undo this

For a start, they were simple things. Like the setting of the Sun at the end of the day, and rain in the middle of the night. Finishing a book never felt better, starting one is almost bliss. A couple or so would be most bewitching. And then gatherings were most exciting. For an end, monotony has overtaken. excitement has dissipated. The Sun and its conflicting partner does not matter. Neither the paperback of wooden brown. It is almost a chore to hold a pen and make legible markings over the pages. All that is left is to withdraw, if that has not already been done.

And for an end, it is pathetically miserable, or so I would have thought just a year ago.

Funny that, I no longer mind it. I wish I do.

To be still excited about things that you love, it must feel marvellous.

As it is

It is the time of the year again. It is an entirely different setting and feeling, from what it had been like for the past 2 years. But it would be rather unjust to pick out this occasion and complain so. After all, what have remained the same?

Well, pardon the digression. It is that time of the year again, where you are reminded of the year's end, yet it wasn't really anything much. After the party, it will be back to the same old routine of monotony of existence, until that time of the year again. Vicious cycle, but isn't life based on it?

Still, one must be thankful for the graces and blessings in life that have been graciously showered upon the undeserving blade of grass, that is of no significance in the past, no value in the present, and no certainty of the future, as one is.

And thankful, one is, anticipating the uncertainty ahead to be filled with more blessings, even those in disguise. The Sun is not unjust nor the rain partial; it will shine, as it has been directed and pour, as it has been ordered. Rays of sunshine has graced one's threshold, accompanied by their contradictory, but inseparable twin. One must welcome it, one must welcome moderation and balance.

Change will be a permanent resident and feelings a fleeting hinge that bridges experience and imagination, rusting with age. Think about the heart. The Heart invites infrequent visitors which diffidence and cowardice beckons away, placing the blame on Rationale, which Prudence encourages in assent. Inconstancy is the theme in the masquerade of life; indifference- the mask through which civilities are exchanged.  Beneath the visor, who knows?

Ironic, isn't it, that one must expect changes that induce the same repetitive notions in one's mind? However, though not always comprehensible, God is merciful.

Failure

How does one gain ability to face an oncoming storm with a calmness of heart? Or must one work for it? How does one tell oneself that it is a passing phase, and that the only constant is change? What must one do it convince one's mind that failure is like friction, and to be able to propel forward, friction is essential? Like everyone else, one will fail and one must fail, but the fact is overbearing, and gives no clue on how to face it should it happen to grace one's life. 

One tries not to fail, one tried not to fail. However, such an attempt proved inadequate as exemplified by last Friday's demise of one's hopes. It was not to do better; it was only to maintain- yet it remains the most improbable fact, and what can one do, but wallow in self pity because even though crying over spilled milk is what one would call it, can one help but berate oneself over such carelessness and inadequacy? Can one help the feeling of worthlessness? What does it matter what anyone says, that "it is not the end of the world"? Fairly said, but how can such facts offer comfort when it might as well be the end of one's world- as though being awoken from one's own fictitious realm of dreams and hopeful illusions into a ghastly nightmare of reality? 

Alas, the remainder of hopes no longer depends upon facts and actuality. Ironically, the faculty of imagination provides solace and consoles the afflicted, giving a hint of artificial life to fragments of perished hopes, in which way the persona benefits. Actual life is tumultuous but in even in imagination, there is something immensely rational. Excess of anguish would render one's nature revolting to others. No matter how prodigious the consequences of weakness is to one, it is of no consequence to others. "Success (is) given to the strong, failure thrust upon the weak." And fiction is built upon fact. 

And the writer must write the episode of what one cannot realise. 

BP

His fingers manoeuvre gingerly over each black and white key, producing reverberations of manipulative charm. 

She dances along to every tune and twirls with every melody, like an artist bewitched by beauty, never to be reminded of its end. 

A hurricane of emotions accompanies her movements: her mind, a labyrinth. Still she does not cease to dance, propelled by his words: Lass, think about the heart.

Escapee

Such a pity I couldn't go running because my stomach is hurting so much. 

It would have helped me, yes, it would have helped a lot right now..when everything seems to be falling apart. 

Just another useless existence. 

Burdensome 

How do I fade out of such existence? 

I just want to not live. And be less of a burden to everyone. 

Why is it that those pair of folds seems more appealing than others? 

And did I mention, the glitter in those almonds being so captivating 

Welp, I have got the writer's block and can't seem to write anything now.

Sweet December!

Overwhelmed. And I still have time to read books and write. Okay, to be fair, it is only a book but it is still a struggle.

And writing is my only other therapy, so... I have been working at it for several days already.  But it is not finished yet.. Well, it will be the last post, hopefully, for the year so I think I will take more time doing that..

Haha, in the end, of course, it will only be for me to know the content but nonetheless, it is still comforting to write out. And maybe who knows, 20 years later, I will be looking upon the writing, trying to grasp the mind of an 18 years old me. And probably laughing. But I should give the 38 years old me more clues, haha.

Tomorrow will be long. But of course, it is all in the mind.
Why am I so scared of people, who knows. That reminds me of TCP camp again. Oh, boy.

On the bright side, today is Sweet December and I am not normally here, spending my December but school..Usually, or for the last 2 years at least, I am snuggled in my sweater and long pants, waiting with my family for the clock to stuck twelve and then go around shouting Sweet December when it did. Ah well, guess there is always a next time...2 years later maybe.

Sweet December!

Drastic

As I lay, awake on bed, I try to think of whatever that could direct my thoughts away from that.. 

Would you understand? Would you care? 

What if I told you, that it's about a ... 

Never mind that, but it is like how Elaine felt  

Or maybe still feels, as she floats away like a dream. 

A dream she was or just 

A flash it was, to Sir Lancelot 

But don't tell me it wasn't real 

Something closer to home 

Might be that I forgot 

(And not unintentionally so!) to place a period behind my last sentence 

And I start to think of my name more often, how nice to have been graced by you 

Sir Lancelot knew her, Lady of Shalott 

I'm no lady but at least you know my name 

God in his mercy probably wouldn't lend me grace, with a fair and lovely face 

But at least there is no full stop to your last sentences and in my imaginations I relish

Inside

I don't want to abuse this "privilege". 

Let's be honest.

I want to too 

Lost in reverie

Your turn to enjoy them
after all, you have come this far and what are apologies and gratitude? Something in the atmosphere told me to -
I don't know whether I can but I think I probably can now that
I have got my own supply of fantasies and the picture of Dorian Grey laying on my desk will remind me imaginations are best left in their own faculty.
It will remind me, perhaps, there are many other things, aside imaginations.
And it will say, " It's all in your head," Of course, it is.
--stop.

Books keep me sane.

But if I feel, may I never express?” 

“Never!” declared Reason.

I groaned under her bitter sternness. Never - never - oh, hard word! This hag, this Reason, would not let me look up, or smile, or hope; she could not rest unless I were altogether crushed, cowed, broken-in, and broken down. According to her, I was born only to work for a piece of bread, to await the pains of death, and steadily through all life to despond. Reason might be right; yet no wonder we are glad at times to defy her, to rush from under her rod and give a truant hour to Imagination - her soft, bright foe, our sweet Help, our divine Hope.

Charlotte Brontë, Villette

Illness

Flowing in those purple streams of life 

Scarlet inside 

Shards of glass and nails with rust 

Layers of slime, rotten and dust 

Covers every pulse, 

They reverberate, twisting and turning 

Loud as silence, please stop torturing. 

"Useless, you are, impossible girl," 

Please stop the machines, I'm already burnt. 

Idle fantasy

They say the way you write exposes you, the way you talk and the way you walk. 

How you make the tiny slashes and dots of red, how you dispose of the e- (how madd-ningly cute too) and how you strode across the room with the most nonchalant air about you 

You do not know me, I hope you don't,  because 

I like to know I have the power-- of knowledge 

And since this time my lack thereof would compel those scarlet slashes 

Across my paper, the more I thirst - for power 

With desperation 

Please never go, or please do go, 

Yet I fear for -possession. 

But naught I need to worry 

I'm quite aware that those 

Are just my fantasies. 

But I fantasise, with your name across my screen 

(Woe that we've come to this era!) 

And infuriating, really, how you wouldn't end your sentences 

Properly 

Last but not least, you 

And my name for you 

Scribbled and scribbles on paper 

For I can make fiction out of you 

-and in fiction lies my solace

As ironic as you

Don't you think it's contradictory,
as much as you,
that I should be told to, say,
"enjoy my weekend,"
buried in piles of obligatory study.
Try something like it
a bit like misery
when you've put up with it so
much but of course, it's customary,
though it was done so quickly. 

When I think of goodbyes

I think I might be overdosed with your skeletal and nervous and muscle and all the systems there are. 

Since.. There's 2 hour dose of them each week and 3 hours. 

It's quite thrilling, this feeling, let's keep it this way. When was the last time? 

I do remember. But it was long ago and its escalation were once what I thought bliss.

But remember me too, I hope you will, maybe just a little bit, a fragment, 

Or something about a girl who loves Jane Eyre, or just someone who's obsessed with the regency gentleman Henry Tilney.

When next you're gone, I hope you remember, you've come across someone who loves the sea. 

Even though you might not have know that she, she couldn't swim. 

The exact imagery I can present you is with what I love, even though, I don't know you enough to. 

But I don't think I'll forget what the sea did to me, how it gently reached for (my fingers) when I once stood ashore. 

How once, when I looked, its eyes ever upon me, or so it seems. 

But it was just a flicker, I think. 

And how, it comforted my quietness with

"But that's alright." 

And again, it reached for my fingers. 

I was mad. I was insane. But those were just reflexes. 

I still kept my sanity. 

How soon will you be gone, how long shall I keep sane? 

Yet don't tell me it is going to be, 

That the sea's leaving me. 

But, I want to be your friend. 

Too Pointless? 

it's not the heart.

The reason for this, I know, are the ...

..why the heart flutters when one is near, why do the cheeks burn?
when one feels conscious of oneself under the watchful eyes of the other.

I did not mean it that way. I did not desire your attention.
It is not even comparable to Romeo's love for Rosaline, if ever there was any.
But "this love feel I, that feel no love in this."

Maybe, just.. Petrarchan?

Nah, lipids.

As I was scrolling down..

I feel a tinge of pity.

I have God. No, God has me and I am glad about it. Blessed to be chosen. Blessed to be saved. Blessed that I am God's.

I am Blessed.
I shall not want to die.
I must not.

Eighteen and..

So I was thinking that when I'm an adult, I hope that I'll never have to feel this way again and then it struck me..

I'm already one. 

There's only the horizon and I'm slowly losing the sight

The glowing sun has lost its warmth, what of its brightness that stings and torture the soul in scarlet? What of the rays of hope of its promise, that never seem to have materialized? The horizon is sinking in my view, or am I sinking in its view? A sea of empty faces. Distorted illusions. Self loathing. First they greet the veil with coldness, don the body with pain and engulf the lungs in toxic acidity. Now they're continuing to rise higher and higher still.. My eyes are starting to feel the salty sting. 

P.S I can't swim..

Without control

What is a lamb without its Shepard? Directionless, nameless, worthless. Such is her plight without her protectors. Loss, of direction, identity and worth. Alone in this ever-seducing path of destruction set for itself. Shall one wonder, why its eyes glistened against its worn out lids..

shall one ever wonder...why is it happening so frequently..

shall one?

Of you

I'm now scared that I'll grow tired 

God

Needed something..