Saturday, February 26, 2011


Tonight is one of those nostalgic nights, where the beer hits me quickly then the green tea coincides with the drowsy state of mind.
And suddenly it hits me: things have changed.
I prefer jazz to the top 40; music is a blessing and drives me to be a better person.
I no longer dream of the fairy tale endings,
I don’t yearn for the popular kids to notice me.
I could care less what you think of me.
I live each day hoping to meet new, inspiring strangers.
I don’t expect a lot out of people,
I know most let me down at the worst of times.
People will disappear, run away, tear me apart.

Change is inevitable; permanence exists within one’s state of mind. It is the temporary warped into the unchangeable. Regardless of the internal or external forces which provoke change, it ensures the dynamic nature of life.  Life is not static; it will not stop to wait for me to pick myself up. It keeps going like water running through a stream.

Always, always, welcome change.

Friday, February 25, 2011

Burnt toast

I truly don’t remember the last time I have felt so determined to just focus. Perhaps I understand what I need to do to help me get through the countless messy situations I am in. This past week has made me aware of how nice it is to dwell in solitude and work on what needs to be done.

Ever since last Saturday, I spent half an hour doing my Pilates workout every morning. I made myself a hearty breakfast consisting of fruits, dairy, carbs and fibre.I made sure I kept myself hydrated to fight off fatigue. I made a switch from coffee to green tea. I tried so hard to forget the silly thoughts that normally swim in my head. I made sure I kept myself motivated and determined with my academics; so motivated that I cannot stop now. I am almost obsessed with keeping on top of everything. And as crazy as it sounds, I love it. I am in control of what needs to be done. I am in control of some aspect of my life—for once. And it feels so fucking good.

And it’s Friday today. I feel absolutely burnt out but it feels so good to know that I am constantly on the move and accomplishing what needs to be accomplished. I cannot remember the point of this post anymore. It’s more of a rambling post today so bravo if you managed to read this far.

Have a wonderful weekend guys!


Wednesday, February 23, 2011

naked, and so alive.

The jazz was loud and lively. The room was crowded, faces with smiles and happy expressions. People walked by as I sat very still, novel in hand. And while the music kept playing, nothing was going in. I was not able to fully comprehend the beautiful notes they were playing. Thoughts were racing through my head as I stared at the page. Looking up, I saw him. I saw him in between the coffee grinder and espresso machine. No, I didn’t imagine it. His eyes saw through me.

I don’t understand how he can still be so friendly towards me. I’ve done nothing but put strange ideas out in the open. Sometimes, I ramble for ages; I ask him the most random and weirdest questions. I tell him stories he doesn’t ask to hear but he listens and he laughs at all the right moments. He doesn’t push me away but I expect him to act distant towards me, not the same. I cannot figure him out. I am baffled by what we have. I figured it was my imagination but is it my imagination if it seems like there is a pattern to it all? He reminds me to take it easy and rest during my break. His eyes tell me that he truly understands and that’s when it feels too real…or too good.

There are two types of stares he gives me: the first one is the cautious gaze. As I speak, he has a blank expression on his face as if he is waiting for me to finish speaking so he can continue with his work. He fills me with generic comments as if I have never heard of them before. And then there is the second stare which is when his eyes glimmer under the dim lights and he has his body turned directly at you. He stands close and we speak in slight whispers. This is my favourite yet the most puzzling of all. He gives me all his attention when I speak and I have no doubt that he is hanging onto to every sound that comes out of my mouth.

For some unknown reason, I feel guilty. When he acts genuinely kind and caring I feel like I somehow don’t deserve it. After what had happened, I am disappointed but above all, I think I am more confused and frightened at how friendly he can be—it does not add up. And when I do not understand something, it eats at me until I can no longer face it. In this case, him.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

those images.

As we reach the fourth year, we have witnessed the numerous times she’s relapsed. Fortunately, it has never been too bad in terms of her symptoms worsening but give us another thirty years and I do not think we will be okay with it. No matter how many years pass, it will hurt just as much to see her walk deteriorate and to see that glum expression on her face.

Her laugh lines will not be due to her laughter.
She will continue to need us to hold her up—her weight forever in our arms.
But no one can worry too far into the future I suppose.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Happy Valentine’s Day

I was never sure of how to interpret this day.
I can state that my hatred for Valentine’s day is strong because it is commercialized and it points out those who are not in relationships. While I still believe in this, I’m going to approach this subject without bitterness because I realize that it’s actually a rare and precious day.

Strip away the sugar coated candy hearts, the red roses and the cards covered with bright red cartoon hearts. When you strip away the marketing aspect of Valentine’s Day you are left with couples—lovers—who proudly hold hands and shower each other with small kisses. I cannot say that this is something I enjoy watching, don’t get me wrong. In fact, I find public displays of affection incredibly uncomfortable and strange. But look at the number of smiles on people’s faces compared to an ordinary day. Admire the amount of love and appreciation we, as humans, are capable of. It’s overwhelming actually.

And then, there are those who are still single. Being one of them myself, I can tell you that the bitterness that one feels is understandable. You question what the fuck (pardon my French) is wrong with you and criticize the couples who walk past you. You wear a constant scowl on your face while you let the day pass. But let’s look at this differently: Valentine’s Day is about love but the term love covers many different emotions that stem from divine love—pure love. So if we forget the commercialized crap that the media shoves down our throat, and focus on celebrating love we have for people, does Valentine’s Day not become a valid “holiday” to celebrate? Who limited this day to romantic love? We are so caught up with “being in love” and imagining the “perfect” partner we forget the amount of love we are capable of feeling.

So let’s say cheers to love. Love is complicated because it is the emotion that can make you feel happy, euphoric, giddy and courageous; it can make you feel lonely, pathetic, jealous and depressed. And despite all of this confusion, it is so pure and so simple.

So whether you are taken,
or floating on a cloud,
Happy Valentine’s Day!

(disclaimer: this post isn’t proof that i’m a super optimist. i’m just a single 20 year old trying to survive this day.)

Sunday, February 6, 2011

the act of missing her.

He works with ferocity in his eyes; creases form on his forehead as he paints, wildly thrashing his arms left then right. Paint fumes flood the cramped room, enveloping every molecule, diffusing into his very own cells. Drops of reds and browns fly from his brush and land onto the dusty wooden floors, missing the layers of newspaper he laid out beneath him. He hopes that one day, he will learn to paint within those boundaries he fixed himself. The sunlight pours in through the sheer white curtains he put up months ago because she had loved them. She insisted that it brightened the room; he finally put them up and the next day she ran away.

He paints in complete silence. Only his deep, heavy breathing can be heard. Paintbrush still in hand, he wipes the sweat off his face with his forearm. He looks up: the morning sunlight reveals the dust particles dancing across the room, like the distant stars she once wished upon. (He remembers that night all too clearly.) His joints ache as he walks over to fetch a cigarette out of the back pocket of his jeans. With a quick switch, he gets it lit and walks back over to his painting. Letting the smoke slip between his lips, he hovers above his canvas and squints down, blurring the imperfections. The colours blend as the lines fade and he only wishes it would work the same way with reality. As he takes another drag of his cigarette, he catches the faint scent of her perfume. It has been months since she left but not before she scattered traces of herself; strands of hair still lay on the bathroom floor, scents of her linger between the bedsheets. This is when he remembers how he misses her.