Thursday, 27 April 2017
How do I begin?
Where do I begin?
...here, I am thinking too much, as usual. The thoughts that were going through my head while you were curious about my approach, they were of you. Perhaps you only wanted to know, out of curiosity, as a woman, how a 21-year-old female who lacks interest in relationships would approach someone of interest: I don't. Not that I find them all distasteful, I just prefer to keep the possibilities of what could have been safe inside the bubble of my imagination. With you, I cannot bear to make an exception either. The date of your departure draws near as our year at the University comes to an end. I will not say goodbye, but neither will I tell you that I want you, when due dates and exams demand our time and attention. It would be terribly selfish of me, really.
Of course, you could have meant nothing by it. It's all in my head, to fancy having your attention. Like you said, if you were interested in somebody, you would outright ask them if they would like to go out with you. Ah, the fact that you didn't speak a word of it to me afterwards is like a slap of cold water smack in the middle of my face.
Back in reality, the conversation that took place was nothing but one of hopeless desolation belonging to two 21-year-olds who lack a touch of romance in their campus lives.
It is time I stopped this nonsense and let my heart hibernate through the season-- enough of unrequited feelings. Surely, the summer will come with an air humid as the sweat that trickles down my breasts.
Wednesday, 26 April 2017
And I am taken back to a time where my days were marked by the spells of a dream. Eventually, Dornröschen wakes up after a very, very long sleep. Are memories past still relevant after having slept for a century? Only yesterday were we clad in the joy of perfect denial, which now... As the dust fall away with the eyelids that blink, only the imperceptible particles remain to toy with our perception that once upon a time, other than ourselves, something very real had shared our breath.
Life is but a dream...
Perhaps there is some truth in that. For what are memories, if not distant dreams? The recollection of the bittersweet past, whose pain is sweetened by the filter of a fading longing, leaves one shivering by the lake on a calm Wednesday afternoon. Does the hair on my skin fear for the day the final grains of sand slip through the grasp of my remembrance? My weakening resolve to stop its untroubled departure emboldens the melancholy that sings to me.
Returning to a time where Tee was still spellt Thee for me, the sensation of stinging tears from the last performance of my subconscious feels not any less tangible than the fine sprays of the fountain that remind me of the here and now, of the loneliness the wind never fails to complement.
Tuesday, 25 April 2017
Monday, 24 April 2017
Again I find myself buried in the dirt. Did I dig this hole while I was sleeping? The weight on my chest makes it hard to breathe, and I think, I'm breaking, again. Too many commas? I'm out of breath. Barely awake during the day, I slip away unnoticed and lose the knowledge of how one breathes: in and out, in and out and out and out and out...
Dragged through the streets, what is there to be hurt about, when silk robes have already turned into bare skin? Go on, paint my naked body with insults and the colours of your void. For me, there is nothing left to bear, and my acquiescence simply reflects the will to love I once had-- you cannot break an empty shell with piercing arrows aimed at the heart.
Chocolate suits me not.
The dresses I wear remind me of the burden expectations place. I spread the ashes of beauty upon my shoulders in hopes that I am not seen past the capitalistic illusion that I wear. If this is all but real, then why should I hope to become rooted in the lies of a fabricated afternoon? The permanence of such reveries lives on in the heart that yearns, where the veins of reality are severed. Truth, in all it's circumstances, is turned away by the weak, and the listless strong who have lost all reason.
The bitterness of chocolate suits me not.
Bring me to a flowering field and I will kiss the very first petal that grazes my flushed cheeks.
Sunday, 23 April 2017
Saturday, 22 April 2017
Friday, 21 April 2017
Does it hurt?
Feel my weight but not my touch, my words but not what's intended-- wird alles gut.
I am the wind that travels without the grace of angels, seeking only to kiss the cheek of those I encounter. By tomorrow, even the dust that I have put in your hair will have returned to me as we float on away, with the time we are denied.
Wednesday, 19 April 2017
The heart of a lioness eventually reveals itself for it is too bold for a shape-shifting cat to ever hope to disguise. Hopes that a platter should be served before her can only exist in a reverie born on a distant chord of Fate. As it is, her subjects may bow before her, but never serve her in the way a queen cannot tolerate. Is not a queen meant to be served? Only adored as she roars. This innate fire that is beyond the control of she who is born with it, will it eventually bring a glorious death doused in the flames of pride?
Confidence in the coy skill that blesses a successful hunt: should the death of a prey be celebrated?
The dominance that wishes to be drowned when bodies are submerged in a pond of purity under the moonlit sky, will surely clothe its bearer again once normality resumes. A mountain will only bow when the anger of Poseidon summons unfaltering waves, taller.
Humility is a quality that cannot be forged in a heart bound by pride. Corrupted by the Whispers, one cannot hope to regain the sanity in which destruction was never sought.
Geddon, I summon thee to light up the path I must walk to ascend the throne of the Firelord. May our flames bring solace to the carcasses that cry during my ascension, fading into the breath of Hades. The rain shall never drop, not even once.
Tuesday, 18 April 2017
If I am the one who comes knocking, I'd ask to read together, aloud. Because I miss the days I used to speak lines that aren't mine while infusing them with my own emotions. Why can I not be Pyotr Petrovich in all his male crudeness masked by an air of self-importance? I would love to be angered by myself and speak as Lebezyatnikov.
Could nobody offer me such musings?
To laugh together on a sofa with much pretension, will the moment come, where we shed the skin of who we are not before I bid you Gute Nacht? Is even the disguise of a dignified kitten not enough to sway the impossibility of the phantom that you are? If one only takes on a role, who are we acting for on this stage, before an audience that is only a mirror? While truth is woven into the intention of she who comes knocking in the night, can the same be said of the partner that offers his hand to dance?
Feeling our way out of reality, only in our imagination can we exist.
Will the door be answered on the third night of the storm?
When you called to offer some Ramen, I told you I'd eat on my own at the fast-food restaurant; not to worry, I'll go after I'm done with work. You, with a body weaker than mine, were worried, for my sake. Even now, I can imagine you sitting at your desk with the air purifier by your side, your pale face focused, yet equally blank, writing into the night with the belief that I had taken care of myself.
At the time, I did not lie-- truth is merely temporal as I've recently found out.
I thought of the emptiness and bright lights in the middle of the night. So unnatural, drawing me towards it, an impatient moth who wanted to reach the skies without flying. Then I looked at myself and reminisced the lonely nights spent at an establishment that smells of grease and children's disease, still thinking that the moment of happiness brought on by intimacy will surely be preserved. Really, I wanted to sit there in my unused hoodie and cup my hands around a paper cup of warmth. It has been a while since I dressed the way I felt, wanting to be absorbed by the body of woven cotton until my sweat is the only trace left of me. Everyday, I don on the petals of another flower so the bees would continue to tell me good morning.
Now, in the midst of a quiet evening, a cat knocks on the door. Welcomed is it, into a home that smells of yesterday's ambiguity. There is a fire burning and steamed milk has just been had, while warm blankets are on offer. Strange, how the TV is on. Stranger, how the TV exists. And it asks without the humility of a cat if it could sleep on the master's lap. Tender caresses that purr into dreams, will I ever feel your fingers run through my hair on a night our souls are as calm as this? For a moment you had me believe that our comfort was shared, and that together we could erode in the passing wind of uncertainty.
An echo chimes with the dancing sleeves of the ribbon that come undone from times past: if only you'd let me know that you want me too...
Perhaps Fate really enjoys drawing circles by the shore.
Sunday, 16 April 2017
Even now, what is so simple cannot be translated. Context cannot be understood by a program and what has been written by a poet long dead cannot be grasped by those who are oblivious towards a life better spent than ours.
Warum ist es Blut und nicht das Wasser vom Meer? Habe ich noch mehr zo viele Rot? Wie lange kann ich dich sehen und wie lange kann ich stehen? Noch nicht, noch nicht! Es ist zu früh. Mein Herz brennt noch. Aber jetzt kommst der Regen, und mit die Wolken kann ich zu einem fernen Traum fliegen. Dort würde ich hoffentlich das Meer küssen.
What kills me now is he, whose intentions are hidden behind the stories we write.
Principals. Serphents. Entertwined: I must have been asleep when I wrote it.
Just in case you thought I was stoopid and didn't pass my speling tests in kindergarten, I needed to shove your condescending chuckles back down your throat. Now, swallow them, you swine!
Recently, because I've been too lazy to press the eject button and rummage through the overweight locker of Pinky-Pink, I have started listening to RHCP again. They are gratifying, I suppose. Sometimes, the lyrics aren't important, but the way the tune makes you feel. Ah~
Intellectuals are intimidating. I wonder where I stand? I'm not an intellectual nor am I a plebian.
I should come up with a better name for my car.
Kafka, oh Kafka, I'm not a big fan of yours yet I've got two of your collections sitting on two shelves in my two bedrooms. From what I have seen in your diary, I should have liked not to have known you, I think.
Sometimes, I wish I took Chinese studies more seriously when I was in school. If only I realised its superiority over this dull language! Then I could express ten feelings in a single character and let the flow of meaning carry you through the flood of my tears. Instead, I'm here stringing ABCs.
After getting bangs, I realise the importance of a hair dryer and a good comb. Being Kawaii is high-maintainance, I can tell you that! Because messy hair just isn't right if you're trying to look like a doll so people will think you're inanimate. Besides, there are those who are freaked out by dolls~ the lower the chances of somebody approaching me, ze besser.
Universally speaking I win in the long run...
There is something that needs to be extracted. Hold on:
Falling snowflake that dances to the ground, glancing around the realm of memories frozen in a globe so easily shattered. When you fall into place and lie among the indifferent plain of forgotten hopes, melt you will, as your strength warms into tears that summon the Spring.
It is like eating the sweetest of cherries in a garden of poisonous berries. For it is a man's world, and a woman's worth is just as easily forgotten as the last cherry popped.
Bonds, bonds, bonds. And spaces that cannot be filled. The suffocation felt in a narrow corridor that has one's soul squeezed and trialed. It must be nice, to love when you cannot breathe and to feel when you cannot see. Where has my touch gone? The wind begs for my hair to let the birds nestle.
If the pages of my book remain folded as I have scarred them, will the creases eventually smooth and let me read the book anew? Don't tell me, I already know.
Like two Koi in a pond, I wish you could complement me as we swim in praise of the full moon's beauty.
The lotus that wilts in the morning pleads not for its life as a another flower shall bloom through the thick of the mud. If only the lotus could flower in my heart.
Saturday, 15 April 2017
It is as clear as the face of the Moon that Death has rejected me yet again.
DEI WHY LA CHIBAI
If I am meant for more, I think I am starting to feel my weightless soul grow their wings. If this life is what we make of it, where morality does not set boundaries, then I think, for a very short while, I can experience the euphoria of the slave who has been unbound. The exploration of what it means to be alive and to walk proud alongside blooming cherry blosssom has made itself known to me, in the form of an echoed heartbeat on a humid night.
Is this who I have always wanted to be? For once, let us be unvirtuous and cast aside the superficial principles that coat the shell of our consciousness.
Because now, all I have regretted has been forgiven and the coffin remains sealed within the secret whispers of sin. I want to embrace the darkness which consumes me and let it corrupt everything I once had faith in.
Like a Gifted serpent entwined with the veins of my heart.
Friday, 14 April 2017
Sometimes, I cannot even feel my own brain through the thickness of my skull. It is so thick that I can only feel its weight that forces me to hang my head. I see with my eyes, hear with my ears, and somehow manage to speak with only my speech organs and not the brain. How now am I supposed to take the Japanese oral exam? On top of being brainless, I have to translate grammar structures and conjugate verb endings-- with what exactly? That's right, nothing. I'm so fucked.
I cannot decide whether I am highly irresponsible or extremely stupid. Perhaps I am both. But of course, my stupidity pales in comparsion to my irresponsibility. Am I mad at myself? Hardly. I am writing with half-hanging eyelids and a brain that is not present.
Where has my brain gone?
I'd like to know too.
Taking care of my body should be my main priority these days, instead of cultivating culture to very little yield due to a half-eaten brain.
If by tomorrow night I do not post something new, call the police. My irresponsibilty will have lead me to the death I have been seeking.
In all seriousness, I am serious.
Wednesday, 12 April 2017
Even after death, you manage to disappoint me as when you were still a breathing corpse that I shared my soul with while digging my own grave. If a lesson on pride is what you are preaching, then I pray it shall never reach me. Wounded by pride and salvaged by it, it is the foundation of my will to carry on. Should your humility come my way and bend my knees to kneel before your feet, I would rather have my blood bring me a vermillion death than to shed enlightened tears which you are unworthy of.
Truth is temporal and love is just a feeling, but lies are permanant and the flames of indignation burn always with more vigour than the tongues of the Sun. In rage, the tempest wrongs the world and ends up admist a field of shattered porcelain from a time worth glorifying.
I have wronged and I have been wronged. But repentant I am, indifferent you remain, for what is a story to those who cannot savour its intricate discourse? Like the student who pretends to read, no sooner had the last page been grazed that he shuts the book and places it back on the shelf. Its spine may break and the binding may come undone, but what does it matter to one who appreciates not the pages that once made reality worth living? Lost in a tale of self-destruction, perhaps a rift in the illusion was the only way home.
Monday, 10 April 2017
up the veins of my heart,
the grasses of longing wither away
and the forgetting-grass plants its seeds.
now of crumbling dust
returning to the flowing Sands of time.
Until a lone star rises up
and takes its place among the skies
home to burning dewdrops of wasted fate.
Wednesday, 5 April 2017
How does one know if together they came into this world via the very same tunnel of a feminine nature? After twenty years, they find themselves at the dining table at 3:30AM eating barbequed pork together. Who is to say that we aren't just hungry ghosts answering to the call of the living? But of course, the stress I live with is the sole reminder that I am alive.
We are but missing the fourth pillar here in the city. Once she comes of age and joins our grieving party of adulthood, all four of us would be protected by the strength we share, matters of the heart becoming mere trifles that can be purged by meditating in boredom on the same bed, naked.
The mirth peculiar to the laughter of our siblings is the antidote to all of life's misfortunes.
Yes, we disgust each other with our habits that are known only to us, steal each other's underwear and where it fits, slide into somebody else's clothing, but that is precisely why we will never break: because we have learnt to love each other through all the hatred and fights that presented themselves before us, showering them in jovial forgiveness.
Loving as Geschwister is the most comforting form of love that will ever be known. The acceptance of one's nature by one's Geschwister is the divine model of acceptance that may even surpass that of a parent towards his or her own child.
Always, just love.
Tuesday, 4 April 2017
Sunday, 2 April 2017
Was sind Gefühle? Gefühle sind Lügen. Man kann die Wahrheit nicht sagen, denn fülht man der Wahrheit nicht. Der Schmerz kommt zu spät oder zu früh und er werden immer schmerzen. Warum? Ich auch weiß nicht. Was sie will, sie bekommt. Und ich? Wo stehe ich dann? Die Wahrheit ist wirklich miserabel. Schreien nicht mein Kind, wird alles gut.