Two Hundred and Thirty-Nine.
March 10, 2014

That’s two hundred and thirty-nine lives.

That’s over two hundred souls, vanished. Like dust in the noonday light; floating and basking and falling, landing into a neat nook, completely gone to the naked eye.

No signs of wreckage, no conclusive debris found.

Over two hundred souls on board. Did they even have the time react to whatever that came their way? How many seconds of prayer did they have to make peace with the lives they have lead?

67 hours on and no distress calls, no Emergency Locator Transmitter, no signals of any sort. Nothing.

Two hundred and thirty-nine lives.

Two hundred and thirty-nine souls.

The world suddenly seems a lot smaller and bigger at the same time.

“You know you’re fucked when those late night thoughts start hitting you in the middle of the day.”


January 29, 2014

I have not romanticized the fucked up-ness on being so dependent on someone to such an extent that I believe that the inability to function adequately sans your presence is a celebrated norm.

We can survive apart, obviously – people have proven to be able to survive most things we thought we can’t – but I don’t want to. Your presence is a fixture in my life I’d like to remain permanent.

Except you choose to fit me between the gaps of your life when your time is unoccupied, ‘Run along now, I’m busy, go play with the other kids until I’m free to pick you up later.’

Maybe I read too much into these things. Maybe I’m just a clingy, insecure little fuck.

But the truth is I’ll never be busy enough to not miss you. And maybe that’s why it hurts the way it does.

“And she wants to know she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.”

March 31, 2013

It’s strange. I think the only time where I am motivated to get to finishing the half-baked scribbles behind café napkins and ideas scrawled between lines of class notes is if I’m reminded by how fast and fleeting life is. I woke up today, not for the first time in my life, absolutely terrified. I had dreamt that I was dying; before I had even begun to start doing the things I wanted to do in life, it was all going to end.

It isn’t unusual; I had always had this fear of my life ending before it began. One of my dearest friends had killed herself before she was sixteen, my grandma had recently passed, and I was even reading Looking for Alaska right before bed. So it isn’t unusual at all that I was plagued by thoughts and dreams of mortality. But I woke up and I decided that I want to write more, that I needed to write more. That I don’t want to just run out of time and not finish what I had decided was important all those years ago.

Had I had have any lick of talent with musical instruments, I would’ve went out to buy a white BIC lighter, carry it around in my pocket at all times and start to exclusively write with my left hand to join the greats. To ensure I left behind something, anything that was of significance. Of course it’d all be pointless if I didn’t die at 27, but what does it matter. It would be stupid and irrelevant, but it would be poignant. And it would be beautiful. And that would mean something.

I guess I just don’t want to leave with the knowledge that I haven’t done anything. But then again, don’t we all. I just feel like I need to start writing again. I have to. I simply cannot wait until I am out of time. And that is an epiphany if I ever had one.

“Francois Rabelais. He was a poet. And his last words were ‘I go to seek a Great Perhaps.’ That’s why I’m going. So I don’t have to wait until I die to start seeking a Great Perhaps.”
Looking for Alaska, John Green

March 10, 2013

Some moments in life bring me more clarity than others.

The hazy daze I’m floating in prevents me from sleeping though my body desperately needs it.

“Does it feel like you’re in control?” she asks.

Her familiar voice brings me comfort.

“Yes?” I reply timidly.

“Yes?” she repeats with the same tone of debatable certainty in her voice.

“Yes,” I say with more force. More assurance. More confidence.

“Good,” she smiles.

I’m not even sure if I was trying to convince her or myself. I mirror the smile nevertheless and a silence falls between us.

“But are you?” she asks, shattering the silence that sits between us so smugly.

“Not at all,” I chuckle.

“Good,” she smiles complacently. And just like that, she disappears without a trace. As if she’s made her point and there was nothing more to say.

I sigh to myself.

How long before it’s too long?

How far before it’s too far?

I’m not crazy. Really.

I’m aware that having a conversation with someone who’s not there might fall under some mental health grey area, but I find this need to sometimes seek you out. Talk to you like you’re still here. Imagine what you’d say when you caught me having a moment.

I’m not lonely either. Not really.

My heart is full and occupied, I have no more need for you, but I’m holding on to you like a child holding on to the toy they’ve had since they could remember because it’s comfortable. Familiar. Easy.

I just want to keep you for as long as I can. Is that really so much to ask?

“Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different.”
C.S. Lewis.

Tedium Vitae.
February 12, 2013

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

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

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

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.

Decadence of Neglect.
December 1, 2012

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

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.