Sunday, 28 May 2017

Emotional Release with Material Possessions and Stalking Obsessions

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Loose Ends

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, 19 May 2017

Friday Morning

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

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

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

Time's up. The morning's over.

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

By the Sea

T. Batik

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

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


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


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


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


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



Thursday, 18 May 2017


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

Take me home, country road... 

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

Wednesday, 17 May 2017



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




"Wo ist dein Gehirn?"


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

"Hey, it is too harsh like this."

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


"Stimmt das."

"It's not untrue..."


"That is up to you to decide."



Unfolding Impatience

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

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

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

Monday, 15 May 2017

Loss, Leaves

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

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

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

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

Wednesday, 10 May 2017



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


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


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


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


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


Tuesday, 9 May 2017

My Thoughts End with You

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

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

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

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

No, I certainly would have killed myself.

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

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

Monday, 8 May 2017

The Weekend Work Rant


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too sleepy. Goodnight.

Sunday, 7 May 2017

Rage of the Hormones

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

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

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

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

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

There needs to be more karaoke sessions.

Friday, 5 May 2017

Much Unnecessary, Very Love

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

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

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

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


Thursday, 4 May 2017


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


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

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

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


Wednesday, 3 May 2017

Masochistic Porcelain

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

I think, I like being hurt.

I think, I like it when you suffocate me.

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

I think, I like it when you love me.

Break me, and I will be whole again.

Tuesday, 2 May 2017

Sinking Cocobolo

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

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

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

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

Monday, 1 May 2017

Liquid Dreams

With the intention to hurt, they come.

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

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

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

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