You shine so bright it's insane,
You put the Sun to shame.

I know that we're doomed, My Dear, we're slow dancing in a burning room.

I can write about you in every forum except the one you might read — well, even then I might write about it, but I’d dance around your name like a fire whose warmth I want to feel without quite being burned. Yes, if you’re wondering, it’s about you. That open letter, that song lyric, that wink and nod in your direction that is not quite explicit enough to call me out on directly. I want you to see my words and be motivated enough in them to take the first step yourself because, no matter how much I want to burst into your life with the truth of exactly how I feel about you, I know that I am not going to.

You would likely be upset if you knew how much I thought of you, how much what you are doing with your life factors into my daily routine. The world tells us we are supposed to live in cold, disparate camps of “together” and “separate” — but what about those who fall into neither category? No, we are not together. No, there is no part of you that I can lay claim to and nothing I am within my rights to demand, but are we really separate? Is the degree to which you have touched my life unimportant because it hasn’t been sealed with some kind of title?

And “I miss you” — is that only appropriate to someone who has left, someone you imagine will come back or at least longs to do so? What about the people who have never fully entered our lives, who have passed by it like a shiny car driving just slowly enough to get a glimpse at the people inside? Are we allowed to miss someone whose presence we sensed in our very bones, someone every fiber of our body told us we should have reached out to but did not? Is there an acceptable way to phrase “a nostalgia for something that never quite happened,” or is that a sentiment which is relegated to the pathetic spectators of life?

We praise honesty the way we praise kindness, and a lie of omission is still a lie. So I suppose, by that definition, I am lying to you each day that passes in which I do not say “I think about you, I wish I could talk to you, I wish my fear was something I could put aside and forget for even a moment.” I don’t mean to lie, you know. In a perfect world, I would be the kind of person who feels something with great conviction and acts upon it with unerring focus, who is sure of themselves in a way that radiates confidence and puts others at ease. If I were this kind of person, I would have come to you so long ago. I would have told you everything I really felt. (Yes, even about that one night where I told you I needed to talk and then let you go home with a “never mind.” You and I both know that what I wanted to say was “Every time I see you from across the room and don’t talk to you, it is a punch in the stomach which reminds me just how much of a coward I can be.” But who wants to actually say that to someone at a house party?)

But I have long since accepted that I am a coward of this nature, that I am happy to write letters to myself instead of sit down with the one person who needs to listen. I will listen to music which at once dulls the more acute pains of not having the courage to be honest with you and allows me to imagine the life I could have if I did. I will lie awake some nights, looking at your name, only a click away. I will hover over your name and consider writing you, finally getting everything out that I feel dirty for not having said, and accept that even a flat “no” is preferable to hanging suspended in the unknown. But then I won’t, and I’ll pretend as though it never crossed my mind. And you will ask me how I am at a party some day, and look at me as though you really want to know, and I will say “I am fine.”

I Can't Tell You by Chelsea Fagan
Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn’t something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn’t get in, and walk through it, step by step. There’s no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That’s the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

An you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You’ll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.

And once the storm is over you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.

— Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

click click

What did I do and what have I just done? I wonder if I will ever know what I am doing. It's just, things attract me and then I feel like repelling them and then it happens again and again. How do you start afresh when you have things to look back to yet you don't want the past or anything from the present?

I am so awkward I don't fit in much

Behold a total rip from tumblr

I'm not good at relationships. I always manage to find the flaws sometimes in others but mostly my own. I foretell the ending and then go and create the cause. Save myself, then end up being alone. The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. I think you could fall in love with anyone if you saw the parts of them that no one else gets to see. Like if you followed them around invisibly for a day and you saw them crying in their bed at night or singing to themselves as they make a sandwich or even just walking along the street and even if they were really weird and had no friends at school, I think after seeing them at their most vulnerable you wouldn’t be able to help falling in love with them.

I am so hyped for Singapore Arts Festival

Alas, even a fortress gives way after relentless assault.

Our Lost Poems 18th May - 2nd June

all that money can't buy me a time machine

lightning don't strike, the same place twice




I should totally do up such posts at every end of the month. So happy to look through my film cam and to see changes and things I have done. Anyway I still have photos from my phone so maybe I'll post em up later. I have so much to do there's reading and uploading photographs and packing my bag for tomorrow. Now that I'm done with papers, I wanna do so many things.

Sometimes I feel like

If people actually bothered and cared enough to ask, I wouldn't mind spewing out my entire life story to them.

When this is over don't blow your composure

Every atom of my being can't stop wondering why or how things have turned out this way and I can't seem to care less. I'm thinking I will now take the image of being an annoyance but I don't know what else I have to capacity to be anymore.

Suckle on the hope in lite brasseire

You're such a mystery, a far off island no one else sees.

Everyone seems like ordinary people with just brief exchanges on the outside, the surface of our souls. It is when one person opens up, and everyone opens up one by one. That's when the magic happens. People aren't just the dull walking dead. We become mobile bodies of emotions, a hurricane of encounters, gushing rivers of pensiveness. A non-stop flow, we all meet in the sea.
Ah company, that's nice.