“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.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Put into actions what you so cleverly put into words, I crave so much more.
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
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
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
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.
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
In the deepest concentration that should be reserved for studies I sit in my chair, contemplating. Contemplating things I don't even dare to put out in the open. Because maybe these things hold the potential to hurt someone and that is too much power to give feverish words uttered in a moment that could very well be foolish and delirious. It's been awhile since I've felt this way and I miss it. I miss the fumbling with my emotions, the brutality of uninhibited outpouring of feelings and the overall misanthropic tendencies I fall into ever so often. It's always been me and it still can be me, I decide. Finding love and being loved doesn't spare you from the opposite, directed at yourself or others. I should think my self-loathing capabilities are still intact. The old fear of inadequacy that rips the breath out of me still visits me in the night. I know what I should be doing but it's hard to carry out obligations when your heart is so heavy from the things unsaid and the actions that cannot be reversed. Forgive me but perhaps I forgot to mention how needy I am capable of becoming and the minute I sense the slipping into this other persona, I leave. This is my way of sparing us the emotional turmoil that will only leave us reeling, and possibly plant tiny seeds of resentment that will only gestate into anger and irritation and the worst - apathy.
This time tomorrow I just want to be able to prove all of this literature wrong .
I should've known better than to have cooked up an excuse only to kickstart a chain of ailments I cannot handle, not this period, not this body. "Please excuse my daughter, Tricia Rhonda Tan Hui Ting, from school on 6/3/13 because she was down with a slight fever." and then bam, 39.2. My immune system hasn't taken a beating like this in a long while, and this has to happen the year I actually eat greens on a daily basis.
I've already let this round of testing slip because unless the sick warrant extra mercy from above, my grades are soapy dishwater running down the sink.
As this virus is eating away at my productivity and energy I hope that it is eating away at my fats with the same ferocity. I'm almost 18 and still unable to muster enough courage to wear a bikini.
My attempts at conquering econs have been valiant but futile since last night and this is me admitting defeat. Sleep is calling.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
They say you're really not somebody, until somebody else loves you.
This somebody I've made has made me love the somebody I've become and I feel a kind of completeness I dare not describe for fear of a wrong adjective wrenching me awake only to find I was lost in a fool's paradise. This is every dusty corner in our souls, every irrational fear, every plaintive thought and every unfeigned fantasy fitting together in perfect symmetry like the first trembling alignment of palm on palm.
And the best part is; this is no head trip, as far as I know this is real and I am yours.
I am (un)ashamed to say that I will be hitting the sack without touching any homework but the weekend is a mere 24 hours away and that is a blatant, flashing LED sign to do away with anything laborious. Hence, here I lie firing away on this neglected ranting space on my equally neglected Mac, streaming covers with the only light from this rectangle fighting the sleep threatening to take over. I see myself as a flustered mess during my one-hour break tomorrow, attempting to complete all my assignments whilst simultaneously trying to stuff forkfuls of tofu miso salad in my mouth.
BTs in a week and yet all my thoughts seem to revolve around my diminishing motivation to exercise, creepers or a new pair of brown marts, and you.
I feel a step further from my absurdly insecure self now that I've let love in.
Thank you.
