The little artifact, left mistakenly, became a company for a pathetic hope. The different parts, each time taken, become a reminder of a sole entity - and I am forced to reiterate a saying said at a time (perhaps, but hopefully not) long forgone.
But the little thing, with time, became more and more like me, and seemingly less of the other.
Upon our heads are the invisible bowls, boxes, buckets. Kept hidden, unseen, the veil continually changing in colour. The burden, or the challenge, to always stand upright. The battle, or the abandonment, to perpetually appeal to somebody's eyes. To withhold the unnecessary, to relay the absolute truth.
To suppress the selfish compulsion, to learn to be content.
When questions arise, defeat them. Or else, let them be. Maybe one day you'll hear a click! in your head, and, suddenly, you'll know what to do, where to go, and who to be.
As I recall, in the words of that certain peculiar fellow, there is something astonishingly romantic indeed about dying a believer.
I was a believer, may still be a believer, and may or may not remain a believer.
In any event, bless the believers, and those who do not believe. On the other hand, curse the headless, and save the heartless, please, for I might be the latter, and a hopeless romantic.
There must be at least one moment in a year, a month, a day, when you feel as if the world revolves around you. In another moment in the year, the month, the day, you'd feel tiny, insignificant, vulnerable, and bare.
When either thought overpowers, close your eyes, and drown yourself in nothingness.
When what was once your absolute surrealism becomes more and more realistic by the moment, what kinds of thoughts haunt you? It’s like a sudden shower pouring over your head when you were outside staring at a city’s skyline on a cold day.
Would you walk away and take shelter, or would you take a deep breath and keep walking?
Reminiscing is made easy when a reminder from the past, the very recent past, keeps you blinking with eyes alert; when images, taken from another’s eyes, appear before your very eyes; when you wake up, not wanting to wake up, and see your own dream vivid in your head.
Then you start to doubt yourself, because you thought you’ve learnt.
But is it such a sin, wanting not to let go, wanting to grasp what you thought you have, wanting to relive everything you really had?
If only people could live in many realities. Then all my questions would be solved, my curiosity quenched.
On days, the black starless sky can be as alluring, and as convivial, as a great grey one. If I were large enough to hug it close to my chest, I would. But for that time being, with feet glued to the ground, I felt content silently falling under its spell, and being stunned.
Coming to a halt proves to be more difficult than expected. Though the scenery had changed, the talking, the pondering, and the wonderment of it all remains. The facts, laid out eloquently, did nothing to answer the question:
It’s the old formula in writing a song. Put one in, and you’re golden.
But in a different context, seen from a different pair of eyes, absorbed by a different mind – it’s an entirely different matter, one I should probably neglect for the better.
I did walk to the edge, but thank god I didn’t tumble over.
I’ve always envied the people who could stand still behind a lens. To capture moments into pictures, so long as we’re not entrapped in its seamless surface.
I fed a plant a dose of cigarette ashes. I named the plant Nana.
If Nana could talk, I’m pretty sure she’d have qualms about it. But she cannot, and for that I am grateful. Despite what I may be held accountable for, I hope she will be healthy, and alive, and most importantly, sane.
I hope I’ll still be sane, too, at the end of the day.
It started with my loss, tears, and cries, and was coloured by my naivety. Then came the appointment, the relations, and the revelations, and all the feelings that ensued.
For your information, I am intent on making it end with your downfall.
Just like the story, the girl yelled “wolf!” and all eyes fell on her. When the audience knew that the wolf was not actually there, they hurried back to their works, grumbling as they scurry along.
Not satisfied, being the narcissist she is, she yelled again. “WOLF!” she said. The kind audience, being the human that they are, once again turned their heads and broke their necks coming to her aid. And no, the wolf was not there. The audience must feel like gullible sheep by now.
The third time she yelled wolf, the audience… Well, you know how the damn story goes: the girl gets her head bitten off (I think, and I hope). What is left to figure out is how you stand in the story.
Unfortunately, I think I play the role of the audience here. The gullible, naive audience.
"All art is at once surface and symbol. Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life, that art really mirrors." - Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray
An affair with Dorian Gray’s picture reflects my disgust, my curiosity, my intrigue towards an act of spiralling into a kismet beyond the point of reason. The affair, having taken place besides a lonely bedside lamp, made loneliness a treasure I would not trade for little.
The ship had run aground - but it had been salvaged. Now it's sailing, finer than ever, and I understand if you're wary. But when it's back redelivered and ready to sail again (like it has, time and time again), this time carrying something you do not have (and you will never have), we wouldn't want you on board.
I'll discharge you in the middle of voyage if I have to, for the sake of the rest of my cargo.
Why does it rain every time, the times that you go? It’s the only time I detest this city’s beautiful grey sky. I wouldn’t mind being locked up in that sterile room for longer, breathing in the medicine odour. Laughing at the Rubik’s Cube, watching movies on the hallway floor, smoking outside the hospital doors – it wasn’t bad at all. But instead of staying, you left. And the rain would always soak my shirt, time and time again.
I miss you, guys. I knew I would, but not this much.
Whether they’re entirely new by nature, or whether they’re hidden treasures from the past. Whether they’re ones that make you wish for an invisible cloak, or whether they elate your poor, poor heart.
Whether they’re discoveries, sightings, or realisations, you’ll appreciate them all the same at the end. Now I sound like an old lady, but…
An obsession is the perfect distraction - take out your measuring cups, count your stirrings, and time your moment of waiting. If only I had a guidebook for what I have to deal with you, I think I'd be pretty good at it. But the things is, there's never going to be one.
So please don't mind my confusion. I'll bake you the perfect cake in the meantime.
The Train If an everyday commute is just like this, I would play it on repeat, again and again. Beyond the glass is the uneven terrain, glowing in the blue mist of winter. Behind my back, the sea stretches endlessly, seemingly calm in the bone-chilling wind.
The Apartment The tip of my nose is almost touching the window, and beyond the balcony are the terminals. Airline terminals. And the runways. Airplane runways. And the countless planes, zooming into the sky, somehow silent from such a close distance.
The Airport Squinting into the blinding afternoon sun, I wonder if they’re home yet. The next thing I know - a train wreck. A muddle of thoughts, memories, visions. Ones I intend to keep, and to live for, for the feeling hasn’t changed.
When you’re locked in your own head, I’m free to roam the green, green grass. Or wherever I want to be. Constraint is what you live for, for you do not know any other way, or chose to ignore.
When you’re locked in your own head, I’ll look through your window, and laugh.
If crying is a sign of weakness, than I am undoubtedly weak, and so are the people of the world. When your tears are frozen, and your eyes hurt, and your hands tremble, and your head ache, unbearably, you’ll wish you could sob, weep, cry. Just like me.
But I’m not proud of that, unlike you. You strive knowing that you’re distant, you’re condescending, you’re cold. I do not. I live better, and happier, outside the igloo that was once my home.
I am reminded how you don’t need those straight A’s, that impeccable speech, or that flawless logic to feel, to appreciate, to find yourself in the world.
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