Blue Skies Out, Grey Within

Making use of the lunch hour I have to deposit some of my thoughts because it feels as though my chest is bursting from the weight of something I cannot define. There’s a little time left, but so many words to say and the blue skies continue to reign over the side of the world that’s separating mine by a grey glass window.

I wonder why I’m so melancholic today. Maybe something’s poisoned the air I breathe, or the toothpaste I used to brush my teeth. Whatever it is, there’s a strange sense of sadness that’s plaguing an otherwise beautiful Tuesday afternoon. I’ve been observing the skies through the small blocks of dusty windows and they’ve never been so sunny and blue. Yesterday, while my spirits were higher, the skies poured with relentless rain. Today, it seems they know I’m out of sorts and have sent the fluffy white clouds and clear skies to my aid. Sadly, everything seems to be a form of mockery when viewed through meaningless windows.

Oh melancholy, go away already. I don’t welcome your stay. Find someone else to exasperate.

There is Potential for Love

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Sitting in a corner of Coffee Bean shivering to my icy death on a painfully uninspiring Thursday evening, a text from a long-time friend makes me realise that the elusive love we spend our entire lives looking for are actually seeds sown in the ground and waiting to bloom.

There is potential for love everywhere. A slight liking towards a new friend, a flush that blossoms on your cheeks when he calls out your name to say good morning along the hallway, the slight touch of an attractive stranger when he shuffles restlessly in his seat. Perhaps we’re all too blind from the lists we have subconsciously constructed from the people we would like to have in our lives to notice the ones that actually are.

While we’re constantly searching for the coifs of perfectly gelled hair and rolled jeans that leave a perfect amount of his ankles exposed, we miss out on the things we wanted in the first place altogether. We push away inklings of love, the could haves and the would haves, in search of what reality tells us to be the perfect relationship. The healthy one.

And while we put on veils, masks and a wonderfully set up disguise, we miss out on the ones who love us for we who are underneath. We miss the ones who internally acknowledge the relentless efforts we put into making ourselves perfect yet love us blemished, crumbled and crushed anyway.

Ideas are Bulletproof

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School makes you appreciate the lesser things in life — like showering at absurd times of the day and seeking refuge from the scorching sun beneath the comfort of your blankets and artificially chilled air.

I just spent the afternoon curled up in the fetal position on fresh bedsheets when I should have been halfway across the island, stiffly sat upon a lecture chair fighting sleep. I tell myself sacrifices have to be made in order to retain whatever’s left of my sanity on a stuffy Monday morning and guiltlessly enjoyed my midday nap. A 10 hour work day is way too intense for the second week of school.

While waiting for the train in the sweltering heat and mindlessly scrolling through my Tumblr feed, I realised we fall in love with the idea of things like a moth helplessly attracted to a burning flame. We repost images we see online of people we’ve never met and rolls of cigarettes we’ve never really tasted. We fall in love with the simplicity of an image and the endless possibilities of perfection it brings. Flowers that never have to wither, balloons that rise without limit and love that’s captured infinitely in the summer.

I once asked why he never bought me flowers, insisting that I was being denied the one thing I truly loved and brought me immeasurable happiness. (Peonies particularly. Others not so.) In return, I was told what I loved was the idea of receiving and not the actual act. That I fell in love with the images of bouquets with the pastel hues against the flushed skin, the smiles and joyous laughter I was conditioned to expect when I held a stalk between my hands. In reality, I wouldn’t know what to do with them the moment the excitement faded. I would trouble with where and how to dispose of them, I would fret when they gradually lost their elegant disposition.

We fall in love with the idea of things because we can’t help it. Because things are always so covetable, so beautiful, so flawless when we only see them in a two dimensional world. We replay scenarios in our heads, convinced that we’re irrevocably smittened, until one day ideas become reality and we begin to grasp the unfathomable knowledge of why and how ideas are and will always be better kept in fantasy.

Sobered Rambles

I suggest you read this post first, because only then will you truly appreciate the entertainment this one will bring.

This morning, I thought a mediocre nights sleep sobered me up enough to attempt a humorous and moderately interesting post for this website. Boy was I wrong. Here’s what happened.

I want to confess that last night I had so much wine to drink, I had (repeated use of the exact phrase in the same sentence) absolutely no idea what I was typing when I emailed the story I was working on to my editor. I also have no recollection of what I produced last night and was thoroughly afraid of opening my mailbox to review my drunken rambles this morning. 

Lucky for me, everything turned out better than expected and I have somehow or rather concluded that I am a talented drunk writer. Except I spelt Wednesday as Wedneday and missed out the e in Patek Phillipe. 

I am also still searching for my contact lenses, which I have seemed to have removed (?! I successfully complicated a simple sentence) subconsciously and left somewhere. Exactly where (repeat again!) I do not know. 

I was obviously not very sober, and made a fool out of my usual flawless (snort) writing record. Laugh all you want, alcohol makes us feel like geniuses and act like fools — and only the best of ’em are brave enough to admit (and dissect) their mistakes after sanity is regained. 

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.

Hungry For More

I’m starving. Logically I know I am. I can feel my stomach clawing for food, I can hear my head telling me to fucking eat something, but I can’t.

The empty space has become my best friend. Everywhere I go, I know I have company. It fills up the voids between our conversations and it plants itself in the gaps between us on the couch. Sometimes, when I feel like I am truly alone, it creeps along the edges of my feet, tickling the very tip of my toes like a salutation from a friend that never leaves, a compellation from an enemy that never goes.

I cannot feed myself, because I am feeding it too-this emptiness that seems to grow every single day. In good moments, it cowers away in fear, its normal composed disposition undulated by the positivity of my laughter, the warmth of my toothy grin. In others, it consumes me from the inside out, like a fetus trying to break free from the restrains of what used to keep it alive, like a predator discarding its carcass after a full meal. I am its full meal. My good thoughts, my better thoughts, my sanity, they have all fallen prey, willingly. But there is beauty in this distress, not unlike how there is always beauty in death, in burial. There is beauty in this course of putrefaction because there is weightlessness in being empty. Hate rushes past you, jealousy walks through you, anger dissolves within you and sadness evaporates around you. And love, love leaves you. The love we spend our whole life seeking and hating leaves you, because it can no longer manifest within your warm body of soul. You are barren land, and love happens to be the crop. Dearth and famine replace the empty space as your new best friend and you will be hungry. You will always be hungry.

I am starving. Every piece of my soul is breaking from the hunger and I want to eat. I want to feed myself until the throbbing goes away, until the hole in my chest is filled. But this is a hunger you can never quell, this is a hunger that will never wane. Because it only grows stronger with every bite.

Too Close For Comfort

Sometimes I wish everything were easier. That toothpaste magically capped themselves back after use and that tissue boxes never emptied. Sometimes I wish everything were easier. That hearts didn’t get broken and friendships never faded away. Sometimes I wish everything were easier. Maybe sometimes, more than sometimes. Every moment, I wish things got easier.

I can still hear the familiar tone of your laughter reverberating in my ear. The high pitched, semi laugh-semi giggle that erupts from your tiny frame whenever you’re amused. I remember how you used to lie on my shoulder and tell me your darkest secrets, as though my reputation as the class loud mouth were nothing but a lie, and that you were able to see through the layers of my shell and into my loyal tightlipped core. There is a photo of us on the corkboard hanging on my wall. The one where our hair was still short and your head was so close to mine we could pass of as Siamese twins. The one where we were both lying on the table, the one where we were both smiling like we had everything we wanted in the world right next to us. The one where we were actually happy together.

But like to every happy thing that happens in life, something happened. Oh wait. I’m wrong. Nothing happened. There was no spark between us anymore. For some reason, you stopped running to me with the latest gossip, murmuring excitedly about so-and-so who was attached to so-and-so.  For some reason, you stopped exchanging you-know-what-I’m-thinking glances with me when our gawdy looking literature teacher walked into the classroom. For some reason, you stopped wanting to curl up by my side and lay quietly as though my breaths were your favourite melody and my shampoo your favourite scent.

I miss you. I miss the way I was unguarded when I was your friend. The way I can probably never be now. I wish things could go back to the way they were, I wish we never grew up. I wish things could be so much easier such that when I look at your Twitter timeline, I could will myself into believing I was there with you during every update.

Life is difficult. Life is too difficult. You live everyday wishing you were dead, and you slowly die every day wishing you were more alive. Perhaps I don’t even miss us being friends. Perhaps you just happened to be the catalyst in putting together all the negative thoughts and broken relationships. Perhaps viewing your timeline on Twitter just served to make all the feelings of worthlessness, of loneliness, of utmost helplessness collide. Perhaps it was just time for me to realize that things were getting too complicated. That life, this jumbled mess we call life, is too difficult to ever figure out. That we are all just tiny specks of dust scrambling to discover the meaning of life, only to realize that this is a question with no answer.

I wish things were easier. Everyday.

Shapeless Existence

The most important things in life sometimes don’t exist. Love, friendship, happiness, courage, faith –they don’t come in solid, tangible forms. You don’t see them take shape, you don’t feel their weight when you pack them into duffel bags prior to your next great adventure, you don’t smell, see or feel their soft furry edges. You feel like they don’t exist, that they’re a figment of your imagination, a puzzle piece from one of your wildest dreams. A formless, cloudy mess that you never know whether really is there.

There’s a guava sitting on my work desk, a gift from my colleague to my mother. Its not just any guava mind you, it’s a Thai guava, lovingly marinated and preserved till a stunning shade of jade green. It may look like any other guava, it may smell like any other guava, it may taste like any other guava, but this is definitely no ordinary guava. There is also a wooden chopstick sticking out of the guava because my colleague wanted to make it look like a Toffee Apple. This is one lucky guava disguised as a Toffee Apple. One lucky guava.

When my mother gets the guava, she’s gonna hold it and say “Wow, this is one heavy guava.” But what she will fail to notice is that the guava is probably a lot heavier than what it weighs. She will put it on the kitchen counter and hear it hit the wooden surface with a significant thud. “Wow, this is one heavy guava.” she’s going to exclaim again, once again failing to notice that it would perhaps made a louder thud, a deeper thud, if only she was willing to listen. She will never know that within the guava bears the weight of someone’s thoughts, of someone’s love. That’s why the guava hit the table with a significant thud instead of a silent mew. That’s why when she held it in her hands, it sunk into the flesh of her palms and stained her with the concern of someone else.

When my mother slices the guava, she’s gonna cut it and say “Wow, this is one amazing smelling guava.” But what she will fail to notice is that the guava probably smells a lot better than what she perceives. She will put it on a plate and feel herself salivate from its aroma. “Wow, this is one amazing smelling guava.” she’s going to exclaim again as she contemplates finishing the fruit in its entirety, forgetting to save some for me. But what she will fail to notice is how, with every slice, the scent of someone’s love permeates every nook and cranny in the room, filling up the spaces between the refrigerator and the kitchen cabinet, filling the spaces between her lashes and filling the spaces between her teeth. That with every breath she takes, she inhales the love of someone else, letting it seep into the veins beneath her skin, seeping into her.

The most important things in life sometimes don’t exist. You feel them filling up the cemented floors and whitewashed floors, you feel them seeping through the cuticles of your skin, you feel them escaping from the pores on your palms and you feel them bursting from every beat of your heart. But you never know for sure if they exist, unless you happen to receive a very green guava on your daughter’s last day of work. Maybe then you can try to feel the weight of someone’s love and the scent of their concern.

Blurb: Burning Out

I sometimes feel like I’m a firecracker. No, do not imagine a girl with firebrick red hair and a devilish glint in her eyes. Not a spitfire, a firecracker. You know the kind that burn a little too quickly, a little too noisily and has barely any other significant function besides drawing your attention for that mere few seconds that its lit? Yup, that kind of firecracker. For that moment, I am blindingly beautiful, I steal your breath and make you believe that I’m perhaps the brightest thing you will ever see. But then as fast as I implode into sparks of brilliance, I simmer out faster than you can say goodbye. And what’s left? The little glow at the end of the road. The glow that is always shining, albeit less brilliantly, less flamboyantly, but surely, always there. That’s the difference between you and I. You’re the fluorescent bulb and I’m the spark. You’re the Chardonnay and I’m the Absolut. I’m the one they drink to forget, and you’re the one they drink because they want to remember.

Social Detoxing

I remember when my mother was having this yoga phase, she would do these monthly starvation routines where she consumed nothing but salt water and swallowed banana slices whole at the end of the day. She called it a detox and was convinced it would rid her of all the toxins and poison in her body, just because her best friend at that time swore by it. Whether it worked or not, I have no idea. However, the yoga mats have been neatly rolled up in their corner for quite some time now and I can no longer recall the last time she ate a banana.

I like Facebook. I like being able to know what my friends are up to without having to engage in a long and dreary conversation about how their pet cat died last month or how their so bored at work. I like being able to see exactly what’s happening to them-how they look in their new haircut, how they look at work, how their new boyfriend looks like, how they now look like. I like being able to snigger behind the shield of my computer screen and make wicked (but honest) remarks that would put Simon Cowell to shame. But I also dislike it. Facebook is like a breeding ground for drama. It is like a bubbling cauldron filled with all the necessary ingredients for an emotional showdown, it is a nesting spot for the bitch, bitcher and bitchiest. Facebook is Sparta, it is an arena for the worst and the ugliest.

So I have decided that I need a cleansing. A social cleansing to be exact. Even if it means that the cute waiter at the bar who sneakily asked for my name so he could run a search of me on Facebook can’t find me there. There are bigger and better things in life to look forward to besides the lunch your friend had yesterday, there are greater and more important things in life that you should occupy yourself with besides the silly little blurbs your friends post online. Take time out to really ask them how they are instead of inferring and convincing yourself that they are okay. Even if it means you have to tolerate the whining, the dramas, the hoard of irrelevant information, do it.

I guess I’ll be off the social radar for a while then. Maybe I’ll even take up yoga, make a few hipster friends and run off to live in a cave high up in the Southern mountains in Mongolia. (Wait, are there even mountains, let alone Southern mountains? Whatever.) And if you’re really bent on knowing how I am, or how I’m doing, I’m sure you’ll find a way. They have snail mail there, I think.