The Day You Stopped Drinking

Image

Sometimes I think he’s just hiding. That alter-ego that you affectionately call your delinquent past cowering behind the blinding brightness you have become. Occasionally he comes out to play when the coaxing and mellow whispers prove too tempting to dispel. But most of the time, you keep him hidden under chains and shackles, under the weight of your morose, sobriety and numbness.

I take out a beer bottle, it’s cool surface kissing my lips and sending delectable chills of pleasure coursing through my skin. All that’s missing is the celebratory clinking of glass against glass — the sound that differentiates drowning of sorrows from joyous intoxication. But the clinking never comes and neither does the happiness. It’s hidden, muffled alongside the person you strangled within.

I long to see him again, for a chance to at least bid farewell the proper way. I long to see the shadows of his writhing form swaying on the dance floor, the exact motions of his moves already lost in my memory. I long to blow him a kiss, sending with him the part of my past that should have left as companion. The part that now lives in the present, agonised and longing your return.

I Will Be Great

giraffe The other day we were at Starbucks, you picked up a magazine and leafed through it absentmindedly, periodically stopping to take a sip out of the Hojicha Latte set upon the table, equidistance from you and me. When the swishing of pages paused for a little too long, I barely noticed, until I felt the uneasiness of your eyes boring holes through the book I was holding.

“Is this your article? Oh my god, it’s your name! In a legit magazine. In Starbucks!”

“Yeap, that’s me.” I quipped before snatching it over to snap a photo for my mother who’s still hung up over my drop out from Law School. “What is that.” She cooly replied.

I want to be big in the industry. Big, as in you’ll be saying my name in hushed whispers big. Big, as in you’ll be envious of my life spent living aflutter and be jealous enough to leave spiteful comments on my Instagram, Facebook and Twitter. Big, as in big enough to pick up a random magazine on the news stands and either find my name in the mast head or as reference in a feature.

The sad news is? I’m still frightened. Frightened of the gargantuan figures in the industry, of the interviews I have to attend and the small talk I have to make. I am inferior of the way I talk, the way I laugh and the way I hold my wine goblet when a toast is proposed. I hide behind my laptop, behind the false sense of security it provides me, pushing out words I carefully compose and artfully string into a melody.

The sad news is? I’m not there yet. Not near, nowhere close. But it’s okay, because sometimes it’s fear that sets the heart ablaze and lights up the long winding road ahead. And I’m alright with that.

Some day, I will be great.

Excusez-moi?

WP DPWAHAHA

After owning this blog since forever, you can now find out who I am by clicking the page link right below my header. Or alternatively, visit www.braintango.wordpress.com/who-am-i.

Also took the chance to do some doodling since being trapped indoors with deadlines pretty much turn your brains into mush. A little cluttered, a little maniacal and a little too abstract to understand. Don’t ask me what it means, because I most likely have no answer too.

Happy sunny days guys, the skies finally cleared up.

Pasar Bella

1

This place needs some colour, and I need to hone my photography skills. So in a bid to achieve the perfect balance between both, I’ve decided to bring my camera out more often, and develop an added diligence towards post processing the photos I take.

32

Singapore’s a small place, but for an island state that’s got nothing but an eternally shining sun and high humidity, I say we’re not doing too bad in terms of keeping our lovely selves entertained. 2013 alone has seen the opening of the SEA Aquarium (which I am DYING to visit), Adventure Cove, River Safari and Pasar Bella. It’s a good year to pretend you’re a foreigner in your home country and prance around the new tourist spots armed with a pair of shades (to mask the local face) and a camera. At least that’s what I did.

1387564

Despite it’s obscure location, (Pasar Bella is tucked away in the depths of Turf City’s Grandstand, a place only accessible by those fortunate enough to own a car or have the means to take a cab) I dragged Daniel down with me on a punishingly sunny Saturday afternoon — in a cab of course. Holding the hopes of visiting a market like the ones in Australia, a memory I although only vaguely remember, was pleasantly sweet and was one I looked forward to reliving.

9 10

11 12

The verdict? I love it. It’s the combination of being able to pick up bite sized food (pound cakes, macarons, sausages, waffles), admire fresh and exotic produce as well as bask in the concept of how happiness can be so simple. It’s like going to the market with your mother, only this one’s air conditioned, filled with things you’ve never seen before and so affordable. Buy a peach for a dollar and chow down on it while you walk pass little booths selling temporary tattoos and little cakes. Relish in the joy of having too many choices when picking a bottle of beer to quench your thirst. Head into the cheese shop that smells strangely like unwashed socks and share a block of cheese you can barely stand to smell.

It’s the experience that really counts here at Pasar Bella. It’s the energy, the food, the concept that appeals and makes me feel like going back there again this weekend even though it costs me $20 to get there. It’s the feeling of being away from your little cosmopolitan city, yet being in it at the same time. The crowd is genuine and polite, the food not exceedingly delicious yet satisfying because of the entire experience it provides.

14 16

Have nothing much to do this weekend? Take a little excursion down to Turf City and discover this little gem of a place. Pretend you’re not stuck on this sunny island and pick up anything you want in the faith that it holds endless possibilities. I made a Shashuka from the peppers, rocket leaves and spices I bought the other day. Who knows what you’ll end up making too. 🙂

Summer Dreams

Summer

There are so many things I would like to do, so many dreams that have already begun to sprout. But sometimes dreams remain in the depths of your imagination because reality gets in the way, and after you’ve awoken from this hot summer haze, you’ll realise there’s a reason why they’re called dreams in the first place.

Where are you?
Why aren’t you here?
What are you doing?
I would love to pelt down these questions upon you like a vengeful pilot shelling bitterness and rage, but it would be unfair for me to ask of you answers even I cannot provide. Love is never reciprocal, if one seeks such a kind of love, he might as well be seeking for nothing at all. Perhaps I’m blinded by a misery I myself cannot see, and overcome by a pining that has long turned into hate.

God, if you cannot give me health, then I bid you give me sleep. Cos a life like this is too hard to live while awake.

We Are Flawed

If I continue to write this much, one day I will be surrounded by a room that has nothing but hard disc drives and broken promises. Some people want to write and coax out every word and letter with a desperation that seeps out from every sentence. Others have it easy and have the poetry flow to their fingers when the need be, perfuming the papers like flowers to rain. The rest, like me, write when they don’t have time to do so, and don’t when they do. The cursed people. Those who only have inspiration when they are forced to put them to waste.

Writing soothes me. I’ve probably said it a million times. It makes time pass quicker, makes things become insignificant and helps qwell the bubbles of emotions I cannot control. Writing is the only thing I can do better when I am drunk, it is the only thing whose prowess is magnified when I’m sad, it is the only thing that keeps me sane when the world confounds me. Writing is like therapy. Depressed? Lonely? Feeling dizzy? Prescribe yourself a doze of writing and a lot of imagination. You’ll feel better after the first word.

People say the ability to write is a flair. No it isn’t. Writing takes practice, and practice equates reading. Writing also equates to music since you need your words to take on a certain rhythm and eventually form a melody. And writing also equates knowledge since you cannot create analogies out of thin air. It is also creativity since sometimes you have to make believe, and it’s also one part the ability to feel alot, cos writing is all about forcing your thoughts into the minds of others. In a sense, writing needs you to be okay at many things. You need to be okay at listening to music, in recognising beats and melodies. You need to be okay in seeing the world and remember things. Not necessarily perfectly, but remember the intriguing parts anyway. It requires you to be okay at crying at the littlest things and smiling at nothing, it requires you to be okay at letting your emotions go. It requires to be OK with everything, but perfect at nothing. Cos perfect people can’t be writers. Writers are flawed.

The best thing about writing? You can write and if it isn’t that good, people will ignore you. And when you’re good, people will still ignore you. That’s when you’re doing it right. That’s when you know you’re writing for things that matter not to others, but to yourself. And the feeling of being ignored after you’ve put your life story and all your thoughts into a single post? It’s incredible. It’s like liberation on a micro scale. A micro, but equally awesome scale.

Damsel in Distress

ImageIt is with all honesty that I type this, a confession of sorts. A purge maybe. But regardless of what this is or who it is for, it is a revelation so I can hold myself together. For now.

I don’t cope very well with emotional stress. Give me a hundred pages and an exam the next morning and watch as I cruise along and ace it like it didn’t even pose even the slightest of a challenge to me. But throw me in a drop of helplessness, hopelessness and loneliness? Hold a box of popcorn and watch me unravel faster than a ball of yarn left to roll.

But as it comes to all problems, there’s always a solution. A pity mine comes either with alcohol involved, or evokes a faux display of concern graced upon an onlooker’s face. My coping mechanism is to self destruct and hope that when I’m done, what’s left can somehow pick up the broken pieces and become something better – the same way nature copes with problems too big to handle.

While it may seem ridiculous and outrageous to others, destroying yourself can be therapeutic. It’s not a cry for attention (‘cos I’d relish in the fact that you’ll leave me alone), neither is it a desperate call for help. I don’t want to die, I just want to make sure all the bad things are gone so the good things can happen.

You cannot contain a fire that’s determined to burn, neither can you change the path of a storm that’s destined to happen. The same way you cannot stop this devastation. It’s fruitless, and I don’t have the heart to tell you. Take away everything I have to cope and I’ll claw through with fingers and bones.

You cannot save a damsel who loves her distress, so stop trying. Especially when this one here knows that the adequate amount of distress will end up doing her good in the end.

#1

I don’t like the volatility of life. The fact that one day you can feel powerful enough to conquer the world, yet on another, you’re huddled in bed wondering what sick higher power insists on keeping us alive. 

 

 

Dischevelment

Tonight, there are no tears in my eyes. The dull ache in my chest has ceased its throbbing, and there is no knot in my stomach that cannot be untied. It’s not that I don’t love you anymore, or that the feelings that I have are fading away. No it’s not that. I love you all the same, if not more. I have just come to accept the fact that when you hand someone your heart, you’re bound to have it crushed in the end.

What’s the big hoo-ha over love anyway? The infinite moments you spend waiting for a phone call that ends in a matter of seconds, your heart dying alongside the fatal beep of the telephone line. Sure, he makes you happy when he turns up outside your door at midnight with a bunch of roses despite the pouring rain — but you’d definitely be happier if it wasn’t a gesture of guilt or a well executed apology. Love is messy, as messy as the fucking jumbled mess of thoughts in my head.

There is no perfect way to love someone. What seems to you like a flawless kind of adoration can appear to be a brave attempt fallen flat on the other side of the mirror. There’s no certainty in love, and that breaks my heart. No, it smashes it. And that makes it sickening, repulsive, detestable.

Love is a strong emotion, and a wrong misstep can change it into nothing but blinding hate.