Niceties

I get scared when I don't feel like writing anymore. A once vicious longing is now a dormant ache, and I'm clueless as how to reign myself back into the momentum where; words ran with the fluidity of running water of which I cupped with eager hands and lapped from with a voracious thirst. Words now run dry and I am parched in what seems to be an eternal desert brought on by time's insistence on my moving forward and sometimes losing sight of past goals.

The coming year looms with my apprehension of how difficult it might pose to be. Zk's enlistment, A level results, university life, I'm growing up, and so are those around me. A good half can hardly wait to plunge into the welcoming arms of a new year that promises a clean slate, and I mean, I'm sure there's something everyone wants to purge in the past 364 days. As for me I reside with the other half who probably had a relatively awesome year; Perhaps baby showers, marriages, engagements, divorces from unfaithful spouses, welcoming a new pet, a promotion, starting a new relationship, and feel a twinge of sadness at having to let it go and delve into the unknown. Where people, influenced by the flipping of calendars, somehow feel the need to change aspects of themselves and in the same fashion we slowly start to lose them. Maybe the day, year, will come when you outgrow the adorable expression of mock shock and hurt at my mock scathing words, and in time you'd deem the act of covering my face in tiny licks childish. Or maybe friends who've drifted away will find a way back, maybe some will find hope in a fresh start.

I guess all that's left is to wait and see.

“1. There will be some days when you close your eyes while crossing the street, maybe because you want to see what fate has in store for you, or maybe because your depression is running rampant again and you don’t know how to calm her. It’s okay. I will still love you.

2. There will be a year, or a series of years when your birthday doesn’t feel special. Celebrate anyway. Because people spent time baking you a cake and buying you cards and even if they’re your family and they’re obligated to, they still love you. Cherish that love. Revel in it. It is the best gift you will ever receive.

3. You will learn that the saddest word in the English language is stay. Whether it’s your mother’s voice whispering it before you leave for college, or your ex-lover’s desperate screams as you walk out of the house, it will always be a hard word to hear. Sometimes you should listen to it, other times you shouldn’t. Trust yourself. Go with your gut.

4. Along with hearing the word stay, you will also hear the word why from every person who is remotely related to you. Why did you get that tattoo? Why did you try to kill yourself? Why aren’t you married yet? You don’t have to answer them. Be selfish. Keep somethings to yourself.

5. Some nights you won’t be able to sleep. You will lie awake at 2 am and contemplate existentialism and wonder if the French had a point. Get up. Get out of your bed. Do something. Because even if there is no God, what you do matters, who you are matters. You matter to me.

6. Some days you will want to run away and never return. So go. Drive to a small town in the Northwest, maybe Oregon, and settle down there for a while. Tell people your name is Elizabeth, because you loved Jane Austen as a child and because this a town full of strangers and who’s to know the difference? Don’t be selfish. Call your mother each night and remind her that you love her. Come back home when you find yourself seeing your sadness painted in the shadows, and when you feel more at home in the arms of a stranger than on your own.

7. There will be several nights when you lose yourself in the medicine cabinet, because liquor and morphine seem like a faster cure than time. It’s okay. I will still love you in the morning.

8. One day, in the midst of work, you will learn to forgive. It will start out with a simple reminder of the past, maybe a facebook notification from an old schoolmate or a wedding announcement from an ex-lover. In that moment you will learn that yearning for the past isn’t romantic, it’s stupid, and that if Gatsby had just let go of the green light he would’ve lived. So forgive your past, it didn’t know any better, and move on.

9. Leaving home will hurt, but soon you will learn that home isn’t a place but a feeling, and that there is a compass on your heart that points directly to that feeling. Follow that compass. Don’t get sidetracked by boys who don’t care or alcohol that doesn’t forgive. If you follow that compass, no matter how lost you get, you will always have a home.

10. The hardest lesson you will ever learn will be to love yourself. But you can do it. There will always be days when you hate yourself, days when you wish you had never been born. But darling you are beautiful, and if Shakespeare had met you you would’ve inspired his 18th sonnet, and if Monet had known you he would’ve given up painting water lilies and chosen to paint you instead. I know it’s hard to love yourself, but sometimes it’s okay to be a little selfish with your love.

11. When you begin to feel worthless, remember that the stars died for you. You are made of elements that are thousands of years old, elements that make up every atom of your being. When you want to cut your wrists, remember that the souls of stars live in your veins. Don’t kill them. Don’t be selfish.

12. Some days will be beautiful. Live for those days. Live for the days when the sun shines on your soul and the smile on your face isn’t forced. Live for the days when you don’t give a fuck what anyone thinks because your scars are a part of your story and you don’t need someone else’s approval to wear them with pride.

Live for the life you always wanted but were too scared to pursue.

Live for you. Live for me. Live for every person who has ever loved you, for the people who have come before you so that you may be here today.

Live for the fire that burns in your soul, that tells you: keep going, you’re almost there, just a little farther. Because when Rome burned down the emperor didn’t run away, he stayed and he sang for his people. Stay. Sing for your people. Sing for us.

Are you listening? Because this is your life, singing a siren song to capture your attention and steer away from the rocks, to guide you back home.”

The Twelve-Step Program for Life, by M.K. (via perfect)

I tried to sleep this off but I can't.

I tried to be the bigger man, but once again, I can't.

How does love work? 

Honestly, I need to know the trick of the trade. I need to stop going to bed with the notion that peoples' minds change in nanoseconds and they're all bastards acting on a whim. I need to psycho myself into believing that people are more than lipstick stains, trash talk and the lingering smell of stale hypocrisy. All I want is to revel in the security you provide without my prompting.

All I need is your attention.

Do you know how lovely it is to have your hair stroked without first placing your hand on his thigh? Or to be kissed before you even pucker up. To know that, despite time eroding the sensitivity of nerve endings and visual receptors the sight of you still knocks the wind out of him. The tiniest gestures, the ones you used to pay attention to.

I want to stop feeling like a god damn obligation. These days I feel like a bag of party tricks you mastered and now it's sitting on your shelf and when you've exhausted your options you know I'm still good to entertain. I think it's sad how much I try to mask, try to let go of and tell myself I'm being too sensitive. I'm pretty good at jokes with you now, matter of fact, the biggest one is me. Is it sad I'm crying now? 

Because it's the little things that fall out of line of your vision. And every minute spent in blissful ignorance is another hour spent in my bed just thinking about how every single time I end up being the one who invests too much, tries too hard, and gets walked out on. 

It doesn't have to happen this time too, please, it can't.

 Or, maybe I just need to get the fuck out of here.

of pertinence to our relationship

Did you know that sometimes I get lost in the circles your lips make?
On other days, however,  I am drowning in the streams between your rib-bones as your semi-
conscious, sleeping frame stretches
did you know that I once scraped my knee from tripping on the effortless way you slip your tongue between my teeth, and it bled from the gravel that was your breath whispering promises to my breastbone

since that day, I have not recovered.

I wanted somebody to tell me I am doing things right,
that in a world smitten with half-truths, a rarity would ensure
then that very same blasted universe spat out a 5'9'' promise and I was to
keep my heart guarded and palms open towards you
but,
I could not prepare myself for the likes of you
You who elbowed your way into my life like one would shove into a crowded bus on a Friday evening,
relentlessly and with purpose
your presence demanded it be felt and I nursed it like my life depended on it
but then again all of it before your entry seems largely irrelevant now
and I don't fall asleep to the rhythm of hot tears dripping onto a cotton blend of pillows anymore
or the hollow beating of my sullen heart weakened by disenchantment

did you know you changed my life?

Just a little bit longer.

Algorithm

It's 2.58am on my clock and over at your side it may be more or it may be less

I know it doesn't get colder than 26 where I live but right now the manufactured cold feels like 15,

Maybe more, maybe less

All these numbers have me bolt upright in bed thinking about your digits

How they connect to a calloused palm

Bearing the lines I like to trace as we share secrets in the dark 

I was once 7

Telling my mother I loved her more than the number of grains of sand in the entire world

And now I've met you

The entire universe in one bundle of cells and sinews

I can't quantify the feeling in my chest

The chestnut strands I bury my hands in

But I'll stay up all night counting my blessings 

I wish I spent more time splintering wooden doors than having them slam in my face

If I had more resolve in me maybe I'd allow you to spread coats of poster paint with your tongue 

On the fingernail scratches littering the jaundiced bones of my ribcage 

Sometimes I think my mind is too big for my body

I also think about how silence was never our best trait but there are days when I'm lying on your chest and I become painfully aware of the thump thump thump of the doldrums

And the fear we will wither away tastes like gall in the back of my throat 

Because there will be days that salty tsunamis will clog my lungs and cheap talk and paint will wash away in clouds of dissipating colours 

I'll grab them with my fists in hopes of capturing the pigments only to lose them

Like that day I held on to the fabric of your shirt only to have you wrench away

Your smile was playful

And I sank my teeth into your shoulder 

All while my thoughts went on like a litany in my head, please don't get away please don't get away please don't get away please 

I've had my share of second chances, open doors and wild romances.

It better be right now. 

Forgive me, I'm empty. 

And I want you to need me.

Architect

The persistent pursuit of a state of longing

Drew to an abrubt end at the corner of your mouth

Like an arsonist starting fires on a whim or perhaps propelled by a quiet rage

You burned all the ropes of my resistance

Singed me so pale white flesh marooned

It sent me reeling at first but then I remembered that day in science class where we learnt that everything is perception 

That's why hot is hot and cold is cold but then nobody could classify the neutrality of your spine as you sit, pen in hand, unaware of my stolen glances

A Frightened Rabbit inspired random poem that popped up in my head along with thoughts of you.

1+ = 0

It has become fashionable to lament how fast time has passed. I'll admit I am flaunting sentimental as if it were a butter-soft leather biker glistening with hardware, and I am beckoned to lean in and inhale the seductive overtones of hide and subtle hints of sadness. While flipping through memories like a mental photo album in my head is charming, a more sinister thought would be amidst the myriad markings people have left on me, have I left any on them? The thought makes me a teeny bit sad, which is my favourite emotion to translate into a blog post. It makes me think about how we're all a little idealistic, painting these vivid landscapes in our head from what little we interpret from what surrounds us, from the most fleeting moments with the people we interact with. It's sad how those moments that have somehow crawled their way into your neuronal passageways and decided to nestle against a nerve and never budge, tunneled through another's brain and went out the other ear. I guess you never know. So just like that I don't know what to expect on my last day of school in SA. Tears? A possible over-exaggeration. Handwritten cards and gifts? A long shot. I thought of baking something for everyone but my hesitation probably stems from the fear of it being deemed silly against the backdrop of nonchalance demonstrated by some. So I'm just going to bring my blank canvas on Thurs, void of expectation and hopefully I'll end up with something beautiful to take home, I mean that's the single most important rule in life right, expect nothing? But nevertheless, I am feeling slightly nostalgic which surprised me because up until today I only managed, at best, perpetual loathing for this place but perhaps like every person you love to hate, love still is an element no matter how much it is overpowered by sordid intentions. Somehow I'm still going to miss my morning shock-to-the-system in the form of the sudden sprinting to the track and chanting in my head going shit shit shit I must look like a bloody idiot with my hair bouncing and are my thighs wobbling fuck and the priceless moments in lecture and tutorial where I laugh about stupid things with my classmates and you know we don't do reckless crazy stuff like playing with fire or climbing out of school(science kids are practically allergic to misdemeanor) but somehow manage to form our own craft of lame jokes and stupid moments that earned a place in my head and that, I'd say, is quite an accomplishment. And despite all my warnings against JC education and SA and ya dah ya dah I will still refrain all urges and keep my two fingers curled where they should be on my lap as I drive by the scalloped walls and know that those 2 years gave me some amazing people, unsurmountable lessons in perseverance and just maybe it wasn't such a bad idea choosing to come to SA for the uniform, and maybe I can safely say..

No regrets. 

Now I can't wait to burn my uniform.

sublime

I almost couldn't recognise your face til your mouth filled with words I could taste

We're just waiting for something real
something that'll make us feel alive

My last 4 days have been in a tremendously dark place. My brain felt like it was being pushed through a sieve and my stomach, wrung like a starving boy's desperate attempt to summon the rivulets of water into his mouth from a barely damp cloth. It was the very feeling of having the luxury of rest given to you but knowing you should not, and cannot bear to welcome it. And maybe that was the only thing standing in my road to recovery. I don't quite know how I managed to sleep 4 days away completely. But during the in between moments where I am conscious(and when I am not being smothered by love thanks hun) I have successfully managed to cultivate the most vile hatred for medication and circumstance and came to the knowledge that the harmony of the two could have me on my knees quite literally. Antibiotics had me nauseated every minute of the day with a bitter taste in my mouth because of some problem with bile ducts and what not, sleep barely refuge from my suffering with the countless nightmares and voices. I also made a mental note to never cry lying on your back because having tears dripping into your ears is the oddest sensation. It seemed all that was functioning were my tear ducts, pain receptors and mind playing strings for the devil, and the two were hand in hand, coat and tie, mocking my physical system of a stumbling. I'm happy to actually be head bobbing along to Blank Maps now and not want to toss my cookies and I'm finally starting on my stockpile of homework.

Fingers crossed I survive the next week of mock papers, bless my soul Jesus.

thanks for nothing

Today, I was told in the face that I am living in self-denial.

And, that my goals were unrealistic, so much so I should rethink my strategy and possibly slot in some allowance for failure perhaps? While I'm at that how about I brace myself for disappointment because you can't change things and fix mistakes in 42 days.
42 days to the start of A levels, and those are basically the thoughts that your words translate to in my head.

Forget about impending disappointment, consider it premature. And before I go berserk and spew forth an onslaught of vicious typing I thought I should say that these are my thoughts, my platform to display them, and my views. I'm not looking for sympathy, or to be relatable, but if you're able to find any relation to how I feel right now then you are awesome. But here's a disclaimer to leave if you have an issue with uninhibited outpouring of thoughts with generous lashings of misanthropy.

I could be studying right now, in the words of anyone taking the upcoming A levels, I could be making a huge difference by spending my time wisely. Why are you on your Mac bitching about your life when you should be studying. A huge difference? And by having more As on your report card you are making a greater difference than I am? Here's where I lay down Newsflash #1. You cannot make a difference. I'm so riled because by telling me I am being unrealistic with my dreams, that my goals are unattainable, you are crippling my ability to even begin to make a difference, to be the change. Society isn't going to change, Newflash #2. You are going to leave this institution forever altered because they will tell you that you're not good enough, that you will fail, that you didn't work hard enough. And you will leave this institution a fraction of who you were when you entered. You traded in not just your social life and free time but also fragments of yourself because they told you you had to change, that you couldn't possibly succeed with that attitude. What if I happened to like that attitude? What if that attitude bore, even if it was the slightest, semblance of compassion, that was hacked off me like a cancerous appendage the second the putrid cells could be detected? Because right now, right here, I see that faith and positivity mean nothing. I can believe in myself but if come next year I don't attain satisfactory results then I am deemed a failure in life. My lessons in resilience, empathy, discernment and sensitivity towards others rendered completely redundant simply because my report card is not peppered with the alphabet 'A'. The fact that I am able to celebrate a friend's success, instead of seeing them as a threat, or to motivate someone to go farther. Invalid. It makes me angry to see some of the most amazing people I know doubting themselves and determining their self-worth from the grades they attain. It makes me angry how it puts their flaws under careful scrutiny, not only be others, but by themselves. It makes me angry because it is akin to saying, you can't produce results so you deserve to remain at the lowest rungs in society, at the mercy of those who are able to clamor their way to the top even if it is at the expense and complete neglect of others around them. It makes me angry because it completely shifts the emphasis from character to intellect. It all seems a little melodramatic, but honestly, I'm 18, I'm supposed to get my very first nuances of adulthood and this is the psychological scarring inflicted on me?

To anyone of you who are feeling discouraged at this point in time, and should none of you exist then take this as a public declaration of my disenchantment and bear with me, you're getting the full-on experience. Welcome to life, as we will always know it. I urge you to keep your dignity intact no matter how many people try to put you down. That's what they'll do. Don't try to be good enough for them, because it's never going to be enough. You only owe that to yourself, not anyone else. Be someone that satisfies you and only you. To anyone who says, sorry but, please be realistic with your dreams, ask them to take it in the fucking ass. You know, screw the grit, the rigor, the success, if I walk out of here with my identity in check then I'd be more than happy.

I'll walk out of here a fighter, that's for sure.

eighteen

I've been procrastinating this birthday post for the longest time. So I'm 18. And so what? I wish there was a difference, wish I had more insight, wish that every step would render more impact, less hesitation. I can only hope that before 13 turns to 14 I will don the highly elusive cloak of courage and newfound fight will decorate my canvas quickly in pebble grays and wine reds. I clearly still take the same form; cynical, deprecating, but hopeful, thankfully. And if there was one thing turning 18 taught me, was that I got so much more than I ever bargained for. Honestly the days leading up to that night and there and then itself, I realised god damn I'm lucky. You know when you're so used to feeling like every day is a passing cloud that never quite hovers away, a feeling like that could be possible lung failure. But I guess the kind where gratitude, amazement and the simplest really - joy, engulf the vessels so starved of air. So much so you take a deep breath, and find what you need; family, friends and a whole lot of room to breathe.

That's pretty much how I felt that night. I've never been one with the hordes of friends, nor enemies, I'll admit. But I think a lot of those close to me would know that I never expected this. I came to SAJC, and I'd be brutal but, kind of looked at the lot and never imagined they'd mean this much to me. I never imagined I'd fit in. We're the strangest configuration of jilted hearts, dorky laughs and filthy mouths. But one snort short and we wouldn't get along this well. Then there are the girls that helped mould me into the (IJ-proud) person I am today and I owe almost everything to them and they're probably the reason why I can feel like maybe I'm not that much of a bad person after all. Mum and dad, never hesitating to give me anything in my life, understanding everything that worms its way around and tries to bite me in the ass. Biting those things in their asses. Being the parents I never have to dread bringing friends or boyfriends home to. Basically, everyone shone. And I can safely say I am of age, with a great family, a boyfriend I address as "dude" more than any other name but love him to death all the same, an amazing circle of friends and a whole life ahead of me. I will start living. I will stop counting calories, stop worrying so much, stop calculating moves, stop separating my peas from my carrots. Go in for the kill, emerge bruised but bolder. I will lift heavier and break my personal records, I will have my cake and eat it. I will not wait for New Year's Eve to come up with resolutions, and I will not lose fervor in completing them. I'll kiss in school toilets(okay just kidding school is a no go), kill a cockroach, learn how to cycle. I'll decide my own future, grow the balls to say no, and stop mulling over the small stuff that's dead and gone.

So guys, you don't need to turn 13,18,21,30,42,50 or any bloody age to realize you need to start living. Maybe you saw this on a hipster's iPhone cover but really, life begins at the end of your comfort zone. I don't give pseudo-motivational pep talks and I'm hoping this does not feel like one but if it is in anyone's interest about how my birthday went then here it is. Turning 18 did not leave me curled at the waist, worshipping the porcelain gods the next morning(can't drink for nuts), or had me up all night doing "cool, illegal shit" or whatever stereotype being legal entails, but instead, I felt like a child again. Like, you're peering through your china doll bangs and the world has this wonder to it, and in the slightest whisper you go, wow, look at that. 

Don't let the added height and make-up fool you I was basically that girl in a cocktail dress. So to everyone who's been a part of my life thus far, even those I wish never entered on some nights, I thank you so much.

Cheers guys!

I think somehow, I lost my mind.

I remember so clearly in my head the story Maxine told me about this bulimic girl who brought her meals to her room where she would undress down to her underwear and sit in front of the mirror and eat and somehow, I became that girl only short of food but nothing short of insecurity. I stand before myself, and I remember closing my eyes and feeling the sickening tremor rippling behind my eyelids and I try to fight it, but I know I am slowly slipping into, sadly, myself. I am that girl who stands in front of the mirror looking at herself, scrutinizing every dimple and every sordid fold as she bends and arches and twists trying to pinch and grope at the rolls and pouches and she has no trouble finding them. Afterall she makes herself find them. He tells her to stop, tells her she is fucking beautiful. But what she sees is the furthest cry from perfect. She starts to fall apart and she is crying now, and she looks at herself and swears she is huge, hideous, unsightly, her sight makes her sick. Her mind, no better. She sits on the floor now, curls up into a tight ball and that proves to be the worst decision because she looks down and doesn't like what she sees and she chants in her head, fat, fat, fat and she starts to question the people who told her wonderful things, told her she was beautiful. Beautiful girls don't break down on their cold bathroom floors with hot tears dripping on their cellulite-streaked thighs gasping for air. They don't change out of their outfits thirty over times because they don't have to think about how after they eat their belly will show through their tight camisole. They don't secretly feel like their friends are judging their meal choices at lunch. They don't cry themselves to sleep thinking about how much they've been doing for their bodies but still find themselves unattractive, flawed. They don't have such conversations with themselves because they have nothing to be unhappy about. I feel ashamed to face the person who tells me I am his dream girl, that I am sexy, and beautiful, and amazing. Because I can't be that girl with the sway in her hips because she has the charm only confidence allows. I can't be that girl who effortlessly throws on a tiny dress and you sling your arm around her waist and brush your thumb against her hipbones. I'm not her. I'm the girl texting you to tell you she'll be late because she can't find her jeans, but actually, she's sitting on a heap of discarded clothes, two breaths from bursting into tears because nothing looks good, nothing flatters her, and because she's thinking about that girl she wants to be in her head, and how she is falling completely short of her. How you wish she could be that girl, if only for the night at least. She throws on the same black ensemble because black is forgiving. And she remains as that girl. For that moment as you whisk her away on a night out she is fine, she is happy. But as soon as she gets home then the story is a whole new other. Most nights are like that. I'm the girl who examines herself, and is unable to think of how she is capable of your love, of anyone's love. How could anyone hold her, and think to himself, her body feels amazing. How do you look at her with so much adoration? She is so lucky that you do, yet she throws it away and puts it all at stake because of her mind. This fatal, mental asylum she's institutionalized herself in. But she can't stop. I don't know how to stop. How do I stop? 

How?
God help me because I don't know.

''I wish I was a photograph
tucked into the corners of your wallet
I wish I was a photograph
you carried like a future in your back pocket
I wish I was that face you show to strangers
when they ask you where you come from
I wish I was that someone that you come from
every time you get there
and when you get there
I wish I was that someone who got phone calls
and postcards saying
wish you were here
I wish you were here
autumn is the hardest season
the leaves are all falling
and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground and the trees are naked and lonely
I keep trying to tell them
new leaves will come around in the spring
but you can't tell trees those things
they're like me they just stand there
and don't listen
I wish you were here
I've been missing you like crazy
I've been hazy eyed
staring at the bottom of my glass again
thinking of that time when it was so full
it was like we were tapping the moon for moonshine
or sticking straws into the center of the sun
and sipping like icarus would forever kiss
the bullets from our guns
I never meant to fire you know
I know you never meant to fire lover
I know we never meant to hurt each other
now the sky clicks from black to blue
and dusk looks like a bruise
I've been wrapping one night stands
around my body like wedding bands
but none of them fit in the morning
they just slip off my fingers and slip out the door

and all that lingers is the scent of you

I once swore if I threw that scent into a wishing well
all the wishes in the world would come true
do you remember
do you remember the night I told you
I've never seen anything more perfect than
than snow falling in the glow of a street light
electricity bowing to nature
mind bowing to heartbeat
this is gonna hurt bowing to I love you
I still love you like moons love the planets they circle around like children love recess bells
I still hear the sound of you
and think of playgrounds
where outcasts who stutter
beneath braces and bruises and acne
are finally learning that their rich handsome bullies
are never gonna grow up to be happy
I think of happy when I think of you
so wherever you are I hope you're happy
I really do
I hope the stars are kissing your cheeks tonight
I hope you finally found a way to quit smoking
I hope your lungs are open and breathing your life
I hope there's a kite in your hand
that's flying all the way up to orion
and you still got a thousand yards of string to let out
I hope you're smiling
like god is pulling at the corners of your mouth
cause I might be naked and lonely
shaking branches for bones
but I'm still time zones away
from who I was the day before we met
you were the first mile
where my heart broke a sweat
and I wish you were here
I wish you'd never left
but mostly I wish you well
I wish you my very very best''

Tell me what I'm supposed to do with my life. Please? 

We had dinner tonight and it was different. It still is somewhat surreal to me because I was myself, and I know you sold me nothing short of yourself. If we had visible auras backlighting our silhouettes like brilliant neon backdrops I'd imagining ours to be the synergy of orange and crimson hues. Orange because you are like the hot afternoon sun through closed lids, and I stand there in complete submittance to your radiation. Red because it is my favourite shade to leave your skin flushed with. I don't ever recall a time in my life where conversation with someone of the opposite sex did not connotate the desire to uplift one's personality and "sell" oneself, marauding for compliments and to leave an impression, then I met you. Without even trying you have left me in the queerest puzzlement regarding the charm you hold in thinking you have none. I have drank from my Perspex cup about 53 times, each time peering over its rim not wanting to break your gaze. It feels like if I blink you might possibly disintegrate and I would return to the days I'd get a table for one and act like I've got it all together when all I really am craving for is somebody to love, and all I am is surface cracks concealed with thick coats of paint. I think one day you noticed the frayed edges and you picked at it on pure human instinct. The more it broke away in tiny flakes, the more you scratched and pinched. I hope when you finally manage to tear away a significant area, you'll be surprised at what you find. What I'm trying to say is we are all unfinished, lacking in vital parts, short of a coat of lacquer, huge yellow signs cautioning "works in progress". Or I'll speak for myself, I am. But you aren't afraid, in fact, I bet you'd take the challenge.

Game on.

Weeknd

Weekends are a call out in the dark. Figured the same place that tolerates the tempestuous lashings of my inner psychotic should be rewarded with some pictures of myself and my favourite person. You know, just putting a face to the incessant whiner whose problems you always read about.

I look happy and therefore I am.

Think of love as sustenance for your soul. Drink in the sight of each other, you'll find yourself still ravenous for more. Scrutinize less, give more, don't hold back and throw caution into the wind. It's always going to be about taking chances, giving leeway, compromising. Just that you always get back more than you ever expected. When you find a love like that, never let it go, not even when your fingernails have left dents in your palm, and know just how lucky you are.

Tell me the one place you hate to be kissed

And I'll tread your body like uncharted territory 

Avoiding that felonious diameter

Finding the spot where pucker meets sigh 

Tell me which part you hate most

You know the one you shuffle away

From the mirror to avoid catching

On the way to the shower

And I'll show you there's nothing not

To love about you

Tell me about that one place you lost your first kiss at

The very first attempts at awkward

Fumbling and haphazard trial and error

And we'll laugh about it and rewrite that memory 

As selfish as that may seem

Tell me about that dream you had when you were 12, stepping out of your adolescence

Of the girl you would marry

Did she have eyes like mine?

I bet the gleam in hers lacked the fluorescence of mine when you look at me

Tell me about that barely there scar on your knee

When your over-zealous self fell in your haste to take possession of that ball

I still see that part of you in your

Steady attempts to pin me down in

Yet another one of those tickling wars

Tell me about that one time you were misunderstood 

You'd slow down your speech cautiously 

Reminiscing still hurt

But with my thumb tracing circles on your wrist

You'd know I'd understand 

Tell me how lost you feel some nights

About the amorphousness of the future

When the opacity of what's ahead steals your breath

I'll be silent for awhile 

And then apologise for lacking the answers and that

All I can tell you is 

Your figure is the only shadow I

Can make out in the darkness

“I was told

The average girl begins to plan her wedding at the age of 7

She picks the colors and the cake first

By the age of 10 

She knows time,

And location

By 17

She’s already chosen a gown

2 bridesmaids

And a maid of honor

By 23 

She’s waiting for a man

Who wont break out in hives when he hears the word “commitment”

Someone who doesn’t smell like a Band-Aid drenched in lonely 

Someone who isn’t a temporary solution to the empty side of the bed

Someone

Who’ll hold her hand like it’s the only one they’ve ever seen

To be honest

I don’t know what kind of tux I’ll be wearing

I have no clue what want my wedding will look like

But I imagine

The women who pins my last to hers

Will butterfly down the aisle

Like a 5 foot promise

I imagine

Her smile

Will be so large that you’ll see it on google maps

And know exactly where our wedding is being held

The woman that I plan to marry

Will have champagne in her walk

And I will get drunk on her footsteps

When the pastor asks

If I take this woman to be my wife

I will say yes before he finishes the sentence

I’ll apologize later for being impolite

But I will also explain him

That our first kiss happened 6 years ago

And I’ve been practicing my “Yes”

For past 2, 165 days

When people ask me about my wedding

I never really know what to say

But when they ask me about my future wife

I always tell them

Her eyes are the only Christmas lights that deserve to be seen all year long

I say

She thinks too much

Misses her father

Loves to laugh

And she’s terrible at lying

Because her face never figured out how to do it correctly

I tell them

If my alarm clock sounded like her voice

My snooze button would collect dust 

I tell them

If she came in a bottle

I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys

If she was a book

I would memorize her table of contents

I would read her cover-to-cover

Hoping to find typos

Just so we can both have a few things to work on

Because aren’t we all unfinished?

Don’t we all need a little editing?

Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone?

Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense 

She don’t always make sense

But her imperfections are the things I love about her the most

I don’t know when I will be married

I don’t know where I will be married

But I do know this

Whenever I’m asked about my future wife

I always say

…She’s a lot like you”

This is the most perfect thing ever written.

Naïveté

I’ve always held ambivalence towards my body. I’m not genetically inclined to long limbs and high metabolisms, neither do I possess the discipline to maintain abstinence from calorific desserts. The struggle to accept my body is a far greater one than saying no to that banoffee tart(omg I love banoffee tarts) though and maybe in my desperation to achieve the body of my dreams it’s the exact stumbling block that stands in my way. In a world plainly obsessed with love whether it’s for superficial things or grandiose or that one person you cannot will your heart to forget to nameless tongues to just fucking loving the intricate system of cells and muscles that enable you to function, that final example is the toughest one to succeed at. I cannot love myself. So I sit here and hope. That someone’s going to walk into my life and cross-examine me like a porcelain vase on a mantle and possibly render me delicate and beautiful enough to house. And in that house I’ll seek refuge in a love I cannot even offer to myself. It’s sort of tragic. In fact, this handicap often makes me reconsider my ability to love someone. Maybe I’m too weak to love, maybe I’m too naive, maybe I’m too careless, maybe I’m too impatient, maybe I’m too needy, maybe I’m too damn difficult to love.

I’m sorry. 
I wouldn’t choose to love me either.

Don't swallow the cap

I can hardly stand up right.

I hit my head up on the light.

I have faith but don't believe it.

It's not there enough to leave it.

Everything I love is on the table.

Everything I love is out to sea.

I have only two emotions,

careful fear and dead devotion.

I can't get the balance right,

with all my marbles in the fight.

I see all the ones I went for,

all the things I had it in for.

I won't cry until I hear,

because I was not supposed to be here

I'm tired. I'm freezing. I'm dumb.

When it gets so late I forget everyone.

I need somewhere to stay.

I don't think anybody I know is awake.

Calm down, it's alright,

keep my arms the rest of the night.

When they ask what do I see,

I say a bright white beautiful heaven hanging over me.

This post is going to contain a hell lot of reiterations, incoherency, pity, disgust, I can't think. Don't think, just write, just put it all down, I decide. I don't know who to talk to anymore, what to do, all I want to do is cry. Be alone, but yet I want people to ask me how I am, but then again not, I'll just break down in front of the entire caf and hate myself for being so fucking weak. For making my friends around me feel so god damn uncomfortable, conversation ceases and I bet they're all thinking, what the hell is up with her she's always like that nowadays. Suddenly, everybody seems to occupied with what they were previously fiddling with, wanting to avert their gazes, away, away from the pathetic, unstable freak of a girl. Friends. Since exiling myself, I don't know if I still have any. Friends are not acting like friends. Emotions, stronger than the most devastating 2am text or the lack of, when things are left unsettled. I just keep crying. It's so stupid, I can't make sense of anything. Stoicism is a comfortable camouflage already. Camouflage because inside of me feelings are imploding and exploding through every exhausted cell. If I were in a better mood I might snicker at the irony. Putting up a false front never seemed easier, but also a pain in the ass to keep up.

I've never been an angry person.

I'm pretty damn fucking angry right now. Or maybe I'm at a loss. I don't know. 3 words that sum it all. I don't know how to put an end to this quotidian nightmare. I hate how I can't write anymore, not GP, not poetry, not even a blog post. Nothing is working, it feels like somewhere along the course of the past month I let the good parts of me slip away, completely unaware. I've never had to pause so long before typing a sentence and then cursing myself in my head because it is nothing short of banal; hackneyed. Reading older posts, I was happy. So happy, it seems. So inspired, things were beautiful. Maybe they still are, but my judgement is so thick with the smog that is my negativity, failure. Maybe I'm blind, maybe there is beauty. Far, far away from where I stand though, that I am positive. Positive. The first thing that comes to mind is some physics definition I was forced to memorize. I inwardly wince at that, I always want to break something when people ask me to memorize things. I guess the system has overwritten human emotion with useless facts and formulae. That's sad. I'm sad.

I don't know.

I want to be alone and I want people to notice me — both at the same time.

-Thom Yorke

You're fucking everything up Trish so don't you dare ask why if he leaves 

Having recently deleted my twitter app, this is my only outlet to put down my thoughts. Those that as of late have been highly depressing. I am toying with extreme ideas more than I ever used to. Completely floored in the most devastating way by the intensity of such ill-feelings. I'm not particularly fluent in keeping myself together but I'm ashamed of the number of meltdowns I've experienced throughout this duration. I'm at the point where you no longer yearn for the pandering of others but you recoil in disgust for the depth of which you stoop. The depths of what you are drowning yourself in. Sure, I cry, but not easily. Yet I feel the sickening smarting of pompous tears gathering at my eyes like demons summoned to taunt; numerous times of the day. Can't seem to stop them nor resist their provocations. I'm weak, I learn, weaker than I've ever been. I feel so disconnected from my friends, family and myself. I take back all I said about JC life being a long shot from the complaints made by wrung-out students. 

I am that wrung-out student contemplating seeking counseling, at a total loss.

It's one thing to be frighteningly uncertain about the future, another to be losing grip on your religion, and a whole other story to have the two simultaneously happening while you watch the rest of the world doing way better than yourself. Comparisons are self-inflicting in nature but irresistible. 

Everybody tells me it's okay, I'll be fine, it's just BT2, but I don't know if the psychological scarring can ever be reversed. I don't know if this self-doubt can be wrenched out by it's roots, the land made fertile again. I'm in a daze half the time just mulling over these thoughts. I hate who this has made me.

It all seemed easy but now the option of retaking j2 may become a near reality. I can't stop thinking about how fingers will point to my relationship first chance, how this may actually be a mistake from the beginning, how my hopes for the future are dashed, how everything I touch loses its gleam. How I manage to fuck everything up. 

If I were to think of a future for us 

I'd think until it hurts my head

Enough to make me want to bury

The pain and a kiss someplace

Colder than the

windowpane that hid

Our limbs in a tight lattice

But never hotter than 

The fever pitch of your hot,

hot breath blowing across 

my sternum

Bones may splinter but

Hearts can only hope to throb

For more than the preservation

Of life without love 

I remember when your name was just another name that rolled without thought off my tongue. Now, I can’t look at your name without an abundance of sentiment attached to each lettter. Your name, which I played with so carelessly, so easily, has somehow become sacred to my lips. A name I won’t throw around lightheartedly or repeat without deep thought. And if ever I speak of you, I use the English language to describe who you were to me. You are nameless, because those letters grouped together in that familiar form….. carries too much meaning for my capricious heart.

Coco J. Ginger 

1:17

I can't sleep tonight because I feel somewhat buoyant.

I watched white aprons with tiny smatterings of red being flung around and amidst the comedic humour and titillating spreads all I could think about was you. I feel like I'm hovering in a state, just out of your reach, balls of my feet barely scraping the floor.

Unsettled.

I've learnt from the past. I know how conversations past the stroke of midnight only pave way for issues your daylight mind could never think of. And then there's me; impulsive, emotional, boasting expertise in verbal hemorrhage. I think I am one step ahead, taking the initiative, doing us both a favour.

I leave, but all I want to do is run into your arms and hopefully the impact will be enough to rattle some sense into our skulls. Perhaps even mar them enough for pain receptors to hardwire in them the hurt associated with such arguments, and never repeat.

I talk to you here because I can't talk to you. Fate likes to kick back and have a good laugh some nights too. So for now I just wish my mind would blank out long enough for sleep to take over so in seconds my conscious state would be wedded again to yours.

IV

;you're all I need
don't you see me
i think I'm falling,
i'm falling for you
don't you need me
i think i'm falling
i'm falling for you
on this night
and in this light
i think i'm falling for you
maybe you'll change your mind
i think i'm falling

i'm caught on your coat again
you say, oh no it's fine
i read between the lines and
touched your leg again
i'll take it one day at a time
soon you will be mine
but oh i want you now
when the smoke is in your eyes
you look so alive
do you fancy sitting down with me?
maybe cause you're all i need
according to your heart
my place is not deliberate
feeling of your arms

i don't wanna be your friend
i wanna kiss your neck

One of my favourite songs, ever.

Singed

I don't know if this poses a problem. That whenever I'm not with you I find myself some sort of incomplete. I itch and fidget and yearn for something I can't seem to pinpoint. Like the unexplainable twitch of the eyelid oweing to luck or an omen of some sort. And then there's the ache in my loins and the familiar echo of a laugh or a soft whimper or a whispered declaration of affection. The occasional grazed inner lip, and I know it is you. 

It is always you.

I crave you as soon as we are apart and it's a hunger I cannot fix until I am with you again. And even then my gums tingle and itch for more. I need to have you fill the tiniest gaps between my teeth and the hairs on my forearms and spaces between nail and bed. Even then I may still need you to permeate my every cell, alive or dead, I want to breathe you.

Disproportionating love

dear me,

it’s okay to be sad sometimes. it’s important to remember that everybody has the same feelings that you do at times. nobody ever told you that you would be sad, did they? my father in his last days told me of his body stinging like nettles and his bones ringing like church bells whenever he moved. his sadness reached so far he died at his own will, swallowed in the sea and hung at half mast like a flag.

you study anatomy in hopes of learning to love your body. you’ve learned about the strength of your heart; a fist sized muscle, the order of your skin cells, the compassion and selflessness of macrophages; killing thousands of themselves daily just to keep your body clean, the length of your veins, the durability of your femur; the strongest bone in your body. your blood is connective tissue. you are so important.

you study anatomy in hopes of understanding why humans have syntax and how a pile of cells can become a person you love. you should love your heart for beating 72 times a minute. you should love your lungs for supplying air to your blood. bones make marrow, and marrow makes red blood cells. you should love your muscles for helping you move. fall in love with your blood, with your body. move away if you have to.

you will learn to love all of this eventually, even if you look in the mirror some mornings and don’t know who you see staring back at you.

fall in love with the strengths and limitations of yourself, and everything else will work itself out later.

likeawritingdesk.tumblr.com

Brazen night

"Because all I can think about when I'm fully conscious or half awake is you. You occupy my thoughts everyday.  You govern my mind and I like that. It's not a democratic choice as I can't stop thinking about you. But yet why would I want to stop. You're so beautiful in so many ways, your words, your smile, your body, your taste, your personality. Everything. I love you unconditionally, the only term and condition I have though is for you to love me back."

And I do.

I do.

I do.

I do.

Weep.

weep until you're gasping, clutching
for breath
asphyxiation 

weep more.

because that was all you could manage.

before someone came around 

frantically trying to clean up

the pulverized glass and crystal shards

and your manic disillusionments 

but there's blood on his shirt now

and tear tracks leave salt trails and 

permanent pockets of resentment

and resounding disappointment

weep because you loathe dependency

more than the stretch marks on your thighs

yet you thrash wildly for an apathetic

turn of the head in your direction

the slightest dimple or roll

has you in hysterics and you

weep.

Word

I wish I wrote the way I thought

Obsessively

Incessantly

With maddening hunger

I’d write to the point of suffocation

I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns

Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing

And I’d write about you

a lot more

than I should

Benedict Smith

My biggest fear is that eventually you will see me the way I see myself.

Things I never told you

I fall in love a lot.

With the decadent spreads of monochrome and slivers of steel and spikes on glossy magazine pages.

The introductory synth-pop or moody, dark-rock guitar riff of a song from another Phoenix or Wye Oak

The fleeting gazes met with the beautiful whilst scanning through a sea of foreign faces.

But my eyes could've, should've known better.

When I finally overcame my cowardice to look you dead in the eye without faltering I may have fallen in love again.

But this time, it is no multi-second, estrogen-fueled infatuation. It is no exaggeration on my part despite my flair for the art of it. It is no romanticism. It is no attention-seeking statement, only a promise; a truth. 

I love a lot of things,

But among all I love you most, better; more fiercely than I ever thought possible.

I wonder if this happens to everyone. You meet someone, and you don't understand how you settled for anything other than this. This. You will your brain to summon back every memory, of conversations that lasted more than they should have. The fuzz in your gut and then you suddenly find yourself in the awareness that you've bared even the most offensive parts of your soul, and you didn't even have to try. Of course, you didn't bare all of it. There's that part where you've developed some sort of attachment, affinity towards that someone. You can't tell them that. You won't admit it, even to yourself. You have all these feelings and they stupefy you, confuse the hell out of you. You're nervous, anxious, for what? You lose some sleep and you talk to friends, even try to tell yourself you're lapsing into the dreaded state of over thinking and disillusionment again. But yet, you feel the rush and the excitement that is the glimmer of hope that something might conspire in the near future. You're talking to them and they're breaking out into that unconstrained laugh that takes over their entire body and soon the infectiousness of it all gets you too and you're bent over in stitches. Amidst the giddying laughter and mirth, you find yourself wanting to be the cause of that amusement. You put a momentary halt to the abdominal torture and there's that thing when your eyes meet for an excruciatingly long time and you look away because it feels like you've been scorched by the heat that is the red in your cheeks. You're embarrassed because the thought of whether those lips are as soft as they looked crossed your mind. 

Then there's that one night, one of you is upset and the other flies to their side. Fears are allayed, soothing words muttered and tender ministrations given. This person, this amazing person you've come to know, who has weathered through every funk you've been in, is standing before you and before you know it, those feelings you've questioned, brushed off, developed, bottled up, are out in the open. 

And the rest is history.

Things you need to know

what if soon the day comes that I can no longer present you with the words you crave because my craft I no longer possess the dexterity for and I cannot seem to say the right things that will accurately describe how the dusty pink of your lips and the tiny scar marring them have now established some kind of permanent dwelling in my head, what if I tell you I don't wish for you a home in my thoughts, but you are all I think about.

i tire of life, more than most, it's hard to live without a sense of belonging but then I met you and then I met longing; a foreign, tumultuous ache. The kind that stripped me bare and kept me up, wide-eyed, on the most vulnerable of nights, the same ones the holy grail came to me in the form of lit-up dialogues on  radiation-emanating cells clutched in the kind of earnest and excitement that could only belong to someone in the throes of the beginnings of infatuation.

sink in

atelophobia

This place has served as nothing but a jaded outlet for the belligerent dialogues between the devil and god in my head and I apologize for the complete disregard for it the past few weeks. I am not proud of how I can no longer seem to write as fluently as I used to be able to, be it the simplest of day-to-day mundane trivialities I hate to bore people with to the blow-by-blow descriptions of what you do to me. I am tripping too easily over my words and that happens on lucky days, most of the time, I can barely choke out a lackluster sentence or two. It is with, I daresay, disgust that my fingers do their own robotic dance and before I know it my brain is disdainfully frowning upon the rapidly forming pixels that poorly reflect the barrage of thoughts it has been conjuring as of late. I cannot stop them, though.

Spent the entire week being ridiculously hypersensitive, especially to the patronizing compliments I get for my recent haircut which are far worse than the wordless stares shot in my direction. A slight frown, the skeptical purse and contortions of lips wanting to deliver brutal truth. Say it. I much rather you do, than tell me I look cute when your entire face is giving away your fallacy. I liken this current tragedy to bludgeoning the already hopelessly insecure person that is me further into the abyss of self-hatred. 

Apart from struggling to be the perfect daughter, student and friend, I've been driven albeit mad by the idea of the perfect girlfriend and what it might possibly entail, and where I stand as one. There is no pressure, not at all, but yet like always, I feel the more than pressing need to deliver. I am lacking in so many aspects; patience, time, looks, courage. Instead, there is an abundance of worry, fear and atelophobia. Talking to Maxine always leaves me with new feelings of enlightenment and sheds light on so many grey areas that crept past my line of vision, and I can't help but think. Why me? A part of me swells with happiness and gratitude and the other part tells me I don't deserve the half good things that are happening to me now. 

But I forgot to mention I am also lacking in spine and I need you, the best thing in my life thus far.


I can only hope I am enough.

Have you ever been alone in a crowded room?
Well I'm here with you.

Cheers to you

I'm brimming with so much emotion right now and I guess I needed to translate all that into words so I can always come back here and find my way back to you on days when I need that added reassurance but rest assured I will not forget I cannot forget the way you love, earnest and with wide-eyed innocence and sometimes irresponsibly like someone who hasn't been scorned or had a taste of the bitter emptiness that is the last embers of the fire you thought you ignited in someone burning out. But I know you have and believe me I will not be like those Someones you will be nothing less than everything to me and I promise you that. Thank you for treating me better than I ever deserve and hopefully I'll be enough.

"She's the kind of girl that makes you want to gravitate to her. To cling onto her every word and emotion. She makes you want to tell her that she's the most beautiful girl in the world. But for a long time I wanted to tell her all this, to tell her that I love her. Up till now. And now that I can tell her how I feel I feel so lucky. To be able to tell her that she makes me happy and feel so comfortable when I'm with her. And that nothing else matters when she's by my side. That her smile is my remedy and cures my sadness and disparity."

You say you're not good with your words but I think the greater injustice in question here is how you don't give yourself enough credit. And I know you never feel good enough; inadequacy is what cripples me too but it shouldn't cripple you because you are incredible, promise me you won't forget.

hiatus

You could say I've learnt to let go.

I turn 18 this year and apart from the usual coming-of-age causes of excitement such as the possible ownership of a car or the frivolous drinking and clubbing which by the way, god forbid, I am highly doubtful I'd enjoy, the sequence of events this year in no chronological order whatsoever will probably mould me into the person I'd be stuck with for a long time. What if I said I kind of like the person I've become, or perhaps that is premature and I should really say, I kind of like the person I am becoming.

I feel the larger capacity to forgive, regret, love and most of all, I've learnt to walk away from a lost cause, and somehow managed to stumble into the arms of one who is my safety even if I might have to do my fair share of saving. Meanwhile, my attention span in school is dwindling and I spend most days battling with my eyelids for dominance in keeping them open long enough to finish daily obligations that only seem like redundancies. I fear I may be over-celebrating my clearing of BT1 a little, hiding from responsibility under the lace veil of my mediocre achievements. Another excuse I've been using far too often is the fact that a-divs are starting hence the focus shift to more pressing matters which would be the start of season in less than 12 hours time.

I've been bowling terribly the past few training sessions and its the last thing a first-time competitor should have to keep reminding herself of every waking minute. I feel like I've made so much progress since joining SA Bowling last year but yet I feel myself back to where I was at the beginning once again. Bowling 120+ average games and missing all my god damn spares and forgetting to finger my ball. Please, not now. I just hope I'm able to keep my head above the water tomorrow or at least learn to swim.

You

If you must wait,
Wait for them here in my arms as I shake
If you must weep,
Do it right here in my arms as I sleep
If you must mourn my love,
Mourn with the moon and the stars up above

If you must mourn,
Don't do it alone

If you must leave,
Leave as though fire burns under your feet
If you must speak,
Speak every word as though it were unique
If you must die sweetheart,
Die knowing your life was my life's best part

If you must die,
Remember your life

You are, you are

If you must fight,
Fight with yourself and your thoughts in the night
If you must work,
Work to leave some part of you on this earth
If you must live darling one,
Just live

-Keaton Henson, my favorite folk songwriter

I was a crooked soul, bent in more ways than one, and you showed me, you taught me how to stand up straight.

empty air

“Finally he spoke the three simple words that no amount of bad art or bad faith can ever quite cheapen. She repeated them, with exactly the same slight emphasis on the second word, as though she were the one to say them first. He had no religious belief, but it was impossible not to think of an invisible presence or witness in the room, and that these words spoken aloud were like signatures on an unseen contract.” ― Ian McEwan, Atonement

//

I have been meaning to write for awhile now, finding the time to articulate my thoughts into paragraphs the perfectionist in me would approve of is a whole other story though.

But yet
I am choked for words and my mind can only obsess over the ramblings of your
quiet, closed up one screaming sacrilege
against the religion that is the cartilage of my right ear
between your teeth and every raised bump my fingers elicit
whenever a graze overstays its welcome
as though catalyzed
everything flashes in nanoseconds of hitched breath and
the suddenly deafening drumming of the pads of your fingers
on the dip of my spine
small strokes like blinding white light between my eyelids
serving to crumble the composure I have valiantly held
then also not
because I will never be the same
like how fragmented porcelain can never gleam atop a bookshelf
after the passionate fumbling of eager hands
reduces even the most sturdy
    into
          d u s t.

Put into actions what you so cleverly put into words, I crave so much more.

and another

Sometimes I think about
Different questions and the different replies that follow
My favourite would be
What's the most precious thing you own?
And I'd suddenly stop the moment the first syllables of my sentence start to run out of my mouth
All too eager and almost as if without a moment's hesitation
But I'll stop because I don't know if staking my claim on you
Is a bit too primal for the 21st century
I almost say your name
Do I want to be that girl?
Who without an ounce of shame assumes the better
That what she holds is hers to own
I decide I do
I decide you are the most favourite thing that is mine
I decide you
Are mine

Morning

It is hot under the sheets
Not like how they make it out to be
I almost attempt to free a limb from imprisonment
Sandwiched between skin and sheet and cotton
Or just more skin and skin
But I dare not do so
I dare not wake the one lulled to a slumber
By the ticking of the wall clock and the tempo of my heart
and the gentle hum of requited love

accidental babies

Tonight I fall in love with Damien Rice all over again like the first time I listened to Cannonball before one number became two in terms of the years in this world, one that is unfathomable and malicious and also breathtaking at the same time. To write beautifully has always been a dream of mine I know I will never fully grasp in my hands because literature can never be fully encompassed, perfected, clutched in a tight fist like a trophy. 26 letters; endless number of combinations to be transformed into sentences that hold the power to stir in countless people so many emotions. Tonight I am stirred by words so perfectly arranged I am suddenly wanting to claim ownership of such beauty, envious of what comes so naturally to someone so unbelievably talented.

Well I held you like a lover
Happy hands, your elbow in the appropriate place

And we ignored our others
Happy plans for that delicate look upon your face

Our bodies moved and hardened
Hurting parts of your garden
With no room for a pardon
In a place where no one knows what we have done

Do you come
Together ever with him?
And is he dark enough?
Enough to see your light?
And do you brush your teeth before you kiss?
Do you miss my smell?
And is he bold enough to take you on?
Do you feel like you belong?
And does he drive you wild?
Or just mildly free?
What about me?

Well you held me like a lover
Sweaty hands
And my foot in the appropriate place

We use cushions to cover happy glands
In the mild issue of our disgrace

Our minds pressed and guarded
While our flesh disregarded
The lack of space for the lighthearted
In the boon that beats our drum

Well I know I make you cry
And I know sometimes you wanna die
But do you really feel alive without me?
If so, be free
If not, leave him for me
Before one of us has accidental babies
For we are in love



Cheers, Mr Rice. 

afterthoughts

It just occured to me, while gazing at my ceiling through sleep-stung eyes on a sleep-in kinda morning, that I hardly flood this space with pictures and talk about what I did in the day. Maybe it is the manifestation of a me that sees no point in talking about the many meandering adventures because should people care, I'm not sure. And I also remember how I intended for this to be a food/personal blog but alas, it morphed into white blank virtual paper, often subjected to semi-depressed semi-angsty lashings in generous portions.

So I'm thinking maybe I should write about the bowling trip I just came back from a day ago. 
Okay, I have no idea how to go about this I guess it's just not my thing, but I thoroughly enjoyed this bonding/training trip more than I had ever thought I would. I love the feeling when things surprise you so wonderfully, there's always joy in the unexpected, I suppose. It's one thing to pepper introductions and reflections with hopes for team bonding and unity and what not but it's a whole other to actually act upon those claims. Consider it some walk the talk this time.

I've been struggling to grasp my fashion identity these few days, I honestly can't find a better word so pardon my absurdity in using a term like fashion identity. I blame it on too many days cooped up at home reading rows and rows of science text. And lots of numbers. How detrimental is that for one's fashion morale? Terrible. I'm the kind of person who constantly gets inspired by people I steal glances at, staring too long at their oxfords or graphic top or blazer as they saunter pass with the kind of gait only the effortlessly stylish can manage. Deprive me of that and you get a half naked, mad wreck clambering at clothes and ending up being ridiculously late.

My punctuality, I swear. I apologise to all if not everybody who's been victim to the vicious cycle that is arrive 30min later than meeting time -> drown in remorse and vow to be early subsequently -> up and prepared >1.5 hours earlier than meeting time -> overestimate my time and do stupid shit like tweeze or epilate -> arrive 30 min later than meeting time -> drown in..

Going to meet my burmese in a bit for some Nakhon followed by the old movie marathon on my Mac with pizza and cold sheets we always talked about in the past.

How little I show

I am head over heels for this song.

We were trying, but we're trying no more
It's cold on the floor, cold on the floor
This house has never been the same as before
It's never felt warm, never felt warm
There's something moving through the windows and walls
I've seen it before, seen it before
You left me living with a lingering soul,
how little you know, how little you know

We were standing at the foot of a path
I had to go back, had to go back
I chose to travel as a lonely man
So much that I lacked, so much that I lacked
I'm always wishing I was walking that road
It's something I hold, something I hold
I take it with me all the places I go
How little you know, how little you know

I only eat to fill me up
I only sleep to rest
I need a love just like you gave
I haven't found it yet, found it yet

See where I am is where I'm wanting to be,
I know what I need, know what I need
And there are many different places to see
I know how to dream, know how to dream
Still there's a wound and I'm moving slow
Though it don't show, though it don't show
I've got a hole where nothing grows,
How little you know little you know

I only eat to fill me up
I only sleep to rest
I need a love just like you gave
I haven't found it yet, found it yet

Maybe we'd marry and we'd work it out fine,
In some other time, some other time
And we are happy when I'm walking that line,
It's all in my mind, all in my mind
I paint the ceiling so that nobody knows
I cover it slow, cover it slow
It's like you've never even met me before,
How little I show, little I show