Friday, 31 December 2010
Lying still, face down on the cold floor, did not seem like a waste of time. I could see under the bed, and obscuring my view, strands of hair covering my eyes. I could imagine reaching out with fingers stretched, grabbing hold of that wretched roll of film, pulling on it, throwing it in the air, and ultimately – burning it down. I want to revel in its smoke, half-crazed, over the edge, and I never want to stop. But your gait caught my eye, so I lie back down and cry.
I wouldn’t say I had a good one, but I knew I had one to be grateful for nonetheless. Because for once, I had the closure I’ve always wanted, but too afraid to face.
For this once, I wasn’t scared looking under the bed.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Sunday, 12 December 2010
Those things, those intangible things, are seemingly easy to shatter, are they not? The colourless strands, intertwined, woven in the air. The string tied to your little finger, leading God knows where. Your favourite colours, beautifully dispersed over the highway, passed by merely for the sake of it.
But we wouldn’t really know, now would we, until we finally realise that our hand is dripping with blood from the cut on our fingers, or the fragments of glass lay around our naked feet.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
Friday, 12 November 2010
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
Friday, 22 October 2010
I've been thinking. I'm dead drunk. I think I know, now. I'm writing it all down. I think I won't forget, maybe. So I stare at it, hard. I thought I've had it in my head, though hazy. So I glare at you, hard.
You don't glare back.
The sound of dripping water should have drowned me. Instead, I'm drained.
Saturday, 9 October 2010
To answer your questions, those nonsensical people say these nonsensical words: "Listen to your heart."
Well, I have trouble locating my own (metaphorical) heart, let alone to take a listen. I guess, once in a while, you're bound to catch a glimpse. Well, truth is, it doesn't happen so very often. In fact, it doesn't happen most of the time. But maybe, someday, for once, the heart will prevail.
If my head doesn't scream first, I suppose.
Darling, let me tell you how you broke my heart.
Tonight (lights on, minds off) he raised his arm, drawing his love closer to his face. He made the kiss (the spectator's cheers no more than moving mouths with no sound), but passion was absent indeed.
Meanwhile, you can smell the alcohol from a distance.
Only for tonight.
Saturday, 25 September 2010
Saturday, 28 August 2010
Thursday, 19 August 2010
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Saturday, 8 May 2010
Who knew running can make you feel numb? And when you can no longer feel, you long to be able to stop. But when you can see the line between the sky and the land, how can you resist the impulsion?
So I guess I'll just keep running. And keep it to my end of the field.
Saturday, 1 May 2010
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Sunday, 4 April 2010
You don’t believe in perfectly straight lines, and being perfect in general. You don’t deny the boxes and columns of how I perceive, and perceive it through with just the right hint of abstraction. Every bit of natter is an ensemble of colours, spinning indefinitely for my eyes to see.
You’re my cellophane flower.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
It shattered my heart, witnessing such chaos of emotions, displayed for the prying eyes to see. They're standing in the small, dark room, anticipating. Not for the singer to sing, or the athlete to play, but to face humiliation, confusion, and more prying eyes. What sentiment is it supposed to trigger, seeing a man hold his child, and stare at his lover, from behind iron bars with such sad eyes, and a sad heart? All he can do is nod, and await for the sentence to be conveyed. He sees the lock, but the key's unfound.
And I am one to be ashamed.
Monday, 29 March 2010
After the tears, embraces, and the whole lot of cigarettes, the mist of restlessness remains. I'm stumbling through the grey smoke, dancing blind, only guided by the voice singing near my ears, and in my head. I'm longing to feel, but obstructions are inevitable.
The place felt different when I'm surrounded by other people, and not you.
Thursday, 25 March 2010
There's a million little things to be done, written, drawn. Pages to be numbered, skeletons to reassemble, ideas to be bundled. Those tired eyes simply can't stop to stare, though, even when its point of view has become muddled.
The cup of coffee on the desk then grows cold.
Thursday, 18 March 2010
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Do you think it's nice, for a cat to play with some mice?
When I dream of being across the ocean, or on the other side of your mind, everything falls into a chaotic quietness. What they possess, we may envy, but we will never be completely away from home, even if we leave. So now, with flailing arms submerged in icy water, I covet for what I cannot have.
Sunday, 14 March 2010
Monday, 1 March 2010
The moon looked like smudged chalk on faded blackboard. Safely seated, albeit the starless sight, we surrender to sadness.
The yellow tinge flooding the narrow view, the drops of rain leaving scattered dotted marks, the mouse running across the land, the unnerving smell of grass and ground, the steps where hopes and thoughts disperse... They're all to blame for titillation needing to be endured. The sun pouts, and my voice withers.
Amidst the foreign terrain, we seek within ourselves.
Sunday, 28 February 2010
Friday, 26 February 2010
All the justifications whispered out loud to console one's self are deemed insufficient when wariness sinks in. Where did the time go? And one wonders when it will return - to daunt, to deter. Its persistence is such that one closes one's eyes, and keeps one's knees close to one's chest.
Hold my hand, for it anchors you home.
Thursday, 25 February 2010
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Saturday, 13 February 2010
It may be the effort behind each breath, it may be the white cardigan. It may be the rain, it may be the mirror in which you see yourself. It may be the vast sky above your head, it may be the cup of chocolate in my hand. It may be the murmurs of the people of the city, it may be the wooden frame of a window. It may be the city itself, and the feel of me around you.
You (and I) admit, we seek comfort from the letters formed into words. They're evidence, are they not?
Wednesday, 3 February 2010
There's a cup of coffee in each of our hands. The dark, bleak sky we adore so much is still in our heads. We witness, with our eyes, the small pieces of conversations, thrown back and forth. We're taking all the time we need to find comfort inside the forming whirlwind.
Please keep talking. I don't mind your daylighting.
Monday, 1 February 2010
Saturday, 30 January 2010
You deliberately put a coma before the miniscule, little dot. Is it too much to expect closure?
Click, then the beeping sound.
The blinding curtain of raindrops in front of your eyes, the daunting rush of water surrounding your ears - then a sharp intake of breath. What was usually a deep shade of amber was a clear shade of yellow. How freedom is defined was being sung, and teardrops fell.
No one was there to wipe them away.
When thinking was too much, we move on to glance. When glancing was too much, we move on to stare. When staring was too much, we shut it down altogether, cross our fingers, and wait for the speakers to emit a tiny sound: beep.
Ah, dear science, how you impede my life.
Friday, 29 January 2010
"You know, one loves the sunset, when one is so sad..."
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
How many sunsets does it take to make one feel content? Bursts of orange, a spectacle of pink. To appreciate the stunningly beautiful, to dwell in the breathtaking. How many counts does it take until you find your way home?
Exasperated. Excited. Overwhelmed. Oh, the anticipation.
Monday, 25 January 2010
Perfection should be the least of the world's concern.
In our attempt to ease the feeling of inferiority, we aim to be perfect. Of course, the applicability of my statement is in question, and exceptions do apply (for those of us who are blessed with such confidence and self-acceptance).
When you bow down, pick up the scattered pieces of papers, stand up, hug the newly-collected pile of crisp, white paper to your chest, and look around the room, does the fact that you're only half-way done bother you?
To be perfect, to be a robot.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Tuesday, 12 January 2010
Can we be comfortable in silence?
As a dear friend once wrote, we have an odd relationship with words. As a writer say, words are the source of misunderstandings. Sitting in silence under a streetlamp (with the only noises being the scratches of our pens) made me wonder: where did all the wasted words go?
Into nothingness, I suppose.
(Melancholy was the perfect emotion for the end of the year.)