Sunday, 10 December 2017

Bluntly, Eating Dirt

If I force myself to write each night, do you think I'll finally become someone I can be proud of? The existence of this blog bothers me. I write neither fact nor fiction, nor anything in between. At times, I see a wasteland of wordly deposit, the kind that environmentalist groups would petition against just because it is an outrage against the value of existence.

Besides classical art memes, mango-flavoured yogurt and surprise chili padi in my chicken at a restaurant with such poor lighting they might as well not have installed any lights at all, the remainder of the day is the pumped nitrogen that keeps a bag of chips puffy.

What I should be doing right now is of course my bloody assignments but as a student in denial, I will pretend that this writing exercise is an investment into what experts term lifelong learning, and what people who try to motivate the demotivated call self-enrichment. If there is a job out there which requires one to come up with excuses, quite plausible ones too, then please consider taking me in. Ah, what about a secretary who lies on your behalf to your spouse while you're away on "business"?  Reicheru would definitely be nominated for the Best Secretary of the Year awards.

Troubling is my lack of talent that could raise the standards of my life. In an ongoing cycle of existential crisis, I imagine myself as a flaming meteorite, screeching throughout the journey which end sees my neck buried deep in the dirt. Naturally, with a mouthful of soil, I'll choke on the physicality of existence. And nobody will ever know because, one: my face is below ground, and two: I'm but a space rock like any other.

Saturday, 9 December 2017


What's a healthy 21-year-old supposed to do? Shrugging, I lay my porous bones and clogged arteries to rest.  Anytime now, the light would come through the window and little by little wake up this body that hasn't yet gone to sleep.

In the vicinity, there exists two mosques. Ever so punctually, the Muezzins both wake the community up at the same moment with their call to prayer.

The glitter of yesterday, has just been wiped off today. Underneath the sparkles and stars, sallow skin is revealed, and dark circles ever so grim.

How can an initial lunch date evolve into teatime followed by a 3-hour-karaoke-dinner session and a midnight book hunt? Really, all I wanted to do was have lunch with my best friend.

Time spent, money wasted. Now we're back in the dark. To think that all the books I thought were stepping blocks were only the imagination of an inflated self-interest.

Thursday, 7 December 2017

For No One

A blank sheet will forever remain blank if the one intending to breathe life into it is as empty on the inside. Nothingness produces nothingness, I suppose. Whether this silence is my ascension to enlightenment or the death of my resolve, I cannot say.

Tell me the difference between a saint and a sleepless infidel, starving itself in the middle of its stripped mattress, unmoving. Abstinence is the morally righteous practice of giving up on life. Perhaps this is the motivation behind the itch to shave my head.

To write to nobody, and for nobody, is a task I find impossible. Self satisfaction and fulfillment cannot possibly be attained by one whose natural temperament and condition for growth is through feeding off the attention of others. Even if this is not the case, we can all agree that the vital component to nurturing a human being is another human being. I shake my head when I hear motivational speeches.

For no one I write, for no one is there at the end of the road.

Tuesday, 14 November 2017


I can never quite understand my cravings. How is it that I am able to yearn for Injeolmi bingsu for as long as three weeks, maybe more, when the last time I had it months ago, I'm positively sure I had not liked it? Taking in the very first half-spoonful of bean powder dusted shaved ice, reality melts back into realisation in the form of a milk-coloured puddle. Ah, that's right, I never truly enjoyed the taste of Injeolmi.

The taste of it isn't what brought on the month-long longing for it. Rather, an odd sense of peace that seems to originate from the body of powdered beans was what I wanted from it. I heard the flapping of wings and the whistles of an evening breeze. Further, it makes its way through the narrow veins of my heart, and I saw myself standing in a golden rice field facing the amber sky. Its earthy tones, in appearance and in taste, roots me down to the soil I otherwise fail to acknowledge from day to day. This one mouthful and I become but a peasant waiting on a cup of hot barely tea after a day's work.

It is likely that I would long for this sense of belonging again. Comforting, though unpleasant as it is, I would come back to momentarily regret my decision while giving myself up, following its notes down to the sultry countryside.

Maybe I want you to bring me there too.

Lake water lapping on a misty morning, the floor boards creak as I wake up to the peeping sunlight peeking in through the cracks. Is anyone by my side? I wouldn't know, but I wouldn't be surprised either, if I would come face to face with a bag of finely ground soybean powder.

Saturday, 28 October 2017

Everything Left Unsaid, the End.

If there is an answer that exists somewhere, I think I've found it. And the answer is this: