intersections

the burden which the start of any story bears: instant unfamiliarity and strangeness and numbness; like the outer part of emotional shallot that requires some gradual peeling to get into the core

doesn't it always feel strangely different to hear the beginning of any story? some begin confidently, aiming at one clear direction, taking us on his/her train of thoughts and we part involuntarily part willingly give in to ride along with the wind. some others, their benign beginnings are just a personal translation of 'i don't know. maybe we can try to get through this.' and we can say: maybe we don't want to. maybe we stop reading after the very first line. maybe s/he writes only for him or herself. maybe it doesn't have any meaning at all. maybe it will start to lose its already scanty enthusiasm and die along the way. maybe we shouldn't bother.

maybe every story should be just like any dream: has no beginning and has a very blunt or abrupt ending.


i feel like the only reason why beginning exists is because we need to get used to their constructions of reality. adjusting our perspectives with the author's (which is why book is a wealth of knowledge because it's not merely a collection of data or naturally beautiful phrases but also perspectives and points of view). my teacher told me to always use 'hook' to begin any essay and it had always been easy; but it's usually when we talked about small things. things that honestly don't really matter to us: death penalty, social networks, homosexuality, etc. i mean, they are important, have always been an issue to a lot of people but only a fraction of them matter personally more often than not only when they happen to us or someone close to us. when we want to say about the big things they just lurk inside and refuse to go out, we run out of hooks even before they bubble in the surface. have you ever wondered?

there is another dialectic tension inside of me when i see those words floating freely in the virtual realm, eg: 'my life consists of the world is so beautiful and i hate people and i must kill myself' and i found comfort in them and said to myself that i am not alone. whatever you think about there will be someone else who has already thought about the same thing before. it's the big things, the big things that lurk inside. but that means that we are not different from one another and i am not going any further than any of you in this world

the big things that lurk inside of me say to me:

you feel stuck

i miss the strangeness that hovers in the air between me and the person that i barely know yet feel like, "hey i think i'm going to spend a lot of time with him/her together"

how much

the god of small things: how much one should be loved

the unbearable lightness of being: how much of reciprocity

story: how much do you love someone, if you still do

i say, it goes like this:

do you know how much one should be loved? if yes, do you know how much do you want that person to love you back? if yes, do you still love that someone who loves you with that amount of loving back? if yes, how much?

how much more

i say, how much left in the end

because pain is the part of the whole thing

why doesn't it make you say, i won't do it again?

WRITE DOWN WHAT YOU SEE BEFORE YOUR MIND BEGINS TO DISBELIEVE IT

more like: write down what you feel before your mind begins to disbelieve it.

when your mind disbelieves it it starts to collapse

and now i do not know what i wanted to write anymore

small things

the only person i want to show my words so badly to

always misunderstands what they mean

or even

does not understand what they mean at all

i read a book that is so beautiful i do not care if everyone else is thinking otherwise

it has the word god in its title

and when i read the part about the love of an ex-wife and an ex-husband

my heart shatters

it says,

in the year she knew him, before they were married, she discovered a little magic in herself, and for a while felt like a blithe genie released from her lamp. she was perhaps too young to realize that what she assumed was her love for chacko was actually a tentative, timorous, acceptance of herself.

morning

i think

loving a person means loving a wrong person

if it's right it shouldn't be called love

love is too wrong an emotion, too unfair a concept

the timing is never right, and you, who always start half-baked…

don't glitter your surface with yeast…

love is a land deprived of water, too dry a land to invest your feelings on

don't glitter your surface with yeast...

just close yourself and let it die

let it die

i miss you but i guess it's never right

it might not be the right time

i might not be the right one

i built myself a life

these girls

girls with dimples
girls with saggy holes that permit easy entrances
girls with discarded half-read books
girls with hollow hearts and watery brains, sans intricate knots and twisted lips
girls with wallpaint-thick eyelashes
girls with manicured hair
girls with skyscrape heels, in jittery sequins and glitters
girls who can cry anytime they want to, girls whose moans are never ambiguous, girls whose laughs fluctuate with time, girls who carry a large luggage in between their battered tits and dump them on your warm, wet, geometrical lap

girls who never give you troubles

girls who never give you

girls who never give

girls who never

girls who

girls

girls who make your life a light year easier.

this is what you get for loving people just because they love you in a way that no one ever did before.

i've learnt that if you drink you'll start spilling things
so just have your tears, have your tears to quench the thirst

i've learnt that if you start talking all that will ever flow is rubbish
so just have your dreams, have your dreams embraced in your sleep

how often do you feel like being dead? i used to get such pangs once or twice a year, and it was pretty normal to be acquainted with misery this way, i thought. because i took a cup of long black coffee and i felt okay again

every time i hoped that no one would ever see the ugly swells under my eyes, hot and puffy like chicken buns

and these swells were not getting better, and i knew that there are so many bad things out there that could happen to my life but if the life i am living is no longer under my control i feel obliged to hand it back soon.

i never counted, but the gaps between my thinking about death were getting closer everyday

twice a year, thrice a year, once a month

and recently, once a week

the book that i just lost, it says that when you are dead you are going to be asked about your good deeds and evil deeds, and if your evil deeds outweigh a piece of feather, you will have to go to hell But this piece of feather is no ordinary feather, it's heavy so that not many people will have to go to hell, because gods are trying to be kind to us, because kindness is an essential property of gods

and then i thought, this is why people commit suicide. there are less stupid suicide attempters than you thought there were, you know

we just realise earlier that when the day is long and when our misery outweighs that piece of feather, there is no point carrying on. it really is nonexistent.

i feel like one day these gaps will be extremely close to one another, through which a fire ant has to even squeeze its way through, and by the time it can't get through the gap anymore i would have been dead.

when you're dead you can't sleep anymore, i think. the dead are always awake. but being awake never tires them, because they can keep on watching the living, and the living are amusing and foolish and hence fun to watch; a cure to their boredom.

watch me die

what do you call a nightmare that occurs to you during the day? daymare? sounds perfect. anyway, i just had one, would you like to listen

it's nothing unusual, what else could it be? of course it's about death. i dream of my own death, a death that i am deciding for myself. suicide. not by stupid car accident or stupid cancer or stupid tumor and diabetes. suicide, man. suicide. i decide on my own death, i am as free as a man could get.

but, hold on, i am not even young, i am something preceding my youth. i have not enough of life yet, i need more of it. (where are you, gist?) but you never take me seriously, you sniff my swimsuit and say, "you didn't swim." i should've asked you to rub my hair or toenails because they all reek of chlorine. but nevermind. i will never trust people who cannot trust anymore.

anyway, in this dream, or shall i start calling it daymare, i reach for the knife. a regular knife, nothing outshining the sun. my grip steady, firm, no longer intimidated by the still air and sound. watch me, i say, watch.

the tip of the knife, sharp like demon's wit, begins making its way to my left wrist--alas i'm righthanded--slicing the epidermis, and then more flesh, like peeling an apple. i do not feel anything, but the blood is dripping. dripping off the tip of the knife, the pale skin of my wrist, with blood pumped from all over my body to fix the leak. and you watch me with my knife and my blood and my terrible gash. but you don't move.

you people, i scream at you but nothing comes out of my lungs. you are letting me die. this is not how it's supposed to be, not like my usual dreams and reveries. you want me to die. i dream of dying and nobody is trying to stop me. you watch the painful pink and thick red the shade of your mac lipstick and you watch me wither away, die, die, die. my soul ebbs away and you feel good about it.

humanity disappoints me.

everyday i think about death do you know what it feels like to be dead? i feel it everyday, fleeting, drifting in and out of my day

kalau boleh aku bilang aku gila, aku rasa ya. tapi malam ini belum mapan rasanya, untuk menerima semua kejanggalan-kejanggalan umum yang berdebat lebat dalam hatiku. si janggal pertama bilang kalau dia tidak janggal, aku rasa, bagaimana bisa? si janggal kedua mengakui kalau dia janggal, tapi apa janggal yang menyadari bahwa dirinya janggal masih pantas dianggap janggal? lalu janggal ketiga bilang, kalian berdua memang tidak kurang janggal, sebenarnya. tapi janggal bukan berarti istimewa, karena kalau istimewa itu majemuk, bersaudara dan berkawan, maka istimewa itu harus hilang, harus pergi tahtanya. tapi aku, aku si janggal yang bukan hanya tidak kurang janggal, tapi juga tidak kurang istimewa, karena aku anak terakhir, anak yang lahir tanpa direncana, atau penghancur keluarga berencana. (tunggu, kamu tahu kan ke mana arah ceritaku?) begitu janggal yang sebenarnya lahir, janggal-janggal lain harus mau, harus lalu dipanggil normal, mulai hari ini hingga hidup-hidup yang akan mereka hidupi seterusnya.

janggal satu dan janggal dua tidak tahu mau bilang apa; susunan kata yang telah rapi berbaris buat memanjat liang tenggorokan mereka sudah mati satu-satu, dua-dua, perih menguap dibawa angin liar.

bones betrayed

good intentions

imagine how great not having been born at all is

you don't exist

you don't get to bother thinking whether your existence has any significance to this giant-structured world, or whether your existence has always got stuck at a very personal level (in other words, whether your existence does mean a thing if it stands solely on its own)

and you don't get prejudiced at all when you fancy the idea of non-existence (you know what people say nowadays to those who have suicidal thoughts. these people are sane, of course, and it is wrong for us to feel that not having the same portion of sanity is unfair. because life has always been fair, and we are the crazy ones, the wrong ones, and all other people who 'keep calm and lie on' are always right, because they know more than we do: with lies they get away with everything else, with lies they get more access to the truths, of course they do. but we, we who are honestly, downright mad from the very first place, we have no rights over the truths and we are to lead a miserable life forever, and ask ourselves occasionally, 'will these things i've been writing become a self-fulfilling prophecy?' so occasional we forget that the answer is: yes, they will.)

if i got a chance to say something to the dying sperms and infertile eggs i would say, 'you will not be born at all, everything is at peace for you. you're good, we all here are not good.'

if i got a chance to say something to the surviving sperm and fertile egg that are destined to form a god-sent, sublime collision, i would say, 'the most unfortunate moment of your life will be the day you are born'

i might have already been unfortunate, i might have been deemed to be so. i might've been lucky, too, i'm just not in a shape good enough to say, 'life's worth living'. after all, having been born is a very big thing, whether it's good or bad. it might be the biggest thing that could ever happen to you besides death.

when you kill yourself you go back to the root of it all: non-existence. but it's not the same non-existence anymore; it now has been marred, smeared with the filths of all living things and living lies

but that doesn't stop me from thinking, 'i'd rather die than live a life not worth living'

even when i'm in a good shape, i feel miserable too / i won't stop thinking, 'i'd rather die than live a life worth-living that i can't remember after i die'

if there is God, i think He must have hated me so much; otherwise i shouldn't have been born

if there is God, i will apologise for flunking the life He has given me, the life He has hoped me to put to good use.

one day, you will have to question. but do not wonder why. the answer is always to be found if you only try to look it up.

OPEN YOUR EYES

august 10, 2011.

i am in a gutter, but i can see myself. there is a light that gets filtered through the glass ceiling above me, the gutter almost an open space. this is my gutter, and i look up. but all i see are people. i do not see stars. they say if i look up from the gutter i should see stars. but the stars are nowhere to be found. the skies are cobalt, and perhaps, being rich in color, they get arrogant and stop studding themselves with some stars. the people, on the other hand, are red; they are looking down at me. they step on the glass ceiling above me, squatting, trying to read me, trying to figure me out. my eyeballs are filthy white, too white they become unreal when i look at the foggy reflection on the ceiling. where are the stars, i whisper. one day people will have to pray like me. they will wish for some stars, they will forget they use to wish for something else whenever they see the shooting stars. next time, they will wish for the stars, not something that is being prayed upon them. because only then will they realize that the very presence of the stars themselves is more than enough. these people, they cannot see what is outside of themselves, not even what is in their palms. these people, i do not wish to see these people.

these people, they all have what they have been looking for. they live their lives comfortably, either modestly, or extravagantly. either way, they are satisfied. they are those people who always look up, they can find stars because the glass ceiling is below them, the glass ceiling never tries to get on their way. i always think one day, i will get up, go through this glass ceiling when i really have to. i will throw my body, the glass will pierce through me, some other pieces will tremble in the air, shattered and scattered. and i will have to die, but i will not be afraid, because thinking about my death is such a comfort, a pleasant thought, because i do not have to think about others, about myself, about people who look down at people who have this kind of thoughts. because these thoughts, i am only keeping to myself, and no matter who is trying to persecute me, trying to break through this ceiling to get me, they will not have me, because i will be dead in my own thoughts. and you, you have no right to judge me, because you are living a perfect life, and such people who never wish to understand things that are different from themselves have no authority to call themselves 'perfectly normal'.

open your eyes and you will understand. we are living in the same world. why can i always see you, but you can never see me, it is not because of this glass ceiling, it is because you never try to open your eyes to something other than yourself. i have always tried to tell you, "just lift the lids. and your eyes will be opened." but you cannot hear me. because you are deaf to people who are different than yourself too.

i feel sick thinking about myself

a shot

my mouth lives in a house that is stained by various kinds of scent: the rustic air of woods, the warm vapour of sweetness that can be found in the deepest layer of the earth. the roof smells like tequila, with a hint of salt that has been left for a period of time, which no longer possesses the saltiness of mineral salt and has the bitterness of sea water instead. the roof exudes drops of bitterness to the fertile soil of the ground. the ground, has more texture to it. it has an accent of some scent too, a thin air of diluted whiskey, but overshadowed by its gum-like texture. finally today, the house: the ground and the floor are left scentless, but because a house that does not smell like anything seems lonely and real, we taint the walls and the roof and the ground with even more viscous smell. the smell of menthol, and ashes, solid ashes that have been packed and rolled with paper, burnt to grey ashes again. the house reeks of smoke that is shooting up the roof, raising until the sky is black no longer blue. so a heart is now black no longer blue, a fulfilled emptiness instead of forlorn clues. we burn our heart so that it erases the sky, the ocean, the very clarity of blue that haunts us everyday, each shade of blue represents different kinds of sadness that is often mistaken for calm.

my mouth lives in a house that is stained by various kinds of scent: my mouth lives in yours.

THE DAY I STOP WANTING TO DIE, WILL BE THE DAY I DIE.

to not be able to remember anymore, is my greatest fear. if there is no afterlife, if we turn into worm food when we die, just rot as the world continues living, with each second of ticking clock passing by. our bodies indifferent and cold, warmed only by the air of the ground beneath this yellow earth. someone's father said, being dead is not a good thing or a bad thing. it just is.

how could something that is not bad nor good, stir so much thoughts in my mind, provoke implausible ideas and illusive heartbreaks? is this the cost of doubts at such inappropriate timing? doubts are not a sign of bravery, i'm going against the currents without knowing whom i could hold on to.

i have these memories of you intact, without knowing for sure whether they are for real because, although i am in full charge of my hands, each finger and muscle, i have no power over this collection of datas in my head. i reject any kind of certainties. but at least, i have my own dimension of reality, and i do not care if this is just something preprogrammed, whether this really happened, because really, it all now seems so beautiful. i'd like to remember you and everything in our surrounding not as what they once were, but as what i'd like them to be remembered. and one day i'll have crow's feet under my eyes, wrinkles inhabiting my epidermis and tears no longer as fluid as they are now. memories will fade away, will be taken by those hands of chimerical diseases, seemingly tame because i will have no knowledge of my suffering. i will not know that they once were there, that your shirt i once wore, the path we once walked together, those pages still fresh in memories now, memories that are so fragile, never like a data storage. there is still a point of holding my hands even if i may forget about your touch someday.

but darling, trust me there is nothing more i would like to keep to myself than these memories of your gentle omnipresence. like the frame i had in my mind of those candles in ps cafe, from which we rode a cab and you asked me afterwards, "do you want to make this exclusive?"

my life is plagued with perpetual questioning of consciousness and fundamental emotions; my life always a commotion. and to make it sound better is my job, not necessarily needed by anyone else but myself. and you said to me, comfortingly, of a theory so famous and difficult but satisfying i regretted not having acknowledged it from long ago. you are explanations to everything that ever exists, an encyclopedia, a thing from the past, revolutionary, though sometimes perforated. nevertheless, you always admit those holes decorating your pages, correct them when appropriate, and enclasp me with your two heavy hard covers of emerald green; and i am inside you for the longest of a given lifetime.

do not worry too much,you say. but a thing i never say, but always think about, write about: life has no rehearsal. but if things have so far gone so well with you, this well, this good i feel like i have cheated because i think i never deserve any of these; i wonder how much of an ache there will be when it is time for our hanging garden, our utopia to crumble altogether.

denseweekend

arguments

most advancements, progresses in the world are wheeled by progressive thinking, and because progressive thinking will be nonexistent without its counterarguments, arguments are essential in this world too, if you'd like to see progresses. but how far would you go for an argument, is it really worth debating. is it significant, and even in determining the value of an argument we have to argue because personal/general significance is so relative and prone to subjectivities. is it really important to argue what do you want for dinner? chinese takeaway or hours in a warmly lit coffee shop? is value of arguments too, really worth a debate?

labels

"never label people," you said.

striped shirt

what is the label of the striped shirt that you gave me yesterday? what does a label indicate? honey, tell me what that label says. why this label, not that one? labels make it easier for you to pick which stores to come in and which stores you can pass by, even when its glass windows say boldly SALE-- arial, in white, with one too many exclamation marks and striking palette of red in the background. why you pass that store, you say because they make lousy sweaters, with tangled threads dripping from their hemlines. my love, that is called labelling, but of course it is, because labels are part of business. what is life without labels, or are you just not allowed to label people, because it is rude, because you do not want to be labelled too? if only these shops, these shirts had a soul, they wouldn't like to be labelled too. but if they did not get labelled, you'd have to move in circles, rummage through piles of shirts in various colour schemes and textures and patterns and fabrics for the perfect sweater because you did not know which one would be less likely to have tangled threads dripping from its hemline. absence of labels wouldn't make your life easier. if these shirts had a soul, they would be labelling you too, your lifeless life and your mere existence, they would laugh at you in jovial, pointing their cuffs at your face. life is not unfair to humans only, it is never fair to any of the living, and non-living things.

i said, "i own a similar shirt in my closet, but with bigger stripes, thicker blue alternating with beige, instead of white." i do not know where the beige came from, whether it is really beige or tarnished beige, a progress from white. your eyes locked on its buttons, "no need to unbutton them," you say, so i didn't and i put it through my head, and like all your other clothes, it does not smell like anything.

perfume

because you are the only man i have ever dated who smells like humility, i did not expect to be welcomed by a tiny bottle of perfume on your table. checkered, like the plaid shirt of yours i wore the first time i lay a touch on your pale blue sheet, the surface full of creases. it smelt new, humble still and pleasant, never overpowering. it is like your love, and i will not impose any kind of doubt on its existence because i know, when you put a title "love books" on a memo listing the books i'd like to read next when they are about everything but love. i point at a book, unknown to me, except its cover page that says, "you do not have to say that you love me" as i put my index finger on your moist lips of garnet.

what she meant by waters were--oh my god, should i explain? this is like, worse than making a U-turn or a circular path after a long walk down the road. where words are dry like leaves of trees she passes by; orange everyday because she never believes in seasons.

and waters, what else? they were all her mom could ever ask for: 'please, let us have some of your waters down your cheek. remember when i slapped you for stealing a carton of milk pocky?' and then she looked around. crews were waiting, waiting for a dramatic, nationalistic spirit that was supposed to be brought up, bunch of clueless children set against the warm sunlight, against the wind, singing a song but not allowed of pronouncing it. cameras, all ready, frowns and sadness everywhere. only this child looking as joyful as ever.

how could i remember pain that is not there anymore, i am happy, mom. to be in such a beautiful place with you, she thought. how could i recall something that has ceased to exist? yet she tried. but not a drop of liquid gliding smoothly on her either cheek, each one kept itself very safely, intact far down her eye sockets. and then everything went black. black that was her mom's nightmare.

years later, roads still rough and leaves still dry. smile no longer clean, frowns began unravelling. numbers had become an increasingly important matter, a set of desperate measures, because the world needed something concrete to hold on to. memories, as always, were still fragile. that was what she had learnt before, all the more when she grew up. backed with various researches adorning the corners of each page of her psychology book, which looked promising and bright but were never as evident as what she had experienced those few years down the road. what says the movie always had, had always rung a bell in her head because to her, they were very, very true.

"Memory can change the shape of a room; it can change the color of a car. And memories can be distorted. They're just an interpretation, they're not a record, and they're irrelevant if you have the facts."

"There are things you know for sure. I know what that's going to sound like when I knock on it. I know that's what going to feel like when I pick it up. See? Certainties. It's the kind of memory that you take for granted."

"Look at it out here, it's all falling apart. I'm erasing you and I'm happy!"

if some people were that willing to erase some memories, how lucky they would be had they known what it felt to be me, she thought. but she, too, was no longer what she used to be. she could not now forget some sensations, even those that happened thousands of hours before. even those that had been subconsciously altered, far from what they were actually like, in the beginning of time. because memories do not inhabit the linear space of time we are rushing through every day, memories never get old, only dusty and tattered a little. ready to be retrieved, all the time. we would like to remember things not as how they used to be, but as how we would like them to be remembered. details we wanted our attention to be focused on. whether they elicit pain or a certain kind of high. how could it get more and more difficult to forget?

(answer this only when you get old. when your body is a home to alzheimer's or dementia disorders. not now.)

i do not care if tears turn men off. to me, waters--tears are the purest indicator of your happiness. of your remembrance. could be something that had happened, or had not happened. could be something real or something in your dream. could be happiness or sadness. either way, tears are real blessing. cover your face when you cry and from the sound, from all the writhes, i'd tell you things you'd like to hear the most. tears tell more than words, get more misunderstood than strings of sentences arbitrarily joined together.

i would like myself to understand that, two extremes are sometimes the most similar. pain and high. sadness and blessing. joy and pain, again. numbers are never the accurate measure, i want you to understand. i do not say this to demolish the concrete beliefs you have spent so much energy to cling your fingers to, but this is, the truth as i would like you to remember. statistics are lies, but if you want to get through for once and all with the system, just stick to them. but never dissolve yourself and disbelieve these words. the world is not the same world without waters.

these non fabricated crystals of salty liquid, may they stay with you forever.

the rip

people grow up

how many of you have this impression that being mature is way better than being adult
they actually, mature and adult, have this kind of relationship, they are alike, but not the same, they complement each other, but it's hard if either does not weigh down a little bit more

you can't contain everything in your body, you are a frail fickle container, swaying feebly, once melts and condenses, next freezes and hardens up, you just can't live in the world devoid of the phrase, that you can never have it all

now have you ever wondered why

people who do not think too much always seem to possess a vital quality that those thinkers don't

that right amount of sensitivity, of agility, of speed because they manage to get rid of preambling analysis

it's just that,
some people are mature, some others are adult

those who spend the major proportion of their days thinking are more inclined towards the quality of maturity, those better at the execution, at handling things, at giving off quick reaction are adult

none is inferior, neither superior

but what the hell, you can't have both at the same time, not at a very young age, your words, your actions, they all don't mean a thing, because they all are only in your head, buried down deep beneath a sacred chamber, gold plated, completely covered with haystack and wailing baby horses

you can't live there, you belong there, but you can't leave this place

what if you don't have both, what if you're neither of them? what if you've got no one around to tell which one you are? would you sink into the limbotic state of vapidness...

i only want to tell about

this child in me, she only wants to write. for herself, not for others.

she saw the words insurance, aircon service, plumber, water bill, electricity, she realised that she has to live all through this, she can't always be in a crackless cocoon of words, strangulated by her own strings of sentences, she can't reject the world, she needs insurance, aircon service, plumber, water bill and electricity.

she feels ill and giddy, shivering and tremulous, sickness all over her body

but there's a lot can be done.
man up.

i do not want to sieve through my posts, i do not wish to force a perforated surface of metal upon my words

these are my words, words misunderstood.

i want to write, i want to write

you look good only when you're clad


haha
*~peace~*

i do not know how to begin

ok. first i'd say sorry i feel like, our relationship was the worst you've ever had wasn't it

it's not about comparison because i obviously know nothing of your previous ones but oh boy wasn't it noticeable

i mean, your gloved eyes and layered skin, they spared me only a concealed gaze, unwanted to be infected, because stupidity is contagious

all the way you'd been dragging yourself to my level and i'd say that i feel sorry for you now

but mostly i feel sorry for myself too

because

no other boys listen to the same music, no other boys read the same books, because no other boys hold such structured opinions, no other boys as young as you

but i needed time to grow up, what did i know at that time? stubbornness and life from a rear view mirror

now i've acknowledged death and suicides, but not afterlife, and a little bit of that ability of knowing what's important in my life and what could be put aside (clothes) because the best things happen when you're not in them

and like what you said, we're not more than a speckle of dust, unimportant, but those who say this constantly are always the ones who've moved far forward, leaving the clueless ones behind

and like what you said, "tell me if you think of doing anything stupid"

i'm writing this letter because writing this letter is something stupid, and besides i really want you to know that your presence has had a big impact on my life, you know i wish it could've been a two way mutual symbiosis, which simply is more just and fair and square

i do not miss your kiss, i do not miss much of our previous relationship because we both know it was quite damaged, a relationship of the worst kind

and only after we broke up was i able to see things clearly, was i able to smarten up and make use of my time more efficiently

i wish we'd held some discussions together, you'd have taken the lead but would still let me express my opinions, you wouldn't remould them but would just give them a sense of direction

and you know my love for you will never turn into hatred and your hatred for me will never turn into love

but assumptions stay assumptions and love stays love

and i know that we should've not dragged ourselves to each other's level

but i couldn't keep you, you're only someone i look up to

even with a second chance i'll still be wasting you, like what your ex boss said

"if we keep you we'll only be wasting your potential."



good luck sidharta, i've never seen a boy as bright as you.

S S K

i hope the memorpoudO OIHOIHWKHJKSbnkjnaknskajdejlouopU927390739280-







I CAN WRITE WHATEVER I LIKE,AND UNLIKE WHAT YOU SAID


"Tell me if you think of doing something stupid."


I WON'T TELL YOU ANY OF THESE.

often i fail to distinguish hysteria from love


but unlike tomas, i've known you for two years.

still, like the neighbourhood boys in the virgin suicides, i am mostly clueless, left with your superficial layer, already full of its glory, i wonder if i would collapse seeing what's beneath

i like you, taking my hands

i love you, all the coincidences which follow(ed and will forever follow), how we bump into each other, in the inside of the train

what a reverie.

but coincidence stays coincidence, love stays love

that is all because i've stopped to look beyond that.

i could, of course, persist, go on, because i love you, really, and had i not loved you this much, you wouldn't have to hate me that much too

we would hold hands, board a train that takes us whenever it wants to, because i love coconuts and roasted corns, beaches and mountains, waters and fires, anything i could share with you

but assumption stays assumption, hatred stays hatred

i'm thinking of how if i love you less now, you would probably hate me less too. but my love for you wouldn't turn into hatred and your hatred for me wouldn't turn into love

your gloved pupils, they shot me a "you're an infectious catastrophe" look, the invisible bulletproof layer wrapping your skin held a sign, saying "stay away"



put an end to this would you.

i cannot contain these beauties





i must die

today i sthe fucking ugliest day of my life

i'll tell my kids,

prolonged holiday is the worst.

not a holiday exactly, any long pause between two sets of routines will kill you gradually. anything exceeding 5 months. it's the worst, fucking ugly worst that you can't look directly into its eyes.

when you have such pause, look for jobs. any job, no matter how unlucrative it sounds. it's much better than staying in your house cleaning up and doing fucking chores, which are supposedly easy, but not when you have one mom who tells you ever single thing you already know.

mom hates me, mom hates me






today i broke the lamp and the string of a ceiling fan in the guest room

4/20

revisions make me sick.




there's always a new crack each time you try to go through
like a pie that could never have its crust golden rust.

jars.

when you finish the bell jar you don't get immediately depressed. depression is not contagious. although indeed, it's the book about breakdown and depression and suicide.

the bell jar is like death

beautiful and absorbing, full of curious and unconfirmed ideas

and like death, it doesn't take effect until you let go for a few moments, thinking you're fine, you don't have depression in your blood, you're never an overachiever, you're just a regular girl trying to read as many good books as possible, so. this book won't affect you irl because your life is perfectly n o r m a l







the next day

you're not depressed. you just feel less like eating/sleeping/reading

you feel

sick.

each thread of oyster noodle each bite of xxl shilin crispy chicken each lick of blackcurrant yogurt each vein of mayonnaise dipped salmon skin that has climbed down your sloppy throat, makes a gentle churning in your tummy. its ugly, inaudible noise only you can hear races up fast to your nerves, furious. each dendrite each neuron each synapse is now occupied by the silent buzz, and you try to keep its volume down until you feel like puking, puking, puking, only puking, the table and the chair and the grilled pavement are the perfect places for you to puke.

the last time you puked, you had a diarrhoea. five years ago. you bowed and drowned your head in the toilet bowl. you made screeching sound, you woke the neighbouring colony of ants up, you grunted and wrestled your torso around. you could still taste the moss green liquid that reeked of celery and tofu and chicken skin. it was horrible.


your vision is getting blur, but of course it's because you have to change the prescription.

you think this must be some sort of bad suggestion you're giving off yourself.

you're never sick, Amanda. everytime you thought you had a fever the thermometer always said otherwise. and so you stop making faint presumption, you're never that kind of intuitive girl who can feel spirits or look into the future or read your friends' palms engagingly






the next day

you have your favourite dish, sesame rice balls with beancurd gravy. you barely taste it at all, but it's still good because of its warmth and silky texture

you also have your pancake, caramel custard filled, with both sides dark brown toasted. your brother wants a bite. you hand it off. his plump, healthy hand opens up and reaches out for the pancake in your hand. his hand brushes against yours, making an awkward gesture afterward. as though he just had an electric shock. and you know pancake is never known for being capable of such thing.

he says

you're sick.

my mom presses the back of her right hand on your forehead immediately and tells you to get a panadol. soon you feel a blanket of warmth covering your body, every inch of it, permeating into your arteries and veins and flows along with the haemoglobin in your blood, going around in relentless cycles.

and you think that it feels good to be finally sick, because fever always means warmth, humanlike.

warmth is like air, you don't need one unless you're getting any.





you're not depressed. you just feel less like eating/sleeping/reading.

i wonder which is worse



mutual hatred or one-sided love?

as i traced the outline of my mom's face with my imaginary hand--its delicate wrinkles, its invisible wisdom lines and the cushiony meat underneath--i burst out into the hardest, purest tears i've ever had in years

each of them made a perfect sphere like a pearl when falling down, splashing one by one on the cold surface of the linoleum floor as i mopped it over and over again

and i really do not know, whether it's truth or lie i've been keepin inside







mom, this is so hard

death and the penguin

my goal has always been the most banal: to make my parents proud.


today i saw the feasibility of me actually making my dad and mom proud of me is close to zero


today my mom asked me what vodka is, and she took a long, erratic way to get to the point and finally asked me, "have you been drinking?"

from this point onwards i knew nothing i tried to say would ever make sense to her, everything i was putting forward would sound sinfully dogmatic, unequivocally wrong and irrelevant to her, just like other poor excuses that plead to be set free. i rarely if ever try to give dubious excuse to my parents, for what i do almost always align pretty neatly with our moral/religion standards. i strove for better grades, i never skipped school, i didn't do nonsense and i obeyed all the school rules. i participated actively in an organisation of foreign students, i continuously make friends with a lot of people and know enough of the limits of each friendship i've been keeping.

i knew this moment would come, a matter serious enough for her to show a streak of disappointment in her voice. it was very obvious there. the voice staggered while finding its way out. it was swaying uncomfortably here and there, each time it almost tumbled down or burst out. it was all mean things that i had expected to come out of her throat, an absolute truth she had been clinging to. she of course believed that logic is inferior, limited and invalid when trying to explain our religion.

moreover i've never been good at spoonfeeding people about what i think through a verbal approach, everything seems out of place/order and i will wonder myself, "what the heck am i talking about?" while sipping at my tea. people who are close to me know well what i think of alcohol, what i use it for, what used to be my perspective and what has changed it

but it's all pointless in the eyes of my mom and dad

not to mention that what i love to do, things i slightly excel at: writing and designing have never meant anything to my parents

i think, when it's clear that your only goal in the world (ie making my parents proud in my case) can never be accomplished, what's the use of carrying on

i might as well die right now

and finally see what truth is lying there, beneath the sheer curtain of perceptible life.

have i been wrong, or have my parents been wrong, or will the atheists win, or will the truth of afterlife branch and shape according to what each individual believes, or is there any other alternative answer to all this?

how could you know, really, if you've never tasted a dip of this curious thing called death.

oh

you just can't tell

Sea 2.

I see sea. Sea of lights. Sea of people. Sea of heads that block whatever scene beyond me may be. It is a street market, selling all kinds of clothes, all kinds of food, all kinds of junk jewelleries. It has that distinct smell of hot, steamed dumpling, with its smoke raising, then hams, and slight odour of freshly packed t-shirts.

My friends are giggling beside me, blurting a laugh I can barely hear. They are a few distance away, there are too many people rushing our way, like a tidal wave. I'm seasick in land. People, faces, thoughts. I can no longer make out which is fantasy, which is reality. Thoughts and physical truths. Separated. Thin line, as thin as a newborn's hair. A line so thin it becomes partially permeable. Through this line you see substances exchange position, diffuse into the other side.

My fantasy and my reality. When fantasy is too real and reality having a dreamlike quality. That headache you get in crowded places, when you are physically there, but mentally lost. You watch things moving, but you can't see anything.

Then, like a sudden flash of a lightbulb, a face stands out, thick big glasses, fishy lips and traces of cheekbones. I gather my conscious thoughts, while religiously tracing the outline of that face, the face that seems so familiar, yet distant. His flickering eyes going nowhere, his body seeming immobile, not moving but floating free in space.



It's you.


Of course it's familiar.
It's you I once had.

Of course it's distant.
It's you I've had lost.

I exclaim your name, out loud. Not because I want to. My cerebellum. It's an involuntary, spontaneous, immediate response to a stimulus. It's my reflex action. Like when your hand accidentally touches a hot pan. When you accidentally step on a tiny piece of nail. When you see your past lover, in the sea of people. The sight is your stimulus. Your eyes are the receptor. The stimulus is then sent through sensor neurone, all the way to the Central Nervous System at the vertebrate in your back. Jumping over a synapse, then passed over to relay neurone in the grey matter. Another synapse, then passed over to your motor neurone, sent all the way to your effector. My mouth. My vocal cords. I scream your name out loud.

It's nothing like what they have in movie, though. When the girl shouts, no one turns and dances. No one hears, no one tilts his head around. They are too busy making steps, agile, not wanting to waste any precious second of their lives. Their steps fast and furious. These scumbags, they won't stop moving, they won't make room for my voice to reach through.

Afraid that my voice has drowned in the sea of noises, I feel the urge to do a second try. But there's no need for that, because indeed you did hear me, now that you turn your head around, your hair messier than ever, your eyes gleaming, searching in the crowd, looking for the voice owner, looking for the source, looking for me. I exult, but then I see your friends. We are unmoved for a few seconds. I see your friends, boy friends. You know how much of a relief it is?


You know it's me. One dull second we exchange sight, then I nervously throw it at your friends. Then, then, out of blue, you grab my arm, whisper something like, "c'mon!" You, bathed in fluorescent light, your eyes looking down at me, you are so tall. The figure I so much adore.

It feels so otherworldly.

You give a quick signal, you leave your friends, you run with me. I don't want to leave my friends though, I grab their arms. I can't leave them because we have planned to watch movie together. A movie from months ago, which I don't get why this cinema is still screening. My friends are startled, two of them, their arms tightly clenched. But pretty much they can make out the current situation. I quickly introduce them two. They chuckle, shooting me an "oh, jadi dia!" look.

The market is crowded still, but you make your way, somehow, with your long fingers, your steel fingers that once run through my back, smoothly like a cotton brush. Your plaid jacket, I don't remember you have one. We run fast, faster than those scums. We reach the bus station, and quickly hop onto a bus.

In the bus, I sit beside you. Again, it's one reflex action. I could choose to stand with my girl friends, but I didn't. They don't seem to mind anyway, they are still chattering, with their hands covering their mouths. Pretty useless though, I certainly know what they are mumbling about, with their occasional peeks at us. Then at me. At you, alternatingly.

I turn my head, what are you doing? You are playing with your gadget. Yeah, of course. That android that can never properly function in my hands. I take out my blackberry, absolutely a no-match, but I'm not going gaga over gadgets either. (Is this a denial?) Half a minute later I put it back into my pocket. I see you, still cold. That coldness of a leftover pizza, the icy, ignorant feel you cannot fake. I draw myself closer. Of course, you are startled. Have I ruined your cyber ritual? I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to...well, perhaps, I did. This could be my last ride with you. I don't want it to go wasted, with your thumbs dancing on keypads, with me seated safe aside, frozen like a statue....

"Can I hug you?"

I don't remember saying that, but I am saying something like that. The voice is strange, I don't recognise it immediately. But it can't be yours, so it must be mine. But I'm not sure what I'm saying to you though, it's something like that. A hug? Are you kidding me, Amanda. Or something else? Like what. How can I remember?

You don't respond. Of course you don't, a hug for a leftover pizza? Sounds no less like a ridiculous, failed punchline. So I take out my blackberry again, my face the heat of an onsen, my cheeks the colour of cherry tomatoes, my lips the movement of a hungry worm.

That, that awkward moment I can never fix.

My last ride, as disastrous as Hollywood remakes of Asian movies. There is that silence, this silence, like a hole I have to cover, like a stab of knife on my head. What's done is done, I mumble. What's done is done, I repeat. I drown my head deep, watching my phone screen, but nothing's interesting there.

"Manda!"

A command, almost silent, a decibel above whisper, with exclamation mark at the end, a few seconds later. It is coming from you. I turn around, you with your glasses off, with the widest grin I've ever seen, your eyes covered with your android that you hold with your both hands. The grin substituting "cheers!" A pinprick of flash that spreads fast, it's so intense and blinding. You are taking a picture of me. In a bus.

You did once in train. A few months ago. Our faces so close, with me putting that awkward smile. I never get to see the result. Perhaps you've deleted it anyway. But I do want to see this one, this new one, in a bus, spontaneous. What monkey face did I make this time?

Before I could ask, the bus stops in front of the cinema. I have to alight. I'm asking you, would you like to alight here too?

"Why yes, of course."

You say so. Why of course? Are you seeing that movie too?

"No. Well, I just felt like saying so."

And then you shrug. And then you alight. It's time. I have to come into the cinema with my friends. So you don't have any ticket, I ask. You say no, no ticket. So we have to part. We wave goodbye. Did you land a goodbye kiss on my forehead beforehand? Or did I?



Does it matter anyway?

sea

I know there are many fish in the sea. Many men outside of me. I'm free to choose, there are choices. But a wide range of choices sometimes doesn't do you any good. Many choices, many men, many heartaches. Many heartbreaks which I don't need. It's pointless to go on, to want another one if I couldn't deal well with my last man. What makes it hard to move on is the fact that I couldn't cope with you, I didn't cope with the previous ones too, I never learn. Which means, the chances of me coping well with the next one are pretty slim, too.

I consider myself fortunate though. Some people are having it like me, tough and never lasting. Some are having it worse. Some do it like a breeze. One good thing is you can get used to anything, even killing. Heartbreak is pretty easy to get used to. One tear or two are perfectly harmless. And you know what? Just the right dose will keep you looking youthful.