Wednesday, 16 August 2017
Sunday, 13 August 2017
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
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
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
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
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.
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
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
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
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
Friday, 19 May 2017
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.
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.
Thursday, 18 May 2017
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!"
"It's not untrue..."
"That is up to you to decide."
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
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
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
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
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
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
Wednesday, 3 May 2017
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
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
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?
...here, 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
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
Monday, 24 April 2017
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
Saturday, 22 April 2017
Friday, 21 April 2017
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
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?
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.
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
It is as clear as the face of the Moon that Death has rejected me yet again.
DEI WHY LA CHIBAI
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
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
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
up the veins of my heart,
the grasses of longing wither away
and the forgetting-grass plants its seeds.
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.
Wednesday, 5 April 2017
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
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.
Saturday, 1 April 2017
Thursday, 30 March 2017
"But you look at the sunrise, the Gulf of Naples, the sea, and you can't help feeling sad. And the most disgusting thing is that you really are sad!"
Tuesday, 28 March 2017
Am I alone? Completely, and utterly? But the truth is, I need only to reach for my phone and dial any one number belonging to any one person who has laid their hands on my shoulder and said: you have me. So why is it so that I am still isolated in my 90cmX190cm bed? Do I not want to trouble any of the kind hearts, or do I not want them to see me as I am? Perhaps I even doubt their sincerity; who knows?
The stories that I feed myself in order to survive until the next day, how much do I believe in them now? Their effectiveness is, like any other drug taken regularly, becoming nil. There are no beasts to slay and no revenge to seek in this life, so why do I keep going back to those stories where solitude amplifies one's strength? Without any willpower in the first place, strength cannot exist.
Right now, I live and breathe as a lump of meat, a mass of cells, and nothing more. I shiver under the blanket even though it is hot both indoors and outdoors, refusing to sit, unwilling to open my eyes. If I keep drifting off to sleep and living those short glimpses of dreams, maybe I'll eventually have a life in one of them. Any life with feeling is better than this, right?
Wrong. My life is great. What constitute this greatness? What determines how good a life is? While it is true that there is no need for me to suffer and people who aren't in my situation would not hesitate to live in my position of material comfort, I can't seem to see beyond my internal deficiencies. That intangible pressure that squeezes my brain as well, I cannot bear it, and I cannot get rid of it. Because it is internal, it determines what I make of my environment, regardless of the actual state the environment exists in.
Thus, I will admit that my life is not worth throwing away because there is so much to appreciate. However, that is only when I am able to step out of myself and approach my situation from an external point of view. When in my own body again, isolated by the terrorizing dark clouds that threaten a thunderstorm in my already chaotic head, all I want to do is to fall asleep permanently, so I wouldn't have to live in a swirling tornado.
Excitement from waiting on my next packages keep me hopeful. Consumerism has its way of comforting the troubled modern soul, even though it is a practice one shouldn't trust too much as it might just swallow one whole and propel one into a more painful state of being. Whether it pacifies my panic or fuels my consciousness of isolation, I do not know-- at this point, I'm too afraid to find out.
I am a strong, independent woman. I need only to say that to myself, then perhaps, I will appreciate the sunshine and smile again as I walk against the breeze of insecurity.
"Come pain, come hurt, see the Halo."
Monday, 27 March 2017
But I have seen nothing in particular. In this day and age, barren trees ablaze in fire that does not burn can hardly be taken to be a miracle, only clever mechanics. I wish too that I could have as much belief in any one aspect of my life-- any at all.
My nails need to be cut.
Instead of a flood and drowning to our miserable deaths, can we burn in pain this time? Rain is not as threatening as fire, and drowning doesn't make one realise the true extent of one's sins. There's a reason why Hell is hot, right? It'd be Atlantis if Hell existed underwater. Perhaps fire just intimidates the animal in us.
If I had to kneel by my bed and pray every night, that is what I would pray for: to suffer in flames of my own demise. Somehow, I think that if I set myself on fire, I would be untouched as the embers would quiver before my anger that burns a thousand suns brighter.
But of course, in reality every little burn hurts. The heat of the metal frame puts me in my place and reminds me that my skin would bubble and I will most definitely cry. Weakling.
"If our final day has come, let's pretend to carry on.And if the end has now begunlive on."
Saturday, 25 March 2017
The abject is born from the realisation that my existence is as limited as the meaning my body carries. Without it, I wouldn't have felt pain, but with it, only could I have known how to seek the sensations akin to the repressed trauma brought on by a separation of nature's will. And so as the guitar is strummed and a voice full of feeling carries the melody of suffering across the quad, my fleeting abjection is compressed into a dewdrop that reflects the stars. It shall return again, as falling stars eventually land.