Lies

The Trouble with Love

2012-03-11T10:38:00.001Z

It's almost like a lie, the first few months. Sitting under the school ramps, out of view of roaming teachers, we let our heads float...
...but wait, before we got there, I knew this was all a lie. Affection, at the age of thirteen, would only last so long. If only I had the courage then to say so but I didn't and so I lived the lie quite reluctantly.

Three months on, it died and thank god it did. I walked through the school corridors past my friends who wondered where he was (not with me that's for sure). They whispered and formed rumours of a dramatic ending in our relationship which didn't occur.

More lies...more lies...and more to come, I think...

Here with Me

2012-03-11T10:31:00.002Z

"I didn't hear you leave
I wonder how am I still here
I don't wanna move the things
it might change my memories
oh, I am what I am
I'll do what I want
but I can't hide
I won't go
I won't sleep
I can't breathe
till you're resting here with me"

- Dido

A Story about Forgetting

2012-03-10T17:58:00.002Z

I will think about you again in the future, years after you have not crossed my mind.

I will think about you again while I walk down a park in Surrey and think about the words you said to me and the way you comforted me when I felt the world bear down on me. It will all come back to me in an influx of memories; everything which time suppressed will reappear in an instance and I will be able to dwell with it for awhile.

But, two hours later, I will go home, to the town I now live in, and forget you completely and quite reluctantly. And there will be another time void in which my memory of you will not exist.

I will return to the park again at some point and I will remember you. However, while the void stretches on, you will have been forgotten and only when the right time comes will you exist again.

Tragic Findings

2012-03-10T12:21:00.000Z

Your door was shut
so unlike the days before,
always open and always
welcoming to the younger minds
who loitered in the corridors.
I suppose, there's no reason
to leave it open now,
now that you are gone.
The note your students left you
remained on your door
like a cherished reminder
of your presence and life,
but it was not meant to be -
life I mean, it wasn't meant
to last. And you silently
drifted away under our ignorance
and naivety, thinking life is
forever; oh, the lessons we've learnt
this year: working, learning,
living. And you walked us
through all of it but left
yourself out of the latter.
Forgetting yourself
and remembering others
exempted you from life
and taught us a lesson about
loss and regret; but in your name
we will cherish this lesson so
just as much as we wished
we had cherished you
during those days
when you had left
your door open.

The Door Left Ajar

2012-03-07T19:30:00.003Z

Did you ever consider
a little "hello"
when that door was left ajar,
or perhaps a "thank you"
on lazy afternoons
between lectures on Biology
and Cognitive?

Perhaps not... but no...
...we must not reflect
on what we could have
but did not. But let's reflect on
the times we laughed
hysterically in the lecture hall
deciding on whether a heater
is more important than water
on the moon. Because in the backdrop
of our snickers and childish jokes
there was another who looked
over us and smiled and guided us
as we laughed, and thought about
studies by Asch and Milgram
and grew from what she taught us.

On a day when disbelief
numbs the senses and drives us to
retreat, we can always wipe away
tears knowing there was some closure
because we had grown
and learnt and matured
in her presence.
And although that door
will not be left ajar anymore,
being more of a person than we were
when we first met her
is good enough proof
that we will always miss her
and will always cherish her so.

Swift Reality

2012-03-03T11:00:00.001Z

Words on words
they tell lies like birds
stuck on the fence
with their hearts tense
never to be freed
and left with no feed
to live and fly
and so they all die.

Misguided

2012-03-01T19:50:00.001Z

Toiling in the deep
so troubled and undone
the memories and the weep
under the cold, unfeeling pun
so distraught in the summer
never again to forgive her.

General consensus
about the death by unplugging
the machine that gave her licence
to be submerged amongst the living
but now she dies, this time for real
alone because her kids were afraid to feel.

Long, bending corridors
on a day lit by sunshine
to meet the one who opens doors
and makes sure she doesn't toe the line
so careful and so scared
that the others could only have stared.

Like Everything Else

2012-02-28T17:13:00.001Z

It ends on the note
that nothing can continue.
It dies on the grave
which took breath to unearth
And it dissipates into non-entity
like everything else
at the end of time.

I have Opinions (Wow!)

2012-02-19T18:12:00.001Z

Now for a rant from the top of my head..

I'm writing my very first opinionated post about life...yay...

...moving on...

Over the last month or so, I experienced some Facebook woes which stemmed from some slightly unsettling posts made by a person who I know but don't really see very often in my everyday (non-cyber) life. These posts were subtly aimed to upset me and make me feel like a rubbish person.

Now before we start jumping to conclusions about this, I just want to mention that these posts were in response to a comment I made to this person when I met him at the train station (i.e. real life). Basically I told him that the hat he was wearing didn't really suit him and he got touchy about it and decided he would (subtly) accuse me of being an unsupportive friend on Facebook.

sigh

So, here's my question to you, my dear (and very scarce) viewers of this blog: Is Facebook really the best way to communicate across feelings and messages to a specific person (subtly or otherwise)?

Clearly, after this incident, my anwer is no. To be honest, up to the point that this happened I was completely indifferent to the whole question but it's now clear to me that subtle hints on Facebook can be more caustic than face-to-face remarks.

Yes. I was really upset by this. Thank you.

I'm by no means implying that we should all boycott Facebook for its anti-social tendencies because I am just as bought into the Facebook culture as everyone else...

...I mean, I post random statuses, make weird notes, tag people in funny and slightly inappropriate photos, stalk my lecturers (I joke), etc. etc.....

...However, I do not believe Facebook should be a place for personal battles to take place. I recently wrote an article about how non-Facebook users are actually happier than hard core Facebook users and I'm beginnning to see why - to live your life on Facebook is to subject yourself to any hurtful comments/messages which people are too afraid to tell you to your face in real-life.

Let's face it - what we say/post on Facebook is not said by us but by our cyber-persona. And unfortunately, our cyber-persona has a hell lot more confidence than the real 'us'. Basically, what goes onto Facebook are normally the things we don't say in real life mainly because it is either something that could get you into trouble or something that could hurt someone else's feelings. But yet, we still post it up with the intentions of expressing displeaure towards another (to all 1000 of your Facebook friends)

Woot...social interaction just got more complicated.

But anyways, that's my rant for today. I can't be bothered to end this properly because I just can't be bothered to form a proper conclusion to this rant...but then again, what rant has a conclusion?!

Again, if you've bothered to read all the way to the end of this post, why not leave a comment to tell me what you think? Besides, I want some reassurance that I do have visitors on this blog.

I shall now leave you with a smiley face --------------------> :D

My Audience

2012-02-17T12:03:00.000Z

Hello brain, why did you leave me
standing on the cliff in incoherent bliss;
did I offend you so that you couldn't even carry
the directionless rants of this little miss?

Oh hello people, you make me sick
but wait I didn't mean that, that was a lie;
what I meant is you make me tick
but I'm going anti-clockwise, aren't I?

Well I shall leave this poem for now
slightly unfinished and unmeaningful
but it doesn't matter, I'll still bow
and exit this stage like an idiotic fool

[None]

2012-02-16T09:13:00.000Z

On such dreary days
we die. And there is an underlying
fever of hate and dismay
which enunciates all the undoings
of time and people
until we're left with just so little.

What is it about this
hell? Can we not salvage time
and revive it with a kiss
or am I just going to be the mime
which acts out life
in a wordless confine?

Let it all go into the darkness
of time.Forget the troubled
which hides the black mess
as the heart still wants to be cradled
like a baby fresh from birth
and not buried in the earth.

Bercerita

2012-02-13T21:11:00.001Z

Cerita Bahasa Melayu beza daripada cerita Bahasa Inggeris kerana kegunaan bahasa yang berbeza memberi kesan yang berbeza. Itulah salah satu fakta yang kita memang sudah sedar tentang.

For example, when I say, "I'm hurt", you're more likely to think that I've fallen over in a clumsy heap and injured myself.

Tetapi apabila saya kata, "Saya sakit hati", anda tahu saya merujuk kepada kesakitan emosi.

Sadly, I have to admit that my ability to write anything coherent in Malay is deteriorating by the day due to the lack of use.

Adakah saya akan cuba memperbaiki masalah ini?

No. Because if I ever use this language these days, everyone's going to think that I do not want them to know about what I am saying. And I don't want to be judged.

However, now that I've admitted that I do use Malay to have secret conversations with others, you'll want to know what I've just typed above.

☺

Ini adalah Masalah yang tidak boleh diceritakan

2012-02-13T10:57:00.000Z

Sesiapa yang sudah melupakan masa kanak-kanak ialah seseorang yang tinggal dalam kesunyian.

Janganlah lupakan rumah pertama anda
Janganlah lupakan sekolah rendah anda
Janganlah lupakan keluarga anda

Because when others leave you...

...merekalah yang akan jaga hati anda....

A Poem found amongst my Lecture Notes

2012-02-12T20:08:00.001Z

Nineteen years old and counting
we scribble pictures of the lecturer,
oh I wonder how you carry on teaching;
under the giggles of naive teenagers.

Bugged teeth and a devil horn
and a tail to go with that too;
geez, no wonder you look forlorn,
we're not the only ones drawing you.

We pack up quickly as the lecture ends
and you sigh at the thought of doing this again
but a student looks at you and says "nice ass"
and this is why you keep coming back in.

Silent Virtue

2012-02-11T17:31:00.000Z

The music plays on as the snow begins to settle on the lawn outside - just more proof that life still goes on even though the dismembered aspirations lie limp on the floor.

Fly up to the surface
and just start again

It was never meant to manifest itelf any further than it had but nonetheless, with or without the exchange of words, you still want the best for them.

All the best
I head off into the woods and sit down amongst the snow-laden trees. It is always a wonder where those footsteps are now. I want to believe they are in a better place and for the most part they probably are. There is no question that everything still rolls on as usual - the only thing which is out of sync is the emotions which once did not exist.

Lord I don't know which way I am going...
...still got such a long way to go...

The Problem with Dreams...

2012-02-09T22:14:00.001Z

Sadness shook the unconsciousness away and tears began to fall at 4am that morning. It seemed almost futile to go back to sleep so a hot breakfast seemed well-suited for the current occasion.

30g of porridge with 1/3 cup of soymilk and 2/3 cup water. Standard.

It was that fucking dream again. The one where the dreamer was a child and was taken away from the comfort of her childhood bed to be left at an orphanage. This was a reoccurring dream since the age of eight - it keeps coming back - and it won't let me grow up.

As the years fall behind, many other dreams manifest themselves from the new experiences and expectations which pop up in time. But somehow, those other dreams were never feasible and only crumble between my fingers the harder I try to hold on to them (like feta cheese).

I finished my breakfast. It was 4.20am.

I listened to Coldplay's "Charlie Brown" to pass the time.

In my scarecrow dreams
when they smash my heart into smithereens
be a bright red rose come burst through the concrete
be a cartoon heart
light a fire, fire the spark
light a fire flame in my heart

It meant so much but helped so little. Oh how symbolisms can only bring meaning but not healing. By the end of the song, I wondered how many more fallen dreams could I take...

...but I then reminded myself that there were other hearts out there which were more severed than mine. Just like how the lyrics could only bring meaning, my orphan dream could only bring sadness...but not hurt me. Dreams are not reality; they are mere untruths which exist in the individual heads of dreamers.

There was a lot more to smile about by 7am because consciousness invited no dreams and reality was allowed to run its course.

Somewhere the streets are made of gold...

What Wednesdays bring...

2012-02-08T23:04:00.000Z

Wednesdays promised nothing. It passed by ever so silently and ever so slowly as I sat wondering about the trivial things in life.

This morning's burnt toast left a bitter aftertaste in my mouth and it was determined to taint the taste of any food I was going to have for the rest of the day.

It was pathetic how a single bad item could change your perception everything else on that day as my burnt toast had done. While I am aware this was just down to my lack of culinary expertise and technical know-how as far as toaster-using was concerned, I couldn't help but feel that this was basically all my fault.

Having said that, some things aren't always your fault and in the wake of betrayal, sometimes you can only ever attribute blame to an external source, namely someone else who lacked any sense of loyalty.

Words can only heal so much.

On dreary Wednesdays like today, I wish I could delve deeper into the minds of those who were disappointed and brought down by the other they trusted. I want to know what scars were made and how to heal them...

...but none of that is any of my business.

So I can only watch from a safe distance as the hurt eats them up from the inside out and watch the bodies grow limper with every passing day. Helplessness is all I feel - and really, all I want to do is give them a hug and tell them that everything will be alright.

Burnt Toast

2012-02-06T20:09:00.002Z

I don't understand why I constantly end up with burnt toast. It's not that hard a task to watch the toaster in the morning. It's not like I have anything better to do (besides getting changed, brushing my teeth, ironing my shirt, completing my unfinished work etc. etc.).

Anyway, so I burnt my toast again this morning and left the kitchen smelling like it was set ablaze at some point in the night. I hoped no one noticed: I grinned at my housemate as I walked out the door with my charcoal toast on my plate - she'd never know it was me.

Needless to say, I only got through half of the toast before deciding that eating a carcinogenic slab of charcoal was probably not a good idea. I abandoned it and got changed for work. Looking at myself in the mirror, I caught a glimpse of the half-eaten toast on the table - no butter or jam or marmalade or Marmite - their absence on my toast was a cloying reminder of what was once an obssession but is now just a matter of bad habit.

The thought moved me slightly as I put on the shirt which once didn't fit me and hung on me like an oversized rag. The realisation didn't seem to want to leave and so I took it to work with me.

By 4pm, I was about ready to stab the computer with my massive, bare hands. The documents I was working on didn't seem right and the perfectionist (or paranoia) in me was throwing a childish tantrum in my head. I resisted letting this tantrum manifest itself in front of my colleagues and I left them to continue tapping away at their computers. Oh how trivial this angered moment will seem in 30 years time - it would all seem like nothing but a distant memory.

I got home at 6pm, after a long walk around (and around and around and around and around and around) the park only to be greeted by, none other than, this morning's burnt toast. Fuck...it's like it's following me. So I've put up with time and psychological conflicts to be haunted by the connotations of burnt toast. Why, oh why are you still in my ever-so-slightly big head?

Of course I discarded the damn thing. The toast I mean, not my head, though had I been able to discard my head together with the memories, I'd have been more than happy to. Unfortunately, that's not how disorders work - they stay with you even after several years and cling even more when you try to get rid of them.

Well life still goes on...and I still wake up to a new day to start afresh once more. So I get on with my routine of...

1) Snoozing my alarm clock five times before getting up
2) Brushing my teeth
3) Putting the kettle on
4) Putting the bread in the toaster
5) Reading the news...

....but oh, what do you know - burnt toast, yet again.

Ghostly Instigations

2012-02-03T23:34:00.001Z

The ghost of girls drift silently up and down the corridors. Only a few of us can sense them. Their eyes were constantly peering over our shoulders as if to mock us for what we couldn't get away with.

Burnt toast.

Not an excuse. It still stayed on our plates, waiting to be relinquished of its existence just like how our minds had to relinquish control to the system.

No scraping the burnt bits off bread we were told.

Heads down, we studied and analysed each crumb on our breakfast and estimated the amount of milk in our coffees. It was all futile.

Somehow the voices of the ghosts found their ways into our heads and they snickered at us and drove us into anger. Control should have always been ours, regardless of the safety of our lives. And so we clench our fists and bring them down heavily on the table, only to be restrained and counselled for our misbehaviour.

The ghost of girls still laugh at us.

We were let go eventually. One-by-one we filed out of the building, and the sudden realisation of freedom dawned heavily with death upon us. We knew and learnt nothing more than the words of the ghosts and we follow through their hypnotic instructions to self-destruct and harm.

If you're lucky (which I almost was), plans in life take a sudden turn and they urge you to kiss the ghosts goodbye. But sometimes when plans fall through, it invites the ghosts back in and their presence acts almost like a calling for the obliteration of the self like the way the noose beckons death upon its victim.

So the ghost returns. She's sitting on the bed next to us, her hand on our shoulders. She speaks to us like the way anyone would but her voice stands out and amplifies in the air. She wants us back and she is determined to make sure she has us back.

Pigeons

2012-02-03T21:09:00.000Z

Pigeons,
not very smart things
just like the one who checks it
always at the wrong place
at the wrong time
saying the wrong things
night and day
day and night
the world spins and unexpectedly
stops, hidden away in the dark
under the tree which burned
like daylight and churned
hot butter. Weeping days
on the beach and crying days
on the bed, while time passes away
under the pigeon's wings it goes.

Times a'flying

2012-02-02T21:27:00.001Z

Think back to cold 2009;
Never did they think she'd live.
Look now in 2012;
Now she doesn't think she will

Up Front

2012-02-02T21:23:00.001Z

I don't want to know
when nights opaque with hate
bear heavy shoes on the girl
and boy who know nothing
of life and anger.

I don't want to speak
on days which hearts break
and crumble unexpectedly
on a rock by the river
which sweep away drunk memories.

Trouble not the minds
of the innocent for they
know nothing of love and hate
but do speak of romantics
and of authors and poets
for they hide emotions in words
and hide feverish desire in hearts.

That Music

2012-01-31T22:10:00.000Z

Oh it plays on.
even when I'm not ready to receive it
but oh the memories
they come so vividly in the night of direness.

I'm so sad I can't share it
because it all exists in my head
where only the imagined-you
can hear it.

Melodic Unhappenings

2012-01-31T22:04:00.000Z

Piano concerto,
why does the melody drag me away
off the ground, above the mountains
and through the clouds? Darkness
assumes the light of the moon
and we lose ourselves in the deep
notes of the keys.

Piano concerto,
why do you take me home
to the house steeped in monsoon?
Did you intend to bring me memories
which only serve to taunt
with what is no longer there?
The girl who played under the tree
and in the tree
is now there no more and
neither the house nor its occupants
exist in this sliver of time.

So piano concerto,
are you trying to remind me
of the breaking of innocence
and to teach me about the loss of time?
If so,
why do it now
when I am sat alone
with nothing more than myself
and the memories which kill to remember?

Grow(n) up

2012-01-29T23:03:00.000Z

I'm such a child sometimes.

How Did You Not See

2012-01-29T13:46:00.000Z

Idolising you made a difference to words.

A charming typewriter with no aspiration
moves closer to poems and rhymes.

Dead though, now she lies
in a room of typhoid-carrying flies
sadly mistaken for and misperceived as
a promiscuous devil who
played with and
preyed on the
open hearts of men;
instead, really, she was an innocent one
never tried once
to misplace men
even for herself or anyone in fact;
dead though, now she lies....
....
....
...and oh, how I am disappointed in you.

Knowledge

2012-01-29T12:01:00.001Z

The nights of knowing so
backfires on the plotter
but still hurts the victim.

Cheers for that.

Permanence

2012-01-28T20:23:00.004Z

Oh how your lies
penetrate the night;
sleepless in bed, staring
fixated at the light
you gave me when
the day was young.

Throwing the blankets off
and wandering into the dark
my shadow falls at the corner of the loft.
Oh my child, are your feelings stuck
on the memories you formed
in the throes of love?
Or were they merely expectations
based on misconceptions?

Dear child. You die
knowing you were all but nothing.
Tragically dissipitating
and constantly disappearing.
Why do you hold on so long
to the nights of young
and unfaithful songs
which no longer hold meaning
let alone hold promise.

Carpenters sing in the lonely air
and I hold on tight
to what I have left:
a pillow, a blanket, and the
unnerving image of the light
you sent to me
on a cold, naive night.

Game On

2012-01-28T17:32:00.000Z

You play the very same game you said you didn't like.

It's called exclusion. I spent quite a lot of time pondering about the rules. It dawned upon me that this game only spelled out hate for the losing player and I wanted no part in it.

But somehow I got drawn in.

I lose, of course, because I didn't pay attention to the strategies I used (actually, what strategy?). I don't process instructions very well either to be honest. Maybe that's why I lost. I don't know. Can you tell me where I went wrong?

Oh wait....everyone's leaving. I guess the loser doesn't move on and isn't told where she went wrong. It's always a mystery isn't it? I guess I'll never figure this one out.

Here you go, mother;

here's your useless child.

Then

2012-01-27T22:27:00.001Z

"I miss you"
If only I had said those words
when time permitted.

No More

2012-01-27T20:31:00.000Z

I know I shall play no more games
on the battlefields of hate.
How ironic to discover
you have only learnt to play.
I cannot partake in these
nonsense sketches. I resist
temptation, greed and hurt
to avoid becoming the dark devil
in order to save your bleeding soul.

Not to be Heard

2012-01-26T20:27:00.000Z

"Sorry"
was said
on a non-existent plane.
Joy
succumbs
to over-whelming guilt.

So much for Burns, Wordsworth
and the bloke who wrote
Kubla Khan
high on opium.
Hello to Thomas, Larkin
and the married
Plath and Hughes.

So much of the
unromantic
deadened the pain
which pulsed so thick
through the breakable chain.

A slit of the
[I won't say it]
ends the night young.
We starve ourselves naked
never having begun.

So the rubber band
snaps,
tensions soar high
and they wander around
with their lies.
But I say sorry
on an imaginary plane
which not only does not transmit
but also does not suffice.

In Peace, I will not be Left.

2012-01-25T17:47:00.001Z

The year ended
flat.
No goodbyes or happy smiles
we leave. And joining them in the new years
will not be me
or so it seemed.

Leprous walls and doors
with a strip of green which travelled with me.
Sterile floors
mopped with alcohol
hiding that gleam
that mad gleam
which only this floor possessed.

Join the club.
We sit in isolation.
Isolation Club,
twiddling our thumbs.
The smell of burnt toast
we ate.
We only needed
the smell
and the sight.
Nothing more than the
non-physical touch of
neccessity.

Bitter battles
between mind and
gut. You clench your fist until
your palms bleed but still,
you don't understand.

Do you love me Anabel?
If Anabel is what you call it
then No
Anabel does not love you.
Then who is to love this
frame? Who is to love this
thing?
Only a parent could love
or perhaps not even them.

Stuck between obssession and reality
the doorway begins to shut.
Which side are you on?
Which side are you on?
I have one foot out the door
only one foot on the outside floor.
Such a child, you are
Such a child.

Sorry

2012-01-24T23:26:00.001Z

The "sorry"s mislaid and the tears which fell were part of the aftermath.

Here for You

2012-01-23T18:51:00.001Z

The doubts in my mind exist almost like a deadly entity. It sits there waiting to spring up admist my lack of self-confidence. Never to resist a chance, it hovers silently over time and space. And I'm ever more aware of it during times of distress.

We forget you

it says. If only I could forget it. It's too strong. And it lies deceivingly dormant under the dead leaves of autumn.

Chase me once...
...catch me,
and lay me down in death. Its hands so cold and so unfeeling that I feel like I'm sinking into darkness

Grit

2012-01-19T18:41:00.001Z

Silent grudges...

..ooh..don't think I want to be part of that.

What a undeniably trivial thing to partake in. Why do you choose to throw the words at people you dislike? Isn't it better to say nothing at all?

Okay you've proven your point. Let's change the subject. Have you noticed the weather recently?

Clearly not. You won't let me move on will you? Stop talking...you're hurting my ears. Driving me up the wall, you are.

Oh swift silence...where be you now?

Down

2012-01-18T18:36:00.001Z

Depression exists in so many forms and is triggered by even more sources. I'm not going to go into the causes (because they are too subjective) but I am going to get you thinking about the way depression masks itself on a day-to-day basis.

Case study #1

It's Friday...and Harry is in need of a break. Work's too much, that girl in the cubicle next to him is a pain in the arse and the memories of the abusive past lover is sitting at the back of his mind like a pile of bricks. Watching McIntyre on the telly doesn't help anymore - it just reminds him of the nights spent on the sofa with the person he once loved. And talking on the phone does nothing but remind him of the girls he tried to pick up when that same lover abndoned him.

The rest of the night is spent in a haze of booze and bright neon lights and the next morning was, well, spent rolling around in bed trying to piece together last night's events in a more coherent format.

Friday night repeats itself on Saturdays night and Sunday is spent wondering whether the weekend existed at all. But at least the memories stopped flowing in for a change - at least it was a weekend of relief.

Case study #2

It's whenever...and Julie spends her nights crying. The day is dominated by the rowdy kids in the kindergarten she works in and the nights are spent allowing the memories, suppressed during the day, to flow back into her head. She can't stop crying about the memories of a lost family member but as distraught as she was, she couldn't express sadness during the day.

She works, drone-like, chasing hysterical children around the playground and mopping up the mess little Adam always makes in the kitchen. She often comes home wondering where the day had gone when in actual fact, as far as her mind is concerned, the day never existed.

When the weekend comes about, she finds herself walking around endlessly, trying to drown the memories in a blur of long walks. She starts at 10am and gets home at 7pm. Before she knows it, it's Monday again. Time to say hello to the little darlings...no more time for memories

These are coping mechanisms in two cases. They manifest themselves to hide an underlying anguish.

I want Harry and Julie to know I am sorry. And that I wish I could do more to help.

Help

2012-01-17T21:18:00.001Z

Please don't...I beg you...I didn't mean to

Knowing

2012-01-15T20:47:00.002Z

I'll never know now, what you would have said to me? Perhaps it could have been warm words of praise and love. But you left unexpectedly, and together with your words, you vanished, leaving me to merely imagine what they could have been but never will be.

The ashes burn so quietly, and I see the tears trickling down the faces of those who loved you. I know nothing of what is to come - I just know of what had not happened and what will never happen.

Another Letter

2012-01-15T10:45:00.001Z

Dear Liv

Please let me hide with you. I don't want to stand here alone because it feels like an eternity. You left us and it's all so hard without you. Did you fly through the branches of the dark trees as you left? Did they try and catch you and stop you on your way out? Will it try and stop me?

You were beautiful Liv. And as you left you leave our hearts in ruins. The funeral was just a beautiful reminder of the goodbyes I never got to say to you. And oh, do I regret it so.

You are pulled from the wreckage,
Of your silent reverie.
You're in the arms of the angel,
May you find some comfort here.

Generalisations

2012-01-14T10:08:00.000Z

All of you are the same...

[insert umbrella term]

Stupid girl.

Smash

2012-01-13T21:35:00.000Z

I slept deeply again, only because I've tired myself out crying. These tears, no one knows they exist. And the pain, I channel to the people inside my head - they are the only people who want to listen to my voice.

I've lost my soul in the crowd of people. It zipped off in the midst of the busy day and only came back in the lonely hours of the night - and they bring the tears which spell regret and hurt. I wish someone would have told me how to do things and speak the words which have cracked under the surface. No one did, and I didn't speak and I lost it all and gained regret.

I replay the past over and over in my head like a broken tape recorder. And I act out scenarios which will never ever happen in real life. By midnight, I'd invented a movie in my head but that's the only place it will ever be in - my head. It doesn't exist in the real world and I can only ever wish it did.

I wish I had said more and had said better things. But I just let the random rambling stumble out of my mouth. I'm so stupid - and will forever remember that I am.

Speech

2012-01-12T22:35:00.000Z

Can we speak again
under the murmur of others?
Is it possible to whisper
over the cries of sorrow?
Or have we joined the worlds
separated by a canyon?

I think I've burned the forest
And there are bodies
lying on the ground.

Gone

2012-01-09T23:36:00.000Z

The last of that generation has gone to sleep, leaving, in the wake of its passing, the younger generations.

Smoke
inhaled. So

aromatic.

It floats and

wafts

before

dying

again.

Hell notes

lie singed,

burnt.

And words
lie

motionless,

and wholely

unsaid.

It's all good

2012-01-07T08:57:00.001Z

Altruism in human nature is the most unrealistic ideal which exists.

The selfless man is an overly-romanticised idea conjured up in the minds of people to hide the lack of benevolence within society. It's an idea which does exist neither within groups nor between individuals. What we see as altruism is just a show which others put on in order to portray themselves as the ideal.

*rolls eyes*

The attack on the vulnerable on the street of New York receives no reaction from its witnesses. Even as the body falls to the ground with an eery scream and the blood leaks onto the dingy back alley, no one does anything. Yes, jaws drop and eyes widen but that's the only as much reaction as it would ever receives. No one helps; no one responds.

[typewriter chinks]

*rolls eyes*

The boy trips on road and scrapes his knee. Crying, he gets the attention of another child standing by the road waiting to cross. The child does nothing but stares at the crying boy. No help is given. The child keeps looking and says nothing, not even to alert someone about it. The lights turn green and the boy crosses.

There's a loud thud and the sudden revving up of a car. A car zooms down the road and the child crossing the road is lying on the road with blood trickling out of his ears. There are no adults around, only the crying boy is there - and he just stares; jaw drops, eyes widen.

*stops typing*

June 28, 2009

2012-01-06T17:11:00.000Z

I feel completely and absolutely...

drugged.

I guess the panadol and copious amounts of caffeine is not agreeing with me this morning. Down with a god-forsaken flu which is determined to render me emotionally and mentally numb for the next few days or so. I guess it's a good thing. Then I won't remember most of the boring bits of KTJ. But hey, life hasn't been completely bad. Up till yesterday, I had a very optimistic May Ling popping in and out of my room and at the end of today I will have a should-be optimistic Wen Shi coming back from her Penang trip....and by tomorrow (or Tuesday) I should have a rodent-loving roommie back.Last night's SNE was spent, once again, on the floor. This time next to Mr. Ang who glared at me everytime the shutter went off. Not the best impression to give an ex-army cadet. Anyways, in editing the photos, I ended up turning most of them into monochromes and I'm not to happy bout that but that's the only way to overcome the hedious lighting. I've got bland, colourless photos now =S.

4th of July will be mourning day.

time to buy the coffin.

Where is she?

2012-01-02T22:56:00.000Z

She left you slightly prematurely.

On a cold, desperate night, you unlocked the door of her bedroom and lay on her bed. You left the room exactly the way she'd left it and you could still sense your daughter in the room. It was like she was still here - her school bag lay on the floor, unzipped as if she was mid-way through emptying her bags when she left.

You wished you could hold her hands again. But that can only be relived in memory now. She was your daughter, your baby girl, your precious darling but now she belongs to no one - not even to existence.

Ignorance

2012-01-02T21:24:00.001Z

It would be so much easier to expect nothing. It cancels out the disappointments which only expectations can bring. Unfortunately, humans are predesposed to be curious - basically, we're digging our own graves

It all explains why people jump of bridges and land with a sickening crack when they hit the concrete below.

Flashback

2012-01-02T10:01:00.001Z

"Why can't I realise
That I'm fighting for my life"

Rant

2012-01-01T19:52:00.001Z

Here I come, being a bit of an arse as usual. Can't be bothered to think about anything beyond now just because everything seems pointless. The night is now here and New Years has ended on a bizarrely lame note. Just another reason to keep my head in one piece and to not get distracted by the crap I normally get engrossed in. Tapping away at my phone I am - never really injecting much conscious thought into my words. They all float away limply implying nothing much more than the incoherent sentences in my head.

Almost

2011-12-31T17:27:00.001Z

It was a near miss - I spent many days thinking about how close I was. But the opportunity was snatched away from my grasp - and it saved me.

The night will soon be illuminated by fireworks, releasing acrid smoke into the atmosphere. We revel in the sentimentality of new years and make resolutions which are never meant to be met. But it is an almost-possibility which we continue to make.

I still remember last year's resolution. It was meant to be an almost-resolution - an almost-promise to myself that I would learn to live again. And here I am, one year later, making more almost-promises. It is a deadly circle of unfulfilled promises, dreams and aspirations that we get ourselves stuck in year in and year out. But it is the hope we harbour in our hearts which make each unfulfilled year bearable and each almost-promise worth making.

I had no hope but everyone else had hope for me. So they took the dark away and thrust me into the light.

Fireworks explode into the night and I promise myself, once more, that I will learn to live again.

Lives Overlooked

2011-12-29T23:39:00.003Z

The night bears down heavy blows on her friends. I wasn't her friend but I could feel the atmosphere thickening with suspense and ominousness.

She was one year my junior and I remembered watching her eat her lunch in the dining hall with her other Year Eleven friends. She had an elegance which only she seemed to possess - it made her stand out amongst the gaggle of makeup-heavy girls. She never really spoke to me with the exception of the occasional "hi" as we passed each other in the boarding house. Nothing more than that. It wasn't enough for me to think much about her as I graduated and left for university.

Three years later, I received word that she was in a coma. Lying in a hospital bed somewhere in the states, it was almost surreal to think that she would cross my mind again while I was sat in a small room in the English countryside. It reawoke images of a young girl in boarding school - a girl who I never really knew but wish I did now.

Letters praying for a speedy recovery would soon flood her family home - and mine would be one of them.

Hearts pulse wanting you back
Lights shine giving you strength
Lightning whips scaring away death
Please come home and give us faith

Get well soon.

Never did I think...

2011-12-29T23:23:00.001Z

[silence]

Dispersed

2011-12-28T10:17:00.000Z

Sink into similarity.
You do not see me;
You see us
and them
never me
he
she
or it.
Disappear into crowds;
Identity spreads thinly;
The many feet of too many
The many eyes of a united crowd.
All the same;
All a group
where no
one
exists.

Change

2011-12-23T11:20:00.005Z

It was always the boys and I who were sat on the swings, trying to go as high as we could go. I was five and they were eight and ten - young cousins trying to outdo each other on the playground. Every now and then, someone would go running home in a flood of tears with an injury of some form. But despite each fall, each scrape, each bruise we still went back to the park to play competition again. Ten, eight and five, we were. Ten. Eight. And five.

The humid days in the park soon became a past we no longer talked about. We were now twenty, twenty-three and twenty-five. Days spent in office erased all recollection of the events of our childhood. Only on the rainy weekends spent indoors would I remember the days when the cousins and I played on the swings. I wondered if they remembered it as fondly as I and wondered if they thought about the past on gloomy days in the Australian outback just as I did on wintry days in the English countryside.

There was never much communication between us since we parted ways. They left for university long before I did and never really came back. I caught them during the small slivers of time we spent together, but the stories we could share soon dwindled and we were left with nothing much to say. Gone were the days in the park when we laughed, screamed, cried - perhaps, they were never meant to be relived over the Christmas dinner chat. Now dressed smartly in our work clothes (or at least I would like to think I dressed smartly), we left it all behind and all that's left is the acknowledgement that much has changed and that we could never revert back to the childhood we once had fifteen years before.

August 23, 2010

2011-12-17T19:39:00.001Z

Coming home was a bittersweet moment. Returning to see the familiar faces was meant to be a point of excitement but I knew the familiar faces also brought back a familiar pain. Is that what families are supposed to do. I don't see joy in my return and neither do they. The next time I return no one will turn a blind eye at me. Sometimes I wonder whether I should even come back but at the same time..can I stand being away for that long?

Sometimes I wish I never existed. Non-existence seems so much easier.

Lessons to be Learnt

2011-12-14T20:26:00.000Z

"At some point she has to try"

"People are starting to notice...eventually, they're going to think: why bother?"

"I think she's very insecure about herself..."

"She is very vulnerable"

"..and so I think she is afraid to talk to people because she thinks they do not want to talk to her"

"but you see: people don't see that...people will not perceive that...they just see her the way her actions portray her..perception is a horrible thing"

"Yeah I know...because our perception of her is based on her actions..and they aren't reflecting her in the most positive light"

"Her actions and her inactions..."

"Umm..yes inactions...definitely"

Actions speak louder than words. Inaction speaks louder than actions.

And I curl up under the covers

while the night is ignited by fireworks

to prove

that the unresponsive

can only ever lie alone

Stereo Beats

2011-12-13T19:25:00.001Z

Songs are thumping out of the room above me and I'm not annoyed.

It is loud enough for me to pick out the words of the song and feel each beat reverberating throughout the building. The song evokes the images of dim rooms in an underground pub, brick walls and all. It never seemed more real than now. Remembering the days which no longer exist was more painful than having to talk about it and so I pen it down on a scruffy piece of paper ...only to lose it when morning comes.

There are no surprises in the fallen words which travelled only so far into space and time. They drop like birds shot out of the sky and I could only watch and set the hunting dogs upon their bodies. And when walking by the ford, I would dip my hand into the cold water and wish it would wash away the memories.

But of course the music stops and the images float away into the night as if to tease me by eluding me. The view of the ceiling now sets upon me and I realise that there is no stream to walk by or sky for which the birds (or the words) to fall from. I am left in a space and void which holds no meaning or emotions. It was all an imagination - a fiction of the mind.

December 15, 2010

2011-12-10T20:26:00.000Z

The silence speaks,
we hide in the haze
and there's a sweet melody of birds
chirping in the night sky
never to be seen
not truly
not really
but we hear them still
fluttering in the cold air.

There's a ruin in the park.
It stands stone cold by the swings
waiting to be touched by
a child
waiting for the sun to reappear
and shine light on its decrepit state.
It's waiting for love
and affection
and possibly
nurturance.

I hold the idea, tight in my hands
that footsteps will soon be heard
in a distance
slowly getting louder
before disappearing again.
We love the light it brings
and dread the loneliness it leaves
But we want to be the ruin in the park
and wait for eternal light to shine someday.

And in silence it leaves

graves lying idle in the dark

Reason

2011-12-10T08:25:00.003Z

Why do any more?

Because we talk in our sleep.

11 December, 2010

2011-12-10T00:23:00.000Z

Never a day spent not thinking,
not remembering,
not regretting.
Never a day thinking:
"I love life".

The tombstones of memory
moss-eaten, green,
and vile.
Never a day not mourning
Never a day wishing
for a quiet ending

Path through the woods
where mother nature litters leaves.
Trees dying on Christmas Eve.
Never a day not wanting love.
Never a day with blessings from above.

The light burns on a winter's morn
when the little one was born.
Mother of birth, hands of death.
Never a day wishing for change.
Never a day, ever again.

To those who didn't see it when I did.

Your Daughter

2011-12-08T21:27:00.000Z

Victims at sixteen - it just didn't seem fair. Why did they have to lose their lives in that manner? Why did their parent have to weep over their emaciated bodies? It isn't fair, is it?

Remember your beautiful daughter running down the stairs on a sunny morning. Her sillohuette danced against the glare of the mid-summer's sun as you watched from the breakfast table. You sipped your coffee and pushed up your glasses to admire the child you brought up with love to love her family and herself.

Now look at her as she lies in her coffin - her face pale with malnourishment and death. You will never get to see her graduate; you will never get to see her get married; you will never get to see her be happy ever again. Where did the girl you saw dancing in the sunlight go? No longer in your arms, she now will rest in the ground and buried together with her is the sadness she never got to tell you about.

You swear to leave her bedroom untouched.

March 2, 2009

2011-12-07T07:39:00.002Z

Sigh....another weekend gone and now I'm neck-deep in History notes and essays. It's been United Nations galore since early this morning and I'm brain-drained from all the shit we have to stuff ourselves with for tomorrow's test. I swear, I'd rather be in class.

I was talking to Anisa in the library this afternoon and it made me realise how much I miss 2008. It wasn't a wholly good year but at least there were the great times to look back on. Then again, 2009 has only started. Now that we're into March, it's a small chunk of 2009 gone but there's still another 10 months left to go through. A lot's gonna change in that time frame.

I have a much more optimistic roommate now as compared to before I left for exeat and that's a good thing. I guess the "many fishes in the sea" theory is starting to have a positive effect ...optimism is always welcomed. It's all (or at least, mostly) grins for room 404 now.

March 15, 2009

2011-12-07T07:36:00.001Z

Doing C3 is like jumping off a cliff repeatedly hoping to fly. I'm sorry but I think you need to be a bird to do that....or an insect for that matter.

I'm done with Frankenstein btw. I'm sick of reading the damn book, sick of doing the damn exam paper, sick of having to see that black speck that lives two floors below me. So what the hell...screw Frankie and his inability to fit in.

A lot of things have happened over exeat and obviously I'm not the one to really say as I wasn't around. I mean, I can see the after effects of whatever has happened but that's only at a surface level. I've had my fair share of confusion before I left and I can't say it's sorted itself out yet - where the hell did I put my calculator? -_-"

I've got a message for a whiny little git who stayed back for exeat and who held up class the other day to make way for some drama:

I didn't think you were going to commit suicide and even if you had the guts to, I don't give a damn.

I've got a much nicer message for a really nice person:

Thank you for the acknowledgement. Want cake? =)

March 16, 2009

2011-12-07T07:32:00.002Z

Somehow I feel as though the cockroach population in Room 404 is going to increase over the next few weeks. I just killed a tiny one which was making its way across Daphnie's pillow. And last week, I smacked a flying cockroach down with my Dr. Faustus book. Not a great way to get started on Literature, I can assure you.

Moving on from unwanted creepy crawlies, I had a pretty dead day today. Not because it was boring but because I spent 75% of my time walking around half asleep. Maybe I should have slept earlier last night but I had to read my cockroach guts-covered Dr. Faustus book for an essay I got for prep. Latin definitely doesn't agree with me. So at 1am I was still flipping aimlessly through Faustus. Quite a sad first-night back really. Had first two off before dashing of to Math this morning. Lunch also came slightly later than normal because Tiow didn't let us go 5 mins before the bell (like she usually does) so I was stuck lining up outside the dining hall together with the other unfortunate souls there.

There was supposed to be athletics today but due to a bout of rainfall it's been postponed to Monday next week. I can already imagine the whining and complaining going on in Jawahir. I don't blame them really.

Shit...History essay

June 3, 2009

2011-12-06T07:41:00.001Z

Yesterday's History paper really went down the drain. Really felt as though God was trying to take a nip at me for being the lazy ass I've been this entire year and a half in KTJ. Oh well, it's over and done with I suppose and any remorse will only come when the results come out in August.

Oh god, the thought of results day...

For now anyways, it's just literature and Maths so it should be pretty okay from now on. Corelli and Faustus are really getting to me though. The Italian soldier and the deranged German scholar really are a handful especially at times like this. Stresss

I really feel like blowing up the brains of some of the people who live here. It's a real pain in the ass to see their faces during exam time. The feeling of seeing their faces is equivalent of that of a gay bio teacher trying to instigate a fight by tossing your homework out in the corridors. Fuck you, you bloody gay shit.

The only way to survive Art Centre, I've realised, is not to care. Not to care about the bloody gits who get in your face, not to care about any crude remarks, not to care about the gossiping and the bitching, not to care about the eavesdropping(thus, say whatever the hell you want regardless of who is standing next to you), not to care about the assumptions made, not to care about the "friends" which you thought you had, not to care about the "friends" who get on your nerves....

I can go around rolling my eyes at anyone now and not worry about being threatened about them being gouged out of my skull(mainly because I'll be the one gouging eyeballs out instead).

That lousy little fake bugger better watch it....she'll be the next one to go flying over the corridor railings in this school.

January 9, 2009

2011-12-06T07:35:00.002Z

I'm finally about to have my first real weekend Saturday in Mantin. Tiow is taking the day off because of a bit of food poisoning...but then again, there's no such thing as mild food poisoning in KTJ.

C2 has really drained me today. I was hoping to get some work done after the C2 paper but just before I could get myself to bogged down with work I got distracted by a bit of laundry. Everyone said that C1 was a bitch. Of course, by the screwed up looks on everyone's faces was enough to send the rest of us into cardiac arrest. Ah yes...the bitterness of life with the presence of redundant Maths papers. C2 was bearable...not impossible by any means but definitely redundant. My concern and interest in the area of a cylinder doesn't stretch that far and I can say the same thing for everyone else.

I rushed to what remained of my extra literature class after maths and stoned quite a fair bit admist the talk of Yeats' "Second Coming" before walking out just as knowledgable I was when I first walked in. Then, I dashed of for a bit of cross-country practice before dinner.

I should stop mucking about. I still have 5 papers to go and it's been a fucking bitch so far. Oh god...I can hear Hughes pulling up in front of Naquiyuddin now. God his car sounds like it needs a good bit of oiling.

Ah fuck...lights out.

Sleep-Talking

2011-12-05T19:38:00.001Z

Slip into unconsciousness
on the bed
head resting on pillows.
You never thought you would go so suddenly
but neither did I.

A muffled voice in the night time
the silence emphasised.
so timid and unexpected, the words:
I'll get you
and you sink back into a drowsy, silent stupor.

Never did I think
or expect
or anticipate
the growing of the voice
finding it's way out of sleep
into your being.
Why did it come and take you
and claim you? Your youthful face
sinking into gauntness.
Your eyes infiltrated
by the vice
this voice set upon you.
Why did you have to die
before my eyes?

But you breathe again
one stormy night
The voice dies away in the distance
and I hold your hand
knowing it will soon be okay.
I listen in fear
for the voice returning in avengence,
but all I can hear
and possibly all that is left
is nothing
but the rustling of the trees
in the cold September winds.

Deception

2011-12-04T09:07:00.000Z

Don't let the lazy think they are hardworkers.
Don't let the weak think they are strong.
Don't let the ill think they are recovered.

because doing so

doesn't make you their friend;

it makes you a liar.

Nights Alight

2011-12-03T10:14:00.000Z

Stab

2011-11-29T22:51:00.002Z

You can only hate yourself so much

Sleep Rants

2011-11-28T23:09:00.001Z

Tonight is much colder than the last.

I want to curl up next to a hot water bottle and slip away into sleep. But I know I can't. I will be spending the night tossing and turning, feeling the sharp bite of the cold in my toes. The portable radiator is on the max and I am bundled up in thermals, flannel pyjamas, hoodie and socks. Tonight isn't going to be easy...I can feel it in my numb fingers.

Pass the time with some music:

"I turn the music up
I've got my records on"

Fancy listening to Coldplay on a chilly night in Surrey. If only the night would pass over sooner - five more hours before the alarm rings. I tuck my fingers under the pillow. Just another pathetic attempt at keeping warm. I can feel the sleep bearing down on me but the cold keeps me clinging to consciousness. I guess this is limbo.

"Once upon a time, somebody ran
somebody ran away..."

I can't think. I am too tired. But yet I am awake. I want the darkness to drop on me and smother me and take me away. I want to float off to another sense of non-awakening and sink into it so that it would become my world.

"You really hurt me..."

My hands are water and yet I can't feel them because of the cold. I turn over onto my side. The wall never seemed so colourless, so patternless, so non-existent. In fact the world no longer exists. It's all an abstract concept within the mind. Memories and experiences seem to bob in and out of the sub-conscious with images of child-me running around in the park emerging on a non-chronological time frame. I can see the sun on a humid morning and suddenly the thunder on a stormy tropical afternoon.

Shrill ringing

I can see the old car my father once owned and suddenly the bicycle I used to ride in my grandmother's porch.

"In the night the stormy night
she closed her eyes"

Shrill ringing

I can hear the voice of my grandfather and suddenly the chants of the nuns at his funeral.

Shrill ringing. Shrill ringing. Shrill ringing.

Yes..yes...I'm up for god's sake. Time for work...
...fuck, I've overslept again.

July 4, 2009

2011-11-27T10:02:00.001Z

the door is creaking
I can hear it slam shut as shuffles of those slippers
travel up and down the cement corridor
but I lie awake in my...
..pains?
...regrets?
...loss?

It's one thing to lie on the cold hard bed and
another to be with a presence on that
same, cold, hard bed. The matress
would seem...
...more inviting?
...more warm?
...more loving?

How do I equate a loss of the world
when all I can do
is lie on that damned
cold, hard bed?
I hear the door open.
Creak
And then shut again.
The echo of a closing
renounces throughout the room
and I lie there
only to believe that the world is cold and hard
just like that damned bed.

I've got my believes
and I suppose I should stick by it
no matter how much I'm being
tempted into destroying it
along with my morals
but everytime that damned door creaks
or I lie on that damned bed, I'm
always reminded:

There is a life out there, and
only I can retrieve it for myself
and so I stay on that bed
alone
cold
aching
just to be able to achieve that life
in hope that maybe
some day
I'll be able to let it all go....

A&E

2011-11-25T18:51:00.001Z

There were no sirens, no screams, no horror.

There was regret, disappointment,and hurt.

The A&E waiting room had never been so empty. Well, it only seemed empty in my head. I realised it was an illusion that my deprived state had left me with. All I could see was what I was focused on - my hands. Everything around it blurred, the sounds muffled.

My hands were light and strangely angular. It looked almost distorted with its anatomy so prominent - I could see the blue veins which ran down my arm and the tendons which joined the bones to muscle (or what's left of it really)

I felt the weight of someone's hand on my shoulder. It was then I looked up to see a young woman looking at me with tearful eyes. She was my friend but at the time, she seemed just like any other person who didn't matter to me. I could feel all emotions, but dread, ebb away from inside me. Suddenly the world seemed so insignificant - nothing in the whole world could be bigger than the emptiness inside my mind. It was so overwhelmingly...non-existent.

My friend placed her hand on mine and said: "You're doing the right thing." I sighed and dropped my head - and dozed off as the world walked silently over me.

Let's

2011-11-23T23:46:00.002Z

Let's write about the lies we told each other
the ones we coughed up
not to deceive
but to progress.

Let's share our stories with each other
the ones we buried
not to hide
but to protect.

Let's forget the past together
the ones we survived
and lived to tell
and hope to conquer.

Let's not think of existence...

...and float away into the empty sea.

Chronology of Friendship

2011-11-20T17:57:00.008Z

Here we are at five.

We were playing at the swings after a thunderstorm. Below our swinging feet were puddles of water where little tadpoles swam. We held hands and smiled knowing that tomorrow was going to be just as fun. The sun will always shine after a storm

Here we are at ten.

It was your birthday and I had my arm over your shoulder in a friendly embrace. You threw bits of cake at me that year. It was a friendly gesture - it was your way of letting me know that you were thinking of me. I don't think our mothers were impressed to find their daughters covered in cake.

Here we are at fifteen.

I stood behind the group of girls we went out with. I didn't think what we were doing was right. Weed and alcohol on a humid night. There were dark-clothed men walking the alleys looking out for promiscuous, naive girls. I didn't want to be one of them. I slinked away from the group before midnight and left you to form new, dangerous relationships.

Here we are at twenty.

I stood over you. With flowers in my hand. I had never see you so calm before and I smiled weakly as I placed the flowers in your hands. The bruise you obtained from the asault was barely visible under your make-up - you looked perfect, just as you did in life. The lid closed and you resigned into the darkness.

And now, here I am.

.

.

2011-11-20T08:53:00.001Z

Sanity left me stranded.

Unclear

2011-11-19T21:13:00.002Z

Complacency

2011-11-19T12:30:00.002Z

I'm complacent.

I woke up one day, quite suddenly, after two years. It was reality and it was harsh: no matter how nice a person one is, there's no such thing a karma. It's bullshit.

But forget karma for now. Think about reality for awhile. What is it? - It's a perception and understanding of life concepts and it's different for everyone.

However, if it's just perception, isn't it just an illusion - an illusion which is morphed by life experiences and individual differences? For example, the aphasic patient who can only perceive things in his left peripheral view. Or the depressed victim who can only perceive the sad and the negative.

Emotional perception is the individual's own inner illusion and can only be viewed by the one it belongs to. But the individual still chooses how he wants to see it.

When I woke up, I decided I was going to perceive complacency. Fuck perfection; fuck happy endings; fuck all the unnatural expectations of modern society. They are all the illusions created by a mass of unthinking schmucks and adopted by an even bigger mass of unthinking feeble-minded individuals.

And so with that, I followed a more obscure path - and stayed quite complacent and pretty damn happy ever since.

..Perfect Symmetry..

2011-11-17T21:13:00.000Z

"I shake through the wreckage for signs of life
scrolling through the paragraphs
clicking through the photographs"

Dear Liv

2011-11-17T20:22:00.001Z

Dear Liv,

I haven't spoken to you in awhile and I was wondering how you are. So, how are you?

I've spent days in solitude reading books about how you would swoop down and pick up the feeble-minded and give them hope that there is something beyond 'now'. I am usually sat in the cemetery reading these books. On John Marble's headstone to be exact. He was a sailor who died in the 1850s. I suppose you left him back then too.

I just wanted to let you know that I am still waiting. I know you'll probably never come back again but I can always wish you will. It's the best that I can do.

Well, it's been a joy knowing you, Liv. Thank you for reading my letter. I didn't think you would. But if you never do, I hope these words end up in the hands of someone who can relate to them.

x

Dispersion

2011-11-14T23:03:00.000Z

The second the light touches the ground

it disperses
and reflects off in tiny invisible rays
never to be seen as a whole again.

Realisation

2011-11-14T18:14:00.000Z

It makes you realise what you've lost

It makes you realise who you're not

It makes you realise what you can't do

but then again

It makes you realise what you have

It makes you realise who you are

It makes you realise what you can do

I want to know what else it can make me realise.

Sometimes.

2011-11-13T22:40:00.002Z

Mind-reading.

2011-11-13T18:39:00.001Z

I study Psychology.
I can't read minds
as much as I wish I could

There isn't much sense in worrying about what the old man in the park thinks about me considering I don't actually know him. But it feels like he has a critical eye on me and I'm scared.

I join the crowd of grocery shoppers in Tesco and it doesn't feel like I am as submerged as the others. I walk quietly through the aisles, not saying word. I am listening to Keane's 'Bedshaped' on my iPod and hoping the people around me aren't paying any attention to the girl in a checkered shirt and shorts. I am too self-conscious. What are they thinking of me? Why is she looking at the tin of beans I am holding? Why is he looking at my legs?

I walk off to pay for my items and a small child runs into me. There is a look of shock in his eyes and suddenly he cries. I feel guilty for being the one he ran into and I feel terrified his mother might think I've done something to him.

I drop my basket of items and leave the store empty-handed.

I am in the park. It's dark and everything seems to be going to sleep. Still listening to 'Bedshaped', I thought about the old man in the park, the random shoppers in Tesco and the small boy I inevitably scarred with my presence. I rip out some grass and examine it with what little light I have and notice how not one blade looked different from the other - I want to be like grass - to fit in and not stand out. I want to be deindividuated and be engulfed by the crowd so that my being is the crowd.

I hear someone clearing his throat behind me. It's the old man. I get up and walk off as quickly as I can.

I lose sight of the old man behind the trees and I feel safe.

Paradise

2011-11-13T00:17:00.000Z

"When she was just a girl
she expected the world
but it flew away from her reach
so she ran away in her sleep"

"Life goes on and it gets so heavy..."

"In the night
the stormy night
she closed her eyes"

Time Games

2011-11-13T00:12:00.003Z

There wasn't much to look forward to at some point. Frail, weak and dying, the self was focused on inner destruction and outer torture.

The sandwich packet sits unopened in the fridge and days later ends up in the bin with patches of mould already on the bread. I frown at the thought of food wastage but I knew that that's what I had to do to get things my way. I put my hand to my face and felt the dry skin and the wrinkles which should not be there in youth.

There's a clutter of plates behind me.

It's my flatmate, preparing a plate of toast and baked beans (Heinz brand). I briskly walk out of the kitchen without a word to her and sigh at the thought of a conversation lost to my irrational fear of her toast and baked beans.

Time passes.

There isn't much time left. A friend calls me into a coffee shop. It is urgent. She tells me what she has to say. I break down.

Time stands still.

IVs and ECGs and "Ill...need help...ward in Farnham". This whole time, my friend holds my hand and tells me it will be alright. I don't believe her and I say "I hate you for doing this to me".

Time becomes irrelevant.

As I look out through the barred windows onto the hospital grounds, I think about how I never thought I'd be in this position - tagged and observed for 6 hours a day. I can smell roast potatos coming from the room next door. I want to cry. "They're undoing everything..." I look at the ward staff and see them gesturing me to come into the dining room. I sigh. "Their job is to undo everything."

Time is in sync with reality.

My coursework is beginning to pile up and it all feels too much. After weighing out my lunch of hummus and cucumber sticks (in grams) and counting the cherry tomatoes, I sit down in front of my laptop and begin to type away at my assignment:

The motivation of eating and hunger is supported by studies based on the set-point theory and settling-point theory. However, sufferers of certain disorders such as...

Time rewinds itself suddenly.

I slam the laptop shut and abandon my hummus, cucumber sticks and cherry tomatoes and punch the wall. I pick up my bag and decide I am going for a walk. As I leave the room, I feel my fist throbbing and my eyes tearing up.

Fuck memories.

Can you Hear It?

2011-11-08T23:13:00.001Z

They whisper...

...whisper....

...whisper...

I can't talk back to them.

They want me to die.

You don't deserve existence

Carry away the voices.

They scare me so much.

It's almost like

it is me.

I am you.

Dark Scenes

2011-11-04T18:13:00.000Z

The day fades into night quite unnoticably.

You forgot they turned the clocks back an hour didn't you?

I looked up into the night and realised how much the darkness had changed the scene. I could no longer see the clouds; darkness and all had enveloped the sky.

I heard a plane fly above me but I could not see it. But the ethereal sounds of its colossal engines echoed across the sky, leaving me somewhat in awe at the fact that something so hidden could produce such a thunderous roar.

It was only six o'clock but it felt like the world was already sleeping. It's the illusion the early-setting sun created - it shut the busy society indoors and lulled them to sleep but I stayed outside to look at the changing skies.

It was beautiful - but oh, so lonely.

Legacy

2011-11-01T23:14:00.002Z

Arnie drew his last breath. And of course, he died.

I kind of expected it. Fifty years of smoking clearly would do him in at some point. Unfortunately, it had to happen after I got to know him - after he became my friend. Had I not known him, it would have saved me a trip to the cemetery.

They buried Arnie on a Saturday morning and engraved on the headstone was:

Arnold Joseph Miller

25th June 1930- 3rd August 1995

May he rest in peace

Jesus, Arnie. No wonder you're dead. Smoking since you were fifteen!

The crowd of mourners soon left, gliding silently between the headstones of the long dead. They left their last words and took their tears with them. Soon, they would change out of their black attire and change into their summer dresses (it is August after all) and sit in their gardens sipping wine.

"To Arnie," they would say as the scorching sun beats down on their pale skin. When the sun set and the people intoxicated, they would retreat to their homes and shut the door on another day without Arnie.

And so summers and autumns and winters and springs pass and good old Arnie lies a good few feet under the cemetery grounds, silent. No one visits him, no one speaks of him and (unsurprisingly), no one remembers him. It is another life wasted - his stories, his experiences, his values gone. But what can we do? Poor Arnie's dead and gone. Perhaps if he'd left a legacy...

Smoking for fifty years - foolish Arnie..

Leave

2011-10-30T15:35:00.003Z

I hear a clutter in the kitchen
It's you.
You leave a distateful sense in this house.
Tried to distort me
Did you not?
Twist the emotions I did not have.
Such a failure you were,
such a failure

I live the life of a
nomad. I drag my belongings with me
through the snow, ice
while you live the life of a
liar. Forever a slave to your stories,
lies. Trust me,
you won't get far.

So I leave with my possessions
and leave with you believing
you had won.
But I leave with my emotions
in tact. I shall drag it
in one piece, even through
tougher times in life.
And unlike your lies,
which stay twisted and permanent,
all I will ever leave
are just marks in the snow.

In Her Words (A Translation)

2011-10-30T15:13:00.001Z

It's like there's darkness at the edge
of my mind. It gnaws at my thoughts.
Devours it. And they no longer exist
That's what it feels like
this disease.

I can feel it all going again,
all going....
..........................................................
...............son.....................................,
.................................................
....................................
.........(..........)....................
.........soldiers................!
..........................
....ring.............
.............
............
........
what?

Did I tell you
about the time I went on holiday

No?
I didn't think so.
I have a story to tell you
but it seems to elude me,
the details of it...
...some times I question
whether it's real.
Polar bears in South Africa?
Or perhaps a brown bear?

My darling grandchild,
I hope to see you
soon.
Buy me the chocolates
I loved to eat as a child
You know which ones I like.
I hope to see you soon.

...
...
...
...

Who are you?

"I'd rather be a Comma than a Fullstop"

2011-10-27T13:28:00.003+01:00

it's called a semicolon.

Habit

2011-10-27T13:22:00.001+01:00

It's 1pm.

Time for my crumpet and brussel sprouts. Time to sit down in front of the laptop and type away mindlessly about my thoughts on life. What do I think of the crumpet?

It's 1.02pm.

Time to listen to some Coldplay and imagine myself away from the four walls of my room. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff - I can fly (or so I can in my head)

It's 1.15pm.

Time for my third cup of coffee. Black, bitter and strong. I have soy milk but it's not going into my coffee (as it normally doesn't)

It's 1.17pm.

Time to sit down with my coffee and listen to Coldplay again. Black, bitter and strong.

It's 3.30pm.

Time for a walk. I throw on a jacket and walk out the door. It's raining - never mind - I can still go for a walk. Rain, shine, snow or ice. I walk through the park on the way to town. I know the route so well I hardly notice it as I walk past. I know this route all too well.....

It's 6pm.

I'm back. Drenched, cold and tired.

It's 6.05pm

Time for another cup of coffee to warm me up and wake me up. The water boils. I pour it into my cup - black, bitter and strong.

"I turn the music up"

2011-10-25T22:13:00.000+01:00

"Maybe the trees are gone"

"I feel my heart start beating to my favourite song"

"And heaven is in sight"

"I turn the music up
I've got the records on"

"I rather be a comma than a fullstop"

"Nobody said it was easy"

2011-10-25T22:10:00.000+01:00

"Oh it's such a shame for us to part
Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be so

I'm going back to the start"

Stir-Crazy

2011-10-25T11:04:00.001+01:00

Up and down High Street I go
the cobbled street I am so familiar with
the shops I've seen so many times
the people I know from my countless walks

Up to the cathedral
to photograph the same damn building
to cover each nook and cranny
with scanning eyes.

Around the park,
Again, and again, and again
The sight of flowers were almost damaging
Their same-ness taunted me

Up and down High street I go
cobbled streets, shops and people,
Up to the cathedral
damn damn damn.
Around the park
Around and around. Fuck those flowers.
Up and down High Street I go....

People of the Past

2011-10-25T10:50:00.001+01:00

I dropped the box of photographs as I was tidying up the room.

Photographs spilled out of the box and lay splayed out on the floor. They spread out like branches on a tree, the one closest to me being the earliest photo I had of myself.

2006
I was sat on a friend's bed smiling, with my glasses askew (typical of a 15-year-old who couldn't give two fucks about looking stupid in a photo). I only ever smiled for photos.

2007
I was stood amongst my classmates. My hair was a mess and I had displayed a small smirk on my face. A time hardly worth doumenting, admist preparations for my GCSEs - Eleven subjects: Malay Language, English Language, English Literature, English for Science and Technology, Modern Mathematics, Additional Mathematics, Biology, Chemistry, Physics, History, Moral Studies - I got 4 As.

2008
I was standing on the beach with five others. We were at camp. Sunburned and tired, we looked as limp as a the seaweed clumped at our feet. I could already see the weariness in my eyes.

2009
Last day of boarding school. In the background, I could see a friend crying and hugging fellow junior boarders. In contrast, I was sat on a bench, smiling meekly, eyes dead.

2010
I was stood with friends in the kitchen of one of the student halls. Toilet paper lay strewn around us. Too much of a good night perhaps? But I looked at me - it was like I wasn't even there. Eyes dead, body limp - I could only ever just manage to smile for photos.

There are no photos of myself for 2011. All I had as proof of my existence were the countless photos of everything but myself - trees, squirrels, buildings, random passer-bys. I spend so much time hidden behind the lens but it's where I feel safest. I don't need to be reminded of how I've changed.

I pile up the photos once more and place the photo of myself from 2006 on the top - that's the only photos worth remembering - goofy teenager, glasses askew, deceiving the world with nothing but a smile.

"Mam, we're playing funerals now"

2011-10-23T21:31:00.000+01:00

The view of the cemetery crossed me at the corner of my eye. I was on a bus, going at 50kph on the small winding roads of Surrey. The bus stopped at the junction, waiting for the traffic line to turn green. I turn around and take a second look at the cemetery and took note of how old some of the gravestones were - chipped and moss-devoured, the headstones' details were lost to the running of time and age.

The light turns green.

Just before we sped off down the countryside, I noticed a small old woman kneeling by a headstone with flowers in her hands. Could she be the only visitor this cemetery had left?

The bus began to move and we turned around a corner.

I lost sight of the old woman and the cemetery but the thought of a lone visitor lingered. I wondered how it must feel to be her, the only one left who seemed to have any longingness to visit the dead loved one. Where were the other funeral-goers who cried over the coffin of the dead? Were they all merely playing the role of 'Mourner'?

I got off the bus at the Bird in Hand. In the pub, there was a loud chanting of the birthday song and I knew that all those singing were just playing the role of "Friend".

Something Amazing

2011-10-19T20:25:00.000+01:00

The twang of the guitar
in the cold winter's air, holding
the note in eternity
to captivate the listeners,

and onlookers. I shall not say
what I wanted them to see, I just wanted them
to sink -
sink into the melody, nostlagia
and hope for the better tomorrow.

The sky cried silently onto the pavement.
The spectators left and I took
the guitar home with me
to be laid next to a burning fire
to dry away the emotions
but I knew that there were stains on my listeners.
They had gone home with it,
drenched.