Thursday, 30 March 2017

It is not the Forest that Cries

"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!"
Crime and Punishment, part IV

In the night, the still surface of the lake mirrors the starless darkness above. Silently I walk, listening to the pattering of raindrops that assault my umbrella. A light rain on a light evening. Ripples that form as rainwater sink deep down into the lake remind me of a busy place far away, where shoulders touch, loud voices indistinct. Instead of the concrete beneath my feet, I think of the wet autumn leaves I have slipped on in an ageing red forest. 

Amidst the beauty of nature, the depth of the well bearing my sadness makes itself known. Is that the reason why I tend to look towards the sky and hope my tears recede? Then I begin to talk to myself, as if the trees are protecting my secret. The wild flowers bow as if weeping; dewdrops disappear into the soil. Taking each step without haste, crying without tears, only the soul of the forest takes pity on me, guiding me deeper into its heart. At that point, it seemed to me that only it was willing to share my burden.

I think that if I venture far enough, I might find a place to sleep. 

Closing my eyes, I imagine the season starting to change. Leaves are falling, and I am in a nest. Piling up, piling up, I'm now in a cocoon of fallen leaves. Nobody bothers to look for me because I am the one forgotten by all, missed by none. My tears, tinged with the acidity of reality, is the only substance capable of burning me. 

I scream into the night for you, but the nightingale by your window sings so sweetly that you only have ears for it. 

There, I would be cradled in the pity of nature, drowning in tears that burn in the infinite well of sadness that is excavated by a perfection I once grasped. 

Social Moth

Why am I like this? Must I really find the persons who have stepped into my circle absolutely unbearable? And I wonder why I have troubles neue Leute kennenlernen. After 20 years, I will accept the fact that the problem lies with me and not with everyone else.

Very seldom do I find a person whose taste is similar to mine, who I wouldn't mind developing a relationship with, but every time such a person comes along, I am only intimidated by their soul, which is just as ferocious. As listless as they might appear to be, electric shocks of raw energy flash like lightning in those droopy eyes-- if only one bothers to notice. These are the ones I will never come to despise as we will never bond enough so as to arouse my displeasure. Two fallen rocks of the same star will mirror each other across the night sky as they combust in a vivid light. Beautiful, only because the moment is fleeting. 

Now comes those I despise. To a certain extent, I hate all human beings equally, but, as it turns out, I hate some more than others! There are those who only leave me scratch marks that go away the longer we interact, and there are those who at first seem to be worthy of spending my time with, until their social collars break. They are like deprived dogs who have been let out of a slaughterhouse, freed from a life of confinement by mistake. Barking whenever they please wherever they please, they proudly display their optimism and appreciation for the sunlight that never loved them. Perhaps I am not one to judge as they are good persons as well, albeit distasteful. Well, they don't live to please me and I certainly don't live to tolerate them so I suppose it's an argument that neutralizes itself. 

It might be worthy to note that when I speak of people like this, I almost always refer to females exclusively. The reason being there are absolutely no males in my university circle, as idiotic as it sounds. Even I am astonished by my anti-social skills. The only males I've interacted with so far are my lecturers and the few people I've been grouped with for 10-minute discussions. Pathetic? I think so too. The male species are of an inferior existence that I do not bother associating myself with. At this rate, my next mate will have to be a middle-aged man with a steady income and a sharp mind. But of course, these men are either gay or really gay.

I come off as stuck up, and maybe I am. Yet at the same time I yearn to bond with the people around me. I really don't know what I want, nor can I decide if being alone is truly the best option. When happiness is found in solitude, an inevitable sadness accompanies it because that happiness can only be selfishly relished, never shared. And sharing, as I have come to realise, is the one source of happiness that will never let one down. 

But when a language fails to express the exact meaning of what one wants to convey, one has to turn to another language which can capture the essence of the abstract construction better, if only just slightly: 我现在没什么不满足的,只是很可惜没人与我一起分享这时的天空。

To end on a note on daily Twitch experience: If you write you have a big dick in Twitch chat, it'll probably get deleted by the moderators. However, if you write it in Chinese, along with other vulgar expressions that even I do not understand but can see them to be sexually explicit, you can basically sext on Twitch chat and those 12-year-olds will be oblivious as to what is going on as they continue to spam their HaHaas, MonkaS, and Kappas. Of course, this only applies to the non-Chinese speaking community streams. Troll Asians. 

Tuesday, 28 March 2017


Which is a lie and which is not? What am I telling myself and what is really going on? I can't tell. And it is unbearable.

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."

Grave Sweeping

Culture and tradition are proof that the pre-modern mind is a mind blessed with creativity, too much of it. Couple it with interminable hours and idle afternoons by the lapping stream, it's no wonder that our practices border the absurd and the fantastic. The fathers of our culture must have spent every moment of their tea-sipping idleness thinking of ways to act out the feeling of love while never making it known to whoever is being loved. That is why every child of East-Asian descent goes through a traumatic childhood and develop suicidal tendencies. Where is the love? Locked up in everybody's hearts~ If fortunate enough, a traumatised child will mature into adulthood and have the chance of disappointing its parents until they are buried, or cremated, as is the custom these days. Once our parents have turned into ashes, then comes the appropriate time for the blanket over our love to be removed-- our subtlety is to die for. 

Now why did I turn this into such a morbid topic? Earlier this afternoon when I conceived of this idea, I was chilling by the lake, relishing in the most pleasant daydream of a jovial family gathering. 

It is the season for whole buses of family to visit their dead ancestors at the graveyard, the end of March, the beginning of April. On Saturday as I rode in the backseat of my brother's Volkswagen, we drove past the graveyard and I caught glimpses of Chinese families pouring into the graveyard, visiting temples. The bags of origami Hell currency, most likely folded together while chit-chatting in a circle, made me recall the times I sat with the older womenfolk, twisting the squared paper into shapes that my ancestors would be ashamed of receiving. I wonder if the money made by these hands were ever accepted in the realm of underworld businesses. 

Perhaps there is something about watching a great fire together that is capable of bonding distant hearts. Seeing the papers swallowed and transported to the realm of the dead arouses in us no sense of waste, but of relief. Why is it so? We would never know. Watching a fire is simply pleasurable. I would conjecture that our guilt is purged through the burning of our effort, and the stress of living momentarily loses itself in witnessing the dance of orange flames that remind us of life's finite nature, of the fate that lies at the end of our last breath. 

I hadn't paid my respects to the dead in so long, I hope they're not mad at me. In case they are, maybe I should on a quiet Sunday morning drive up the hill to where my great-great-great grandmother sleeps and sit with her until I eventually fall asleep as well. 

I'm sure I'll get my chance during the seventh month of the Lunar calendar. After all, I can't be held responsible if it is beyond my control. Please, forsake me then and carry on living the life you conspired to own. 

Must I be so depressing all the time? It is even driving me mad, trust me, if I'm not already mad enough! Why is it that I want to die but don't want to live? I need Jesus in my life. Or maybe not, then I'll be under the light's guard and harm can never come my way. Now, I recall the prophecy of my future: It is destined that no one could harm you

Guess who lives another day?



Monday, 27 March 2017

Let There Be Light~

Why is sensitivity only heightened when one is experiencing vivid moments brought to life by troubled thoughts? Certain words take on a new meaning, specific syntactic compositions that from day to day stayed unremarkable suddenly start to carry a weight so meaningful that one is unable to enunciate their new-found purpose. One's life can change as simply as that. To put it in the universal tongue of the internet: What has been seen, cannot be unseen.

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 begun
live 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.

Social Attempts, Alienation Affirmed

Every morning after I wake up, the fact that I am majoring in international communication studies never fails to make me question myself. Communication, me? ME, COMMUNICATION!? I find it absolutely ridiculous. But of course, I came here for the foreign language classes and lectures that improves one's cynicism, adding gunpowder to the suicidal explosion. If one day I can fully grasp the philosophy of 「物の哀れ」then perhaps I would die a beautiful death, undisturbed by the fragility of life in decay. Maybe if I constantly tell myself that suicide is aesthetic, I could die, vain. 

I wonder if attending social events is the trigger for my helpless negativity.  Isolated even when I am a part of the herd, rubbing shoulders with other warm bodies and treading through the darkness holding organic flames, watching the world wither in circles of candlelight-- it takes an unnatural amount of talent to feel alone in a crowd of 200, among 5 friends. The sky was beautiful, at least. In the dark, nobody can see the single teardrop that runs down the side of your cheek. It could have just been the sweat that leaks on a humid Friday night. 

Should I have came home right after class, nesting myself in bed watching this week's episodes of Saimdang: Light's Diary, I would have been much happier. Performances and an evening picnic on damp grass would have been missed, but at least I wouldn't be as conscious of my own disconnection to the world. 

A ghost, eh? I suppose there is some truth to that. Did someone also say that my future couldn't be foretold? What had he seen in the flicker of candle light? Who knows. 

As the days pass, I feel my existence becoming weaker. Heavy as I may be, light I feel as I float above my responsibility and repetitive routine. I know I will continue to wake up the very next day, and that alone is enough to reassure me that this life will come to an end when we least expect it. 

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

Too Cute

Stop it, bro, you're too cute for me.

Yesterday, it was a finger to your lips. Today, the first thing I see is you biting your lips. And again, your finger traces the line of your lower lip. Rarely do I feel the blood in my cheeks warm up enough to send me into a feverish daze-- not even when I read the most hardcore Yaoi, imagine that! Yet for some reason your unattractive face with all its awkward charms makes my stomach ache because even my intestines quiver at your cute ways. STOP PUTTING YOUR FINGERS NEAR YOUR MOUTH I'M DYING AHHHHHHHH

At first I linked your need to have something near your mouth as your desire to suck something manly, but unfortunately, I have confirmed your sexual attraction towards women. Is it unfortunate? Of course it is! You will never be my man anyway so I'd rather have Yaoi fantasies of you because where is the fun of imagining straight couples getting it on? If anything, imagining heterosexual sex is gut-wrenching for me.

Ah, let us talk about more pleasant things, like the information I have collected about you over the... how long have I been watching you? 1,2 weeks?

Name: too obvious
Age: x2
Birthday: May 1x
Intersted in: Women
Living in: Exx, Nx
Siblings: Younger brother
Temperament: Never Salty, Never Lucky

I'm sure I know much more, like who he would rather rub sunscreen on.

Technically, I'm not a stalker if all the information is revealed publicly by the person himself. I simply have excellent memory, as I've stated in yesterday's post.

When the Yogg hits just right and you bury your face in your hands, I just want to pat you and say that it's okay, I voted for Pavel this time.

Elephant's Destiny

How do I even remember? 

I recall with such vivid detail the conversation of last Friday evening that even the ones directly involved are baffled at my recollection. They had asked what they were laughing about, in their pyjamas at 1AM. How is it that the ones who derived the most pleasure remember the least? Not to say that I hadn't enjoyed our evening together, my cheeks were sore too, but my mind never stopped.

How do I even remember?

Every sound, every reason, every word, every sequence.

Is this a curse or is it a blessing? I remember not what Lefebrve writes even after reading thrice, but I recall moments such as that which does not in any way enhance my living experience. If my task is to roam wastelands collecting lived experiences and sharing them with whoever has the intent of knowing, then I suppose the life of eating grass-root porridge is the life I was meant to live.

If forgetting is not a conscious mechanism and the act of remembering is involuntary, then can one blame me for being embittered by memories past? Can one look down on me and make little of the hurt I tolerate each day?

Elephants have a strong sense of community. So is this how it feels like to live as an elephant, in solitude? Nobody shares your lived experiences and you can only comfort yourself with the feeling of your own trunk that you already know so well, trapped in a rapture of memories.

Until now, I still haven't found the voice that I am indebted to from a life before this. The reflection in the looking-glass only returns my greetings, but never once greet. Perhaps when the Moon is full again she'll send me her messenger clothed in powdered silk. As fate will have it, it is not an elephant that roams the pale desert that is the surface of the Moon.

Monday, 20 March 2017

Singing Bamboo

Perhaps there is some truth behind the lyrics "words are very unnecessary; they can only do harm". Why would I say so? Because words are all that ever come from me, and look where I have ended up with all my unnecessary utterances. The question of regret is formulated by some as follows: Which do you regret more-- the things you have said or the things you never said?

We all know where my regrets lie.

One sound less, and I might have been able to keep my life. If I had held my breath instead of cried when the tiger stalked its prey in the bamboo maze, its teeth wouldn't have found their way into my flesh. It was quick. They sank so deep I felt no pain, only my consciousness wasting away. I thought I could sleep forever then, dazed by blood-loss, kept warm by the beast stripping me of my own body.

It was gruesome, it was. But it seemed to relish the tang of my blood and what little meat I had to offer. When it had calmed down to feast on me, I swear, I felt happy. Was I smiling? In my mind, I was, but whether or not my jaw remained, I didn't know. Its breath kept me from the encroaching reach of the cold. It was almost sadistic, the way it teased me with the fire of life, reluctant to let me be embraced by the shadow of death. Does a live prey provide a heightened dining experience? If only tigers could speak.

How could I stay alive through such torment? It wasn't up to me. It kept me from sinking into the ground and made sure I wouldn't grow as a demure shoot. In the faint luminescence of glowing jade marbles, I saw a colourless lotus shed its petals into a pond. With each ripple, a deep growl echoed. The whistling bamboo hummed me a prayer as the echoes from a blurred vision passed the threshold of reality: this is your punishment.

I couldn't cry anymore because I had already done so the moment fate let go of my hand.

So I lay with my guardian, my tormentor, listening to the bamboo sing.

Sunday, 19 March 2017

To: The Newly Deceased

March 18: a day supposedly celebrated in remembrance of a dyslexic's victory over me at a word game. A day of shattered pride, a day of triumph. Even after a year, its subtleties are still remembered. Even after connections are severed, the reason to mock re-opens a passage back to old times. 

Supposedly, a day of celebration-- supposedly. 

Then comes the final tick of an old terrier's clock. Breathing its last on a Saturday afternoon, there it lay by the glass doors eyeing the sky, dreaming of running again. Unbothersome as it had always been, so it left, its life carried away by the air, inconveniencing none. A perfect body, no longer warm. 

Death, and nothing else follows. Is life so easily gone? If I could lie down and breathe, dampening the air with the warmth of my life upon each exhalation, would I also float away like the particles lilting in the atmosphere? Off we go, ascending. 

Do I see myself in its place? Does a lifeless body revolt me? Am I reminded of the fragility of my own body? Am I impure, or is it pure? Does death not reflect a certain aesthetic perfection? Certainly, I should be concerned with these thoughts at 3:30AM.

I had hoped that I would be able to say my final goodbye during the first summer I will have spent there, after three years of false hopes. Hope alone does not sustain life and faith isn't enough to keep the world at bay. To believe is to be let down and to be optimistic is to live blind. And so we walk out of each other's lives without strolling down the tree-lined lane in summer, having fun. 

I do not weep because you have been released from your suffering. 

Rest in peace. May the fairest wild flower blossom in your place, reminding us of your fur as white as snow. When Spring comes, I will be there to see you all the same. I will talk to you and press my hand upon your back like I have always done, asking "did you miss me?" because I miss you, terribly. 

Friday, 17 March 2017

Unconscious Pleas

My unconscious has yet again made its intentions known by making my nightly rest a restless one. Perhaps the fumes of neglected loathing which can be nothing but dismal had infected even that part of me which I am not in touch with. Confusion is a miracle of damnation.

The only constant variable in those dreams is a man who is unaffected by his surroundings, even though physical pain is inflicted on him as well. I do not know if he is actually alive, or if he is forged from Spermaceti, for even though he breathes, blinks, and sighs, not even a hint of human emotion is present-- at least not to me because he only became human for her.

A new variable has entered the scene, one that is uncalled for. With the previous dreams only screams ensued, but now...

Confusion is at its peak. On the one hand, I know very well that I should unceremoniously bury the body of emotions that should have been long deceased. On the other, I think I should set them ablaze in undeserved glory until the woods char and all oxygen has been spent. That is why in life's play, I will always be the one unfavourable, the one who determines one's own death in the course of an unfulfilled life, dying in fits of regrets after being dealt the fatal blow by the celebrated protagonist. It is fun while I watch my anger swallow up the cries of mercy, but when nothing is left, only then does a glimmer of guilt flash on my cheek, reflected by the blazing light, evaporating just as if it had never flowed.

When is it time for pride to be put aside? Surely, it is now too late? If like a beggar I come crawling, how pathetic would that be? There is nothing more disgraceful than to beg! To beg for anything! Desperate as one may be. I am a pathetic fellow, indeed. If for so long I have been too proud to the point I have lost everything that I ever cared for, then would it not be redundant if I abandon all pride at once, when I have nothing but it left? What is there to keep, anymore? One day it will destroy me yet again, but without it now, I cannot pull the fleece in front of my own eyes to carry on. It is the bargain for keeping pride by my side.

No one shall pity me and I deserve none. In the dreaming world, it has been made clear that whatever I choose to do now will be unappreciated, unwanted, and mocked with disgust. I may cry, but nobody shall be moved, neither will they extend a hand offering tissues.

Scream, until you believe it.


On a cliff now, I feel the air of the wild purifying me.

Guest in a Conscious Coma


My thoughts, though intangible, happen to be the heaviest obstacle that weighs me down. Why can I not do what makes me happy? That is right, I have tried, but in return came sadness a thousand folds thicker. An insect, am I? One that ponders around the arse of an ass, entertained by the motions of an uninterested tail waving me away. Whether my presence is felt on its skin matters not, the tail twitches all the same.

If you are going to be a friend who honestly could not even begin to care about my well-being, then why did you come knocking on my door again? Did the pain you inflict fail to hurt me as much as you wanted it to? Did you, after dissecting me without putting me under, want to further puncture the organs that now lay bare to your abuse? Did you want to see me dead, after all?

You have no right to say you still want to be friends when you have done nothing but reject my every attempt without reaching out yourself.

A guest comes knocking and when invited in, drops down in a coma while still conscious, taking up a substantial amount of space, unmoving, yet utterly aware.

Thursday, 16 March 2017


Silencing your phone before enabling Wi-Fi connectivity is an excellent method to save one from unnecessary disappointment. If it's not going to even vibrate when notifications are expected, then it will come as no surprise if it stayed still and nobody left you any messages. The state of indifference it has been set to cannot in any way stir the expectations long scorned upon by cynicism. Even the strength to lift an eyebrow cannot be bothered to yawn.

What have I to offer this evening? A breath of roses reminiscent of yesteryear's honey without a hint of sweetness. Warm enough to soothe a raving conscience, plain enough to neutralise all thoughts to the point where Dostoyevsky can be enjoyed.

Dostoyevsky, is it?

Murakami-sensei is also a fan of Dostoyevsky, is he not? His characters read Dostoyevsky as well. Scraping by, relying on translation projects-- such familiarity. Ah, I quite like how authors are inspired. Reading Crime and Punishment now, I think of my assignment on abjection and how our fitting story line was so unjustly rejected. Abjection, as our character saw it, was all that existed outside her and yet was what swallowed her from within. While Raskolnikov's revulsion was amplified by the very abject act of murder, ours was one brought about by the growing disgust born from the perception of a culture bordered on fear; a growing disgust born from the very fear of the realisation of the fragility of such a culture.

Of course, university only allows mediocrity. Anything beyond that is blasphemy.

If there are moments in my life that are impossible to satisfy, the under fulfillment of this project would undoubtedly be one of the worms that gnaws at the body of wasted achievements. It really annoys me, just thinking about it.

So we are stuck with a script nobody is enthusiastic about. Serving up shit to save grades truly makes spending close to 40K a year on education, I mean, university worth the while. Come to think of it, university serves as an educational institution only in the sense that we learn from it what we must not do in order not to exist as commodities through our contempt for it.

I actually really just wanted to share a passage from the novel and some screenshots from Hong: The Rebel. But here we are, with another lengthy post I'm sure none of you have paid any attention to. Can you find the chicken nugget hidden in the text? I thought not.

There is not chicken nugget.

"For one thing, my spelling's poor, and for another, my German's diabolical. I'm making up more and more as I go along and my only consolation is that it comes out better this way. Who knows, though? Perhaps it comes out worse..."


Wednesday, 15 March 2017


With how things are lately, I think there needs to be an attempt to lighten up the mood here. We have to fake it 'til we make it, right? じゃあ、始めましょうか。





So goes the lively conversation about the weather.

Fangirling always brightens atmospheres. So let me start with my latest obsession-- not so much an obsession, but a person who makes me cringe in the most heartwarming ways. When he throws his hands up in victory and make machine gun noises as C'Thun's battle cry is triggered, I melt. Throughout the stream, I have to press my hands against my cheeks to check if my blood has been heated up too much. Without anybody to say anything to, I just wonder out loud why and how is this grown man so cute. He is nothing much to look at for sure, but he's just bursting with optimism, brighter and more contagious than the rays of the Sun. He's lovable, dangerously so.

I like little boys.

Ah, sorry, but there's no reason to alert the authorities. I only stalk little boys who are trapped in the bodies of adult males.

I tried watching some other streamers as well and although their playing style is clean, lathered in serious expertise without unnecessary cringe, they are not as entertaining as this little boy. It's impossible to stop watching once he starts. With his captivating personality and my obsessive tendencies, before I know it, we'd be reaching the end of the stream. It doesn't even matter if I am not watching, I'd still have the tab open, just so I can hear his voice~  much creepy very creep call the po-po arrest me 

But when you tell me to quiet down, take a moment to think about what I have just written, or what I really think about this little boy, I won't be able to recall anything. Excitement only lasts in the moment. Tomorrow when I see him again, I'll feel the flush in my cheeks and squeal when he laughs, roll in my bed and get drunk on cuteness.

I have issues?

You bet!

It's reassuring to know that he will be available Monday-Saturday 1700-0000/0100 as long as my Wi-Fi is working. Know that song which goes "no need to hurry home now that you're gone"? SENPAI HAS JUST GIVEN ME A REASON TO COME HOME!

There are reasons why Senpai brings me grief as well, but they shall not be discussed, ever. At least not in this post that is a desperate attempt to make me sound like I am absolutely untroubled. Hu-hu.

Will Senpai ever notice me?

The answer is never~

He's gay anyway, right? People in Twitch chat seem to want to stick their fingers up his tight European butt. OMG I just stalked his social media account and it says he's interest in women but that could be a bluff-- hah!

That is none of my problem, I suppose. Because Senpai will never notice me.

I can maybe use my 2 weeks in the Netherlands to stalk him and design accidental coincidences, but even I have my dignity. Besides, I have no balls, and neither do I have a Yogg.


BlessRNG indeed.


I spam it as if Senpai will notice me.

Tuesday, 14 March 2017

Abandonment, Even in My Dreams

"In morbid states, dreams are often unusually palpable and vivid, bearing an exceptional resemblance to reality."

Thus, I refuse to go to sleep. Eventually it happens anyway because I am of the weaker species. If I cannot avoid the descend into an alternate reality just as painful when my consciousness shuts down, then I might as well shorten the time I have to relive those moments of abandonment.

One night, two nights, three...

When darkness falls and I open my eyes to behold a familiar world that's not quite right, I see you by my side with a heart still full of love. Does it make me happy, I wonder. Each night I wake up in a world created by shattered memories, aware of what lies at the end, yet for some reason, the awareness does not deter the growing hope belonging to the wistful Mädchen that shares my body but not my discomfort. Living in a body that is mine but having no autonomy over it, I can only hold my breath and go along with the responses of whoever is in control then. I cannot even shut my eyes to avoid witnessing the unfolding of my own tragedy.

If I could, I would push you away the moment you blur into sight upon my awakening in the dreaming world.

Always, the dreams start the way our relationship had, in light of all that fulfills one's heart. Then we pass the days idly until the dark clouds form overhead and the time for abandonment chimes like thunder spreading across the cushions of grey condensation. You let go of me, just like that. When time is due, all emotions evaporate and you walk away into the burning Wald. I am left crying after you and a storm is all that remains. No you. No burning Wald. Only wind, rain, thunder, lighting, and my wailing.

How many times must I wake up and fall asleep again only to find myself back in the very same world? I think I might be going crazy.

If one more night I must live through the same abandonment and wake up with the feeling of despair anew, I really might just let myself bleed out this final scene, trapped in an unending downpour.

Monday, 13 March 2017

Male Acquaintances

Is there a general lack of the male species in university? While brooding over everyday life, I realised that after one-and-a-half semester here at UNMC, I have not made a single friend of the opposite sex! Well, there is Julian, aber jetzt ist er in meine Deutschklasse nicht mehr also ich sehe ihn auch nicht mehr. 

Did I miss anyone? No. I went through my list of acquaintances a number of times, from the ones I like most to the ones I see most often, then alphabetically. To be able to do so means that my circle of friends stretch about as far as my fingers would reach when I strain to extend them. 

Am I OK with such an arrangement? With relationships that merely feel like soft Spring rain against clothed skin, moist enough to cling yet not soaked as to leave lasting impressions with tales to spare. I see their faces and I think that maybe I am fine with being the Superego. Of course, that is only an excuse to keep me from falling to my knees. Somehow, we have to keep walking down the path we have unconsciously set for ourselves and let what we cannot feel guide us through the noise of the world.

Foolish and I know loneliness hurts...

Wer bin ich? Ich bin die Märchentante~ 

And as die Märchentante, am I fated only to relate tales as I always have done? By coming and going in and out of the lives of those who gather by my side, stirring up temporary joy, temporary sorrow and emotions that never last? Holding an injured bird, cooing gently to it under the strands of wishes that make up the Willow tree's will, the leaves sing that once its wings may flap again, it will soar towards a passing flock, never to look back. The stories told under the spell of this sleeping Willow will remain as fragments of an illusion barely remembered, prone to bleaching by the Sun's rays. 

So goes fate, in circles, round and round. 

Anticlimactic Suffering

I shouldn't talk to you anymore.

Drawing the curtains up every morning and arranging fresh sacrificial flowers in the vase by your bed breaks my sanity. Each time I bend down to dry the condensation on your forehead, I come too close to the face I cannot read, one that reminds me of my incompetence and disgust. Then I plant a soft kiss on your forehead and greet you, good morning, asking if you had slept well, if the light that is coming in this morning isn't too strong. My intentions are hidden behind the proper code of conduct.

Proper? Why bother keeping up appearances even now? Ha-ha.

Freshly baked bread, there you go; eat up.

Excuse me.

Then the evening comes and I let myself in again. I pull up a chair and sit by the bed, acknowledging the distance that needs to be kept. Smiling at you, out of habit, I ask about your day and prattle on about mine, my hands folded on my lap.


I pace around the lone chair I have been sitting on.

"I'm tired, I don't want to do this anymore..."

So soon... Wird alles gut...


With violence and in heated confusion, I grab hold of your shoulders, shaking you back and forth. I scream at you without words, hoping that the breaking of my voice could articulate better the state of my deteriorating soul. Would they reach you, the commotion? Not that it matters.

I slap you, repeatedly.


Holding you close, I console you with the rhythmic pat of my hand, whispering dreams into your ears. My embrace tightens, so much that I am holding my breath. Then we lie down together, with my head on your chest, your hand on my head.


What kind of game are we playing?

I get on top of you, lowering myself so that cheeks home to stinging rivulets may meet. Maybe I curl my lips to touch yours, without shame. It's all the same.

I apologise.

I've dug myself in too many holes...

Has the love subsided? Not that it matters, since it's all the same.

Plunging the knife into your chest is my salvation. To turn into foam for the better of our days or to live on drowned in blood that cannot be washed away, it is clear which path I should choose.


Again and again I pull the knife out of your punctured body only to stick it back in, regret and guilt overflowing from both our wounds. What am I purging, who am I purging? Stab. Stab. Stab. You have already been dead for so long, so who am I purging, what am I purging?

I tell you I'm tired and that we should rest.

Hold me... I'm drowning... Hold me...

And we both drown in Inferno.

Will the new dawn ever come?

Sunday, 12 March 2017

Fictional Infatuations

Being a creep myself, explaining my current situation using another psycho's words make me feel a little less perverted. If I did not say it directly, then it can only be an indirect hint.

Fictional, or not? In between the non-fiction, I suppose. I'd like to argue that even fictional characters are real, as in they fully exist simply because they have been created. Just as fragile as their existence is our existence, for if one does not know us, then we do not exist in their world. That is why people go insane when Senpai never notices them. The thought of not existing in their world is unbearable, and very much cruel.


It is a scream screamed in futile.

Of course, it is common for one to have a Bias they would die for and a fictional character they masturbate to-- we lonely souls are in constant alienation after all! But does being the core of a stranger's fantasies bring the weight of a certain shame? Do you blush when you realise every morning that somebody, or ten-thousand somebodies are daydreaming about spending the perfect day with you? Perhaps fast-paced Life does not allow such trifles to be mused. Only those who are idle enough to plan a future with a fictional being can think of these things.

It must be wonderful to be Senpai.

How does one obsess over one who doesn't exist? It all begins while dreaming of nothing. The tenacious nature of the desperation of those who are alone both inside and out will cause them to leech every passing victim who leaves a trail of faint rustling.

Reading Dostoyevsky is almost as unpleasant as living in reality. Now, there are even frustrations brought on by the fictional world!

There is nothing to blush over.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Raining Men and Sentimental Unwanteds

Is it wrong for me to assume that a man is gay when I find out one of his favourite songs is called "It's Raining Men"? Somehow, I imagine that same man having shower karaoke, drawing his hands down his body with his chin up, the hot water splashing against his face while he sings "It's raining men, Hallelujah!"

It's raining outside as I write, but the Sun still shines. No man in sight.

With the lack of transitional phrases, I'll just plainly announce that the next paragraph will have nothing whatsoever to do with a supposedly gay man praying in the shower for the skies to rain men. It will be about me and my ridiculous habit of assigning sentimental value to just about everything I see:

Being a hoarder naturally means that I refuse to clear out even the dust that triggers my allergies because they too have sentiments attached. It's not good for me to live among the dust and must that come with the passing of time, I know that very well, but maybe, I  like to look under the bed and address the dust bunnies as I would old friends. My eyes start to water, but even the hoover cannot suck them into oblivion for their bond to this world is neither tied to the floor nor the corner of the ceiling. In the middle of chasing unwanted guests out of my abode, I tell them to stay, weak as my resolution is to voluntarily let go of what has come into my possession. To have a connection to the past makes the present authentic and the future reasonable, all because that connection serves as brutal reminder of loss. Loss is feared, fear sets up boundaries, and boundaries satisfy the needs of the superego. In other words, fear is the key to self-realization. One should not underestimate the powers of horror.

Ask me how's life. I still don't have the answer. All I can manage is a truth rooted in reality that is mirrored by the reflection of an internal bluff.

Friday, 10 March 2017

More Tea

Someone once asked me what is the difference between white tea, green tea, and black tea. Aren't they all just leaves? You soak them in hot water and the colour of the earth starts to break, dying a second time, the tea leaves.

White tea is not only sensitive, but also too pricey to comprehend. Drinking tea at a tea lounge is a ridiculously bourgeois activity that triumphs over the act of drinking a RM12 cup of coffee at a hipster café. Mainly because making a cup of coffee requires, to a certain degree, essential skills so that it doesn't taste like a smoker's spit mixed with yesterday's hot water re-boiled. Meanwhile a pot of tea is leaves thrown together and soaked in hot water, which the drinker then removes according to the drinker's own preference. There isn't a waiter in a suit waiting by the the table with his silver pocket watch either. I suppose they understand better than anybody that people who drink tea at specialised tea outlets are the embittered petty of society.

My dinner cost less than my pot of tea here. I had at Sushi Zanmai a bowl of curry ramen and 2 plates of sushi from the conveyor belt. Imagine that~ the senseless act of drinking Mother Nature's piss at a high price.

Indulging unnecessarily in the material world due to woe internal and the need to remind myself that there exists a reality outside of myself is truly consuming, in all sense of the word. Behind me is an emptiness that feeds on itself with no connections to latch onto, like a spider's web that is only dust, I am given my place by alienation.

As the days pass by, the body of this river appears increasingly shallow. Even if I want to drown myself and float in the stream of an endless memory, there is barely enough to sink the tip of my nose in. For fear of the water evaporating completely, this fool kneels by the bank and weep tears of a thousand nights in one. The salty tears of course, do not make a river whole. 

Pour cup after cup after cup of tea in the river? I suppose that'll do. 

Wednesday, 8 March 2017

Vulnerability in Life's Game

Ryuuk, why do you stare at me so from your place atop the table? このゲームは面白いですか。私の人生のゲーム。

It is as if you would answer me if I stared at you too. But of course, the answers I seek never seem to be spoken, not even once. Perhaps there are no answers to the questions I'm asking, questions that I haven't given voice to, only shape. Breathe and I let out a long sigh, as heavy as the howl of a dog who has never known disloyalty.

Now we are caught again in the middle of the week, a time where it's too early to retire but too late to lament upon. Mittwoch, あの不思議の日。

How come you never made use of it and now you want to?

I don't. I only have a quest I need to complete. 

During a time where bonds were sustained by the energy emitted by hope, a mental fortification ensured the indestructibility of that bond. Such security and confidence led to its fine demise, for when the light of hope got overshadowed by the reality of how we live, that bond wasted away in the dark, having lost its life force. Anduin's Lightwell no longer shined upon it as in his eyes, it was no longer just.

Fallen from grace, one can no longer expect to live as carelessly as the Gods. Nor can one expect sacrificial banquets to be burnt in one's name. Humility has been cast, and so has Equality-- from feared Legends reduced to mere parasites that die with the flick of a finger. Either annihilation finds its way to you next, or you build yourself up again, never reaching the skies, but never too weak to fail.

How come you never made use of it and now you want to?

Because my divine shield has been silenced, though the will to emerge victorious still burns.

Monday, 6 March 2017


Like grains of coloured sand strewn upon a glass canvas, a blur landscape of my days has begun to form, its beauty determined by the strokes that come flowing from the fated hands of time. Must all seasons die away without ceremony? The gradual change we fail to acknowledge day to day eventually baffles us when we open our eyes. We come to realise that the season has abandoned us, overnight. But of course, the way the grasses bow by the sidewalk has been shifting everyday.

After a tiring day when one is finally deserving of some sleep, one falls back into bed contented, paying no attention to the quality of what cushions the defeat. No time to enjoy the pleasant details of refinement. Only the escape to a numbing sleep is desired. That is what it means to live a life one simply gets used to. It's not hurtful, there's no void-- it just can't be put into words.

I suppose that's why this post has a film of uncertainty plastered over it. There is this listless breath of the ordinary that breathes through, because other than feeling worn out, torn, and motionless, there really exists no other abstraction. My lack of talent is as apparent as the lack of meaning in my life.

What I want to express is the stagnation of being satisfied. A shrug of the shoulders and I can leave the whole world behind.


So I have gone back to wondering how big of a sigh would kill me, and how much sighing is needed for one to run out of breath. Such is the thoughts that run through my brain when I let out a sigh.

I'm not unhappy. The glass will always just be half full.

Sunday, 5 March 2017

Today I Had Too Much Tea

My weekends have never been so well spent, the same as how my allowance has never been so mercilessly spent. Well, in a capitalist society, one cannot expect to be a part of what is social without commodifying oneself. If the world sees individuals as mere commodities, then why not indulge in the mechanics of this exploitative cycle by flaunting meaningless pieces of paper in the faces of those whose lives are determined by quantitative value? By no fault of their own are their lives numerical.

I wandered from café to café this Saturday, meeting friends, sharing Bingsu, indulging in Murakami, and consuming way too much caffeine. By caffeine, I do not refer strictly to coffee, but to green tea as well. Not a cup or two, but a potful at a tea specialist-- this was after I had indulged in two pots of fruit tea washed away by a glass of iced Long Black at the previous two stops. This intake of caffeine does not simply cast Bloodlust on my body, instead, it's a Power Overwhelming that will destroy me at the end of its effective period. As a sort of consolation, I tell myself that the tea was infused with Lavender that calms the nerves.

Why are we infatuated with European culture? Google recommendations for tea houses around PJ and you'll see reviews of elaborate high tea with disgusting pastel-coloured macaroons, Victorian sponge cakes, and scones baked out of shape. It's infuriating, at least to a person who cannot fathom the obsession normal humans have with sweets, in all forms, whether spongy or crunchy. All the frills associated with tea time, I would like to cut them all off with a pair of scissors that were made in China. I suppose this is cultural imperialism at its finest, to have others worship your culture without having to beat them into conformity. I for one like my tea plain, like my life, instead of adding milk and sugar into it, as if placing an elaborately decorated cup on a saucer isn't pretentious enough.

There is much to criticize. But of course, I look at myself as well and ponder upon the fascination I have towards certain cultures and their people. Why is it that I show interest? Do I want to be LIKE them, to BECOME them? Or is it simply because I am an evil motherfucker who wishes to walk on all paths of life just so I can learn the vulnerabilities that can be used to break them? Who knows? Maybe I simply want to belong, so badly, that I am willing to become one whose identity is as fluid as the seawater that laps against all shores.

As much as I would like to belong, some core principles will just never change:

Rice shall always reign superior. 
Bread is what I cannot accept, and dairy products are the bane of my existence. 
Let us slurp our noodles til the end of time. 

Saturday, 4 March 2017


Today is one of those days where I have too much to say so I decide to say nothing at all. By saying nothing through meaningless morphemes strung together in a grammatically acceptable manner, I should think that my mind would tire of thinking. 


Well-wishes are tinged with bitterness as a bright future reveals itself in the darkness burnt by candlelight. Embittered growls pierce through the choking steam in the cubicle, while clawed fists send a reverberating chill through the bones that run through these walls. Only in such a space, with a mirror blurred by denial, can one look at one's own reflection and feel no sense of remorse. 


Even the fabled candle made of a tortured Mermaid's fat will someday burn out, leaving behind only a charred wick infinitely mundane. A reminder that dreams are fabricated by the unmythical organ known as the human brain. Hope is the soot of the dull wick exacerbated by the flames of a mermaid's soul, while love is the melting wax that burns the very skin that gave it purpose. 


On a windy plain where the tall grasses are as fair as the faded colour of your hair, I stand scattering dried buds of the Buckwheat flower. May their seeds, devoid of life, find peace among the wind that brings them home. Should they blossom again, let them be as colourless as my heart. 


A being untouched by time exists within my mind yet walks on two feet under the very same Moon as I. Wrapped up in senses, only its essence from a time before now and a time far from now is able to shape the reality breathed by my existence. As the present is timeless, I am undisturbed by the setting sun every morning and the rising sun every evening. 


Like a photographed silhouette, her hair that blends with the waves of sunset troubles me so. The expression on her face, I cannot see, but I feel anger welling up inside me as the sun glows redder still. With her bare hands she dares scoop up the purity of spring and bring it close to her lips, while her feet sink deep into the fine sands of this lonely island, spreading her roots that it may grasp firmly its very core. 


"You pathetic thing" comes the whisper behind gritted teeth. One cannot hope when one's heart is filled with hatred. Follow the path of that who seeks revenge, and satisfaction will come by way of flowing blood. Follow the path of that who loves like a fool, and satisfaction will come by way of self-inflicted suffering. Neither grant peace, but both allow honour to be upheld, that nobody should recognise. 


The priestesses lined up by the columns of my skirt still fail to bless my soul. The seams come undone in a golden thread that weaves itself back onto the tapestry of infinity, which seen from below, makes infinity only temporal. 

Thursday, 2 March 2017

Do You Really Want To Know How I'm Doing?

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

I do not wish to unearth what has only just been sealed, where the dirt is still damp from the effort of rejection. The chrysanthemum I placed above the burial ground, its petals come undone piece by piece in the breeze, replacing the droplets that would fall from my eyes as I blink. Even if your hand were to break the stem of the mourning flower, its sorrow exists in a space your negligence is unable to perceive.

With your return came the season of loss I have yet to experience. The fragrance of the blooms that thrive in this season is nauseating, and I vomit as I struggle along its path back to normality. A distinct chill sets the temperature of this season. It freezes one from within, spreading outwards, instead of the reverse. Is it possible for me to survive such harshness? Already my lips have begun to crack, my skin flaking. Warmth has no place anywhere.

What does one know of having to face a corpse sustained by abject repression? What does one know of having to please a corpse that does not feel? What does one know of having to speak to a corpse without saying anything? What does one know of being haunted only by the likeness of a dead man you once knew?

The birth of a newborn does not kill its mother at the first wail.

Do you really want to know how I'm doing?

Do you, really?

A Well, River, and An Ocean


Have you ever heard of people begging that rivers should run dry? Me neither, but I know such a person. The story I will be sharing with you today, I wonder how you will see it.

Fear lives in a well dug by a pair of twins, Inse and Curity. Each morning, the twins make their way up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. But of course, the fear that tinges the water is like the most subtle poison, odourless, clourless, and tasteless to the bodily senses. Do we blame the twins for ingesting such a substance? Of course not.

The Sun seems to be rising earlier each day, or maybe, the twins have been rising later and later each day. Still they made their daily commute up the hill and to their well, drawing up a bucketful of spring water, drinking their fill. No longer were they aware of time, only of each other, strangely so. Inse would glance at Curity and say nothing, while Curity would glance at Inse say something. It did not matter if any words were spoken, for fear plagued them equally.

And so, because fear is irrational, Inse pushed Curity down the well.

From between the roots where wild grass part, dewdrops of purple began to swell and merge into a flowing river that carries the essence of a weeping soul. Inse, drowning in the manifestation of her own fear, was washed away into the open ocean. She continues to pray that the river might run dry so that she may sail back to the only world she knows, undisturbed by the currents of the river that continues to weep.

The world, always within sight, yet never within reach. Is this punishment enough for one victimized by fear?

Of course, nobody should live in Hell while they still breathe the air of this world.

Inse sometimes wonder if Curity misses her too, as she drifts between sorrow and fear, day and night.

Misfortune of the Black Dragonflight

If you are expecting this to be a comprehensive history on the Black Dragonflight, then you may leave this page. This is nothing but another one of my Hearthstone rants, though related to Deathwing specifically.

Deathwing has got your back! Yes, Deathwing has got my back! Of all the games I've played with you in my hand, I've only ever put you out twice, and twice, you perished just as quickly that I never had the chance to breathe my reliefs at your glorious exclamation of being POWER INCARNATE. Dear Lord, why must you meet such unfortunate fates every damn time!?

I remember the first time I put you out on the field. I had won for sure, I thought, but of course... Of course he also had a Deathwing in his hand that he could slam down the next turn. We have been bested, my Lord.

That was months ago after I first unpacked you one dull afternoon, screeching in joy.

Then the desperate moment of life and death came again this evening, where only you could have saved me from shame. I would have ended the mage's petty life if it wasn't for Ice Block. So, my last hope, I slammed you down and let my cards be burnt by your rage. The mage had already Polymorphed my Ragnaros, so what could be done to you now, just what?

Ah, I loathe the Mean Streets of Gadgetzan expansion.

Of course the mage would be able to create the perfect custom spell from Kazakus that turns all minions into 1/1 sheep and gives your hero 8 armor.

And just like that, my Dragonlord was reduced to a bleeping sheep. It would have been more bearable if you had just turned to ashes and returned to dwell in the depths of the volcano.

Such misfortunes this Black Dragon is met with when dealt by this hand. Maybe, we were never meant to be? For our ambitions are too great that even the Gods forbid our bond to form, in fear that we will succeed in claiming all creation for ourselves. Might I come to show true affection for you, your magma will be the last that I feel before my cries harden onto the surface of this rock you will forsake. I can only live to use you, as you manipulate me. We shall see whose heart is more corrupt, and whose soul still remain.

Descended with your traits of darkness that luster in waves of my hair and the oblivion behind my eyes, the longing for the kin of those you slaughtered is the pain I will endure. May the cold reflection of the moon glow in the eyes of the flaxen wolf that stalks the borders of such longing.

Wednesday, 1 March 2017

Meaningless Update 0301

Children are wonderful creatures that make decisions which fed-up adults cannot fathom. Am I an adult now? I seem to link adulthood to all that is wrong with life. I have become the very person I despised when I was a child, that person I swore I would never become, ever. So long, childhood promises!

While watching Timm Thaler, I was in my seat wishing that Baron Lived would casually appear next to me and tell me he'd like me to be is evil heir. I'd have accepted his offer without a moment's hesitation! Does he want my laughter in exchange? No problem! Quoting his own words "you don't have much to laugh about anymore anyway". I'd be a fine demon.

Giving up the world to experience what it is to be utterly human, is it worth it? It seemed so. I would have thought so, if there still exist love and happiness in my hea-- that's right, even that itself has been lost.

Aren't we all a little bit cold?

It used to trouble me when I realise I would never be the protagonist in life's incessant tale, but as I come to terms with reality, I no longer uphold the will to rid myself of my antagonistic qualities. A bitch, but still fabulous, still admired, only less noticed than those who shine with goodness. I think it would be full of anger, revenge, and mistakes, my life. Why can I only think of Darth Vader at a time like this? WAE!? YOUR RED LIGHTSABER IS AMAZING ZZIIINNG! Yes, I want to walk around flaunting my flowing cape and paralyze people with fear just by gazing in their general direction. FEAR ME!

Rachel's aspirations at the age of 20:

1. become a demon.
2. become a dragon *coughcoughDeathwingcoughcough*.
3. become Darth Vader.

Instead of wearing light coloured dresses and flowers in my hair, I think I should buy some black clothing, and a cape. Should a person ask if I am in mourning, I would say yes, mourning over the death of myself.

Even I am unsure if I should cry, or laugh at my immaturity. I can only confirm that I cringe at this awful blog post I published.