My most recent dream saw me walking on railway tracks.
I would have said they were the ones at Bukit Timah, the ones where I'd gone with the one I called the flower--but the tracks there had been broken off, pieces by pieces, and couldn't have been the same ones I'd walked my whole dream.
It was a long walk, all alone, in my heels because I definitely was not wearing anything flat-soled. A red dress or skirt, something flared, because when the wind blew I caught a glimpse of a little fabric below my waist being lifted, and felt the cold against my legs.
I'm not entirely sure if those tracks were completely abandoned or still in use.
If they'd been abandoned, then it must have been the end of the world, or at least this country must have gone to shit, because the MRT lines are the spine of its public transport. I've grown to believe that a world where Singapore doesn't have its MRT system working must be a dead universe.
And if the railway tracks were still in use, then there had been the possibility of a train coming along, hitting me, dragging parts of me beneath its wheels.
Either way, ...how peaceful.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
Saturday, December 10, 2016
The best way to die?
My writing is fueled by loneliness. It's in the name Solitary Author, if you haven't noticed. (If there's even any 'you' reading this.) The loneliness that comes with having no friends, and the passion for these words coming out via keyboard or ink; they go so well together. They intertwine, just like vines, and I am the tree that they form to be.
Even though I wasn't a tree anymore, since more than four years ago. A tree can't be a tree if it has bled, a rose can't be a rose if the only red it sheds isn't its petals.
I will never in my life apologise for anything. To say the word sorry--it's heavy on my lips. I do not say sorry to a customer for not having something they're looking for. I do not say sorry to my other half even when it's clear I was in the wrong. I do not say sorry to the girls I've known since high school, or to my own mother. I do not even say sorry to me, for all the harm I've done to myself.
What's the best way to die? By something that you love, or by your biggest fear? Is my better way to die on the railway tracks, dragged apart by a train, or by drowning, my lungs filling with water? Because if it's by my fear--I just have to wait for this world to be taken, submerged and forgotten, gone.
I wish everyone was equal. Nobody missing a limb, nobody left lonely in the absence of children and grandchildren, nobody digging through rubbish bins for scraps.
The people in this world, as strange as they are: I wish they had more time. How contradictory am I? At times, I wish to watch this world burn, perhaps to even be the one to set it on fire. And at other times, I wish time would stop ticking. I wish everyone would have more time to live. I wish nieces wouldn't grow up, grandmothers wouldn't die, grounds wouldn't shake and tidal waves wouldn't swallow.
I have a brain, but I don't make good use of it. Instead I submerge myself in this cryptic writing, thoughts that nobody will ever understand, not even the woman who carried me for 9 months, not even the significant other who's been supporting me for nearly 4 years. It's the truth, nobody will get it--nobody but me.
And that's the funny thing, that only I understand I; but I am also the last person on earth I could care less about.
Even though I wasn't a tree anymore, since more than four years ago. A tree can't be a tree if it has bled, a rose can't be a rose if the only red it sheds isn't its petals.
I will never in my life apologise for anything. To say the word sorry--it's heavy on my lips. I do not say sorry to a customer for not having something they're looking for. I do not say sorry to my other half even when it's clear I was in the wrong. I do not say sorry to the girls I've known since high school, or to my own mother. I do not even say sorry to me, for all the harm I've done to myself.
What's the best way to die? By something that you love, or by your biggest fear? Is my better way to die on the railway tracks, dragged apart by a train, or by drowning, my lungs filling with water? Because if it's by my fear--I just have to wait for this world to be taken, submerged and forgotten, gone.
I wish everyone was equal. Nobody missing a limb, nobody left lonely in the absence of children and grandchildren, nobody digging through rubbish bins for scraps.
The people in this world, as strange as they are: I wish they had more time. How contradictory am I? At times, I wish to watch this world burn, perhaps to even be the one to set it on fire. And at other times, I wish time would stop ticking. I wish everyone would have more time to live. I wish nieces wouldn't grow up, grandmothers wouldn't die, grounds wouldn't shake and tidal waves wouldn't swallow.
I have a brain, but I don't make good use of it. Instead I submerge myself in this cryptic writing, thoughts that nobody will ever understand, not even the woman who carried me for 9 months, not even the significant other who's been supporting me for nearly 4 years. It's the truth, nobody will get it--nobody but me.
And that's the funny thing, that only I understand I; but I am also the last person on earth I could care less about.
Monday, November 07, 2016
It's gone
After reading through my blog posts from years before,
my diary entries from last year and 2014,
and staring at the New Post page for the past half an hour,
I've decided
that
I've lost
the flow
for writing.
my diary entries from last year and 2014,
and staring at the New Post page for the past half an hour,
I've decided
that
I've lost
the flow
for writing.
Sunday, October 16, 2016
Pretty
Around this time four years ago, I made my first trip to Orchard on my own. It's true, I never went anywhere further than Paya Lebar on my own back in those days. At 17, Orchard was a big deal and was so fucking scary to me.
At the beginning of the year after that, 2013, I discovered the North for the first time as a teenager. I did go Woodlands and Khatib in my childhood and pre-teen years, but it wasn't anything remarkable. Just Hari Raya at a few relatives' places.
I remember how excited I was when the train went from Yio Chu Kang to Khatib. The view of the lake, that one part when one side of the train seems to be a little higher than the other, the simple fact that it took about 5 minutes to get to the next station. It felt amazing to my unofficially-18-year-old self.
Even now, long bus rides that go on the expressways, and train rides on the North South Line excite the hell out of me. I can't find any reason why; it's just the feeling of looking out the window, watching everything pass, trees zooming past accompanied by the silhouette of a lone bird flying.
It's the views out the window that make me think: this world, this country is beautiful. It's the people in it that are not. And I'm fine with not being pretty. I think just looking at the scenery pass is enough pretty for me.
Sunday, September 18, 2016
Small things
Another day closer to my twenty-first. A week before, we were making plans to head down to USS tomorrow. I was ready to get over my... I wouldn't say fear but my not wanting to ride the Cyclone/Human rollercoasters. For you.
On Tuesday, for the first time in my job someone asked me for my name. I've always been so passionate in work and once, it was the one thing in life I still looked forward to. The only thing I found reason to get up in the mornings for. But my name wasn't asked for a compliment. It was for a complaint that wasn't even my fault. I wasn't even rude; he was the one jabbing his finger into my face as I was serving him, and when I walked away, he said it was my service that's the problem.
You came over to have dinner with me that day. I told you everything. I told you I didn't cry. But that incident never even left my mind since.
I thought I'd felt better after seeing you. And then you told me that you couldn't take leave for my birthday. Because there weren't enough staff in the office due to the ones being dispatched for the F1 weekend having their day off on the Monday. Why couldn't you have requested for leave earlier? You explained, but I'm still angry about it, because you're right, I don't understand.
But I'm not the only one who doesn't understand. I've showed my anger to you, and you've snapped, "Why can't you understand I'm working?"; you've said in caps lock, "YOU GET WORKED UP OVER THE SMALLEST THINGS."
I know it's a small thing to you. In case you haven't noticed from the time we've started dating, from the time you read all my blog posts everyday, from the time you realised I get upset easily; it's not a small thing to me.
I know what small things are.
It's when I don't get a seat by the window because the person before me took the last available one.
It's when somebody is standing right in the middle of the path and I'm forced to walk on the grass to get past.
It's when I've been standing by the counter of a food stall for a while and nobody comes out to take my order.
It's when I stand up to offer my seat to an old woman on the train but somebody else already gave up theirs first.
It's when a customer doesn't say thank you.
It's when a pretty girl posts a picture of herself and gets 170 likes.
It's when you post a picture of yourself and everybody comments on how handsome you are.
It's when I post a picture of myself and get just 30 likes.
It's when we've made plans for a Saturday and on the morning itself you say you're too tired to go out anymore.
It's when you told me we'll use your free tickets to catch a movie but instead you use them on yourself and your best friend.
I know these are little things. But it doesn't stop them from affecting me so much, because it's the tiniest things that trigger me. At this point of my life every single little thing is like a hard shove. What I don't understand is why can't you understand this?
Here's the thing, I know it's unimportant to you. I know it's nothing to you. But get it into your head that it isn't to me. It's my special day which I don't even get to spend with you. Which I'm forced to spend alone because I don't have any other friends to ask out instead; because my mom says on birthdays, family is reserved for the night only, whatever.
I'll never get why you can't understand this one simple thing. Our four years together, you've spent just one of my birthdays with me. Yes it is a big fucking deal to me that you didn't apply for leave earlier for me this year. Big enough a deal for me to cry like a maniac on the train thinking about it.
No matter what you think, my twenty-first isn't a small thing. You not going out with me for my birthday isn't a small thing. It's the one fucking day in the year I'll feel special enough to wear something other than my usual jeans out of my own accord. Not the 18th, or 20th, or 21st, but just this one day: the 19th.
On Tuesday, for the first time in my job someone asked me for my name. I've always been so passionate in work and once, it was the one thing in life I still looked forward to. The only thing I found reason to get up in the mornings for. But my name wasn't asked for a compliment. It was for a complaint that wasn't even my fault. I wasn't even rude; he was the one jabbing his finger into my face as I was serving him, and when I walked away, he said it was my service that's the problem.
You came over to have dinner with me that day. I told you everything. I told you I didn't cry. But that incident never even left my mind since.
I thought I'd felt better after seeing you. And then you told me that you couldn't take leave for my birthday. Because there weren't enough staff in the office due to the ones being dispatched for the F1 weekend having their day off on the Monday. Why couldn't you have requested for leave earlier? You explained, but I'm still angry about it, because you're right, I don't understand.
But I'm not the only one who doesn't understand. I've showed my anger to you, and you've snapped, "Why can't you understand I'm working?"; you've said in caps lock, "YOU GET WORKED UP OVER THE SMALLEST THINGS."
I know it's a small thing to you. In case you haven't noticed from the time we've started dating, from the time you read all my blog posts everyday, from the time you realised I get upset easily; it's not a small thing to me.
I know what small things are.
It's when I don't get a seat by the window because the person before me took the last available one.
It's when somebody is standing right in the middle of the path and I'm forced to walk on the grass to get past.
It's when I've been standing by the counter of a food stall for a while and nobody comes out to take my order.
It's when I stand up to offer my seat to an old woman on the train but somebody else already gave up theirs first.
It's when a customer doesn't say thank you.
It's when a pretty girl posts a picture of herself and gets 170 likes.
It's when you post a picture of yourself and everybody comments on how handsome you are.
It's when I post a picture of myself and get just 30 likes.
It's when we've made plans for a Saturday and on the morning itself you say you're too tired to go out anymore.
It's when you told me we'll use your free tickets to catch a movie but instead you use them on yourself and your best friend.
I know these are little things. But it doesn't stop them from affecting me so much, because it's the tiniest things that trigger me. At this point of my life every single little thing is like a hard shove. What I don't understand is why can't you understand this?
Here's the thing, I know it's unimportant to you. I know it's nothing to you. But get it into your head that it isn't to me. It's my special day which I don't even get to spend with you. Which I'm forced to spend alone because I don't have any other friends to ask out instead; because my mom says on birthdays, family is reserved for the night only, whatever.
I'll never get why you can't understand this one simple thing. Our four years together, you've spent just one of my birthdays with me. Yes it is a big fucking deal to me that you didn't apply for leave earlier for me this year. Big enough a deal for me to cry like a maniac on the train thinking about it.
No matter what you think, my twenty-first isn't a small thing. You not going out with me for my birthday isn't a small thing. It's the one fucking day in the year I'll feel special enough to wear something other than my usual jeans out of my own accord. Not the 18th, or 20th, or 21st, but just this one day: the 19th.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
I hate birthdays again
I don't want a birthday party. Especially not one where I don't have any friends to take pictures with between those huge '2' and '1' balloons. How do I feel special in the presence of my dad's siblings and my mom's friends, and my cousins that I haven't talked to in like 4 years?
Yes, my mom invited her friends with the excuse of "They invited me to their children's birthdays, I'll invite them to mine." MOM WHAT THE FUCK. YOUR FRIENDS ARE ALL 20+. THEIR KIDS ARE LIKE FREAKING FIVE. WHAT THE FUCK.
What's worse is she's expecting me to pay 300 bucks for her to buy the food and decorations and shit. Why???? IT'S A PARTY FOR ME WHICH I DON'T EVEN WANT AND I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT????
I DON'T WANT THIS! I don't have any real friends to spend it with. A girl only has the rights to have their 21st birthday to be fucking special if she has friends. Real girl friends who actually buy her presents and invite her out. And only if she's ... pretty enough ... to wear nice clothes... I FUCKING DON'T WANT THIS.
Every birthday has been a disaster in their own special ways. This year's, I'll have to spend alone because somebody didn't take leave earlier and he can't apply now. Thanks a lot. "Consider it done" you dare say.
Fucking awful. I fucking hate birthdays. Why must my mom and grandma make such a big fucking deal about my 21st? Guess what, my dad and the only cousin that I still care about aren't gonna be around because of the stupid F1 anyway. My 21st sucks already. That's the only big deal about it. THAT IT FUCKING SUCKS.
Yes, my mom invited her friends with the excuse of "They invited me to their children's birthdays, I'll invite them to mine." MOM WHAT THE FUCK. YOUR FRIENDS ARE ALL 20+. THEIR KIDS ARE LIKE FREAKING FIVE. WHAT THE FUCK.
What's worse is she's expecting me to pay 300 bucks for her to buy the food and decorations and shit. Why???? IT'S A PARTY FOR ME WHICH I DON'T EVEN WANT AND I HAVE TO PAY FOR IT????
I DON'T WANT THIS! I don't have any real friends to spend it with. A girl only has the rights to have their 21st birthday to be fucking special if she has friends. Real girl friends who actually buy her presents and invite her out. And only if she's ... pretty enough ... to wear nice clothes... I FUCKING DON'T WANT THIS.
Every birthday has been a disaster in their own special ways. This year's, I'll have to spend alone because somebody didn't take leave earlier and he can't apply now. Thanks a lot. "Consider it done" you dare say.
Fucking awful. I fucking hate birthdays. Why must my mom and grandma make such a big fucking deal about my 21st? Guess what, my dad and the only cousin that I still care about aren't gonna be around because of the stupid F1 anyway. My 21st sucks already. That's the only big deal about it. THAT IT FUCKING SUCKS.
Monday, August 15, 2016
24/08/2014
I wonder how life was like before life.
How I was formed in my mother. How tiny I was. How fragile I was; how my parents took special care of me before I was born, how my big brother might have loved me before he even saw me.
I wonder how my family was like, while I was forming inside of her. How my grandmother and father and big brother might have put their ears to her stomach, trying to listen to my voice. Have they ever promised themselves to continue listening to me, even after I was born?
What was it like to learn how to walk? How to talk? My whole life I was on my feet, I've forgotten how it must have been like to struggle on limbs of my own. How it must have been like to use my vocal chords for the first time.
Everything I did back then must have cost a lot of pain. Whatever I was doing or feeling for the first time; it must have been unusual to a fragile being like I was. Maybe that's why I kept crying.
How did my mother ever teach me the things I know today? What was it like to have no idea what a colour is? Who taught me that the sky would always be blue?
It's strange to imagine life in a different way. To imagine myself not knowing the things I know now; not doing the things I do now; not loving the things I love now.
Bliss without pain is a book without stories; a world where you don't cry or feel hurt sounds appealing, but can you imagine not knowing what pain is?
Maybe nobody taught me anything that I know now. Maybe all they did was show me the world, and from there I took my own steps. From there, I took liking in my own favourite things and decided what was beautiful and what was not.
Imagine a place where people told you what to love.
Maybe you are living in there right now.
Maybe I am considered lucky to love things that others don't.
Because it's a reminder that I grew up seeing the world through my own eyes, and not through others'.
A person can truly be called an inspiration if she makes others want to see the world through her eyes.
I want to be one, to make people want to imagine the world I see it. But I also want everyone to learn to see things their own way.
I wish I could be a warm flame to the people I love, and also a spreading wildfire to everyone else, to ignite the spark to discover things their own way.
How I was formed in my mother. How tiny I was. How fragile I was; how my parents took special care of me before I was born, how my big brother might have loved me before he even saw me.
I wonder how my family was like, while I was forming inside of her. How my grandmother and father and big brother might have put their ears to her stomach, trying to listen to my voice. Have they ever promised themselves to continue listening to me, even after I was born?
What was it like to learn how to walk? How to talk? My whole life I was on my feet, I've forgotten how it must have been like to struggle on limbs of my own. How it must have been like to use my vocal chords for the first time.
Everything I did back then must have cost a lot of pain. Whatever I was doing or feeling for the first time; it must have been unusual to a fragile being like I was. Maybe that's why I kept crying.
How did my mother ever teach me the things I know today? What was it like to have no idea what a colour is? Who taught me that the sky would always be blue?
It's strange to imagine life in a different way. To imagine myself not knowing the things I know now; not doing the things I do now; not loving the things I love now.
Bliss without pain is a book without stories; a world where you don't cry or feel hurt sounds appealing, but can you imagine not knowing what pain is?
Maybe nobody taught me anything that I know now. Maybe all they did was show me the world, and from there I took my own steps. From there, I took liking in my own favourite things and decided what was beautiful and what was not.
Imagine a place where people told you what to love.
Maybe you are living in there right now.
Maybe I am considered lucky to love things that others don't.
Because it's a reminder that I grew up seeing the world through my own eyes, and not through others'.
A person can truly be called an inspiration if she makes others want to see the world through her eyes.
I want to be one, to make people want to imagine the world I see it. But I also want everyone to learn to see things their own way.
I wish I could be a warm flame to the people I love, and also a spreading wildfire to everyone else, to ignite the spark to discover things their own way.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
If I died tomorrow
If I died tomorrow, leave my shelves dusty
Silverfish among the pages so murky
Calendar untouched, on the very month
I would have turned twenty-one
If I died tomorrow, leave my bed undone
Don't forget the way I loved the sun
Don't pick up the photographs that fall
After sticking hopelessly on my wall
If I died tomorrow, let my other half
Have the diary from the year of rough
Let him have the photo of a girl
Black, white, never touched the world
If I died tomorrow, give him space
And time to slowly erase my face
Let him know he has friends around
Help him find a girl, maybe a rebound
If I died tomorrow, don't let them pretend
Lie that they were even my friend
Trying to find a photo from 2 or 5 years ago
Fabricating a long-lost friendship just for show
If I died tomorrow, what would have been
The song that I was listening to on repeat?
What would have been the paperback
That came falling out of my ripped slingbag?
What would have been the graphic t-shirt
That would be dragged along the dirt?
What would have been the last tweet, text, call
The other half, the grandma, if any at all?
Silverfish among the pages so murky
Calendar untouched, on the very month
I would have turned twenty-one
If I died tomorrow, leave my bed undone
Don't forget the way I loved the sun
Don't pick up the photographs that fall
After sticking hopelessly on my wall
If I died tomorrow, let my other half
Have the diary from the year of rough
Let him have the photo of a girl
Black, white, never touched the world
If I died tomorrow, give him space
And time to slowly erase my face
Let him know he has friends around
Help him find a girl, maybe a rebound
If I died tomorrow, don't let them pretend
Lie that they were even my friend
Trying to find a photo from 2 or 5 years ago
Fabricating a long-lost friendship just for show
If I died tomorrow, what would have been
The song that I was listening to on repeat?
What would have been the paperback
That came falling out of my ripped slingbag?
What would have been the graphic t-shirt
That would be dragged along the dirt?
What would have been the last tweet, text, call
The other half, the grandma, if any at all?
Tuesday, August 09, 2016
Does this justify my lack of fashion
On the very rare occasions where I feel like wearing something other than jeans, I have this unusual thought: what if an apocalypse were to break out today? I'd want to be in something easy to run in, aka my usual jeans and sneakers.
I know it's fucking weird, but seriously the last thing I want is to be in panic and survival situations in a dress/skirt and sandals or something. Fucking nope. It's also why I sometimes get anxious on days I have to wear baju kurung. I'd be dead way quicker if I were in one when a zombie outbreak were to happen.
That's also the reason why I wish I had perfect eyesight. No I don't want to have to run about during an apocalypse in glasses. What if I lose them? I'd be fucking blind as a Zubat and that makes me feel so handicapped. And contact lens solution, where would you get them in such a time??? Not that I'd have time to put them on if danger came when I was sleeping or shit, right???
Maybe I'm just making excuses for how I'm too lazy to make effort to dress up, despite complaining how I'm not as pretty or fashionable as all those other girls. I don't know about them but I wouldn't want to be wearing wedges or flared skirts that could get caught easily or sleeveless tops which would show armpit hair after not shaving for a long time. (not that I'd ever survive so long)
If my blog posts aren't depressing or full of complaints as usual, it just means you're here on the other side of my brain.
Monday, August 01, 2016
Wish I could be normal
Here's what I like to do: I like to read. I like spending hours in a library or a bookstore. I like to go for walks on my own. I like to take long bus rides on a double decker. I like listening to slow songs. I like to stop and squat to pet a cat whenever I see one.
Here's what I don't want to do: I don't want to buy or wear nice clothes. I don't want to explore the world. I don't want to take airplanes. I don't want to attend concerts. I don't want to ever sleep if it's possible just to avoid dreams.
Here's the thing: the things I don't want to do is what everyone else does. I feel so odd. I wish I could fit in, but I don't want to change. I like the things that I like, even if it guarantees solitary days for me. But sometimes... Sometimes I don't want to be solitary.
Still remember this story that our Maths teacher told us in Sec 5; how this guy poked every single part of his body and everywhere hurt. How he'd gone to the doctor and was told that the pain was not in his entire body, but his finger. Moral of the story--to know the source of the problem.
I know I'm the problem, but what do I do to solve it? I'm not sure. Wish I could be normal without sacrificing my love for books and fascination with trains; without forcing myself to put on make-up or listen to the songs that everyone else is listening to.
Here's what I don't want to do: I don't want to buy or wear nice clothes. I don't want to explore the world. I don't want to take airplanes. I don't want to attend concerts. I don't want to ever sleep if it's possible just to avoid dreams.
Here's the thing: the things I don't want to do is what everyone else does. I feel so odd. I wish I could fit in, but I don't want to change. I like the things that I like, even if it guarantees solitary days for me. But sometimes... Sometimes I don't want to be solitary.
Still remember this story that our Maths teacher told us in Sec 5; how this guy poked every single part of his body and everywhere hurt. How he'd gone to the doctor and was told that the pain was not in his entire body, but his finger. Moral of the story--to know the source of the problem.
I know I'm the problem, but what do I do to solve it? I'm not sure. Wish I could be normal without sacrificing my love for books and fascination with trains; without forcing myself to put on make-up or listen to the songs that everyone else is listening to.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Please Aamir no more
I'm so sorry. I tried. But the whole of yesterday -- while it was supposed to help me out of this shell that grew on my back whenever the heck it did, instead, it served as a reminder of what happened nearly 4 years ago.
I struggled to get over that night. And there yesterday was, bringing it all back. I did all of said night for my cousin, like how I did yesterday for you. In 2012, a wedding dinner; in 2016, a raya outing. One that wasn't with my friends, but yours, just like how it wasn't a wedding dinner with my family, but hers.
I never wanted to go, but you wanted me to, and that I'd disappoint you if I didn't show up. Work wasn't a good enough reason to excuse me, and you told me to take an MC again, which I really refused. But you insisted.
What possessed me to take urgent leave for you? I guess I just wanted you happy, even though I knew exactly how I was going to feel.
I was there because I was with you, and from a whole different secondary school and neighbourhood, while the rest of the group were super tight friends from the same classes. Nobody I knew, nobody I could talk to, except for you, and you kept ditching me to sit on the other side of whatever house we were in.
It got to the point where I didn't even want to eat because I felt like everyone was staring at me and judging me if I took the food for myself, because there is this huge nonsensical mindset of mine that reminded me I'm not part of this friendship, I'm just a shadow, I. Shouldn't. Be. Helping. Myself.
The second last house, when your friend's mom kept asking me to eat. Please don't do that please don't do that please please please leave me alone please.
This. Damn. Anxiety.
All the inside jokes all of you had, all the memories you guys reminisced, and that moment when we were taking a group picture and you all decided to say "Fuchun". I don't know why, it's such a small thing but it broke me. I'm not a part of this at all.
And the moment I separated from you at Marsiling station, I just could not hold in my tears anymore. I swear to God, just tears beyond my control, all the way to Mountbatten. Even now as I'm typing this I'm hoping my mother doesn't pop her head in just to tell me "E'indah I go sleep first ah," like she always does, and see me with my wet eyes.
And I've been trying to keep it in, but you always tell me not to hesitate if I have something to get off my chest. I didn't want to text you about this, because you'll say things that won't make me feel better at all, but worse. You'll never understand how I feel, I have to say this honestly, because you are surrounded by so many people you can call friends. People who like you.
I'm so sorry, again, I've tried. But please Aamir, no more. Please when I say no please don't keep forcing me.
I struggled to get over that night. And there yesterday was, bringing it all back. I did all of said night for my cousin, like how I did yesterday for you. In 2012, a wedding dinner; in 2016, a raya outing. One that wasn't with my friends, but yours, just like how it wasn't a wedding dinner with my family, but hers.
I never wanted to go, but you wanted me to, and that I'd disappoint you if I didn't show up. Work wasn't a good enough reason to excuse me, and you told me to take an MC again, which I really refused. But you insisted.
What possessed me to take urgent leave for you? I guess I just wanted you happy, even though I knew exactly how I was going to feel.
At the age of 21, and I still don't wear make-up like all the girls in your class. Do you know how useless it makes me feel??? I already feel like a nobody when I see their photos on Instagram, what more being forced to sit side by side with them? I appreciate them talking to me and trying to include me, but... Each time they conversed with me I just wanted to turn my head the other side and scream PLEASE. DON'T LOOK AT MY FACE WITH YOUR PRETTY ONE.
I was there because I was with you, and from a whole different secondary school and neighbourhood, while the rest of the group were super tight friends from the same classes. Nobody I knew, nobody I could talk to, except for you, and you kept ditching me to sit on the other side of whatever house we were in.
It got to the point where I didn't even want to eat because I felt like everyone was staring at me and judging me if I took the food for myself, because there is this huge nonsensical mindset of mine that reminded me I'm not part of this friendship, I'm just a shadow, I. Shouldn't. Be. Helping. Myself.
The second last house, when your friend's mom kept asking me to eat. Please don't do that please don't do that please please please leave me alone please.
This. Damn. Anxiety.
All the inside jokes all of you had, all the memories you guys reminisced, and that moment when we were taking a group picture and you all decided to say "Fuchun". I don't know why, it's such a small thing but it broke me. I'm not a part of this at all.
And the moment I separated from you at Marsiling station, I just could not hold in my tears anymore. I swear to God, just tears beyond my control, all the way to Mountbatten. Even now as I'm typing this I'm hoping my mother doesn't pop her head in just to tell me "E'indah I go sleep first ah," like she always does, and see me with my wet eyes.
Why did I have to be the ugliest one?
Why did I have to be the weirdest one?
Why did I have to be someone disliked by people?
If I tried to include myself, what could I have talked about? The books that nobody else could have read? The things that happen at work that I find hilarious but that nobody else would laugh at? What? What???? What could I have said...????
And I've been trying to keep it in, but you always tell me not to hesitate if I have something to get off my chest. I didn't want to text you about this, because you'll say things that won't make me feel better at all, but worse. You'll never understand how I feel, I have to say this honestly, because you are surrounded by so many people you can call friends. People who like you.
I'm so sorry, again, I've tried. But please Aamir, no more. Please when I say no please don't keep forcing me.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
A boy named Marish
It's been a while since I blogged about my dreams because I just couldn't be bothered to find words for it lately. But the ones I had this morning was kinda... easy to describe???
Not forgetting to mention, there's been lots of thunderstorms in the middle of the night lately, and well thunderstorms in the middle of the night really do scare me. Fact: since young, whenever I wake up from sleep due to thunder/lightning I'll always shake my granny awake as well to tell her, "Nek, hujan." just so I wouldn't feel so alone.
Ok, so I did say the dreams I had this morning were easy to talk about, but where do I start??? Here are the things I remember, in no particular order: (also not necessarily in the same dream because, you know, I dream up stuff any time as long as I'm asleep no matter how many times I 'tersadar'.)
(1) Me, sipping tea from a cup at the airport. It looked like a diner, just stretched with booths from one end to the other. Aamir was beside me in a wheelchair, and yes that's strange but well I guess my brain isn't over Me Before You yet.
People started running in a single direction; from my angle, they were running towards me, so whatever it was they were escaping from was at the other end of this airport. And errr it was a motherfreaking T-Rex. I guess it was baby-sized, because it just reached about the height of about three people, but still, it was a T-Rex.
What else do I do??? I grab the handles of Aamir's wheelchair and pushed him and ran the fuck for our lives. (which I'm not able to do in real life) I led us to those fire escape stairwells that's always behind closed doors at shopping malls, and said out loud, "Why won't the people hide by the staircase? The T-rex will be too tall to come in anyway." while it goes on a rampage outside the door.
(2) I'm on a train, one of the two lone seats that's always at the end of the carriage. A girl is in front of me with a little boy child on her lap, and at this moment that girl was Farizah.
When she reached her station, she proceeded to leave the train but she left the boy child, to which I called out to her for. She never heard me, so I grabbed the boy's hand and followed her suit, all the way to a medical clinic.
By this time it was a few minutes to 11, the time which that clinic was closing, but Farizah really really really needed a doctor for the boy. (maybe she was rushing so bad to the extent of forgetting the boy completely?)
The receptionist girl told Farizah about another clinic which was 24 hours, to which she and I hunted for. By this time, Farizah became Miko. (yes it's pretty normal for someone to change into another person in dreams, at least in mine)
We got to Chinatown, and I guess I know it's so because of the red lanterns that were everywhere. Miko told me to look for that 24 hours clinic while she hunted for some pregnancy books because it was so damn important to her suddenly, and that's how I ended up on the roof of this particular building all on my own.
And that's where I saw that boy child I first met on the train. Getting beaten and screaming, while this narration went off in my head; "...and Marish went on screaming." Then finally getting stuffed into a plastic bag.
You know how sometimes there's no clear explanation but you just know something, that's how it's always like in dreams. I just knew it was child trafficking. And I'm not at all shocked because (1) these dreams are normal to me (2) it is happening in the real world and we can't do anything about it, I can't do anything about it but dream about it. So that's it for now.
Not forgetting to mention, there's been lots of thunderstorms in the middle of the night lately, and well thunderstorms in the middle of the night really do scare me. Fact: since young, whenever I wake up from sleep due to thunder/lightning I'll always shake my granny awake as well to tell her, "Nek, hujan." just so I wouldn't feel so alone.
Ok, so I did say the dreams I had this morning were easy to talk about, but where do I start??? Here are the things I remember, in no particular order: (also not necessarily in the same dream because, you know, I dream up stuff any time as long as I'm asleep no matter how many times I 'tersadar'.)
(1) Me, sipping tea from a cup at the airport. It looked like a diner, just stretched with booths from one end to the other. Aamir was beside me in a wheelchair, and yes that's strange but well I guess my brain isn't over Me Before You yet.
People started running in a single direction; from my angle, they were running towards me, so whatever it was they were escaping from was at the other end of this airport. And errr it was a motherfreaking T-Rex. I guess it was baby-sized, because it just reached about the height of about three people, but still, it was a T-Rex.
What else do I do??? I grab the handles of Aamir's wheelchair and pushed him and ran the fuck for our lives. (which I'm not able to do in real life) I led us to those fire escape stairwells that's always behind closed doors at shopping malls, and said out loud, "Why won't the people hide by the staircase? The T-rex will be too tall to come in anyway." while it goes on a rampage outside the door.
(2) I'm on a train, one of the two lone seats that's always at the end of the carriage. A girl is in front of me with a little boy child on her lap, and at this moment that girl was Farizah.
When she reached her station, she proceeded to leave the train but she left the boy child, to which I called out to her for. She never heard me, so I grabbed the boy's hand and followed her suit, all the way to a medical clinic.
By this time it was a few minutes to 11, the time which that clinic was closing, but Farizah really really really needed a doctor for the boy. (maybe she was rushing so bad to the extent of forgetting the boy completely?)
The receptionist girl told Farizah about another clinic which was 24 hours, to which she and I hunted for. By this time, Farizah became Miko. (yes it's pretty normal for someone to change into another person in dreams, at least in mine)
We got to Chinatown, and I guess I know it's so because of the red lanterns that were everywhere. Miko told me to look for that 24 hours clinic while she hunted for some pregnancy books because it was so damn important to her suddenly, and that's how I ended up on the roof of this particular building all on my own.
And that's where I saw that boy child I first met on the train. Getting beaten and screaming, while this narration went off in my head; "...and Marish went on screaming." Then finally getting stuffed into a plastic bag.
You know how sometimes there's no clear explanation but you just know something, that's how it's always like in dreams. I just knew it was child trafficking. And I'm not at all shocked because (1) these dreams are normal to me (2) it is happening in the real world and we can't do anything about it, I can't do anything about it but dream about it. So that's it for now.
Tuesday, July 19, 2016
Let's skip to the good part
Been listening to the songs I listened to in 2014 lately.
If there's one thing I envy most about my 2014 self, it's her writing. The way she could sit down alone and go on writing, never stopping even 5 pages later. And I love her way with words. I don't know how my English language has depleted, even with all these books I read.
I'm not sure what's my logic, but I've always felt I wrote better when I was alone, not just physically but in the relationship sense. I always thought it had to be a choice between a significant other and the flair for writing.
My other half is still with me today despite all my thoughts of not deserving him/him deserving better. So I guess I shall stick with this right? Since I can't do anything about my looks (actually I can i.e. make-up or braces or just plain effort but nevermind), I wouldn't mind getting back that natural way of writing instead.
You know, sometimes I think: I may be happier at work, but I was definitely less tired during my poly days. At least I could sleep in class, and I didn't do my homework anyway, and I didn't have much of a social life to keep up with. It was all just bliss, reaching home way before the sun sets. I just didn't have my own income.
I feel more useful at work, and it's the only place in a long time where I've felt better than everyone. But boy am I so tired from it. Working so hard for marriage and a house for me and my other half, even though he or I or this world could be taken away anytime He wishes.
As cliche as it sounds, can I just skip to the part where I'm already married and settled down and very very financially stable??? Someone would be way less tired too if he could just live in Singapore.
Today I had this thought though: me, turning 21, and him turning 20, and we are already struggling to earn enough for our future together, which is in about four years as we've planned (if He is willing). Then what about those who haven't found their significant other yet? Like, are they already saving up money already or are they waiting til they've met that Mr/Ms Right and then start saving? Which would result in getting married at age 30, 35? Which is kinda... 'late'? What??? What am I talking about???
Nevermind, goodnight, til tomorrow hopefully.
If there's one thing I envy most about my 2014 self, it's her writing. The way she could sit down alone and go on writing, never stopping even 5 pages later. And I love her way with words. I don't know how my English language has depleted, even with all these books I read.
I'm not sure what's my logic, but I've always felt I wrote better when I was alone, not just physically but in the relationship sense. I always thought it had to be a choice between a significant other and the flair for writing.
My other half is still with me today despite all my thoughts of not deserving him/him deserving better. So I guess I shall stick with this right? Since I can't do anything about my looks (actually I can i.e. make-up or braces or just plain effort but nevermind), I wouldn't mind getting back that natural way of writing instead.
You know, sometimes I think: I may be happier at work, but I was definitely less tired during my poly days. At least I could sleep in class, and I didn't do my homework anyway, and I didn't have much of a social life to keep up with. It was all just bliss, reaching home way before the sun sets. I just didn't have my own income.
I feel more useful at work, and it's the only place in a long time where I've felt better than everyone. But boy am I so tired from it. Working so hard for marriage and a house for me and my other half, even though he or I or this world could be taken away anytime He wishes.
As cliche as it sounds, can I just skip to the part where I'm already married and settled down and very very financially stable??? Someone would be way less tired too if he could just live in Singapore.
Today I had this thought though: me, turning 21, and him turning 20, and we are already struggling to earn enough for our future together, which is in about four years as we've planned (if He is willing). Then what about those who haven't found their significant other yet? Like, are they already saving up money already or are they waiting til they've met that Mr/Ms Right and then start saving? Which would result in getting married at age 30, 35? Which is kinda... 'late'? What??? What am I talking about???
Nevermind, goodnight, til tomorrow hopefully.
All too well
Why do people do what they do? Or maybe, why do I do what only silly little girls would do? Here I am everyday trying to make myself forget, and yet here I also am, reading back the journal from the very year I want to erase from my mind. Stupid, stupid.
And yet I am really taken in. I don't mean to be cliche but the entries showed me proof I've changed over the years. Even my writing, although that's in a negative way because my 2014 entries were really, really good. In terms of language. No joke. I don't mean to be praising myself.
These entries were the very moments when I came up with the Type metaphors, when I found a flower, a bird and a river, and a flame in myself. I think it's really beautiful, but I am the only one who will ever get it.
Maybe I don't regret his leaving me. But I wish the year would have stopped at July. It was perfect (with all its flaws) til August, when my brother got married and when I went out with those people and when I fell prey to the haunting of a Ghost.
If only I hadn't went. If only I'd reached out to the flower and the wind at Jurong Point. If only I'd stayed with the river. If only, if only, if only.
But the reality is: If only I'd known how to say no.
Just one word could have savedmy life the year.
The diary entries never mentioned anything about what happened the later half of the year, but I do remember. I'm glad I didn't write about any of it, because it would have been tougher. I loved that year from March to July, with all its screw-ups and fuck-ups. I just wish it hadn't gone beyond August.
I think smells carry memories stronger than any other senses, and I could never forget the scent from September 2014. And it doesn't help that it's still a popular cologne and I smell it quite frequently in public places.
It's still quite a struggle to get over that year, to forget everyone I met or got close to then. It's so easy to leave friendships, but it's so hard to get them out of my head. The way H, E, and M were talking about Running Man and Z and I had no idea. Eating chocolate waffles with SY and F while waiting to catch A's performance. The way A and F gave me that little push to see L at the library. These were pleasant memories and they're still so difficult to think of.
I think April to June were the most peaceful and I wish it'd stopped there. But what's the point of a wish if it's already happened and there was nothing to stop it with anyway?
You know how they say you'll regret the things you didn't do more than the things you did? It's a lie. Remembering the things you did do would be so... much... more... painful.
And yet I am really taken in. I don't mean to be cliche but the entries showed me proof I've changed over the years. Even my writing, although that's in a negative way because my 2014 entries were really, really good. In terms of language. No joke. I don't mean to be praising myself.
These entries were the very moments when I came up with the Type metaphors, when I found a flower, a bird and a river, and a flame in myself. I think it's really beautiful, but I am the only one who will ever get it.
Maybe I don't regret his leaving me. But I wish the year would have stopped at July. It was perfect (with all its flaws) til August, when my brother got married and when I went out with those people and when I fell prey to the haunting of a Ghost.
If only I hadn't went. If only I'd reached out to the flower and the wind at Jurong Point. If only I'd stayed with the river. If only, if only, if only.
But the reality is: If only I'd known how to say no.
Just one word could have saved
The diary entries never mentioned anything about what happened the later half of the year, but I do remember. I'm glad I didn't write about any of it, because it would have been tougher. I loved that year from March to July, with all its screw-ups and fuck-ups. I just wish it hadn't gone beyond August.
I think smells carry memories stronger than any other senses, and I could never forget the scent from September 2014. And it doesn't help that it's still a popular cologne and I smell it quite frequently in public places.
It's still quite a struggle to get over that year, to forget everyone I met or got close to then. It's so easy to leave friendships, but it's so hard to get them out of my head. The way H, E, and M were talking about Running Man and Z and I had no idea. Eating chocolate waffles with SY and F while waiting to catch A's performance. The way A and F gave me that little push to see L at the library. These were pleasant memories and they're still so difficult to think of.
I think April to June were the most peaceful and I wish it'd stopped there. But what's the point of a wish if it's already happened and there was nothing to stop it with anyway?
You know how they say you'll regret the things you didn't do more than the things you did? It's a lie. Remembering the things you did do would be so... much... more... painful.
Friday, July 15, 2016
Done
A little hard to blog this out because I don't want someone saying I'm always trying to make myself the victim.
I should not have taken that bloody picture.
Yea, there you go. You're handsome. Even guys say so. I'm ugly. Nobody has to say it but I know. Obviously we are not meant for each other.
I'm the kind of person who would make your friends say "Why is he even with her?"
The kind of person who would make the people who know me say "I pity her boyfriend."
God knows how worthless I feel. God knows but God doesn't care. He probably thinks I should be grateful He even gave me a face. But what's the point of it? I'm living in a world where my self-worth is my net worth.
You're probably staying only because you feel guilty for last year, or because you know I have this thing where I'd hurt myself or worse if you ever left me again, or both. It'd be easier for the both of us if I left first.
I think you deserve better and I can never be that someone better. No matter how hard I try. I don't have a pretty face, or a pure heart, or money, all of which you deserve. I'm so tired. But you're more so. Call it a sacrifice. If I could leave her for your sake, it should be easy to leave you for your sake.
I'm so fucking worthless. It's not a "feel", it's a fact and this world has shown it.
I should not have taken that bloody picture.
Yea, there you go. You're handsome. Even guys say so. I'm ugly. Nobody has to say it but I know. Obviously we are not meant for each other.
I'm the kind of person who would make your friends say "Why is he even with her?"
The kind of person who would make the people who know me say "I pity her boyfriend."
God knows how worthless I feel. God knows but God doesn't care. He probably thinks I should be grateful He even gave me a face. But what's the point of it? I'm living in a world where my self-worth is my net worth.
You're probably staying only because you feel guilty for last year, or because you know I have this thing where I'd hurt myself or worse if you ever left me again, or both. It'd be easier for the both of us if I left first.
I think you deserve better and I can never be that someone better. No matter how hard I try. I don't have a pretty face, or a pure heart, or money, all of which you deserve. I'm so tired. But you're more so. Call it a sacrifice. If I could leave her for your sake, it should be easy to leave you for your sake.
I'm so fucking worthless. It's not a "feel", it's a fact and this world has shown it.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
I think I deserve...
Yea, I'm exhausted right now, but this blogging thing has always been the one to rekindle my energy.
I learnt cashiering at work today, more than a year after I started out at this job. So far, it's fairly easy but it's tiring, considering the fact that I also have to take care of my own department and any which doesn't have staff. I still feel underpaid, but what am I to do?
Really sucks that I'm working so hard in this company and the area manager not only doesn't see it or appreciate it, but doesn't even know my bloody name.
I loved this job because I can handle anything (again, if you dismiss the HOD stuff) and I'm really fully invested in it, making sure everything is done and perfect (even though it isn't my job) and ensuring all the customers I serve get what they wanted (even though they don't say thank you).
And honestly, working in this underpaid job is still way better than being in poly. I just can't study, and I'd rather be in a place where I'm useful than sit down somewhere where I don't know anything.
Popular was a lovely job, but I think I deserve better. Perhaps I'm just waiting for the day when I finally have the balls to leave and to try out for SMRT, or when I finally have enough money to get a diploma to get a better job, or when I stop being shy and make those videos I wanna make, or when I take back my love for writing and write that book I've been dreaming about.
Some things that I think I deserve:
(1) A higher salary, please?
(2) All the books in the world that I want. (and space in my room for them)
(3) At least an entire week off.
(4) More views on this blog and more money on the Nuffnang that I've had since 2012.
(5) A friend.
I learnt cashiering at work today, more than a year after I started out at this job. So far, it's fairly easy but it's tiring, considering the fact that I also have to take care of my own department and any which doesn't have staff. I still feel underpaid, but what am I to do?
Really sucks that I'm working so hard in this company and the area manager not only doesn't see it or appreciate it, but doesn't even know my bloody name.
I loved this job because I can handle anything (again, if you dismiss the HOD stuff) and I'm really fully invested in it, making sure everything is done and perfect (even though it isn't my job) and ensuring all the customers I serve get what they wanted (even though they don't say thank you).
And honestly, working in this underpaid job is still way better than being in poly. I just can't study, and I'd rather be in a place where I'm useful than sit down somewhere where I don't know anything.
Popular was a lovely job, but I think I deserve better. Perhaps I'm just waiting for the day when I finally have the balls to leave and to try out for SMRT, or when I finally have enough money to get a diploma to get a better job, or when I stop being shy and make those videos I wanna make, or when I take back my love for writing and write that book I've been dreaming about.
Some things that I think I deserve:
(1) A higher salary, please?
(2) All the books in the world that I want. (and space in my room for them)
(3) At least an entire week off.
(4) More views on this blog and more money on the Nuffnang that I've had since 2012.
(5) A friend.
Monday, June 20, 2016
20 JUN 2016
Tried to write about this in my diary, but my hands were shaking too much.
I saw an accident site on the Tampines Expressway tonight. Traffic jams kinda make me nervous, because they remind me of the road to and fro Woodlands Checkpoint and Malaysia customs, and I'm not used to it.
I was stuck in traffic for 2 hours, when usually it would take me just an hour tops from Woodlands interchange to my Pasir Ris house. Seeing the many cars and buses stuck in one place kinda scared me. What more, seeing the actual overturned truck and all its sand spilled out.
Everyone on the bus was turning his or her head to look as we passed by.
Am I considered sheltered??? Because I'm seriously not used to seeing such things here in Singapore. I can't stop thinking about it.
Sometimes I realise that I'm taking my country for granted. Not just me really, but almost all the other kids here. Right? They don't realise how safe we are, from gun violence or natural disasters. I wish it would stay this way forever, but when the end of the world comes, we could all be gone in one sweep of a tsunami.
After listening to my other half's religious theories, that day is sooner than we expect.
Can't do anything about it.
Titling this post the date since this was originally supposed to be a diary entry /:
I saw an accident site on the Tampines Expressway tonight. Traffic jams kinda make me nervous, because they remind me of the road to and fro Woodlands Checkpoint and Malaysia customs, and I'm not used to it.
I was stuck in traffic for 2 hours, when usually it would take me just an hour tops from Woodlands interchange to my Pasir Ris house. Seeing the many cars and buses stuck in one place kinda scared me. What more, seeing the actual overturned truck and all its sand spilled out.
Everyone on the bus was turning his or her head to look as we passed by.
Am I considered sheltered??? Because I'm seriously not used to seeing such things here in Singapore. I can't stop thinking about it.
Sometimes I realise that I'm taking my country for granted. Not just me really, but almost all the other kids here. Right? They don't realise how safe we are, from gun violence or natural disasters. I wish it would stay this way forever, but when the end of the world comes, we could all be gone in one sweep of a tsunami.
After listening to my other half's religious theories, that day is sooner than we expect.
Can't do anything about it.
Titling this post the date since this was originally supposed to be a diary entry /:
All. Time. Low.
Blogger just asked me: "Why not blog in Malay?" I'd show it to you but I don't like pictures on my blog and I've no idea how to do a screenshot on my laptop anyway.
This year, I set my reading goal to be 70 books. Well, we're not even halfway through the year yet and I've already read 64. I should probably take a break because Goodreads says I'm 32 books ahead of schedule...
Well I'm not here to talk about the books I've read. In fact I'm not entirely sure why I'm here; whenever one doesn't know what to write, people say "just write how you're feeling." Well I'm feeling down but I'd rather not stain this page with anymore sad stuff. Good vibes, right?
The first time I made a blog, I was 11 years old. I was so addicted I made a blog for every single thing that I liked: 1 for my anime stuff, 1 for the manga that I was drawing at the time, 1 for the dreams I had at night, 1 personal one. Just imagine the 2016 me, having maybe 4 blogs, 1 personal, the other 3 each for books, MRTs, and dreams???
Then in 2007, I made yet another one, but I stuck to it. And that is this very blog you are reading right now =)
If confidence gets you beauty, is passion supposed to get you recognition for your hard work? It should both work the same way, and yet they don't apply to me. I'm sick of it. That's why I kept quitting this blogging thing again and again over the years, especially from 2013 onwards. It's just too hard for my self-esteem. I hope I'm here to stay this time.
I've lost a lot the past three years, and like an inspiring person I wanna say "but I gained a lot at the same time"... but I won't. Because I didn't. Just stuck staying loyal to the things that won't get me anywhere. Stuck at 300 followers. Stuck at 95 cents on my Nuffnang despite trying everything I could for the past 4 years. Stuck in a 1.2k salary job while doing the work of 4 departments.
What can a girl like me do anymore??? I don't wanna cake my face with make-up to get followers. I don't wanna spend all my salary on a HD camera to make better videos because nobody will still watch it if I'm not pretty (!!!!!!). I don't wanna suddenly start singing everyday in case my voice suddenly becomes beautiful and I can earn money from it. Ha ha ha. What a joke.
Now you know it... That I'm at an all time
low low low low low low low low low low
Sunday, June 19, 2016
Why I can never be pretty
The word "confident" makes me cringe. To think that such a word exists? How is it possible for one to walk with their chin held high, knowing well enough they don't even meet the beauty standards of their society?
Maybe not they. But just me.
I talked about how I'm lacking in looks to my other half and his best friend yesterday, in my favourite place after all the libraries and bookstores of the world--the MRT. There I was, seated between them and going on about what I see makes the beauty standards in this damn society.
(1) I don't have eyebrows. If beautiful eyebrows are the eyebrows that every single girl on Instagram seems to have, those thick black ones that are sharp on one side and faded on the other: then I'm afraid I don't have any. And that's the first and most important reason why I'm not pretty.
(2) My teeth are neither straight nor white. Just a few months of light smoking, 4 years ago, and the stains remain forever. My front teeth are humongous, and they're too crooked to match the definition of beautiful.
(3) I am too tall to be anything. The other girls here in my country are what you'd call petite; and they pretend to be embarrassed of it but anyone could tell they think their lack of height makes them stand out in a positive way. Me? I just get called lamppost and hantu galah.
(4) I have too-small boobs. Those shorter girls I'd mentioned? They're blessed with ample chest, made to look huge thanks to their lack of height. What more when they still wear those push-up bras beneath see-through tees. Makes both girls and boys loco.
(5) I don't have nice clothes or hair. Pretty is when you have long brown hair, black roots starting to show and still making you look stunning. Your pictures are always with different outfits, from the hairstyle all the way down to the shoes. Me? I am in the same black cardigan everyday and I don't remember the last time I even tied my hair in a ponytail, and that doesn't make me pretty.
(6) I can't sing. I don't have any artistic talent. And apparently this adds to your beauty if you can or do.
(7) Either a headscarf makes you pretty, or a revealing outfit showing off all your curves makes you pretty. There is no in-between. If you cover your legs and tummy and shoulders everyday but you're not donning the hijab, you're not to say you're beautiful. Because you're not. Maybe not "you". But just "me".
Honestly the list goes on and on. And although most of them sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth, it's what I've observed on social media, in this god-forsaken society. It's what gives you friends. It makes me sad, that I don't look like the girls that are praised just for breathing.
I may have an other half who tells me everyday he thinks I am pretty, but he is no one compared to the many other people who know I'm not, including me. Even if I do have talent, what good would it be against the girls of today's, this country's, society?
Friday, June 17, 2016
Do you remember me?
One pair of legs tangled in the sheets
Two in the morning twenty-six
Slow sighs escape from the lips
At being a page one simply skips
Do you remember me?
Not one to forget or forgive easy
Still know the culprit of your pain
While it is unfamiliar to you, my name
Remember when we first met?
You still wore glasses, head in a hat
The only station with 3 lines
Your obsession with astrological signs
I remember the hands on my shoulders
Pushing me in the absence of my brothers
Down hills laughter ringing through trees
A relationship ends, all friendships cease
Remember how you cried at the atrium?
Your white tee and jacket of denim
3 years on, your graduation ceremony
I don't think you even remember me
Do you remember our day at Woodlands?
Lost in the North, twists and turns
Do you still watch the videos we made?
Fading, fading, fading, your memory dead.
Remember our first words exchanged?
A few giggles and awkward smiles managed
I know you don't remember our better
When the sin against you is still greater
I remember us underneath Dover
Like a bunch of drunk kids except sober
Your endless supply of band tees
Last seen on the bus bound for Tampines
Watching as footsteps went separate paths
Lying down under your photographs
None of them would remember me
A person lesser than a nobody.
Two in the morning twenty-six
Slow sighs escape from the lips
At being a page one simply skips
Do you remember me?
Not one to forget or forgive easy
Still know the culprit of your pain
While it is unfamiliar to you, my name
Remember when we first met?
You still wore glasses, head in a hat
The only station with 3 lines
Your obsession with astrological signs
I remember the hands on my shoulders
Pushing me in the absence of my brothers
Down hills laughter ringing through trees
A relationship ends, all friendships cease
Remember how you cried at the atrium?
Your white tee and jacket of denim
3 years on, your graduation ceremony
I don't think you even remember me
Do you remember our day at Woodlands?
Lost in the North, twists and turns
Do you still watch the videos we made?
Fading, fading, fading, your memory dead.
Remember our first words exchanged?
A few giggles and awkward smiles managed
I know you don't remember our better
When the sin against you is still greater
I remember us underneath Dover
Like a bunch of drunk kids except sober
Your endless supply of band tees
Last seen on the bus bound for Tampines
Watching as footsteps went separate paths
Lying down under your photographs
None of them would remember me
A person lesser than a nobody.
Tuesday, May 24, 2016
Please appreciate me
There was once a time three years ago when I tried to ace my modules, because I wanted to work in SMRT, and I thought my course would give me a chance in it. But of course it isn't my fate, because I'm just too stupid, or lazy, or unmotivated, it doesn't matter.
Two years later I found a job which I deemed the best in the world. I got to work with books and stationery in a bookstore that was a huge part of my childhood. Even though I was eventually moved to the Multimedia department, I was so grateful for my place in this job, to the extent of pasting my confirmation letter from the company up on my wall.
What made me love this job is the fact that I am able to tackle anything that comes at me, as long as it's within my means. Whatever a customer asks for I am always able to answer, be it which department as long as it isn't Chinese. A place where I'm finally better than everyone else, if you exclude the HOD stuff of course.
A year on and I realise that my passion is getting taken advantage of. My dad always says this Malay saying which roughly translates to "give your face and they'll step on your head" which really does make sense. And I'm only now knowing it.
It drives me mad when everything is thrown at me. It drives me mad when I have to take care of more than 2 departments because the rest are not doing anything, or throwing their customers at me because they don't know what they're looking for. My one Malay colleague once said: "Tu lah... Siapa suruh pandai sangat." I guess it is my fault for loving this shitty ass job too much.
It feels worse than being in a relationship where you're not appreciated. It feels worse than studying your hardest only to just borderline pass your exams.
One day, I may just leave. Sometimes when I'm so mad at everything that goes down at work, I plan my resignation letter. Most other people probably copy-paste theirs from some website, but I'd be sure to personally write mine.
You have a staff who loves working with your company, who gets excited when she's given assignments at other outlets or at your HQ. Who never once complained about being underpaid. But when you don't even realise my hard work and only count my effort via the compliments I get, I know I deserve more.
It's only been a year since I've worked here, and I already feel so much stress. It all comes from love; I love this job, I can't change that. I've worked so hard to transform my department from the rat's nest it was before I came, to this neat shit that would please a person with OCD. (but apparently not enough to please the Area Manager so yeah)
Please appreciate me, and don't step all over my head. That's all I ask. Continue not doing so and you may just lose the one person who genuinely loved everything about you, as a customer in childhood and as an employee in adulthood.
Two years later I found a job which I deemed the best in the world. I got to work with books and stationery in a bookstore that was a huge part of my childhood. Even though I was eventually moved to the Multimedia department, I was so grateful for my place in this job, to the extent of pasting my confirmation letter from the company up on my wall.
What made me love this job is the fact that I am able to tackle anything that comes at me, as long as it's within my means. Whatever a customer asks for I am always able to answer, be it which department as long as it isn't Chinese. A place where I'm finally better than everyone else, if you exclude the HOD stuff of course.
A year on and I realise that my passion is getting taken advantage of. My dad always says this Malay saying which roughly translates to "give your face and they'll step on your head" which really does make sense. And I'm only now knowing it.
It drives me mad when everything is thrown at me. It drives me mad when I have to take care of more than 2 departments because the rest are not doing anything, or throwing their customers at me because they don't know what they're looking for. My one Malay colleague once said: "Tu lah... Siapa suruh pandai sangat." I guess it is my fault for loving this shitty ass job too much.
It feels worse than being in a relationship where you're not appreciated. It feels worse than studying your hardest only to just borderline pass your exams.
One day, I may just leave. Sometimes when I'm so mad at everything that goes down at work, I plan my resignation letter. Most other people probably copy-paste theirs from some website, but I'd be sure to personally write mine.
You have a staff who loves working with your company, who gets excited when she's given assignments at other outlets or at your HQ. Who never once complained about being underpaid. But when you don't even realise my hard work and only count my effort via the compliments I get, I know I deserve more.
It's only been a year since I've worked here, and I already feel so much stress. It all comes from love; I love this job, I can't change that. I've worked so hard to transform my department from the rat's nest it was before I came, to this neat shit that would please a person with OCD. (but apparently not enough to please the Area Manager so yeah)
Please appreciate me, and don't step all over my head. That's all I ask. Continue not doing so and you may just lose the one person who genuinely loved everything about you, as a customer in childhood and as an employee in adulthood.
Wednesday, April 20, 2016
The things that make me
I just felt like... typing away. God forbid I use the word 'writing'.
What are the things that make me happy? Books. Work. Trains. Cats. My colleagues, my other half, and my grandmother. I keep trying to remind myself I do have purpose to live, but it doesn't make it anymore easier.
I am a shallow person in the way I keep wishing to be pretty and popular. I want to embrace the fact that I'm 'different', but it's hard when nobody else likes you for who you are. I'm the one who is difficult; everyone else is normal, and I'm too lowly for them. Right?
That's why work is the only place where I'm happy. I feel like the Avatar, master of all four elements, in the way that I not only know things about my department, but all 4 departments at work, haha. (I can't know about Chinese dept. because well... I'm Malay.)
It makes me feel good about myself to find a place where I'm better than everyone else and where I know how to settle anything that comes my way. The last time I felt this was in English class back in secondary school, where I'd be sleeping the whole lesson and still get the highest score for all the English exams :)
People like me, it's not easy to find such a place. My community, the people of my race and age, they taught me that only the pretty, popular, and the good singers or artists get everything. Writing didn't get me anything, even if I was good at it, because I am not any of those. A pretty girl who can sing writes a shallow piece of "poetry" (that has like 50 grammatical errors) and she gets so much praise. Right?
Another thing that makes me happy is trains: the MRTs in my beloved Singapore, to be more precise, and I think they are beautiful. I love this country and everything in it, and I hate traveling past the borders. Much to the contrast of other people...
I am obsessed with the announcements you hear in the trains, and I always try my hardest to memorise them, be it their words and the announcer lady's tone. Even in the midst of a conversation with my other half, when the announcement ding comes on, I will stop and recite whatever that comes on. (provided it's in English!)
Why? Because I enjoy it and it makes me happy. My favourite lines of all are The train approaching Platform A will end its service at Jurong East Platform D and If you see any suspicious looking person, or article: please inform our staff, or press the Emergency Communication button, located at the side of the train doors. :)
And cats. They are my friends, even if we don't speak the same language. Just being able to touch them makes me happy, even if I can't bring them home, hah. It makes me happy when I call out to them and they come over to me so enthusiastically, instead of ignoring me or running away.
There's this cat around my house area whom I first met last June or July, and she was really arrogant and always hissed and glared at me if I so much as looked at her. I kept trying to get her to like me, and finally last month I managed to do so, by slowly approaching her and letting her smell my hand.
Now every single day when I get home from work, she'll look at me with her huge round eyes and nudge my foot with her head. After maybe 2 minutes of petting her, I'll get up to leave and she'll follow me. It makes me happy to see how she used to be a bitch and now she's so loving towards me.
Last but not least are all the books in the world. They are all beautiful, even if I have never met them. Whether they are old or new. They're better than people, and they understand me and love me more. They are road trips in the comfort of your own bedroom.
Perhaps I have read more books than I have had human friends, and I think that's just alright. When a person hurts you, they could scar you for life; whereas if a book hurts you, you learn an important lifelong lesson that stays with you forever.
I am trying my hardest to embrace the fact that I do not fit with others. That I do not have friends other than my colleagues and other half and the cats and books of the world. That I am not pretty, or don't wear cute clothes, or can't sing. I am perfectly fine with all that and I've already found my place in this world.
Right?
What are the things that make me happy? Books. Work. Trains. Cats. My colleagues, my other half, and my grandmother. I keep trying to remind myself I do have purpose to live, but it doesn't make it anymore easier.
I am a shallow person in the way I keep wishing to be pretty and popular. I want to embrace the fact that I'm 'different', but it's hard when nobody else likes you for who you are. I'm the one who is difficult; everyone else is normal, and I'm too lowly for them. Right?
That's why work is the only place where I'm happy. I feel like the Avatar, master of all four elements, in the way that I not only know things about my department, but all 4 departments at work, haha. (I can't know about Chinese dept. because well... I'm Malay.)
It makes me feel good about myself to find a place where I'm better than everyone else and where I know how to settle anything that comes my way. The last time I felt this was in English class back in secondary school, where I'd be sleeping the whole lesson and still get the highest score for all the English exams :)
People like me, it's not easy to find such a place. My community, the people of my race and age, they taught me that only the pretty, popular, and the good singers or artists get everything. Writing didn't get me anything, even if I was good at it, because I am not any of those. A pretty girl who can sing writes a shallow piece of "poetry" (that has like 50 grammatical errors) and she gets so much praise. Right?
Another thing that makes me happy is trains: the MRTs in my beloved Singapore, to be more precise, and I think they are beautiful. I love this country and everything in it, and I hate traveling past the borders. Much to the contrast of other people...
I am obsessed with the announcements you hear in the trains, and I always try my hardest to memorise them, be it their words and the announcer lady's tone. Even in the midst of a conversation with my other half, when the announcement ding comes on, I will stop and recite whatever that comes on. (provided it's in English!)
Why? Because I enjoy it and it makes me happy. My favourite lines of all are The train approaching Platform A will end its service at Jurong East Platform D and If you see any suspicious looking person, or article: please inform our staff, or press the Emergency Communication button, located at the side of the train doors. :)
And cats. They are my friends, even if we don't speak the same language. Just being able to touch them makes me happy, even if I can't bring them home, hah. It makes me happy when I call out to them and they come over to me so enthusiastically, instead of ignoring me or running away.
There's this cat around my house area whom I first met last June or July, and she was really arrogant and always hissed and glared at me if I so much as looked at her. I kept trying to get her to like me, and finally last month I managed to do so, by slowly approaching her and letting her smell my hand.
Now every single day when I get home from work, she'll look at me with her huge round eyes and nudge my foot with her head. After maybe 2 minutes of petting her, I'll get up to leave and she'll follow me. It makes me happy to see how she used to be a bitch and now she's so loving towards me.
Last but not least are all the books in the world. They are all beautiful, even if I have never met them. Whether they are old or new. They're better than people, and they understand me and love me more. They are road trips in the comfort of your own bedroom.
Perhaps I have read more books than I have had human friends, and I think that's just alright. When a person hurts you, they could scar you for life; whereas if a book hurts you, you learn an important lifelong lesson that stays with you forever.
I am trying my hardest to embrace the fact that I do not fit with others. That I do not have friends other than my colleagues and other half and the cats and books of the world. That I am not pretty, or don't wear cute clothes, or can't sing. I am perfectly fine with all that and I've already found my place in this world.
Right?
Wednesday, April 06, 2016
Parents Day Writing Contest entry
They say our parents make us who we are today.
I don't know who "they" are, but they're right.
Who I am today, it's credits to the couple who taught me the most: my mother and my father.
I am the only girl in the family, growing up with 2 brothers, one elder and one younger. I grew up being the princess of my parents' eyes, and yet I turned out to be a girl who never wears skirts; instead, a girl who is running around everyday in jeans and sneakers.
When I was in primary school, my father used to show me his wallet all the time, full of merely $2 notes. He would tell me he'd spent most of his money on our school allowances, on my mother's groceries, on the electricity and water bills.... My mother, on the other hand, would spend her money like it was water from a tap. Restaurants, shopping, holidays, pretending her debts didn't exist. My brother, despite having had a full time job for about 5 years now, have never given them a single cent. They depended on me financially for their own reasons, thus they taught me that having money is more important than anything else.
The year I turned 17 was the year I grew quiet, shunned myself from friends and classmates, made myself the constant target of discipline masters, refused to go to school every morning. My parents chose to see it as a rebellion of some way, assuming the reasons of my attitude without sitting down to talk to me first. They taught me that there's no reason for me to confide in anyone about my problems; they wouldn't care, and even if they do just let them assume.
At the end of the year, they couldn't take it anymore. My father kicked me out of the house, his exact words having been "I disown you." He taught me that blood is not that much thicker than water after all; with a snap of your fingers, a daughter can be cut out of your life as you please.
My whole 2 years away from them, my parents never once called me or visited me at my aunt's place. Not for my birthday, not for Hari Raya, not just to say they missed me. They taught me that our ego and pride are more important than admitting you miss someone, than even saying a simple sorry.
When my sister-in-law gave birth to a baby girl, my parents cooed over her, made such a big fuss over her. They called her the names that they used to call me; sayang, princess, princess of the family. When she turned one, they wrote her a birthday wish that was exactly the same as the one they gave me for my past birthdays. They taught me that anyone can be replaced; out with the old, in with the new.
I didn't start my polytechnic life with this couple who raised me from birth. Instead, the couple who paid for my new laptop and school fees was my aunt and uncle. My mother and father, they taught me that the words "mother" and "father" may not necessarily refer to the ones who gave you your life. That the word "family" may not always refer to the ones you grew up with.
While true that our parents make us who we are, sometimes it's not in the most perfect way.
Here I am, the person that I am today, the shape of my parents' hands making me: a person who writes her feelings and problems onto Post-its and paste them onto the wall instead of talking them out with someone.
A person who cut off her friendships with her secondary school friends, assuming they didn't need her anymore because they have their new polytechnic ones.
A person who would sooner cut off her finger than say sorry, even when in the wrong; who treasures her pride and ego more than her relationships.
A person who would rather starve herself than spend $5 on a proper meal, because having and saving money is more important than her own life.
A person who doesn't value her parents and brothers above all else, because blood is not that much thicker than water at all.
A person who calls work instead of her house "home", who regards her colleagues instead of her parents and brothers a "family", because they just don't seem as such.
This is the person that my parents have made me today, their flaws more moulded into me than their strengths.
I don't know who "they" are, but they're right.
Who I am today, it's credits to the couple who taught me the most: my mother and my father.
I am the only girl in the family, growing up with 2 brothers, one elder and one younger. I grew up being the princess of my parents' eyes, and yet I turned out to be a girl who never wears skirts; instead, a girl who is running around everyday in jeans and sneakers.
When I was in primary school, my father used to show me his wallet all the time, full of merely $2 notes. He would tell me he'd spent most of his money on our school allowances, on my mother's groceries, on the electricity and water bills.... My mother, on the other hand, would spend her money like it was water from a tap. Restaurants, shopping, holidays, pretending her debts didn't exist. My brother, despite having had a full time job for about 5 years now, have never given them a single cent. They depended on me financially for their own reasons, thus they taught me that having money is more important than anything else.
The year I turned 17 was the year I grew quiet, shunned myself from friends and classmates, made myself the constant target of discipline masters, refused to go to school every morning. My parents chose to see it as a rebellion of some way, assuming the reasons of my attitude without sitting down to talk to me first. They taught me that there's no reason for me to confide in anyone about my problems; they wouldn't care, and even if they do just let them assume.
At the end of the year, they couldn't take it anymore. My father kicked me out of the house, his exact words having been "I disown you." He taught me that blood is not that much thicker than water after all; with a snap of your fingers, a daughter can be cut out of your life as you please.
My whole 2 years away from them, my parents never once called me or visited me at my aunt's place. Not for my birthday, not for Hari Raya, not just to say they missed me. They taught me that our ego and pride are more important than admitting you miss someone, than even saying a simple sorry.
When my sister-in-law gave birth to a baby girl, my parents cooed over her, made such a big fuss over her. They called her the names that they used to call me; sayang, princess, princess of the family. When she turned one, they wrote her a birthday wish that was exactly the same as the one they gave me for my past birthdays. They taught me that anyone can be replaced; out with the old, in with the new.
I didn't start my polytechnic life with this couple who raised me from birth. Instead, the couple who paid for my new laptop and school fees was my aunt and uncle. My mother and father, they taught me that the words "mother" and "father" may not necessarily refer to the ones who gave you your life. That the word "family" may not always refer to the ones you grew up with.
While true that our parents make us who we are, sometimes it's not in the most perfect way.
Here I am, the person that I am today, the shape of my parents' hands making me: a person who writes her feelings and problems onto Post-its and paste them onto the wall instead of talking them out with someone.
A person who cut off her friendships with her secondary school friends, assuming they didn't need her anymore because they have their new polytechnic ones.
A person who would sooner cut off her finger than say sorry, even when in the wrong; who treasures her pride and ego more than her relationships.
A person who would rather starve herself than spend $5 on a proper meal, because having and saving money is more important than her own life.
A person who doesn't value her parents and brothers above all else, because blood is not that much thicker than water at all.
This is the person that my parents have made me today, their flaws more moulded into me than their strengths.
Thursday, February 18, 2016
What for
I miss the times when I only had one option to go at the end of the day. When I didn't have to ask myself which house am I going home to today, when will I be sleeping over at the other? How I wish I didn't go back. I hate this house.
Working full time, I am obliged to give my parents money which is what I have been doing, albeit the fact that my father rejects it because of his ego, hence I always gave his share to my mom instead. But the longer I keep giving her money, the more she asks me and the less she bothers to ask her first son.
Her first FUCKING precious son. The motherfucker who leaves his plates to rot at the side of the sink the whole day because he doesn't know how to wash them; the motherfucker who hasn't given a single cent to our parents after like 5 years of working full time; the motherfucker who keeps showing to the world how he "loves" his family but in actual fact treats them like fucking shit. THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO IS STINGY, USELESS, AND A HYPOCRITE ALL AT ONCE. AND ALSO A MENTALLY RETARDED FUCK. WHAT A RECORD!
What am I even working so hard for? What the hell do I even want to save 10 fucking thousand for? To have it all robbed away by a couple who doesn't even appreciate me? The mother who is taking all the money I am giving her for granted, the father who is too egoistic to even regard me even after 8 months?
They've forgotten me anyway, that pair. They've replaced me with my niece, calling her the things they used to call me. Is it because I'm 21 and too old for that? Is it because they don't love me anymore, or grown to see me as invisible? Is it because I'm not forgiven for losing my own?
What am I working so hard for? I'm gonna fucking die anyway. This family has no point, all this saving money has no point, even my relationship has no point. Why should I even fight for anything when I can't be bothered to fight for my own life?
Working full time, I am obliged to give my parents money which is what I have been doing, albeit the fact that my father rejects it because of his ego, hence I always gave his share to my mom instead. But the longer I keep giving her money, the more she asks me and the less she bothers to ask her first son.
Her first FUCKING precious son. The motherfucker who leaves his plates to rot at the side of the sink the whole day because he doesn't know how to wash them; the motherfucker who hasn't given a single cent to our parents after like 5 years of working full time; the motherfucker who keeps showing to the world how he "loves" his family but in actual fact treats them like fucking shit. THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO IS STINGY, USELESS, AND A HYPOCRITE ALL AT ONCE. AND ALSO A MENTALLY RETARDED FUCK. WHAT A RECORD!
What am I even working so hard for? What the hell do I even want to save 10 fucking thousand for? To have it all robbed away by a couple who doesn't even appreciate me? The mother who is taking all the money I am giving her for granted, the father who is too egoistic to even regard me even after 8 months?
They've forgotten me anyway, that pair. They've replaced me with my niece, calling her the things they used to call me. Is it because I'm 21 and too old for that? Is it because they don't love me anymore, or grown to see me as invisible? Is it because I'm not forgiven for losing my own?
What am I working so hard for? I'm gonna fucking die anyway. This family has no point, all this saving money has no point, even my relationship has no point. Why should I even fight for anything when I can't be bothered to fight for my own life?
Friday, February 05, 2016
Letter to beloved
I have lost interest and I want to leave.
When I first laid eyes on you, I liked you.
I got to know you, and I wanted to stay with you.
I saw all your flaws, and I accepted you.
I loved you, your beauty that nobody else appreciated.
But all that is gone.
I don't miss anymore the way you kiss me on my face the few times you were there when I woke up.
I don't love anymore the way you make my heart beat fast.
The way you mess up my hair.
The way you make my tummy ache with butterflies.
I don't see my future with you anymore. I don't see any purpose of staying. I hate your flaws so much, and I don't love you anymore.
I tried so hard to get you to love me back but you choose to give your love to everyone else. I'll give you up to them, these people that don't even accept you.
You are the sun, the wind, the waters, the trees. You are long gone, and I don't want to stay anymore. The people that you harbour are ruined, not only do they not love you but they don't love me either. They don't love each other. They don't love what you give them.
I hate you for not giving me what I've given you and I am waiting for the perfect moment to leave. There is nothing for me to stay for anymore.
This is my letter to this world that I've lost interest in and don't love anymore.
When I first laid eyes on you, I liked you.
I got to know you, and I wanted to stay with you.
I saw all your flaws, and I accepted you.
I loved you, your beauty that nobody else appreciated.
But all that is gone.
I don't miss anymore the way you kiss me on my face the few times you were there when I woke up.
I don't love anymore the way you make my heart beat fast.
The way you mess up my hair.
The way you make my tummy ache with butterflies.
I don't see my future with you anymore. I don't see any purpose of staying. I hate your flaws so much, and I don't love you anymore.
I tried so hard to get you to love me back but you choose to give your love to everyone else. I'll give you up to them, these people that don't even accept you.
You are the sun, the wind, the waters, the trees. You are long gone, and I don't want to stay anymore. The people that you harbour are ruined, not only do they not love you but they don't love me either. They don't love each other. They don't love what you give them.
I hate you for not giving me what I've given you and I am waiting for the perfect moment to leave. There is nothing for me to stay for anymore.
This is my letter to this world that I've lost interest in and don't love anymore.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Her
Why
should
you
be
happy
when
you
stole
the
one
thing
that
I
wanted
and
got,
only
because
you
didn't
want
it?
Her.
because
you
didn't
want
HER.
should
you
be
happy
when
you
stole
the
one
thing
that
I
wanted
and
got,
only
because
you
didn't
want
it?
Her.
because
you
didn't
want
HER.
Friday, January 22, 2016
Who am I?
Are you happy?
I think we're really fake.
I don't think I'm important to you.
After all my sacrifices,
to which you've just said
"what sacrifices? you call that a sacrifice?"
you don't even notice me.
You don't realise my existence,
what more my importance.
I don't feel like I belong with you.
Your friends don't accept me now
your family won't accept me future.
Even I don't accept myself.
Who am I to you?
I don't belong to you.
Or more so you don't belong with me.
You should go free
for you are the wind, after all.
You shouldn't be with me
and I need to let you go.
I think we're really fake.
I don't think I'm important to you.
After all my sacrifices,
to which you've just said
"what sacrifices? you call that a sacrifice?"
you don't even notice me.
You don't realise my existence,
what more my importance.
I don't feel like I belong with you.
Your friends don't accept me now
your family won't accept me future.
Even I don't accept myself.
Who am I to you?
I don't belong to you.
Or more so you don't belong with me.
You should go free
for you are the wind, after all.
You shouldn't be with me
and I need to let you go.
Friday, January 08, 2016
I thought I belonged, but I didn't.
Cheering competition, apology won hearts over
A gifted camera, sweat-soaked PE shirts, soccer
2012, half left behind, groups falling back
2013, own paths, no effort to contact
I thought I belonged with 4/2 2011,
and 5/1 2012,
but I didn't.
and 5/1 2012,
but I didn't.
Sitting in a circle, awkward, block 5
Age, race, country of origin, different
They moved forward and I didn't
I thought I belonged with 1A1 2013,
but I didn't.
but I didn't.
People never met, like a family from the start
Random name that grew on our hearts
Singing happy birthday, in baju kurung, midnight
Bad blood with one, with all I am not right
I thought I belonged with Heroine,
but I didn't.
but I didn't.
5 years of high school past, promises made
2015, making plans, no replies, nothing said
She with her projects, she with her art, she with her dancing
Photo of 7 girls, just the same as nothing
I thought I belonged with my secondary school best friends,
but unfortunately
I didn't.
but unfortunately
I didn't.
April first, to earn money for what I don't want
Opening up after a day, a week, month
Laughter spread, anger shared, sadness felt
Loved, accepted, hope for this candle not to melt
I thought I belonged with my colleagues at Popular,
and I did.
I do.
and I did.
I do.