieve. I am glad the best has come your ways.
It seems that most of you are surrounded with such wonderful company, or flown across borders to fulfill your dreams; marking things off of your bucket list, one step at a time. I am proud, and ever so happy to see all of you glistening with the esteem you deserve.
I still remember when I was able to share my times with you - though quite a long while ago - they were to me, gleeful times that I personally shant let go of.
What happiness provoked me come the school bell ring us its end - we'd crowd the exits with cheers and laughter. Hugs went 'round, one friend to another. Good byes were difficult, but the smiles never quite ceased to boast their presence, even behind the whispers and the gossips of a teenage drama.
It was nice having friends around.
It was nice being able to feel appreciated for at least a moment in my life.
But alas, winds they roll, and leaves must change; seasons never stay the same, not one summer to the other: and now, it has been so long since I've last been able to see any of you.
To even drop a "how are you" makes me anxious, for I already know the answer to that question. You are doing great - all of you.
And I am glad. Truly.
I just - I - perhaps I just wish you could share some of that joy with me. Wasn't that what we did not just two years ago? Two years wasn't even the longest of times. Surely, not all of you have already forgotten me?
Or..
.. Uh.
But at least you are doing well!
I thank you for coming into my life anyways, even though, it is time I realize the door has been agape far too long, and that all of you have already.. left.
And maybe, if you are wondering, I may say I am doing fine too! Well - not completely, but.. I am doing alright. Sure, I have not quite achieved much, nor have I found new friends to fill your spaces but I am doing okay.
I think.
I am alive at least.
Did you notice?
..
..
Nevermind that. I still offer my gratitude.. because I believe - or, believed - we were friends before.
Yeah, I am glad that you are all doing well.
I just wish I was too.
Isn't it a wonder how time has sure flied? Away the years passed, with its ticking minutes, and its distance that stretches further beyond our reach of the telephone. It has been too long since I've dropped you your hello's.
Hello.
It's nice to see that all of you are doing well. Age has grown over every one of you gracefully, with as much joy and purpose any youth would dream to achieve. I am glad the best has come your ways.
It seems that most of you are surrounded with such wonderful company, or flown across borders to fulfill your dreams; marking things off of your bucket list, one step at a time. I am proud, and ever so happy to see all of you glistening with the esteem you deserve.
I still remember when I was able to share my times with you - though quite a long while ago - they were to me, gleeful times that I personally shant let go of.
What happiness provoked me come the school bell ring us its end - we'd crowd the exits with cheers and laughter. Hugs went 'round, one friend to another. Good byes were difficult, but the smiles never quite ceased to boast their presence, even behind the whispers and the gossips of a teenage drama.
It was nice having friends around.
It was nice being able to feel appreciated for at least a moment in my life.
But alas, winds they roll, and leaves must change; seasons never stay the same, not one summer to the other: and now, it has been so long since I've last been able to see any of you.
To even drop a "how are you" makes me anxious, for I already know the answer to that question. You are doing great - all of you.
And I am glad. Truly.
I just - I - perhaps I just wish you could share some of that joy with me. Wasn't that what we did not just two years ago? Two years wasn't even the longest of times. Surely, not all of you have already forgotten me?
Or..
.. Uh.
But at least you are doing well!
I thank you for coming into my life anyways, even though, it is time I realize the door has been agape far too long, and that all of you have already.. left.
And maybe, if you are wondering, I may say I am doing fine too! Well - not completely, but.. I am doing alright. Sure, I have not quite achieved much, nor have I found new friends to fill your spaces but I am doing okay.
I think.
I am alive at least.
Did you notice?
..
..
Nevermind that. I still offer my gratitude.. because I believe - or, believed - we were friends before.
Yeah, I am glad that you are all doing well.
I just wish I was too.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Bull--
In life, there is no point to be happy.
No matter how hard you try, no matter what efforts you've put in, life will fuck you up and run you over like a stampede of bulls, horns and hoofs and all.
I know, of course, because I've had it all wash against me, like currents in a tide: they have cripple me now. I am broken bones, and unmoving muscles. I am a body without a breath to stand.
There is simply, no point at all to be happy.
Here, I lie with my head still flat on the mattress, laptop on my stomach, it is 7 in the evening. I only just woke up from a nap that had me skip lunch and the entire daytime away.
Life is a dud. Of no value - crude.
I do not need it. If I could be blessed the power to give away this life, I'd have lent it at 9. I've had long left this place; I've have already reaped my blood with the poison it longs for.
But as much as my insecurities proceed to demand me away, alas they are also what keeps me.
Though I wonder if I were to take my life, and to write my good byes in a blog post, here - would anyone notice it before its too late?
Would anyone care, or bother?
..
Perhaps it's best I not wonder, for it may urge me more.
No matter how hard you try, no matter what efforts you've put in, life will fuck you up and run you over like a stampede of bulls, horns and hoofs and all.
I know, of course, because I've had it all wash against me, like currents in a tide: they have cripple me now. I am broken bones, and unmoving muscles. I am a body without a breath to stand.
There is simply, no point at all to be happy.
Here, I lie with my head still flat on the mattress, laptop on my stomach, it is 7 in the evening. I only just woke up from a nap that had me skip lunch and the entire daytime away.
Life is a dud. Of no value - crude.
I do not need it. If I could be blessed the power to give away this life, I'd have lent it at 9. I've had long left this place; I've have already reaped my blood with the poison it longs for.
But as much as my insecurities proceed to demand me away, alas they are also what keeps me.
Though I wonder if I were to take my life, and to write my good byes in a blog post, here - would anyone notice it before its too late?
Would anyone care, or bother?
..
Perhaps it's best I not wonder, for it may urge me more.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Wrist.
She wore bracelets full of flowers
Which to her they looked so pretty
But no one sees what lies beneath
The roses and the lilies
Her hair was the summer glow of June
While her eyes were both the stars and moon
But albeit the things that she would show
They would simply never know
The nights that bat under her lash
Stained her pillow with thorns and leaves
She'd wrap them 'round her head and wrist;
And these are the bracelets that you see.
-hjr
Great Expectations.
If there were to be any cure in the world, be damned, I beg to be cured of thoughts and feelings.
I just don't want them anymore.
I'm tired of so much expectation, so much thought of happiness - and for all of that to be blown away with rolling winds. To watch them flutter helplessly away from my fingertips, when - oh god - I was so close.
To almost taste sweetness, but so long missed the opportunity, I've forgotten what exactly it should be like to touch my lips.
I am vexed. I am thrilled with rage, and frustration.
Where am I to point my blame in this calamity? My patience is growing so meek. I cannot hold on awaiting for better any much longer.
Things have been too rough for too long. When will the good come? Was it not the saying that they come for those who wait? And mind you, I have waited the full of my lifetime - every morning an awakening to nothings, every bedtime story a tale of misfitted attempts.
My pillow case is soaked with disappointment. I cannot rest my head here any more.
No, I cannot do this any more.
So help me, dispose of my thoughts and my emotions that bring me this crippling mountain edge. I am inches from falling off of the gravel of expectation.
There is no fate but misery in the passage of lit eyes and determination.
Cure me of the way I am so constantly left to toss 'round my sheets at this bleak midnight hour; Rid me of the pain of hope; Eliminate memories of the almost could've been's, and the thoughts of what if's.
Because I have had it. I have had it all.
And that's enough now.
I just don't want them anymore.
I'm tired of so much expectation, so much thought of happiness - and for all of that to be blown away with rolling winds. To watch them flutter helplessly away from my fingertips, when - oh god - I was so close.
To almost taste sweetness, but so long missed the opportunity, I've forgotten what exactly it should be like to touch my lips.
I am vexed. I am thrilled with rage, and frustration.
Where am I to point my blame in this calamity? My patience is growing so meek. I cannot hold on awaiting for better any much longer.
Things have been too rough for too long. When will the good come? Was it not the saying that they come for those who wait? And mind you, I have waited the full of my lifetime - every morning an awakening to nothings, every bedtime story a tale of misfitted attempts.
My pillow case is soaked with disappointment. I cannot rest my head here any more.
No, I cannot do this any more.
So help me, dispose of my thoughts and my emotions that bring me this crippling mountain edge. I am inches from falling off of the gravel of expectation.
There is no fate but misery in the passage of lit eyes and determination.
Cure me of the way I am so constantly left to toss 'round my sheets at this bleak midnight hour; Rid me of the pain of hope; Eliminate memories of the almost could've been's, and the thoughts of what if's.
Because I have had it. I have had it all.
And that's enough now.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
A tyrant of words.
There are three things I hate most in this world.
1) Critics (this goes alongside the hypocrites, the religious extremists, the racists, the homophobes, the moms and dads who only care about exam results - you get my drift)
2) Expectations
3) Maths. Mother fucking maths.
So here I am, loaded with the agonizing weight of all three of life's worst horrors; my lips are dry with cruel and batten words that demand themselves to spill like gushing water - but I am collected. I always am. I am the kind of person who keeps shut the vulgarities of truth, as not to get caught in arguments.
I am, you see, a very nice person - that is - most of the times.
Today began eerily comfortable. I awoke from, what I could only call, the utmost of disgusting dreams, where I was being chased 'round my faculty with an albino frog. Simply nothing can raise the hairs on your neck worse than a slimy, warty frog - unless of course its a white, pale, pasty one.
Ew.
To cold sweats, and heavy breath, I rolled out of bed, feeling - on the rare accounts as they are - glad to be alive. And dear friends, this is an omen I shall never let pass my judgement again.
Good days never stay good. This is a lesson learned (tips hat to the sky).
Critics.
Mom and Dad are nice people, but just like me: only most of the times. Other times, they are viscous beasts with clawing teeth and nail, their breath is like rotting meat, their voice like satan's whisper - ok - maybe I've gone a little overboard, but you get where I'm going at here.
Being born with Asian blood, things tend to lean a little port-side on the topics of competition and pride. Yes, stereotypes are not myths.
Nice as they are, they demand too much of me. Or, that is, too little. Speak when spoken to, do what you are told, never dishonor the family, be good in the eyes of the public, get good grades, and stay put in your fucking place - ok, so this is where I start to cringe.
I like to believe that I am a pretty liberated person. I am open-minded, and I accept differences with utmost just. I don't pick fights, never impose, and am proud to be apart of a mixed community of various minds, and passions alike.
My parents - well, not so much.
The smallest particle of expression on my behalf erupts their minds like an active Sumatran volcano. Do as you please, they say, for as long as it pleases them too. It is a blatant guess that this does not happen often. And thus, lo and behold, my backlog of nags and confrontations for the sin of me being... myself.
(sigh)
Expectations.
And the epic fall of disappointment that comes along with it. Yep, to hell with it all.
Let them criticize me, I say, a bold statement I carry, with my arms crossed and my face that boasts determination. I sip my tea, seeming as classy as I can, put on some Stevie Wonder and show the world I cannot be toppled over. No, not with their harsh words, and labels, and cages. I am woman, hear me roar!
That is of course, up until expectations blunders me over again. A common error, on my part.
The false integrity, the faint glimmer of hope I chose adamantly to believe in, crash onto me like falling rooftops over a city skyline - I am dust and I am rubble.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Now. Last but not least: maths.
Goddamnit! I would pound my fist into glass and rip my skin with blood had I only the guts - but mind you: the passion is there, and I am vexed with rage and anger. I sit here, blogging away my loathes, like the immature teen that I am, running away from the troubles that are drawing lines on my back.
I cease to love something so tedious, so inexpressive, and so profoundly dull. No, I will not have it.
These numbers say nothing, and the alphabets laced 'round them are like slave dolls, used for the least of their purpose. They should be knitting about essays and poetry - not.. not.. equations!
I am simply dumbstruck by the force it demands on me: to repeat over and over again on blank paper, with the scribbles of things that lead me to no answer I can bare loyal to my heart. It is tragedy, these divisions and subtractions.
If I may abort it, I would do so immediately. But alas, tomorrow is my final paper. It is made damned, with the tears of the likes of people akin to my kind. I am forced to utter its curse as I strut ever so ungracefully to a death I do not deserve.
And that would probably lead me to my fourth hate: examinations.
But I'd rather not go into a debate on that of its horrible agenda. Democracy there, does not exist.
Now elude me.
I must repose in the multitude of my rage, and sorrow. I am 19, and the things that unsettle this pre-mature valor brings me numb to the screams and tears I muffle beneath my pillowcase.
God.
I just need a break.
1) Critics (this goes alongside the hypocrites, the religious extremists, the racists, the homophobes, the moms and dads who only care about exam results - you get my drift)
2) Expectations
3) Maths. Mother fucking maths.
So here I am, loaded with the agonizing weight of all three of life's worst horrors; my lips are dry with cruel and batten words that demand themselves to spill like gushing water - but I am collected. I always am. I am the kind of person who keeps shut the vulgarities of truth, as not to get caught in arguments.
I am, you see, a very nice person - that is - most of the times.
Today began eerily comfortable. I awoke from, what I could only call, the utmost of disgusting dreams, where I was being chased 'round my faculty with an albino frog. Simply nothing can raise the hairs on your neck worse than a slimy, warty frog - unless of course its a white, pale, pasty one.
Ew.
To cold sweats, and heavy breath, I rolled out of bed, feeling - on the rare accounts as they are - glad to be alive. And dear friends, this is an omen I shall never let pass my judgement again.
Good days never stay good. This is a lesson learned (tips hat to the sky).
Critics.
Mom and Dad are nice people, but just like me: only most of the times. Other times, they are viscous beasts with clawing teeth and nail, their breath is like rotting meat, their voice like satan's whisper - ok - maybe I've gone a little overboard, but you get where I'm going at here.
Being born with Asian blood, things tend to lean a little port-side on the topics of competition and pride. Yes, stereotypes are not myths.
Nice as they are, they demand too much of me. Or, that is, too little. Speak when spoken to, do what you are told, never dishonor the family, be good in the eyes of the public, get good grades, and stay put in your fucking place - ok, so this is where I start to cringe.
I like to believe that I am a pretty liberated person. I am open-minded, and I accept differences with utmost just. I don't pick fights, never impose, and am proud to be apart of a mixed community of various minds, and passions alike.
My parents - well, not so much.
The smallest particle of expression on my behalf erupts their minds like an active Sumatran volcano. Do as you please, they say, for as long as it pleases them too. It is a blatant guess that this does not happen often. And thus, lo and behold, my backlog of nags and confrontations for the sin of me being... myself.
(sigh)
Expectations.
And the epic fall of disappointment that comes along with it. Yep, to hell with it all.
Let them criticize me, I say, a bold statement I carry, with my arms crossed and my face that boasts determination. I sip my tea, seeming as classy as I can, put on some Stevie Wonder and show the world I cannot be toppled over. No, not with their harsh words, and labels, and cages. I am woman, hear me roar!
That is of course, up until expectations blunders me over again. A common error, on my part.
The false integrity, the faint glimmer of hope I chose adamantly to believe in, crash onto me like falling rooftops over a city skyline - I am dust and I am rubble.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, Elvis has left the building.
Now. Last but not least: maths.
Goddamnit! I would pound my fist into glass and rip my skin with blood had I only the guts - but mind you: the passion is there, and I am vexed with rage and anger. I sit here, blogging away my loathes, like the immature teen that I am, running away from the troubles that are drawing lines on my back.
I cease to love something so tedious, so inexpressive, and so profoundly dull. No, I will not have it.
These numbers say nothing, and the alphabets laced 'round them are like slave dolls, used for the least of their purpose. They should be knitting about essays and poetry - not.. not.. equations!
I am simply dumbstruck by the force it demands on me: to repeat over and over again on blank paper, with the scribbles of things that lead me to no answer I can bare loyal to my heart. It is tragedy, these divisions and subtractions.
If I may abort it, I would do so immediately. But alas, tomorrow is my final paper. It is made damned, with the tears of the likes of people akin to my kind. I am forced to utter its curse as I strut ever so ungracefully to a death I do not deserve.
And that would probably lead me to my fourth hate: examinations.
But I'd rather not go into a debate on that of its horrible agenda. Democracy there, does not exist.
Now elude me.
I must repose in the multitude of my rage, and sorrow. I am 19, and the things that unsettle this pre-mature valor brings me numb to the screams and tears I muffle beneath my pillowcase.
God.
I just need a break.
Thursday, January 2, 2014
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