Sunday, 31 December 2017

Reflection of a Commodity on New Year's Eve

Am I upset because I'm lost? The borders that once stood between me and the horizon I could never see have expanded, as I sit, unwilling to move, only in wait of the their fall. Even if I've come to realise that they will only move further and further away out of sight, I can't seem to accept a bottled-up existence with infinite-finite possibilities. Breathing is still heavy, even when a room is no longer a room, and the ceiling has opened up to reveal an open sky.

Is this what freedom feels like? Being confronted with endless decisions, that in the end results in a day spent enclosed in  a perfect cube, where even the sun is declined its routine greeting.

Due to a grave error in my flawed comprehension, I've begun to associate freedom with solitude, and solitude with independence. As a connector between both freedom and independence, solitude has become rather essential to the stability of my being. Once it is replaced by companionship, I start to break down.

Not to misunderstand what I've just said, I'd like to clarify that it is not that I don't NEED companionship, just that it shouldn't come to replace solitude. It gets lonely in life, and we all need a functioning support system of live human beings in the form of family and friends in order to stall the inevitable suicide of a mentally weak strawberry. Shallow connections which involve lunch dates and day-time gossip are plenty, enough to satisfy the daily requirements of companionship.

Is there a yearning for something deeper? But we all shouldn't just give in to our base requests.

Since when have I become even more shut off and harder to approach? We know. Don't you? In many ways it is indeed true that I have changed, but one fact remains the same: under my skin, anger is my flesh and hate is the substance that makes up my bones. It's sad, but don't pity one incapable of love.

Perhaps gratification is all I'm after in a world of superficial connections where you and I are both commodities and nothing more.

Tuesday, 19 December 2017

ウルトラタワー ULTRA TOWER: One of my Favourite bands, so please, LISTEN!

It is unusual that my selfish existence would take time off my idle schedule to blog about matters concerning the real world. Today, I'd like to recommend one of my favourite Japanese bands to you who is here. Am I in a good mood to do so? Not quite. The fact that nobody listens to them enough irked me to the point that I thought I'd at least write about them and make whoever is reading listen to them.

食戟のソーマ, Shokugeki no Souma, 食戟之灵, or Food Wars-- have you watched the anime? Then you must be familiar with its first OP theme, 希望の唄 (Kibou no Uta), Song of Hope. Having been chosen as an anime (a well-known one too!) OP theme, this song is of course widely available on the internet and illegal download sites but ignorant Weaboos, they often don't even credit the original band. Hmph. Since I realise that not all of you watch anime, and even if you do you might not have watched Shokugeki, here is Ultra Tower's most famous hit:

Empowering songs are often not to my liking, but I love shouting 生まれ変わる!今ここで!仰いでいた空超えて行く!握り締めて掌のその中に希望があったんだ~!whenever I'm in the car. 

The next two songs are my personal top two favourites from Ultra Tower. Trust them to have more sentimental value with lyrics that stab you right in the heart. 

The first time I heard Rin, my heart ached and even though I couldn't fully grasp the lyrics, I wanted to cry. If you must know, it is a song on unrequited love. 

Between Rin and this one, which do you think is better? The title translates to The Leftover Snow in Spring. 

Next up, we have HELLO, my number one before I discovered the rest of their songs. If you're wondering where I dug for their songs despite their obscurity, I bought them all on iTunes. 

It's a cute song, isn't it? We're almost done! So far, I hope you've enjoyed listening to their music. 

A little relaxing song called On an Idle Night, the Rain Falls to thank you for making it this far. 

If you like them, consider buying their songs through iTunes! Some other songs I like but couldn't really find on YouTube include Sayounara and Fiction. But please, just preview everything for yourself and decide~ 

iTunes link:

Oh, just one more video. It's their cover of Spitz's Unme no Hito which I think is better than the original version. 

At the end of it all, they disbanded last March. Unfortunately, the bands Reicheru really treasure from the bottom of her heart are all no longer active, like Oasis. At least they'll be with me forever, so long as I don't lose my devices. 

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:

Friday, 27 October 2017

Say "I Love You"

To see what is in front of you yet see past it at the same time, something inside you is actively avoiding the confrontation of the whole truth. Could it be that you've been cornered into scraping up the tiles of your foundation one by one? Ah, it's agonising, to feel all these years chip away. I realised long ago that I couldn't trust myself to stay true to myself.

Say, there's so much more I want to say. Any more and I would have given it all up.

It's a conflict not easily stirred; ripples, from its weakest vibrations toward the centre.

Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. Closing my eyes, I could have sworn that I saw us under the fruit tree, gazing at the haze beyond the locked gates of brass.

Thursday, 19 October 2017

Weather or Not It was the Fireworks

Lately, it's been extremely hot outside. 

Do you think it's because of the fireworks?

Peeeewwwwww~! And the stars shine bright for you, and only you.

Even the crickets have died. I hear them less now, than on nights where my balcony door is wide open.

Was that a rumble in the sky, or a tenant dragging their only chair, heavy on the floor?

Enclosed in a space without breathing the same air as the cows next door, it is no wonder I choke on the dust my lifeless dolls wear.

It really is hot these days.

Do you think I'll wake up in shivers in the morning air?

You and me see how we are...

Monday, 16 October 2017

Caught in Your Hair

I never give you my number,
I only give you my situation, 
and in the middle of investigation,
I break down... 

Does it sound familiar? No, not who wrote it! We all know it's a Beatles song. Doesn't it remind you of somebody? Don't lie to yourself now. 

While the day's accumulation of germs flowed downwards, carried by suds and lukewarm water, what bubbled in my slowly refreshing mind is the rationalization of my spontaneity. Isn't it absurd, to see the two words together? Like much of this life that can be dumb-downed to the most banal simplicity, spontaneity is but the invention of a willful ego which will not for the life of it admit that it too is a slave to necessary rationalization. All of a sudden, the liveliness and the stupidity that governs youth seem to have quiet down into a monotone buzz.

I am spontaneous because I'm scared of sudden bursts of pain. Hurt which seep through the unconscious to the conscious, having had enough time to ferment, like sweet wine would bring me to a dizzying plane of indulgence. Between instantaneous pain that would not last and the subtle hurt that gnaws away at my reserve, my masochistic tendencies cannot help but favour the latter. Thus for me, being spontaneous is both a preconditioned self-defense mechanism and the key to an endless reserve of emotional suffering. Ah, the pain! 

Intense is the high that accompanies a heart that beats twice as fast-- the burning cheeks are proof. Being hung up high and dry when the God of Rain answers not your prayers for a blessing, what else is left but to keep on hoping for that first raindrop. With growing hope, the void expands. 

Since when did I start scripting our future? But I don't even know you. As was before, I probably am only in love with the thought of you, and not you yourself. 

I want to disappoint myself too, and laugh it off, that I may move on from the daydream that exists within the forest that is your hair. 

Sunday, 3 September 2017





In the end, the tears we've shed and promises we vowed never to forget are but rainwater that vanish in the warmth of the same old Sun. Back, back, back to the sky, into the heaven of emptiness.

Wednesday, 23 August 2017


"You're like the moon on the water's surface. When the ripples are gone, you'll become the perfect reflection of the moon again."

Then you can't touch me, can you? Is anybody able to reach me, if I am but a reflection of a distant longing?

There is a breeze that stirs the surface of the water in which I sleep. For a brief moment, I feel as though connected to the outside world. Once it dies down, the calm that follows the restoration of an unresounding peace placates the tremours spread by a beating heart.

Even if you would drown yourself in this body of water, the ripples that distort my flawless reflection eventually seize to be.
Unaffected, I continue to bask in moonlight.

I am not real.

I do not exist.

Rakutarou, sail along the river bank on your lotus flower until the Eagle swoops down, under the glory of the Sun where I no longer am.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

As It Is

Because I am unable to pretend, I am unfit for society.

Why do you think honesty is held in high regards while people constantly search for what's genuine? Yet as they sieve through the grains of mistrust, what's naked and true fall through their flawed reasoning all the same, and the search for sincerity continues without end; a meaningless labour enforced by an obsessive preconception that is a result of their insatiable greed. Demanding the truth with arms outstretched, they are never willing to accept what is given. So unaccustomed to candid exchanges is the civilised being that when spoken to bluntly, their defense mechanisms malfunction, triggering hostile responses where they would accuse the perfectly honest person of being an uncivilised baboon. Then they turn on their heels and head back into society, wondering why there aren't honest souls left alive.

What is valued isn't the straightforward nature of one who refuses to tell a lie, rather, it is their ability to frame the truth. As long as the listener believes the speaker to be an honest being, lies turn into truth, like water into wine. The search for honesty ends here, because momentary satisfaction has been met, bringing to light the realisation that what they wanted all along was simply someone who would plaster their wounds with words they wanted to hear.

Cradling your head against my chest, I'd love you like a child.

Indulging in the hypocrisy of society, my tolerance ebbs away. Day to day the receding tides gives way to the airs of pride and its refusal to acknowledge the unassuming hypocrite who feigns innocence.

Ah, before I let go of you and let you be swallowed by the sea, please close your eyes and breathe into your own soul. Ask yourself: do I really want what's real?

Sunday, 13 August 2017

Apathetic Reflection

Giving when you have nothing to give-- what is the price I'd have to pay for spreading empty promises fueled only by hope? Take a bite of me, you, all of you, and tell me that the flowing blood is as sweet as you had expected. In the incessant whispers of your selfish honesty, sanity shuts itself inside a pretense of inflated courage. While the blood pours, I become a balloon.

Haa-- haa--- aa...

I would much rather die of xx frustration than to ask for relief.


Everybody needs a friend who tells them about universal empathy at 1:30AM, agreeing to the fact that human beings are primitive apes no matter the evolution we've gone through. Ah, to think that I could say and do anything without being judged by a reflection just as apathetic... Either this will one day lead to a murder, or a suicide.

I don't think I'll leave a note.

Thursday, 10 August 2017








Wednesday, 9 August 2017

Three Places

Past the ripening fields of paddy, time is warped. Each day, you wake up as if you've woken up on the day before, undisturbed by the surrounding calm and the constant flutter of feathered wings. There isn't the echo of a ticking clock growing louder as your consciousness is brought back into its cell because there is no clock, and time is but the colours in the sky. Greeted by whispers of static, you've woken up in a place that lies on the border between reality and dream, a place you physically exist in but can never go back to.

Outside of this realm, hours and days seem to be as clearly defined as the creases on the many unhappy faces. Resting on a chipped children's stool, beaten by the heat of the hanging light bulbs; frowning at the dinner table and glancing at the slow-moving needle of the wall clock; driving your sister to work without brushing your teeth, not even bothered to put a bra on; forced to indulge in lavish meals that would otherwise go to waste; rubbing the warm belly of a snoozing pup; smelling the perfume that isn't yours.

Smile. And run back to the place at the waterfall of reality, drown in the essence of time and let the fish lead you down the gentle stream of consolation.

If the place beyond the paddy fields is too far away, then lean your back against the foot of the Monkey God and pray that the clouds would carry you as far as the ends of the Earth. When you cannot cry, suffocate in smoke until your eyes water.

Sunday, 6 August 2017

Guinea Pigs and Salad at 3AM

I ate from the Guinea Pigs' salad bowl.

Every night between 2-3AM, my sister prepares fresh salad in the kitchen. This household, we're amazing aren't we? If it's before 4AM, then it isn't time for bed yet. There isn't a reason why this is so, it simply is so.

Tired? You bet.

Only one motivation could possibly force me to adhere to a strict sleeping schedule, and that is the promise of a healthy complexion. At this point, it seems ridiculous that I should mention I would sacrifice my unreasonable petulance in the name of vanity, because I would have done so long ago if I really cared.

Most human beings have, you know... A heart. 

I wonder why acknowledging meaning is such a difficult task-- not that I don't SEE meaning, I simply refuse to accept its existence and the reason behind it. Here, you have an apathetic being who understands you but will not touch you, or your problems.

Baby Romaine Lettuce and mint leaves make a pleasant meal. Munch. Munch. Munch. Am I turning into a Guinea Pig? Munch. Munch. Much. At first I didn't believe sweetness could exist inside the green bodies of leaves but developing Guinea Pig taste buds has caused my tongue to be just that sensitive towards sugar. Ah, my ears twitch at the thought of the salad bowl.

Only by becoming a pet will I grow a heart. Unless it is the salad leaves that are blossoming in my chest.  

Thursday, 3 August 2017

A Walk in the Park

We never really forget the people we try to forget, because we're too preoccupied with the thought of forgetting them that they just stay in our minds, engraved into our memories by our own slavish labour.

Then you walk through a flowering field one summer, dazed by the sunlight:

Ah, what am I doing here? Did I forget to look at the flowers again, only up, up, up at the clear sky? 

But what you are searching for isn't clarity-- you're actually looking for the Sun. Can you see it? Can't you see it? Right there. Though you know, you can never catch sight of it. Just like that, the only star in your world is one you are unable to recognise.

In the heat, even past memories melt. The sweat that trickles down the nape of your neck, if you look close enough, you could see the suspended image of a time you wish you'd never experienced. While drying yourself with the pages of a novel, a passage reminds you of your own past; a shared name, a common feeling, that familiar song... Now they give words to YOUR unfading thoughts.

Ah, I'm only here because I want to keep on walking. 

Monday, 10 July 2017

Boundaries of Appearances

I don't know how many of you are women. Then again, is there even anybody reading, except for a proofreading me.

This month's expulsion of unwanted tissue comes with an extreme emotional weight that, as my walls waste away in preparation for their exit, swells by each passing night until my flesh and blood is replaced by its body of dark gelatin.

Perhaps, in the last 30 days, I've exposed my vulnerability far past its limit, my limit.

When an empty vessel accepts the flowing atmosphere of postivity into its vacuum, sealing every crack with promising optimism, the substance of its natural creation will react to this foreign invasion of a pleasant nature and eventually neutralise its perceived intentions. The clay that I am molded from is an active antibody against happiness. Do you know the metaphysical properties of dead happiness?

On a summer night I sit with my back against the door of a suburban complex outside München listening to Arctic Monkeys. Helplessly, I let my cells be replaced, taken over by the active seeds of a parasitic negativity. As it weakens my heart, every numbing thump is a false dream of anticipating the very last heartbeat and waking up from this life.

Even a chameleon is a colour of its own, despite its ability to adapt.


The comfort of an overpriced bowl of Bingsu is craved near midnight, in a foreign country of fried meat, potato, and fermented cereal grains.

Closing my eyes, I wish the loneliness would ignore me, as I ignore it.

Being spontaneous in ways that are morally discouraged, I fear that my death would come just as well. One day when the wind is blowing, I might look out the window and wonder how it is like to dive, into nothing.

Why do I not believe in the argument that a youthful death is a wasted life? Aren't I wasting life, more of it, by staying alive? You know, I want to cry, and call my parents, and ask them why I need to stay alive, but I'm scared that they'll be sad. In this sense, I'm totally alone. I don't want them to feel more burdened than they already do. But I have no choice. I'm not fine.

Friday, 23 June 2017


Somehow, I've found myself wandering into a din for old men which smells as run down as the ages of those who frequent this establishment. The interior though, reminiscent of an old ship and marine fantasies, remind me of my similarly furnished Sims bungalow. Nodding to the music here as old men whistle along to the tune, why does my mood run along the same wavelength with that of retired German men? Ah, the age of my soul cannot be saved.

Menus displayed outside the restaurant, written in especially big font, is one way to capture the curiosity of a passing tourist. There, you've just earned yourself 12 Euros.

If ever, one would like to open a German restaurant, all they need would be meat, potatoes, and beer. Germans are walking sacks of alcohol infused Bratkartoffeln.

On the other hand, their bread is magnificent. Coming from an Asian who despises bread and would rather starve than be forced to receive bread out of sheer hunger, the quality of German pastry is truly worthy of praise, like their cars. Overall, their attention to detail when it comes to baking and making cars attributes them with the quality of good kitchen slaves. But of course, the air of entitlement about each and every one of their heads would suffocate even Pride reincarnated.

It is my opinion that German men are more interested in cars and potatoes than they are in women. Either that or they just drive very nice cars, alone. Often there'd be old couples in eye-turning sports cars driving past Königsallee. They must have worked hard in their youth.

Sad, that the population is facing a shortage of babies. Self-satisfaction leaves nothing to be sated after all. In my loneliness, the mechanics of a German lifestyle would refine my apathy until at long last, the tears I shed are of diamonds.

Ah, I could save myself from hurt like that.

Whenever I see a German on a bicycle, I think: this one is a Dutch import. Het spijt me, es tut mir leid, I've offended both cousins at once, twice.

Temporal Men

What I'd been missing for a long time was a connection with whom my burst of poetic sensitivity would please the hour before bed, and the moment after sunrise.  At one point during our short-lived encounter, you told me... What does it matter what you had said, if they were but perfunctory courtesies of an uneventful exit.

Composing good morning and good night texts is one of my favourite pastimes. Especially for the designated one who I am able to bond with through sensitivity and letters. Leider nicht, ich habe niemand gefunden.

I tried again, with this one, of exceptionally meagre words. To say the least, none was appreciated, and I had only succeeded in knocking over a full bottle of confusion over his head.

Happiness is only a one-night affair if more than a one-night affair was what I sought. How did it become a month-long affair when the initial plan was to hit, miss, and run? I cannot be the only one who feels as though we should have been satisfied with the very first encounter and kept its shock in a shell as a vivid reminer of Spring mistakes. Greed has now made us indifferent to the beauty of that night's sky, lit by the explosion of a thousand blooming flowers.

He is not the one, that much I know.

You could have very well been the one. Though I can now say that I finally understand the pain that had cut your heartstrings.

The new moon is the body made of unfulfilled dreams. Together in the void, our vast silence of heartache recuperates while the storm brings a rain to moisten our spent dreams. Ah, I wish you could reach my soul as you have my heart.

Monday, 19 June 2017

Fear of...

There is nobody to talk to, so I'm here now. Do you think you could hear me out, and help me? Even a pat on the back will do, or a knock on the crown of my head. Even a light slap across the cheek will do.

I think I am quite incapable of love.

Seeing him again, I now understand the difference between a person who is loved and a person who is trapped. In the four years we have been together, I do not think I've seen a smile as bright as the one he wears these days. Perhaps I only thought I had loved him, when in reality, I am a person with no love to give.

Maybe that's why I always end up alone.

I've met someone new too, who I really like. But I'm scared. I'm not sure whether I am able to pick up another stone and start building another fortress only for it to wear down as a result of my own negligence.

The truth is always clammed up. Only sighs follow the silence and silence follows the long sighs. I'm tired.

Why do I have to be so serious all the time? To make up for the void, as if I am of a substance that is not empty.

What do I want?

When there is nobody to stretch my soul to its breaking point, I am perfectly fine in my bubble of solitude. Because there is no need to think of my shortcomings as a lover, and the lack of love that exists in my heart.

Right now, I am flying a kite in the summer breeze. By the ocean I run with its thread, the sun in my eyes that I can barely see. Before long the breeze would turn into the wind that blows it farther up into the sky, further out to sea until it is swallowed by the horizon where the two meet.

Sunday, 11 June 2017

So Früh am Sonntag

Es ist nur 6AM. Warum stand ich so früh auf, besonders am einem Sonntag? Ich weiß das auch nicht. Schlief ich gestern früh dann? Nee. Ich schlief um 2. Vier Stunden ist nicht genug. Ich weiß aber jetzt kann ich nicht mehr schlafen, als die Sonne schon im Himmel ist.

Das Bett ist nicht meinem Bett. Wo bin ich? Ha-ha. Willst du das wissen? Ich glaube, nein. Ein Mann schläfst noch neben mir.

Was mache ich? Was machte ich? Ja, wie weiß? Vielleicht suchte ich ein Gefühl, das ich vergessen habe. Obwohl ist es neue, dieses Gefühl. Und ich lerne noch, wie muss ich fallen.

Ich kam, um ihn zu treffen. Wir wollen am unser Wochenende zusammen bleiben. Eh... Das W-LAN hier ist super!

Soll ich schlafe noch? Oder... Warum habe mir kalt? Draußen ist es 24 Grad! Ich möchte ihn knuddeln, um warm auf meiner Haut zu fühlen.

Na ja. Ich soll einem Buch lesen. Männer ohne Frauen von Murakami.

Schönen Tag noch.

Sunday, 28 May 2017

Emotional Release with Material Possessions and Stalking Obsessions

With age, tension piles up and up. At the same time, relief-options available to the autonomous adult also increases. If once upon a time the helplessly frustrated child could only bawl and roll on the cold floor, then now, as an adult, it could have a Caraoke session while cruising down the empty highway at 1AM. The few cars that speed alongside my accelerating case of loneliness, are they out here with no direction as well? Ah, if only they are also trying to abandon their ghosts in the wind. Do I really want to know? But the number of individuals who live in isolation here, a city where self-inflicted loneliness is the only known companionship, is much greater than we think.

What song was it? Where have I heard it? That every passing car-- I search for you in every passing car. Fabrication plays an integral role in attraction and it is my version of you that I am obsessed with, not your real self, whoever you are. Silly, isn't it? To be in love with nothing but an image, not even a reflection. Yet this empty obsession is capable of stirring the waters that just wish to stay as still as the glass surface of an unmoving lake.

I say I drive with no direction but the compass that is my heart steers us to you, and this aimless journey to soothe a troubled mind was without a doubt taken to clear my head of you, only you.

How do you get rid of something that doesn't exist? I can't just throw you away because you're intangible. Even in my head, you are the shadow of a fog that encircles my wreath of spring blossoms. Your un-existence, the uncertainty born out of it, is the poison that is killing this Scorpio. To yearn for the companionship of another scorpion is to wish for a duel until one of us is utterly broken. Profound understanding comes with a price that is not worth exposing our flesh for.

As I leave you behind after going round and round in circles on sleeping streets, I think, I have come to terms with the Sandman that wishes to bury your fading fabrication in a flurry of dreams that promises a tomorrow you can never bring.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Loose Ends

Ties, once cut, become loose ends that dangle aimlessly in the abyss where life's clutter is refused. To have thought that relationships could be severed in absolution, that the end meant what had been would cease to exist, was undoubtedly shallow. Now, I wake up haunted by these ribbons of decaying connections as they spread the pores of stale remorse through the allies of my mind.

Memories, unfulfilled desires, lingering hope, bashful thoughtlessness and irrevocable stupidity-- these are the intricacies of a severed connection one cannot rid of. At best, they are suppressed and forgotten as we seek out newer connections to ruin; the debris of a more recent pain piling up upon the old ones that have started to numb.

Have my number, add me on Facebook, here's my email. The careless irrationality that follows the initial fervour of building something new is the child that throws a tantrum after seeing every desirable toy at the toy store. Its noise blocks out the composed advice of a sound superego and lets the id take full charge in making decisions for the ego. How this ends for the unthinking being is that relationships are seen as void and meaningless, which should be taken for granted. Loose ends never seem to bother these people, for their breath only leaves condensation upon the surface of their conscious realisation.

What is the point of cutting ties when they can be mended without being sewn? Sending an instant message to the other would have already rejoined the connection one strained to tear at a certain point in their lives. Of course, communication is two-way and a response is required for a connection to be considered a success, but the sheer convenience of being able to connect and re-connect at any given point in time makes the reality of loose ends all the more unbearable. For one, loose ends become a more concrete existence because connectivity in an age of constant connection is impossible to ignore.

Should I isolate myself and live as a hermit in my closed circle of stable relationships? The disappointment I have been shot with when forging new connections these past months has wounded me too greatly. In gentle convalescence, I wrap my body of insecurities in a blanket that still carries the scent of sunlight and let the pain felt by an abused heart bleed out as it acquiesce in spending time hardening in solitude.

Friday, 19 May 2017

Friday Morning

Waking up, I had to nap away the excitement of a Shoujo's heart. Perhaps the caffeine finally took effect on my retarded body eight hours later, but I couldn't sleep during the night as I waited for my conscious thoughts of you to fade into the unconscious, that I may kiss your hand upon meeting you for the first time.

Did I see you? Of course I didn't. Dreams are rarely dreamt according to our conscious desires. However, a connection was made nonetheless: of the inherent disappointment underlying the thin cloud that is our relationship. Even in my dreams I sigh and choke on the dust that is the despaired remains of a hope unable to thrive in both fantasy and reality. If even the core of my existence understands that you are not a possibility, then how does brute determination resonate? My, I need to stop looking at you.

For breakfast, I made myself a lukewarm cup of chocolate mixed with two teaspoons of oat. Drinking the diluted concoction while forcing spoonfuls of oat down my throat, the irony of this miserable situation aroused the urge to laugh in depravity at adulthood: here I am gulping down a drink I prepared out of necessity when I neither like chocolate nor oats. The thought of unlocking the front door and stepping outside in a rehearsed air of pretension deterred me from going out to enjoy a proper breakfast-- I would much rather starve inside this concrete cocoon if it meant that I wouldn't have to put on an act.

Time's up. The morning's over.

It's time to don on dresses, put on a smile, and resume the role of a functioning being in the mundane order of society.

By the Sea

T. Batik

I drove along the road deserted by many after the days of their childhood to hear of the water's loneliness as it swallowed the shore in its sorrow.

The crashing waves remind me that rage only becomes regretful foam that begs for gentle forgiveness. 


Voices of a storm that threaten us from the echoes of breaking waves are but hollow cries of a pride too proud to acknowledge its wounds. 


Receding tides of the sea: a representation of unrequited feelings creeping home to the deep of my emotions.


To the child of a man whose sweat and tears travel along the rolling waves, the wind that carries the salt is like the unspoken love of a father. 


I can sit for hours and listen to the waves rage, because in their wailing, my love for you drowns. 



Thursday, 18 May 2017


Leaving leaves the butterflies flustered and they soon drop dead, their powdered wings infecting my lungs as the farewell Gift of a parting that is shaped by imaginary borders and non-existent seasons. The further we traveled, the more they pleaded me to turn back; let them suckle on the daydreams that would sustain their parasitic vanity. Ah, the whispers of their coy deception-- no matter how much nectar they promised me, I bit my lip and watched the landscape disappear. If it were up to me, I wouldn't have refused their request to feed on my naked body as they drug me with the prospect of lies that a numbed rationality is unable to discern. Bearing the violence of their protest, I am carried away by the will of a sister oblivious to the tear of my desires.

Take me home, country road... 

Torn, I bid the self I didn't know I'd lost farewell. Of the past that is only yesterday, it is now as blind as the faith of one's unseeing heart.

Wednesday, 17 May 2017



"Even though there is nothing that you know about xx-- how ca--"




"Wo ist dein Gehirn?"


"Weißt du das? Hast du etwas gedacht? Blöd."

"Hey, it is too harsh like this."

"Nur für sie! Ihr Herz ist zu empfindlich und sie gebraucht nicht ihren Kopf!"


"Stimmt das."

"It's not untrue..."


"That is up to you to decide."



Unfolding Impatience

Slurping noodles, and the knot between the brows tied by a thumping heart in a clamour of troubles. Feeling the pull of gravity, the hooks that have pierced my lips reel them towards the ground, naturally. The constant state of agony in which I live leaves creases etched into my skin, and if you would bother tracing those fine lines with your fingers, you would unfold a stream of anguished possibilities, disfigured by unspoken restrictions.

Would the latter half of this year truly be better? That could only mean one of two things: I have been reassured by assurances, or I have woken up the repressed consciousness that completes my existence. I wonder which is which, aha. By this weekend, I would like to know if you are a stone worth the weight. If up until now I have felt the feathers of my wings and you are the rain that keeps me from spreading them, then I can only pretend as if you are but the calmest weather in which summer breezes are infatuated with.

Know this: You are but a choice. Lonely as I am, to be reduced to beggary by one who does not look at me willingly is an impossibility my pride will defend. Even if the truth has been refused all along, I just want to hear you say it.

Monday, 15 May 2017

Loss, Leaves

How can one lose what has never been theirs to call their own? Is it possible for loss when there was no gain in the first place? Then why do I feel sad when I see falling leaves being carried away by the blowing wind, when they were never mine to begin with? Though it may still be Spring, the leaves have turned an Autumn red.

And it burns me, all the same. The compression of a tightening chest, a veil of doubt over my eyes, and the storm-clouds that prompt the simultaneous opening of umbrellas in a narrow alleyway-- I cannot even find myself within myself. All there is now, is a rain of weeping leaves: the essence of you, stained by the dewdrops left over from a fantasy come undone.

The tears, not even the salt water of the Sea-- none can wash away the amber hue of the Spring leaves that have burnt before they can be plucked; such is the haste in which my touch conveys.

If I lay myself to rest in this rain that is indifferent to the pain which accompanies piercing bullets, then I will eventually wake up in the winter where the apathy of white snow has already bleached the Autumn leaves a colourless grey.

Wednesday, 10 May 2017



All these matches and I still can't manage to spark a flame.


Because all the left turns I've chosen has made me realise that you are the only one my eyes will see, the only one I can look at truthfully.


Why is it the way it is, when you have done nothing to gain my affection?


In the first place, it was your being that captivated me: the way you write, your thoughts, and the sense of shared loneliness of hearts bound to paper trials from the minds of others. My affection wasn't yours to control, it was mine to give, involuntarily. If it troubles your cold soul to be touched by the warmth of my affection, then please don't stroke me with the teases from a semantic field selective of misunderstandings and a fantasy without its skeleton.


Most honoured poison of my heart, you are your own antidote. Inject me with the venom of your bitterness as I cry out into the night, pained with a satisfaction bound by regret that I am to part with the falling leaves of Autumn. Consumed by the fire of discretion that welcomes your delicate wings, you leave me as the ashes of a fallen King, undeserving of the blessing shed by tears of fragile innocence.


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

My Thoughts End with You

If you are familiar with this potato, you would know that I cannot ingest alcohol because I'd explode and become baked potato. Re-visiting what I had written last night, I would like to exclaim "IT WASN'T ME!" but I really did write what I wrote, though only half conscious. Was I drunk then? If one could become blue from fatigue, then bloody sure! I hadn't asked someone to go fuck themselves in so long, both in person and in writing so I apologise for my returning crudeness-- that is no way for a pretentious bourgeois to express displeasure. Ah, what else can I do? I am petty in the end, with my feeble heart that breaks even from its own beating.

Today's theme? But before that, I'd like to say that yesterday's dream was fulfilled: I went for a 3-hour karaoke session! Incomplete as it were without the songs of my beloved Jay, the tradition of straining my vocal chords to the songs from the glory days of Linkin Park was upheld. 3-hours may seem like a long time, but it's only enough to scrape away the skin of the frustration you were there to kill. And so, while she went for round #2, I left with the giggling frustration that recuperates in mockery, rooted to my stomach. By now, I'm already battling the tides that are the reason for my hair loss. Ooh, how they spit their sweet curses in my face!

Today's theme we'll leave for tomorrow; supper interrupted.

Certain places, if not for the decision and company of those I dine with, you would not see me in. Dining, surrounded by filth in the night reminds me of the culture which I came back for. But why would I miss such practices if I rarely indulge in them myself? Thinking about it now, perhaps it's the sleepless freedom in t-shirts and shorts that I wanted though I only own two pairs of linen shorts and rarely wear t-shirts. While it is true that I am much happier now back in the Motherland, I wonder if I hadn't thrown away the possibility of a life more indulgent in the arts. Other than theatre, there are alternatives to be found.

No, I certainly would have killed myself.

Mind games, heart twisters, scripted tongues, and encrypted rejection-- such is the way of one who thinks himself noble. There is no easy rejection for it is never meant to be pleasant. The lighter you intend the damage to be, the heavier it will weigh. In order to be merciful, hope must be left to waste away little by little, but as hope builds with time, the intensity of which can never be surpassed by the gentle peeling of its protective film through painless revelation, the ideal process of a tearless parting falls back on itself. That is what it is, only ideal, and never for one moment possible in reality.

Ah, for a moment, you made me believe you were a banana whose body would disintegrate into sparse clouds that litter a hopeless sky. But you are already the Moon whose cold gaze can only be felt in the dark when pretenses are put to rest. This moth was only drawn to the melancholy brilliance of your glow and wished to taste the mist that is your air, but I drowned as I kissed your reflection upon the salt water you have charmed.

Monday, 8 May 2017

The Weekend Work Rant


Today at work, a Japanese family came in and I thought I should put my language skills to good use on-- of all the people I could have spoken to-- a little girl no more than five. Perhaps the stray hair on my head appeared to her as the snakes a top a Gorgon's head, for she was paralysed and could barely whimper. She managed an awkward nod after I asked 「ええと...すみません、でもあなたは日本人ですか。」

The tension that froze her petite frame infected my consciousness a little later, the intimidating adult looking down at a confused little being. Struggling to fix the situation, I made it worse by churning out more questions in terrible grammar and finally in English until she ran back to her mother.

I'm glad I'll never see that family again.

Maybe, just maybe, she was confused as to why a yellow non-Japanese pig could converse in Japanese. Maybe, I'm just that scary. Ahhh! I should have talked to the お母さん❗

This embarrassing episode is keeping me awake. Believe me, I want to sleep. What else is new? Loneliness? That's already a part of me.

If he doesn't look like Gong Yoo, he isn't the one for me! I could live out the rest of my days in depravity surrounded by fluff, tuft, and stuff, I suppose. Hmm... TaoBao will always be there for me, unfortunately. With the amount of clothes I own, I could set up my own boutique.

What do I make of sweetness and nose kisses? Of bachelors and lies coated in white chocolate? Everytime I say I won't go back, my phone vibrates to reveal the torture that is your text. Fuck you for leading me on and on, though I suppose, I'm fine with a fantasy laced with poison-- it will be the last Gift that determines our death to each other.

I really don't know what you want and at this point, I'm too afraid to even ask. Suppose I should be thick-skinned; to hell with subtlety and sophistication! The crudeness of peasant demands in all its rustic simplicity will surely arouse the distaste napping at the tip of your tongue. If I lose, I only have to lose once, just this once. As it were, I hate losing and I'm far too proud to settle as anything less victorious. I will dance with you, until my feet rot in its own sweat.

I dream of peaceful walks and quiet afternoons with you. But now I just want to go up the hill and scream into the distance "FUUUUUUUUUCK YOOOUUUUU! I HOPE YOU BREAK YOUR EVERYTHING, YOU PIECE OF TRASH!

I would like to say it's not your fault but make your intention clear at least.

Too sleepy. Goodnight.

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Rage of the Hormones

Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. FINE!

If I am not the one you hope to see when the bell rings, then when you turn around to have your expectations shattered by the unsightly embodiment of disappointment that is my existence, please do not hold back the vomit you wish to expel. In all its putrid honesty, truth will never be lacking. I would rather experience this extreme shame once and never hear from you again than to live with the impatience that irk me from day to day due to your insolent nature. You think you can dissolve in the noise of everyday routine but I will never forgive you. And do you know why so many people come and go? You do. You have reduced my heart to pity and it is from pity that my love was born, because like a time before this, I wanted to save you-- the usual fantasy of a woman who cannot live for herself.

"Wouldn't it be better if you stopped going for *** guys? I mean, they don't work out for you..."

But the strong repel me and I shun their every advance. Something about undeserved satisfaction shakes the foundation my principals are built on, which is why I prefer to suffer. Then again, I suffer because both the other and myself are lacking: the other lacks what I truly desire and likewise I lack what the other desires. It isn't sad,  it's just the way things are. A pity, isn't it? Hah! One shouldn't waste their attention on something as trivial as human relationships.

I want to sulk at the bookstore. Touching the pages comforts me and the money spent will make my heart ache more than you do.

There needs to be more karaoke sessions.

Friday, 5 May 2017

Much Unnecessary, Very Love

You know, when you say you love me and walk close to me so that our sleeves may touch, I actually think that you love me, as a woman and not just a friend. Am I overthinking, again? Your innocence doesn't allow you to love me any other way, I'm sure of it, but I can't help but wonder sometimes if you would forsake your faith just this once. Of course not. You have never missed one Sunday since.

Please, I do not mean to say that I am unhappy with your words. Only, they hurt me in a way they should not, as if you are teasing me with hope that you feel the same way. Maybe, just maybe, you see my desires too.

I'm sorry. I didn't intend to trouble you with my confession. If I could be as shameless when it comes to clinging onto somebody physically, I would have hugged your delicate arms a long time ago. I would do so, but we both know I'm far too proud. It would be unnatural if I linked my arms with yours the next time we go out.

Always the couple seat, but never a couple. Please lean a little closer next time.


Thursday, 4 May 2017


I dreamt that I was drowning. The only voice I could hear was my own, a retarded echo of names which floated away in the body of untroubled bubbles as if repelled by my desperation. Desperation...? 


That is right, what could I possibly be hoping for when I have already decided to float in the current until the end of my consciousness? Why, is my feeble arm outstretched, as if I could catch a bubble and leave this depth. Perhaps I only want to show you that I still think there is a reason worth holding on to in a life that is only loved by the moral conscience of detached independence. Even when I am welcomed by death before my time, I could only think of living to appease the tears one should never shed. Can I not breathe for myself, not even once?

If I cried in this ocean, my sadness would only become a part of the beauty behind a picturesque sunset. Then, I have to ask myself: do I want my tears to be noticed? Who knows. Indecisive as I am, whether or not I am saved, I would be grateful either way.

Sing to me as my memories turn to foam so that I may lose myself in song instead of sorrow. 


Wednesday, 3 May 2017

Masochistic Porcelain

Please, don't be Sang-woo and let me be Bum who crawls after you, suffering in my own fantasy, supplied by the meager attention you bother to throw my way. It worries me, how I could find happiness in such torment, that I would sooner mar my innocent hands with the blood you've spilled than have you tell me you've no need of me. Fear and admiration on my part amplifies the value of your vulnerability, making it all the more worthwhile.

I think, I like being hurt.

I think, I like it when you suffocate me.

I think, I like it when I am at your mercy.

I think, I like it when you love me.

Break me, and I will be whole again.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Sinking Cocobolo

Since that day, it has already been decided. Whether or not I was conscious during the moment my heart was removed, the fact that it is no longer mine remains the same. Its departure is here to remind me of an emptiness brought on by the impatience to confront the future-- audacious, for one who does not wield the powder to even see through a day.

Stepping on the toes of one who in the first place was not to cross my path, I have meddled again with the patience belonging to the seamstress of fate. Just when I have loosened the last noose she had tightened around my neck, filling  my lungs with the air of a dignified pride, happy, I fall into a delirium that leaves me equally trapped:

Let us bleed together as we drag each other through this garden of thorns without roses. The union of our blood will carry me down its steady stream, back to where my heart beats. There, on its lone island of fancy, I shall sleep with it and sink back into the sea of indifference, becoming nothing more than a myth.

And so the second day of May begins. Only 29 days left before the door closes and the memory of me echoes like the faint click of a disappearing lock.

Monday, 1 May 2017

Liquid Dreams

With the intention to hurt, they come.

How does one believe in the utterances made by another when it has already been decided beforehand that they are meaningless sounds of speech? Perhaps, there is truth to everything, but perspectives are rarely exchanged and one's unpleasant disposition will always emerge victorious against the sound voice of reason. There, we have insecurity raising its concerns, incessantly.

Acceptance is at first glance an inability to see beyond what is given. Pride says that acceptance must always come last, but must it be this way, for everything? Why can't acceptance be the bold soul that thrives, but the naive child that only follows? If I could do so, either way, I'd end up wounded on a shore of crystallized salt.

Was there a trace of the past in what I saw as the new, a physical embodiment of what was oddly familiar? Threads of my history come undone and weave themselves into an intricate mistake reminiscent of a candle flame that signifies faltering regrets. The essence of spring may be purged through pained fires again, until the water of the Yangtze returns to kiss the very first petal it had forgotten.

If it is impossible to cut through flowing water, then let the maze of my heart be of streams and rivers, that your tongue may not tease out the insanity that sleeps in peace.

Thursday, 27 April 2017





How do I begin?

Where do I begin?, I am thinking too much, as usual. The thoughts that were going through my head while you were curious about my approach, they were of you. Perhaps you only wanted to know, out of curiosity, as a woman, how a 21-year-old female who lacks interest in relationships would approach someone of interest: I don't. Not that I find them all distasteful, I just prefer to keep the possibilities of what could have been safe inside the bubble of my imagination. With you, I cannot bear to make an exception either. The date of your departure draws near as our year at the University comes to an end. I will not say goodbye, but neither will I tell you that I want you, when due dates and exams demand our time and attention. It would be terribly selfish of me, really.

Of course, you could have meant nothing by it. It's all in my head, to fancy having your attention. Like you said, if you were interested in somebody, you would outright ask them if they would like to go out with you. Ah, the fact that you didn't speak a word of it to me afterwards is like a slap of cold water smack in the middle of my face.

Back in reality, the conversation that took place was nothing but one of hopeless desolation belonging to two 21-year-olds who lack a touch of romance in their campus lives.

It is time I stopped this nonsense and let my heart hibernate through the season-- enough of unrequited feelings. Surely, the summer will come with an air humid as the sweat that trickles down my breasts.

Wednesday, 26 April 2017

Tee Träume

Tee. Kamillentee.

And I am taken back to a time where my days were marked by the spells of a dream. Eventually, Dornröschen wakes up after a very, very long sleep. Are memories past still relevant after having slept for a century? Only yesterday were we clad in the joy of perfect denial, which now... As the dust fall away with the eyelids that blink, only the imperceptible particles remain to toy with our perception that once upon a time, other than ourselves, something very real had shared our breath.

Life is but a dream...

Perhaps there is some truth in that. For what are memories, if not distant dreams? The recollection of the bittersweet past, whose pain is sweetened by the filter of a fading longing, leaves one shivering by the lake on a calm Wednesday afternoon. Does the hair on my skin fear for the day the final grains of sand slip through the grasp of my remembrance? My weakening resolve to stop its untroubled departure emboldens the melancholy that sings to me.

Returning to a time where Tee was still spellt Thee for me, the sensation of stinging tears from the last performance of my subconscious feels not any less tangible than the fine sprays of the fountain that remind me of the here and now, of the loneliness the wind never fails to complement.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Procrastinating after Procrastinating

Do you think that if I had brought all the wards home, I'd be safe from disappointment? Perhaps ten of them pasted on my door would symbolize a web that catches false hopes and repels them back to hell. 

I may look cute in bangs but I have compromised the health of my forehead. I haven't felt this many potential pimple spawns since the peak of puberty mixed with marching band sweat. Perhaps I am overthinking, but I feel as if I should keep my hair out of my face even if it makes me look like a shiny-egg potato. Ah, I need a new kind of hair accessory. 

At this point in time, I should really be sleeping, or transcribing a classroom conversation, but I'm not. The day has long gone and my virtual cat, Shiba Inu, and monkey specifically reminded me that I should use the day to prepare for the next! But instead I went out for free food, sipped some alcohol and came home depressed. Such is the life of a fine procrastinator. 

Take me home afterwards. 

Monday, 24 April 2017

Forgetting How to Breathe on a Fabricated Afternoon


Again I find myself buried in the dirt. Did I dig this hole while I was sleeping? The weight on my chest makes it hard to breathe, and I think, I'm breaking, again. Too many commas? I'm out of breath. Barely awake during the day, I slip away unnoticed and lose the knowledge of how one breathes: in and out, in and out and out and out and out...

Dragged through the streets, what is there to be hurt about, when silk robes have already turned into bare skin? Go on, paint my naked body with insults and the colours of your void. For me, there is nothing left to bear, and my acquiescence simply reflects the will to love I once had-- you cannot break an empty shell with piercing arrows aimed at the heart.

Chocolate suits me not.

The dresses I wear remind me of the burden expectations place. I spread the ashes of beauty upon my shoulders in hopes that I am not seen past the capitalistic illusion that I wear. If this is all but real, then why should I hope to become rooted in the lies of a fabricated afternoon? The permanence of such reveries lives on in the heart that yearns, where the veins of reality are severed. Truth, in all it's circumstances, is turned away by the weak, and the listless strong who have lost all reason.

The bitterness of chocolate suits me not.

Bring me to a flowering field and I will kiss the very first petal that grazes my flushed cheeks.

Sunday, 23 April 2017


Under the glow of the starless sky, I brought you home, my child. Vowed that I would love you and give you the life you deserve for the rest of your days, in a space that's wide, with the seeds that you adore. 

How you run around and climb around, body touching the ground, an unlikely escape artist-- you surprise me, and you pee on me. Mama loves you. Mama loved you. Everyday, Mama would announce her return and hope to hear your little paws push away the cushions and come to your senses: Moonchild, Moonchild, Moonchild! As if you would understand Mama's happiness and worries as you gleefully accept sunflower seed after sunflower seed pinched between Mama's fingers. 

Sometimes, I wonder if you did. 

Stroking you, I'd tease you, say I'd stop feeding you. Oh, whoever said my child is overweight! Nonsense! This lovely boy must not starve. 


Even the Moon that once took pity on me has called her child back to her side. Is it time to become whole, alone? Where you would watch, with her grace, how my love for you can be born again as the love for myself. A death such as yours, can only mean that I am unworthy of giving love and being loved. If only I had closed the door, you'd still be running on the wheel. 

Your eyes that were always closed are now blank with fear, wide open in death.  

Saturday, 22 April 2017


In which society was this metaphor born? Barely understanding it myself, I'm glad that you wouldn't grasp it just as well. All this talk about the drought, and the fertilizer called dignity in which the dewdrops of heaven are still retained-- what does it take for a ripening apricot to be plucked by delicate hands? Ah, even if it is left hanging under the nine-and-ninety Suns that fight for dominance in the over-crowded sky, won't the birds at least peck at it, out of sheer instinct exacerbated by an unending drought? A dried apricot is a snack beloved by children.

Drink I may, but the taste of water cannot satisfy the insatiable thirst of a soul deprived of life. Like the damned that lust after the lustre of a life untouched by sin, I yearn for the touch of a feather that I feel from within. 

In this dry land, how come none would cry out for help? With parched tongues hidden behind honey-glazed lips that are sealed, we bow to each other as if we were just as great as before. 

Sometimes I worry that my frustration is the incubator of a stillborn experience. If it continues to flourish, ふたなりになるよ~

Friday, 21 April 2017

Gentle Breeze

Tonight, I come as the blowing wind that knocks against your frosty windowpane, lighter than your breath yet heavier than the air you breathe. Will you walk towards my call in the dark and place your palm upon the glass, that I may feel your warmth? Should you decide to let me in on this night, it is I who will blow the frost into your lungs.

Does it hurt?

Feel my weight but not my touch, my words but not what's intended-- wird alles gut.

I am the wind that travels without the grace of angels, seeking only to kiss the cheek of those I encounter. By tomorrow, even the dust that I have put in your hair will have returned to me as we float on away, with the time we are denied.

Wednesday, 19 April 2017


The heart of a lioness eventually reveals itself for it is too bold for a shape-shifting cat to ever hope to disguise. Hopes that a platter should be served before her can only exist in a reverie born on a distant chord of Fate. As it is, her subjects may bow before her, but never serve her in the way a queen cannot tolerate. Is not a queen meant to be served? Only adored as she roars. This innate fire that is beyond the control of she who is born with it, will it eventually bring a glorious death doused in the flames of pride?

Confidence in the coy skill that blesses a successful hunt: should the death of a prey be celebrated?

The dominance that wishes to be drowned when bodies are submerged in a pond of purity under the moonlit sky, will surely clothe its bearer again once normality resumes. A mountain will only bow when the anger of Poseidon summons unfaltering waves, taller.

Humility is a quality that cannot be forged in a heart bound by pride. Corrupted by the Whispers, one cannot hope to regain the sanity in which destruction was never sought.

Geddon, I summon thee to light up the path I must walk to ascend the throne of the Firelord. May our flames bring solace to the carcasses that cry during my ascension, fading into the breath of Hades. The rain shall never drop, not even once.

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

Questions of the Shape-shifting Cat

"Enlightenment? You know nothing of enlightenment!"


If I am the one who comes knocking, I'd ask to read together, aloud. Because I miss the days I used to speak lines that aren't mine while infusing them with my own emotions. Why can I not be Pyotr Petrovich in all his male crudeness masked by an air of self-importance? I would love to be angered by myself and speak as Lebezyatnikov.

Could nobody offer me such musings?

To laugh together on a sofa with much pretension, will the moment come, where we shed the skin of who we are not before I bid you Gute Nacht? Is even the disguise of a dignified kitten not enough to sway the impossibility of the phantom that you are? If one only takes on a role, who are we acting for on this stage, before an audience that is only a mirror? While truth is woven into the intention of she who comes knocking in the night, can the same be said of the partner that offers his hand to dance?

Feeling our way out of reality, only in our imagination can we exist.

Will the door be answered on the third night of the storm?

A Cat Knocks

Hey, about dinner, I lied.

When you called to offer some Ramen, I told you I'd eat on my own at the fast-food restaurant; not to worry, I'll go after I'm done with work. You, with a body weaker than mine, were worried, for my sake. Even now, I can imagine you sitting at your desk with the air purifier by your side, your pale face focused, yet equally blank, writing into the night with the belief that I had taken care of myself.

At the time, I did not lie-- truth is merely temporal as I've recently found out.

I thought of the emptiness and bright lights in the middle of the night. So unnatural, drawing me towards it, an impatient moth who wanted to reach the skies without flying. Then I looked at myself and reminisced the lonely nights spent at an establishment that smells of grease and children's disease, still thinking that the moment of happiness brought on by intimacy will surely be preserved. Really, I wanted to sit there in my unused hoodie and cup my hands around a paper cup of warmth. It has been a while since I dressed the way I felt, wanting to be absorbed by the body of woven cotton until my sweat is the only trace left of me. Everyday, I don on the petals of another flower so the bees would continue to tell me good morning.

Now, in the midst of a quiet evening, a cat knocks on the door. Welcomed is it, into a home that smells of yesterday's ambiguity. There is a fire burning and steamed milk has just been had, while warm blankets are on offer. Strange, how the TV is on. Stranger, how the TV exists. And it asks without the humility of a cat if it could sleep on the master's lap. Tender caresses that purr into dreams, will I ever feel your fingers run through my hair on a night our souls are as calm as this? For a moment you had me believe that our comfort was shared, and that together we could erode in the passing wind of uncertainty.

An echo chimes with the dancing sleeves of the ribbon that come undone from times past: if only you'd let me know that you want me too... 

Perhaps Fate really enjoys drawing circles by the shore.

Sunday, 16 April 2017



Even now, what is so simple cannot be translated. Context cannot be understood by a program and what has been written by a poet long dead cannot be grasped by those who are oblivious towards a life better spent than ours.

Warum ist es Blut und nicht das Wasser vom Meer? Habe ich noch mehr zo viele Rot? Wie lange kann ich dich sehen und wie lange kann ich stehen? Noch nicht, noch nicht! Es ist zu früh. Mein Herz brennt noch. Aber jetzt kommst der Regen, und mit die Wolken kann ich zu einem fernen Traum fliegen. Dort würde ich hoffentlich das Meer küssen.



What kills me now is he, whose intentions are hidden behind the stories we write.

Apologies, with Salt

I am embarrassed by yesterday's post. You may look at it again now, as I have finally removed all the typos I've made while writing with my eyes closed. To think that I managed to make so many mistakes in that one short post, what will possibly happen to my next essays if I keep this waking-game up?

Principals. Serphents. Entertwined: I must have been asleep when I wrote it.

Just in case you thought I was stoopid and didn't pass my speling tests in kindergarten, I needed to shove your condescending chuckles back down your throat. Now, swallow them, you swine!

Recently, because I've been too lazy to press the eject button and rummage through the overweight locker of Pinky-Pink, I have started listening to RHCP again. They are gratifying, I suppose. Sometimes, the lyrics aren't important, but the way the tune makes you feel. Ah~

Intellectuals are intimidating. I wonder where I stand? I'm not an intellectual nor am I a plebian.

I should come up with a better name for my car.

Kafka, oh Kafka, I'm not a big fan of yours yet I've got two of your collections sitting on two shelves in my two bedrooms. From what I have seen in your diary, I should have liked not to have known you, I think.

Sometimes, I wish I took Chinese studies more seriously when I was in school. If only I realised its superiority over this dull language! Then I could express ten feelings in a single character and let the flow of meaning carry you through the flood of my tears. Instead, I'm here stringing ABCs.

After getting bangs, I realise the importance of a hair dryer and a good comb. Being Kawaii is high-maintainance, I can tell you that! Because messy hair just isn't right if you're trying to look like a doll so people will think you're inanimate. Besides, there are those who are freaked out by dolls~ the lower the chances of somebody approaching me, ze besser.

Universally speaking I win in the long run...

There is something that needs to be extracted. Hold on:


Falling snowflake that dances to the ground, glancing around the realm of memories frozen in a globe so easily shattered. When you fall into place and lie among the indifferent plain of forgotten hopes, melt you will, as your strength warms into tears that summon the Spring.


It is like eating the sweetest of cherries in a garden of poisonous berries. For it is a man's world, and a woman's worth is just as easily forgotten as the last cherry popped.


Bonds, bonds, bonds. And spaces that cannot be filled. The suffocation felt in a narrow corridor that has one's soul squeezed and trialed. It must be nice, to love when you cannot breathe and to feel when you cannot see. Where has my touch gone? The wind begs for my hair to let the birds nestle.


If the pages of my book remain folded as I have scarred them, will the creases eventually smooth and let me read the book anew? Don't tell me, I already know.


Like two Koi in a pond, I wish you could complement me as we swim in praise of the full moon's beauty.


The lotus that wilts in the morning pleads not for its life as a another flower shall bloom through the thick of the mud. If only the lotus could flower in my heart.

Saturday, 15 April 2017

Still Alive

As hope disappears behind the thick clouds, Madam Moon reappears and guides this soul home.

It is as clear as the face of the Moon that Death has rejected me yet again.


If I am meant for more, I think I am starting to feel my weightless soul grow their wings. If this life is what we make of it, where morality does not set boundaries, then I think, for a very short while, I can experience the euphoria of the slave who has been unbound. The exploration of what it means to be alive and to walk proud alongside blooming cherry blosssom has made itself known to me, in the form of an echoed heartbeat on a humid night.

Is this who I have always wanted to be? For once, let us be unvirtuous and cast aside the superficial principles that coat the shell of our consciousness.

Because now, all I have regretted has been forgiven and the coffin remains sealed within the secret whispers of sin. I want to embrace the darkness which consumes me and let it corrupt everything I once had faith in.

Like a Gifted serpent entwined with the veins of my heart.

Friday, 14 April 2017

WIthout a Brain, I Travel to Death

Questioning life decisions is only possible when one has a properly functioning rationality. If, in the first place, the decision was made without prior thinking, then is it a valid decision that should be scrutinised? What then, of the people who have no idea what they are doing? Should they question their own decisions when they themselves haven't the slightest hint of the degree of their own irresponsibility? Without an aim, one wanders on mindlessly, numbed; to the left or to the right-- what does it matter?

Sometimes, I cannot even feel my own brain through the thickness of my skull. It is so thick that I can only feel its weight that forces me to hang my head. I see with my eyes, hear with my ears, and somehow manage to speak with only my speech organs and not the brain. How now am I supposed to take the Japanese oral exam? On top of being brainless, I have to translate grammar structures and conjugate verb endings-- with what exactly? That's right, nothing. I'm so fucked.

I cannot decide whether I am highly irresponsible or extremely stupid. Perhaps I am both. But of course, my stupidity pales in comparsion to my irresponsibility. Am I mad at myself? Hardly. I am writing with half-hanging eyelids and a brain that is not present.

Where has my brain gone?

I'd like to know too.

Taking care of my body should be my main priority these days, instead of cultivating culture to very little yield due to a half-eaten brain.

If by tomorrow night I do not post something new, call the police. My irresponsibilty will have lead me to the death I have been seeking.

In all seriousness, I am serious.

Wednesday, 12 April 2017

The Way Back Home





Even after death, you manage to disappoint me as when you were still a breathing corpse that I shared my soul with while digging my own grave. If a lesson on pride is what you are preaching, then I pray it shall never reach me. Wounded by pride and salvaged by it, it is the foundation of my will to carry on. Should your humility come my way and bend my knees to kneel before your feet, I would rather have my blood bring me a vermillion death than to shed enlightened tears which you are unworthy of.

Truth is temporal and love is just a feeling, but lies are permanant and the flames of indignation burn always with more vigour than the tongues of the Sun. In rage, the tempest wrongs the world and ends up admist a field of shattered porcelain from a time worth glorifying.

I have wronged and I have been wronged. But repentant I am, indifferent you remain, for what is a story to those who cannot savour its intricate discourse? Like the student who pretends to read, no sooner had the last page been grazed that he shuts the book and places it back on the shelf. Its spine may break and the binding may come undone, but what does it matter to one who appreciates not the pages that once made reality worth living? Lost in a tale of self-destruction, perhaps a rift in the illusion was the only way home.


Monday, 10 April 2017

Variations on Heian Imagery


I know, I don't understand poetry but I compose them regardless. Here is to creative freedom without being judged, although feel free to leave comments. As per the title, the following compositions are inspired by Heian imagery that can be found in The Tales of Ise. 


Like the weeds that creep
up the veins of my heart,
the grasses of longing wither away
and the forgetting-grass plants its seeds. 


Periwinkle of the Forget-me-not
now of crumbling dust
returning to the flowing Sands of time.

Until a lone star rises up
and takes its place among the skies
home to burning dewdrops of wasted fate. 


The branch of Spring blossoms 
so demure,
they do not know of the garderner's scissors. 


Which do you think
shall the cherry blossom  mourn for with greater sorrow--
its life that is as fickle as the spring 
or the blade that cuts it shorter?


The ocean waves not to ricefields 
but the smoke of the salt-making fire 
travels with the wind 
bringing news of you that I could taste the sea.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017


The bonds of brothers and sisters are quite amusing. There exists between these blood-relations unspoken trust and a shared understanding shaped simply by them having descended from the same minds. Growing up together then growing apart, only love seems to fill the void that is called distance. No matter their initial annoyance, they are the ones who will truly stay by your side even if everyone else has taken their leave. Thinking of them now, I feel safe.

How does one know if together they came into this world via the very same tunnel of a feminine nature? After twenty years, they find themselves at the dining table at 3:30AM eating barbequed pork together. Who is to say that we aren't just hungry ghosts answering to the call of the living? But of course, the stress I live with is the sole reminder that I am alive.

We are but missing the fourth pillar here in the city. Once she comes of age and joins our grieving party of adulthood, all four of us would be protected by the strength we share, matters of the heart becoming mere trifles that can be purged by meditating in boredom on the same bed, naked.

The mirth peculiar to the laughter of our siblings is the antidote to all of life's misfortunes.

Yes, we disgust each other with our habits that are known only to us, steal each other's underwear and where it fits, slide into somebody else's clothing, but that is precisely why we will never break: because we have learnt to love each other through all the hatred and fights that presented themselves before us, showering them in jovial forgiveness.

Loving as Geschwister is the most comforting form of love that will ever be known. The acceptance of one's nature by one's Geschwister is the divine model of acceptance that may even surpass that of a parent towards his or her own child.

Always, just love.

Tuesday, 4 April 2017

A Stomach Full of Stones

Die Märchentante returns. Wandering around this desolate town without children, she is without an audience. But new stories have been bargained, as en  route to this foreign land, there  happened to be a Wolf awaiting death by the banks of a river, praying for salvation. 

She crouched down and with shaking hands cupped up the flowing water. Who is to say that her kindness need not be spared upon the bastard? Whether or not it deserved to taste the sweetness of life in its final moments was none of the Märchentante's concern. Her only duty was to catch its final breath and render it immortal.

And so a bargain was struck, that it may awake from this life and sleep again, finding itself in a tomorrow that is no different from yesterday. 

As its last words immortalized themselves in her soul, its memories became hers as well. She fell, with the burden of the experience that came with the life she never lived, but could feel. The two bodies that lie underneath the skin of a wolf that now ceased to exist continue to dream a peaceful dream in which they are still drinking the poison of a lie. Should they wake, they will find themselves sat at the dinner table again, spoon feeding each other white lies in a loving gaze. In their hearts, the common filth of selfishness has triumphed. Because they only wanted the demise of the other, neither of them could claim to be the victor, for in the end, it was the wolf that devoured them all. 

Thus far, whose story has been told? 

There was no story, for there was never an audience. 

Sunday, 2 April 2017







Was sind Gefühle? Gefühle sind Lügen. Man kann die Wahrheit nicht sagen, denn fülht man der Wahrheit nicht. Der Schmerz kommt zu spät oder zu früh und er werden immer schmerzen. Warum? Ich auch weiß nicht. Was sie will, sie bekommt. Und ich? Wo stehe ich dann? Die Wahrheit ist wirklich miserabel. Schreien nicht mein Kind, wird alles gut.


Coming back, I have lapsed into the tranquility of a mind depraved of food, a soul abandoned by its spirits. As dark as it is outside, there is always another sky that still glows with new hope. The darkness, when alone, becomes a chaotic amphitheatre where demons clamour for their voices to be heard. Together, it is the silence that ensues in the dome of purity, where memories made are more vivid than the ones which are pieced under the scrutiny of light. Only in the dark, can reality be felt.



With the burning wings of independence, the fate of Icarus shall not be mine. A fire more fearsome than the molten lava of Magma's heart lies at the core of my very existence. 

May the light smile upon the just. 

Saturday, 1 April 2017

One Night in Sui-Tou Land

Being with the right group of friends means driving down the winding Kampung road at 10PM to visit the hot springs in the barely developed rurality at the edge of Selangor, stopping at the over-crowded fast-food giant that sits awkwardly in a patch of once-was-greenery after midnight, still damp, with the smell of sulfur on our skins; lazy dinner dates arranged during a rainy afternoon indoors, at a class full of yawns, each in their own heads living a Friday afternoon of dispensable free time; movie outings confirmed with a nod of the head in the middle of a lecture, out of the blue; next week's costume tea party looked forward to, as we wait under fluorescent lights in a shabby public wash room.

Memories like this, do they last? 

We laugh, we laugh a lot, together. 

At the sushi restaurant, we were the obnoxious group of university students establishments hate to serve, which customers glare at with spite. All that mattered was that we were having a great time eating too much and gossiping a great deal. Through gossip, one learns of how oneself is perceived by one's peers, and that information is much more valuable than the drama of those we know but never speak to. By gaining the insight of one's social standing in reality and not just the social standing which we fancy, invented in our own minds by prejudiced dispositions, one shall be able to improve one's image accordingly.

Imagine the shock I received when all six of them agreed to the fact that "everybody knows Rachel". In denial, I asked them if they were referring to the six of them ONLY, but in reply came faces of bewilderment and the affirmation that yes, everybody knows Rachel, the Anime Girl.

What the fuck?

But I don't even watch anime these days. 

BUT THE POINT IS, in the eyes of others, I look like I've just walked out of an anime. Even with no make-up whatsoever, how can my dress-code appear out of this world? I don't recall donning on my more elaborate Bodyline skirts and the pastel Lolita top that I've been looking at every single day, yet never wearing. Whenever I go through my outfits, I select the ones that would stand out the least. If this method still makes me known to others without having to interact with them, then should I just unleash the full potential of my clothes collection? That is a scary thought, for sane persons in T-shirts and jogger pants cannot accept the quirks of a free mind.

Gossip as it were, revolves around people worth mentioning. For some reason, my worthless existence seems to circulate among the living society. Anti-social as I try to be, plain and contributing as little as I am capable of, HOW CAN YOU STILL KNOW OF ME!? Gossip is great! Absolutely! Only because what is said about me works in my favour. To them, Rachel the Anime Girl is the sweet approachable language angel that's the best in both languages she is taking. Some would rather turn to her with their questions, than asking the lecturer sitting in front. Am I really so... FRIENDLY!? Where does this reliable vibe come from!? If anything, I AM EVERYTHING BUT RELIABLE! I need help myself for I am on the verge of suicide every single day, people! IF ONLY YOU KNEW! IF ONLY YOU KNEW! Yet I thank you for your appreciation all the same.

Perhaps the next time we gather in the room at 2AM, I will tell you that I think of taking my own life every single day. Silence will follow, I would have ruined the fun we were having since early afternoon. But will you cry, and will your sympathy be awkward? Which of you should I trust? All of your smiles reflect the genuine kindness in your hearts. The hurt and loneliness that is the basis of our openness, will any of it change? Am I still an angel then?

Sometimes, instead of hearing the words "we're here for you" I would rather laugh into the night, until one of us falls asleep. At least then, boundaries are kept and intimacy will not come to destroy a relationship marked by laughter. Vulnerability brings hearts closer together, yet pity is not what we seek. Therefore, if pity must follow pained confessions, then it is better if I continue to suffer alone while laughing it off in Sui-Tou Land the very next day. 

Each of us probably hides in the shadow of our own darkness when we are left alone after the celebration has died.