Out

...

...

...

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.

Tee Träume

Tee. Kamillentee.

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

Life is but a dream...

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

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

Procrastinating after Procrastinating

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

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

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

Take me home afterwards. 

Forgetting How to Breathe on a Fabricated Afternoon

最近ストーカーがいます。気をつけてね。

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.

Moonchild

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

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

Sometimes, I wonder if you did. 

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

いい子ね、月子ちゃん～ママは大大大好き～いい子供ね、月子～

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

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

Dehydration

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

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

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

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

Gentle Breeze

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

Does it hurt?

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

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

Lioness

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.

Questions of the Shape-shifting Cat

"Enlightenment? You know nothing of enlightenment!"

"Heh-heh-heh"

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

Could nobody offer me such musings?

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

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

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

A Cat Knocks

Hey, about dinner, I lied.

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps Fate really enjoys drawing circles by the shore.

血の涙

上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了上了

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.

他们唱着：“我宁愿所有痛苦都留在心里也不愿忘记你的眼睛”但我在想着，如果我还会想起你的双眼，我对不起的是我自己。跨过山和大海之后，我会找到我需要的答案吗？我不想再让自己的快乐被她的笑容，笑声给带走。虽然你们曾经是我的家人，但现在你们的关心却变成了我的负担。我宁愿你们说我再也不属于你们的了，也不再被欢迎。为什么那门还为我打开，锁匙还被我握着。

一天，我想带自己的幸福到那儿去。

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

Apologies, with Salt

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

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

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

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:

I.

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.

II.

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.

III. 

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.

IV.

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.

V. 

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

VI.

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.

Still Alive

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

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

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.

WIthout a Brain, I Travel to Death

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

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

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

Where has my brain gone?

I'd like to know too.

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

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

In all seriousness, I am serious.

The Way Back Home

お元気ですか。私におもいだしますか。それは全然わからない、ちょっと悲しいな。でも毎日私は段々忘れることができます、だから今が元気です。だけどあなたはすごく酷いね、私に全然連絡をしていません。あなたのために、彼女のために、私を捨てろことができます。どんな人、あなた、私は本当に知っていません。可笑しいですね、私はあなたが全然知っていません。

極めて疲れますよ。

友達ですよね。嘘つき。

私のことが心配しますね。嘘つき。

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.


幸せになる。

Variations on Heian Imagery

最近、「伊勢物語」を読んでいます。私の日本語はちょっと下手ですね、だから英語翻訳版を使っています。そして詩を書きたい。知りますよ、私の詩が極めて悪くて、面白くない。私は本当にわかります。それでもまだ書きたい。

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

 

I.

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

II.

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

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

III.

The branch of Spring blossoms 

so demure,

they do not know of the garderner's scissors. 

IV. 

Which do you think

shall the cherry blossom  mourn for with greater sorrow--

its life that is as fickle as the spring 

or the blade that cuts it shorter?

V.

The ocean waves not to ricefields 

but the smoke of the salt-making fire 

travels with the wind 

bringing news of you that I could taste the sea.

Geschwister

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always, just love.

A Stomach Full of Stones

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

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

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

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

Thus far, whose story has been told? 

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

一把火的血在秋天里向太阳流着

I

唉，孩子呀，别人的事就不用去管了吧？该说的都说了。如果别人的幸福只有在你的失落下才可以温软起来，那你就真心祝福他人吧。一个人的心何必黑暗？那颗碎了的心该像血红的宝石，在月光下默默地发光，保持辉煌的文雅。但是你心里的火就是难灭，造成了你人身的灾难。火，不能乱起。

II

秋森で何も聞こえない。ドキドキ。ドキドキ。この音は何。ドキドキ。ドキドキ。苦しいな、感じるか、わかりますか。勿論ないでしょう～二人ともは化物ですよ。秋森に住んでいます。気をつけてね、子供ちゃん。心配することができますか。ふふ。彼女はとても悪です。

III

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.

IV

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

V 

唉，孩子呀，累了就睡！一万次的悲伤如此地狠。虽然已死了，那不代表你不能再快乐。这时的痛苦会是来日的自由。相信你要的，你所需要的，是火而不是水。猛烈的火花儿永远不能与平静的湖面相爱。

VI

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

May the light smile upon the just. 

One Night in Sui-Tou Land

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

Memories like this, do they last? 

We laugh, we laugh a lot, together. 

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

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

What the fuck?

But I don't even watch anime these days. 

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

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

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

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

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