I have a diary book that I’ve kept since I was fourteen.
In it words of wisdom and wise anecdotes my morphing self would dish out best as it could,
witty, angst, revelations about the world (beware – man whores are everywhere!)
smudged chronicles of my too susceptible heart
inking epics of heroes who tore and carved their way through cardiovascular terrain.
I looked at your shoes by the door last night
and I look at the soft morning sun slowly lighting up your cheeks.
This could go into my diary, I thought,
since I have only a few pages left in it.
Perhaps this is the start, the culmination, and all the ending that this book would need
6 years’ worth of questioning and searching – this collection should be pretty much sufficient and complete.
I spend the rest of your awaking hours (only because it takes you half a day to get out of bed)
trying to fill up my remaining pages
with reasons why sufficiency should now move from this book to the organism beside me;
you book, after all, are but a bunch of dead pages whose white expanse is but a landscape for monologues,
catching tears, absorbing, but never absolving.
You finally stir
and I think: this is it, this is what a solved mystery looks like,
I can now be.
I look down at my pages,
and I find paragraphs of
how quickly leaves, peaches,
and birds can die
how trends like words are essentially just pyre –
how much one word can change all things.
I am afraid but my eyes keep on reading,
at my the back of my head your voice reasoning
things can change very quickly.
How much does the light change my face?
What makes you think
that this time round,
we are exempt from the snowglobe effect?
Encapsulated warmth and memories marred by our warm, buttery fingers of desire
Ultimately always doomed for mire
Give me an extra virgin bottle of cold pressed love!
Give me something clean and devoid of impurities,
from the very first instance designed just for me.
I don’t deal well with sharing –
just look at the way I shift my plate a little closer to me during communal meals –
so what makes you think I’d lap eagerly from a bottle that’s been emptied, and then refilled?
No preservatives! None of that funky stuff!
No added minerals fortified calcium acids amino alkali:
just give me you.
Hands wide open,
show me that water can run through,
no mysterious clumps of mud that I will later have to peruse.
Oh I am so tired of analysing each and every thing each day!
Give me a bottle with no literature on it; just a pure clean slate
maybe let me write my own review of it,
see what others say.
For now I’ll thirst
Dream of palm trees
Sip my cold bitter coffee,
feel the chills run through me.
Hesitation, is when you know it’s time to leave.
Start packing your bags, start cleaning out your hairs from the pillows;
it is time to go.
Take a corner turn, because hesitation is the start of all pauses,
the end of all clauses,
how now do we communicate?
A centipede, speed crawls up my spine
translates into shovels –
I’m heaping mounds beside my grave.
Stare into the watery abyss that leads nowhere,
feel your tears moisten the earth you dig up and into
again and again,
when do I stop?
A centipede makes its weightless way silently across the flushed soil.
I think it’s scarier not to know where an insect has gone.
“Know that you’re okay”
With an aching throat I throw up
the answer No.
The heart is a fluttering birdsong,
demanding to be heard.
Even caged birds sing.
What are we to make of the incessant beating
under the ribcage, whose protection
frees us: to live!
traps us: to live through!
Why is it so hard to stop my birdsong from making itself hurt?
(more crappy pre-bedtime faux poems)
(I am becoming quite a fan of faux-everything)
(Faux gras, faux pas, faux forevers)
The days I am rich,
I get robbed so easily
Poor with sadness, grief.
I was intending to sit and think about what I should do after turning 20 in a few days, but then realised that I only have 10 minutes before I have to start the day’s activities (mostly just sitting in a chair trying to make sense of information), and so here it goes I guess?
Looking at last year’s post (about a hilarious and 1000% usable birthday greeting from a sweet-lipped classmate, as well as the desire to attain clarity like it isn’t a mythical beast), I think the want for a clear, lucid mind has sort of been attained, what with the need to be logical and absolute all the time in academia. The race for fulfilment though, has hardly been satisfied. Not to say that I am unhappy; school is so interesting and my professors so inspiring, what I do in my free time also keeps me constantly perplexed and hence engaged (albeit rather weepy at times), and I also have lovely friends and a lovely family.
Perhaps the problem is then, the point of looking as fulfilment as a race. Fulfilment isn’t satiation, which can be achieved with popping a chocolate or a croissant into one’s mouth. It isn’t that fast, an it isn’t that simple. Is it a process, perhaps, that rewards one occasionally with bouts of contentment that comes from collapsing onto the bed with an episode of walking dead after a long day?
I don’t think that means taking things obnoxiously slowly either; I think that’s a surefire equation for extinction in today’s world, as my embarrassing lack of technological skills have proved me right time after time. Perhaps it’s about pacing on, but not blindly or in a state of trance as one is wont to do in long distances with unknown endings. Perhaps a positively persistent pace?
I suppose that more often than not, I feel like a photograph hanging by its last millimeter of blutack onto the wall – entirely close to the tipping edge, but not so enough to actually send me over it, and to somewhere else. That is why I am always hanging on but moving nowhere –
my 10 minutes are up. Another hour closer to being a year older, and still not having figured out what I should do. What’s new?
– above title courtesy of scrolling through pages of positive-vibe endowing websites. (Tinybuddha is one of my favourites actually)
There seems to be an inverse relationship between the number of weeks and the number of people turning up for lectures. As the number of weeks increase, the lesser people one sees in lecture theatres, and likewise, this extends to the individual as well – it gets harder and harder to peel myself off the bed. Thankfully, I have my roommate’s (very idealistically timed) maple story soundtrack-sounding alarm to make sure sleep stops at exactly 7 am each day. I think perhaps the next thing to work on would be the skill of successfully ignoring the alarm’s existence till like 830 or something, a skill she has perfected so well that I can only moan in jealousy when I return to the room after showering, and see that she is still lumped perfectly on her bed.
Does the time spent on postive-vibey websites correspond inversely with the amount of positivity I actually absorb? I highly doubt so. There seems to be absolutely no correlation at all, as with everything else these days in relation to feeling happy or positive or even sardonic (it takes a level of self-confidence and assuredness to be so). The problem, as I hypothesise this nice and sunny morning, is that I have become too afraid. Too afraid to be happy, to afraid to feel happy, too afraid to try something new; the list goes on and on. I have become most of what I told myself not to be at the start of the school year. I came in, telling myself to be unafraid, adventurous, and to explore every nook and cranny that life had to offer in these four years.
Now, all I am is a sad blob sitting at my desk trying to clear pile after pile of work, feeling dismayed at the direct relationship between the hours I put into work and the results I get, feeling bad that I don’t hang out as often with my classmates as I’d like to because unfortunately I am not blessed with the ability to churn out great last minute work (I just dissolve into a pool of panic I think), and feeling worried at how things may tip back into how they were 2 years ago when all was bad and scary and the byproduct of my own mind.
My mind though tells me that “you’re a different person now”, so things won’t go back to the way they were. Don’t create your own vicious cycle!
Circles, unfortunately, seem to be my favourite shape.
I will try though. I will.
Why do I confine
Myself to just a few lines
In haikus, With you.