Strangers.

March 3, 2013 - 2 Responses

It hits the ground with a finality I didn’t know could exist.

The residual flames burn amber against the grit.

Your eyes trail my every move.

Those eyes.

The damn eyes that linger in my mind like a scalding touch on an ice cold skin.

It’s a dance.

A dance we’ve danced since the day we met.

The freight of being caught only heightened the attraction.

We used it, reveled in it.

And to think it began as a game. A challenge.

Nothing more than an exciting play.

But things turned real too soon.

A little too fucking real.

A little too fucking scary.

Clasped hands and stolen kisses and pressed bodies.

The secrets, the lies, the cloak and dagger, it let doubt cast its shadow over us.

A doubt that brings nothing but pain.

A pain that ultimately leads us.. away from one another.

In the game of secrets and seduction there is only one rule; Don’t fall in love.

And at the end of it, it all leaves us nothing but.. strangers.

“I love you also means I love you more than anyone loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that no one loves you, or has loved you, or will love you, and also, I love you in a way that I love no one else, and never have loved anyone else, and never will love anyone else.”
Jonathan Safran Foer

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Tedium Vitae.

February 12, 2013 - Leave a Response

I think I’m addicted to these moments; these moments within moments when you remember something you haven’t in a long time. And in that little tiny space, the memories hit you so hard it’s as if you’re reliving it all over the again. With each breath, each laugh, each touch, you’re just there. All over again. And it’s so beautiful you want to freeze time and live in that moment forever.

But then you open your eyes and it all fades away. You realize that all that’s happen was just a memory, a memory which no one remembers, but you.

So I close my eyes and drift away again. Remembering the things you forgot. Remembering the moments within the moments.

You can spend hours, and days, and weeks, and months, and years, paving bricks upon bricks, one on top of the other, making that wall. But  the thoughts will wash over as they weave themselves into angry tides, crashing against the confined spaces of your skull.

I feel the  little pieces of my life start chipping away in bits and lumps.

So I curl into bed and drift away again. I’m tired in my heart. I’m tired in my bones. I’m tired of disappointing others. I’m tired disappointing me. I’m just. Tired.

(I’m sorry I’m so hard to deal with.)

“This is why it hurts the way it hurts. You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache. You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.”

It’ll Feel Like It Should.

January 10, 2013 - Leave a Response

A little more. Just a little more.

Give a little more time to me. One more kiss. One more hug. One more. More.

And I realize that I always want that little bit more.

It’s been a while, but I feel the same. A different point in time, a different person, a different pain, but all the same at the core.

A little more. Just a little more.

We’re always going to want a little more. A little more love, a little more leeway for mistakes, a little more words to fill this blog, a little more time.

 …

“I found more joy in sorrow than you could find in joy.
Sara Teasdale.

Slipping in Between.

December 7, 2012 - Leave a Response

The oddest things hurt me. They get stuck in my head and replay over and over.

I guess it’s true. Only the things you no longer have, and will never have, can be perfect. It only exist in your mind. So it has no flaws. No mistakes. No chance of being broken. It’s just.. Perfect

I can’t seem to get anything right anymore.

 

“There’s a loneliness that only exists in one’s mind. The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby.

Nothing is Everything.

December 4, 2012 - Leave a Response

He keeps asking me what’s wrong. I smile patiently and say my pre-rehearsed line.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I promise.”

I tell myself I’m just not ready to talk about it. As though one day I might be.

He sees that something is wrong. A spark dulled by some unknown force. And so unwearyingly he sits and watches “nothing” eat up my words, hollow my bones and empty my soul.

I tell him I don’t know what’s wrong.

And it’s half true because I don’t understand it. Only that his face keeps me from the edge, barely holding it together, but away from edge.

It’s easier to pretend. To put on that quick smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes and let those simple words slip so effortlessly from quivering lips. It makes everything better. At least for a little while. Because if they believe you, you think maybe you can believe you too. They think, “Maybe she is fine.” And as long as they believe it, you think maybe you can be.

And I’m okay with that. I prefer it. Because it’s easier than the truth. Because I don’t want anyone to know. I can’t talk about it.

(But I need you to understand that I find comfort in you. Even when you don’t know it)

“I’ll walk forever with stories inside me that the people I love the most can never hear.”
Michelle Hodkin.

Devastatingly.

December 2, 2012 - Leave a Response

“I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.”
Catherine Breillat

Decadence of Neglect.

December 1, 2012 - Leave a Response

I’m coming back soon, I promise.

School started in a whole different continent from the place I call home in case anyone was wondering, and it’s been pretty much a crazy whirlwind of a ride.

Worry not though, major narcissism speaking, yes,  because I’ve missed this place. I miss tucking secrets between that come out only half right through half-forgotten memories and transcribed from the half smeared words on napkins that can only hope to be half-understood because, as always, their meaning gets misplaced between between my lips and dissolve under my tongue descending into words of half-laced lies scribbled carelessly by half dried pens found in the darkest nooks of my bag.

Naturally, I’ve begun rambling. Rather incoherently, as always, but the point of this was to say that this little space in the middle of nowhere where nobody is hardly now here is not forgotten. Profoundly neglected perhaps. But not forgotten.

“Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.
Truman Capote.

Up Yours.

September 12, 2012 - Leave a Response

It’s funny, we sit around, trying to be all Zen and accepting, we have beer and we quote bits and pieces of repeated, recycled, digested and spat out a thousand times over crap to make ourselves feel better;

‘Everything happens for a reason.’

‘God has other plans.’

‘What’s meant to be will be.’

But none of it is even true. Well, okay, maybe they could be possibly be true.

But I’m not going to sit around banking on a ‘Maybe’.

I’ve had a cushy enough life, ‘ll admit that much. I’ve never starved or needed anything that couldn’t be provided for me, but I was never handed anything on a platter.

I am who I am because my parents gave me opportunities.

I got what I got because I worked for them.

I am who I am because took whatever opportunities that was exposed to be and I worked hard. I play pretty hard too, sure, but I got what I got because I took action and reaped the rewards from the said action.

So I’m not about to sit around and go on about destiny, or fate, or providence or whatever else you want to call it, having other plans for me. I don’t believe in that. Do I believe that luck has a hand in whatever our situation? Sure. But ultimately, life is about the choices we make and the actions we take.

Destiny? I’d rather not go with that.

Yes, I want to get the hell out of here. Yes, I dwell in words and romanticize the ideas wrapped around them. Yes, the existential questions and the glare of harsh realities scare me. But at least I have the courage to want what I want out loud.

At least I’m not surrendering to the hum drum lull of 9-5 traditional relationships to repetitive things and an ordinary life waiting for hopefully an early heart attack or a sleepy truck driver to drag me out of my misery.

At least I’m not too afraid to move an inch out of where I am now.

So fuck you and your preconceived notions about my life. Step outside your tiny pinhole of a wretched, dismal existence for a second and look around you. Or someone might just kick you between the legs so hard one day you’ll wanna crawl back into your mom.

“You’re not really an adult at all. You’re just a tall child holding a beer, having a conversation you don’t understand.”
Dylan Moran.

The Things You’d Rather Forget.

August 23, 2012 - Leave a Response

I just keep thinking about that night, that ride back.

The god awful smell of ‘herb’ and spice and the not so subtle sour twinge of sweat. The alternating light and dark as we zoomed past streetlights. The stillness or about as much of you that you can get riding around Kuala Lumpur in an old taxi cab in the wee hours of the morning. The annoying whir of the engine groaning and our steady breaths. Your head on my shoulders. Contentedness.

But I find the details slipping from me too quickly.

I don’t think I even remember your face anymore.

And I keep listening to the songs that make you remember the things you’d rather forget.

It’s been two years.

I miss you.

“This is to a girl who got into my head,
With all the pretty things she did.”

A Fine Frenzy.

August 14, 2012 - Leave a Response

To be honest, I don’t know how we got here. Or why we’re here. I read and re-read our old exchanges dating back 3 years and I still don’t know. But I feel the need to clear this up.

If I were to die tomorrow, morbid as that sounds, I want at least what I am going to say here to be clear to you.

I didn’t know how to explain then. I didn’t know how to tell you that saying goodbye that first time didn’t mean I was giving up. I was tired; I wanted a break, a breather, an easy out. Because it was exhausting what we had. Truth be told, weren’t you a little tired too? Not just physically, but mentally and emotionally and whatever other –ally’s that you can come up with?

The truth is that I had to get away from myself more than I did from you.

Because I was so far from the person I needed to be. So far from the perfection that was demanded of me. The perfection that, in retrospect, I put upon myself more than anything. Because 3 years ago, I saw myself through a movie screen, a high definition, grand resolution, 10 storey high film screen that had my flaws and mistakes and slip ups sprawled across it for me to wince and bite my nails at every step along the way.

And ironically, our situation was probably the perfect recipe of a badly constructed romantic comedy that neither one of us would be caught dead watching. Except it didn’t end nearly as peachy or as corny as a romantic comedy should’ve ended. And for a very long time I found myself being stuck. Stuck because I wanted you, but I couldn’t have you.

And even though I never admitted it out loud, I clung on to the hope that we were still heading off in the same direction. That we were still sharing the same orbit, a gravitational pull that binds us together by something so much bigger that the Earth’s pull on humanity. That maybe someday, if we both don’t stray too far from the path, we might just crash into each other again.

But we have an expiration date. We did from the start. And we never really were, even though we felt so strongly and so much.

I’ll admit that you a left heartcrack so fragile that I thought no one could ever fill that dark and treacherous rift. But I will always maintain that the best mistake I ever made was at 18. Because sometimes, talking to strangers can be the best thing a girl can do.

And since we’re in the business of truth telling, I might as well; I do miss you.

I miss telling you everything. I miss talking to you about everything. Every detail, every insignificant moment, every inconsequential impulse, every trivial matter. I miss talking to you. I miss our conversations.

But at the same time, I don’t.

Because people change. Feelings change. But it doesn’t mean what we had wasn’t true or real. It just means that we’ve grown so much from who we once were. And along the way we grew apart. But I will always be grateful for you, no matter how much pain we caused each other along the way.

I’m self destructive, I’m fickle and I’m a hot bed of emotional mess (as you’ve become so well acquainted with) but I’m no longer that girl you used to know. I’m better at living with my decisions now, despite having to bear the consequences of it.

That first goodbye was not a first goodbye, my darling. That first goodbye was the goodbye. And no amount of Jack and Coke or heartache can ever change that.

I said nothing when I should have said so much. And I’m sorry for that. But we could’ve talked forever and never come to a proper close. So here I am.

“Goodbye, my almost lover,
Goodbye, my hopeless dream.”