sleepless

if it's one thing you should know - it's never to take sleep for granted.

If I could sleep, I would, but I can't. So here I am, a gold VIP member of Starbucks, at 4am writing up a lab report to the faint murmurs of the coffee machine against the silence of the night. 

I foresee that I will be able to renew my gold status by the end of finals. 

Time trickles away like smoke you try to catch with your bare hands. Less than a few months ago, I was in another country, another time and place, miles away from this purgatory limbo towards the grand goal of Finals. Sometimes I am hit with amnesia and I forget what it is like to be free from burdens and woes. I must remember that your life functions to make you tired and restless, hungry to indulge and vaguely dissatisfied with the course you are on - this is the (ironically) ultimate average life. People attribute the those who are truly happy and satisfied are the ones who are lucky. But luck is the planning you don't see.

Oh great, now I'm sounding like a champion of Ayn Rand's Objectivism or Stoppard's Rosencrantz. 

to be human

Here's a thought experiment that was raised in class:

If each neuron in your brain is replaced with an artificial device , would the artifact -i.e. you- be the same "person"? 

And I said, "Well, a materialist would say that if the artificial device is able to duplicate the causal features of the brain, in the sense that it is exact and specific to the neuron it replicated in terms of its functions (such as the ability to adapt) and its physicality, then the result would still be the same person. But rationality aside, I would like to believe that each of us have a soul."

You may call me a dualist - one who believes that the mind and the body are separate entities, because at the core of my perhaps seemingly irrational belief, is that each one of us are more than just a product of biological processes; an existence that is beyond logical comprehension. I believe in a soul, which goes to say that I believe in the human condition and its inherent conception of humanity. How else do you explain or comprehend those moments that touches us and shakes us at our very core? We are an anthology of different experiences that differentiates us from other living creatures.

This also proves my unshakeable belief that art is important. It is an embodiment of our humane expression - a bit of ourselves we give to the world to share and empathise with.

Maybe that's why I, in my moments of tension and stress, turn to a very simple routine. In the cloak of the night, I burn my musk-scented candle. drink a cup of wine (today's zinfandel), listen to downtempo music and look at photography and/or write.

From my past experiences, I can say with the utmost confidence that I am able to work like a machine. But most of the times I feel a lot better when I take a step back and acknowledge my weakness and my vulnerabilities; to breathe and to let go and to accept the limits of my own human self.

So here is a product of such moments : here
these are a series of work that I produced when I am at my most introspective/reflective. This work of progress is not a call for literary criticism nor it is a display of creative prowess. It is simply my life manifesto born out of lived experiences. This manifestation of prose and poetry is an acknowledgement of my own humanity and sharing a part of it helps me deal with that. It is my greatest joy if you are able to find resonance with my words because ultimately what I'm saying is that - your suffering/your pleasures/your guilt/your anxieties/ - you're not alone in them. I feel as you are. Take comfort in that.

body comparative

Tonight I'm Marilyn confidence and Audrey grace
Tonight I'm an Affair to Remember love
Tonight I'm victorious and overflowing happiness
    and tomorrow is when this movie star life will be over
    and it will be nothing but a long-forgotten dream






People often say that if you don't think about It then It would suddenly cease to exist.
Everyone knows that's not true. But they still try to believe it anyway.
It is the principle of object permanence; that things continue to exists even if it cannot be seen.
That even if you drown myself in thoughts of a happier time, the tide still turns and the memory of him washes up ashore. And by him I mean he or she or it or anyone or anything.
The realisation crashes over you: he is real, out there in the world, somewhere, all flesh and blood, breathing and not thinking about you too. The difference is that you actually put in effort to do so.

I'm sorry that you are haunted by memories because I am too. The distinction between what is real and what is not is blurred so much in dreams. It is unsettling. I wake up wondering if I would wake up once more and find out this life is nothing but another figment of my psyche.

If I could run backwards fast enough to go to the past, I would. But I can't. And for that I am sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry that you can't romanticise hurt. Or loneliness. Or sadness. So sorry, sorry; yesterday can no longer be looked upon in the light of recollection without the taint of the present. Sorry that you are still standing at where he left you.

The thing is that everybody hurts. Resenting this would mean feeling guilty for being human. At least we are the few to have known what it's like to be drunk on vetiver, musk and madness; lying dead on a Queen-sized bed.

For now, we wait. Because one of the beautiful things about being human is that we forget.
And some things are better left forgotten.

wallflowers

Today at 6pm, I've debuted original works on an up and coming online art journal, Wallflowers. No shit, it's been a while since I've written. The first time I wrote poetry, I was lucky enough to be published in a book but that was also the last time I wrote. It's different this time because people I know actually read it. I'm awkward and embarrassed but undoubtedly grateful for the lovely support. I sent it in in lieu of Valentine's Day but I guess there was a long queue of articles to be posted. Here's one of the trio:

Miles Away

My body remembers you as you were.

The tickling warmth of your breath

dancing over valleys of collarbones. 

Rough hands pursue endlessly

losing their way over and over again 

Left to right, up and down, sea from sky

But when I opened my eyes, we is just I and me alone

and you, long ago, disappeared amidst careless sheets

smoke from a flickering candle. 

I watched the flame die out. I'm exhausted too.

After all the longest distance is when

I stand in front of you and you don’t see me. 

avalanche

Have you ever wondered what was the reason you got out of bed every morning?
I did, but I couldn't give you an answer. It comes with the sobering clarity that I never really lived my life the
way I wanted it to be.

When your breath is squeezed out of your lungs like blood out of stone, it makes one step back to look at things with a different perspective. I had spent about twenty years rushing ahead and chasing blindly and now I am stuck at crossroads, stranded in between somewhere and nowhere. Lost in the echoes of another time and place, I cling onto what I know is familiar. But I now know that it is time to let go.

My whole life is a performance - I do things for people. In summation, I am the infinitive verb, 'to serve'. I wanted to be that girl who could make you happy - as a daughter, a friend, a lover and I tried to be good enough but therein lies the paradox - the ideal will not be reached; you will never be enough.

I am bone weary of jumping over hurdles of inadequacy and insufficiency. I want to do things because it made me happy, because I wanted to. As egocentric as all of this sounds, I just want to be.

I had a cigarette just now. Which is not a good idea because my breaths are coming shorter and shallower but I did it because I wanted to. So if I close my eyes and die in my sleep, at least I am comforted by the fact it was a choice that was wholly mine.

between the spaces

You know what they say about history; it's a string full of knots. There's also his side and her side and the truth. You tell your version and I tell mine but we're not lying either. Then I start to wonder about different scenarios of our stories, each with a different ending.

It's 3am and my mind wanders. I stared into the flickering candlelight trying to reign it back home. Should is an iron cage, a jacket that doesn't fit, a pair of trousers that are tight around the knees. I watched the flame die out. I'm exhausted too. Probably from the travelling I have done.

After all, the longest distance is when I stand in front of you and you ignore me.

ghosts

"...how does someone love you when you don't even love yourself?"

            I don't know what to do with my life

            I don't know what to do with my hands

            I don't know what to do with myself

            I don't know what to do with my hair

            I can't figure out who I am

            I can't figure out my sexuality

            I can't figure out my face shape

            I can't figure out what to major in

            why doesn't he love me

            why doesn't alcohol freeze

            why doesn't the moon rotate

            why doesn't my hydrangea bloom

            how come I can't sleep

            how come I can't download apps

            how come I don't dream

            how come I can't get high

            what if this is all a dream

            what if this is all there is

            what if this is all just a dream

            what if this is all a simulation

            when will I see you again

            when will I ovulate

            when will I die

            when will I be loved