now

Last night Danial drove us around and I was the last person he sent home.
He told me, "Now, I'm searching for God."
And that was a powerful statement, because to take time to seek is the sort of discipline and courage I want to muster.
This is a man who has had the hardest time leaving the girl he loves.
And even though we probably believe in different religions, I felt a strength grip my heart when he said those words.

"Cos though the truth may vary,
this ship will carry our bodies safe to shore."

19

It's been 6 days after my birthday and I am now 19.
Lizzy and Sanjay came to surprise me after my family celebrated with me over dinner and we laughed so much.
I am so blessed to be the one who is in love, to be cherished by the people I want to keep in my life till the end of the world.

I realise that as I grow older, I have nothing to hide.
(Okay maybe if I ever get an STD, yeah, I wouldn't be telling anyone about that.)
I'm not ashamed of the things that people deem are embarrassing or "TMI" (in which this contradicts the first sentence).
I guess being honest has made me grow into a person who can tackle issues head on - not to prove that I'm smart or noble or anything like that - but to prove that I'm real, that I can be relatable and be a support for the people who have gone through the same exact feelings.
And these feelings are pretty shitty, conflicting but in the end, always rewarding.
I am alright with being human for once in my life.

At work I have been contemplating about the comments people make and how they make me feel.
Some words have hurt me, but I realised that they don't mean a thing to me. They got nothing on me.
Then again, comments are not about making me feel a certain way and if they are to make me feel any lesser than I should, I must know that they do not have any long term effects on me.
As much as we care about the ones around us, who are angels 90% of the time, the 10% when I am to be brought down is what causes me to be strictly professional.
Lizzy told me that when she's professional, she's really cold. That has become one of my favourite truths of all time.
Comparison happens every single day.
When Diane told me that the nature of women is to compare, I wondered how many times I had tried to break out of this shell. But this happens with everyone, no matter the gender - you see cats vying for their owner's love as well.
I've been thinking about that all week ever since the conversation we had last Sunday, which blessed me greatly... and it's s true, isn't it?
Here I go again, on a moral quest to rid myself of these issues so as not to partake it by being human.

I am not a blind optimist.
But I try to be aware of what wrecks me, and I try to choose the better of the two.
It's just like turkey and logcake. I always, always go for the Pina Colada.
No link but... there's going to be a Christmas party at the office!
I wonder if I'll be spending Christmas in England next year.
Ron says I can stay with him in Bath over the month of April when I fly over to audition at the universities.
I am more than psyched : )
Happy day.

dwelling

On every platform I express myself with, everything I have ever written about is an outpouring of how much I love and who I love.
And you may find that a girl's dreams are simple and girlish. With no ambition or anything that supports it.
I guess I pride myself in being a lover.
I love life, sure, but I love romance like mad.
And that's okay.

I talk about love and relationships a lot, because I've always been so mesmerized by it. Not the kind of love you see in movies, just real fighting and real making up again.
I've always been this way since I was young. I've always wanted a companion who could understand me inside out and live life with me in this way.

Realised that I date to marry.
I really do want to put my trust and faith in this man whom I hope to have a long-term relationship with or even possibly marriage, and perhaps I may even have the ability to worship this man..
Unfortunately, I have let that happen - and it has destructed me and brought me to a state of where I am so discontented with everything around me because I have shifted my focus from loving the Lord first.

Things have changed.
Because I finally and firmly know what I want in a man, and I will rely on this man to be the head of my household and a leader of my family. Who loves God, who wants to know Him more, and to be self-aware to the point that he knows when he is doing wrong.
I will never marry a man who lies to me or watches pornography behind my back. Yet should I fail to "assess" this man-of-my-dreams' qualities before I am engaged to him, then I will fight this battle with him.

But if, if you ever betray me, don't expect my love for you to be whole again.
Because I am imperfect and I do not wish to be known as noble for being the lover who forgave or anything of that sort - I just want you to know that I am a responsibility all on my own, and if you cannot handle me, give it up.
You think that it is unfair. I think that I love you enough not to do it, to not see a need for it anymore.

porny thoughts

"Pornography is OK if you need knowledge, but masturbation is unnatural sex."
My dad said that and he is nowhere to becoming a Christian any time soon.

I wonder if Christianity has changed my perception of pornography to think it "unnatural".
Then again, if I had never chanced upon this topic and material, I would have thought it pretty strange (though innovative and definitely indulgent) to create something for men or women to climax to.

I have half the mind to make a documentary about pornography in Singapore and how it influences us as a society.
But... I'm a pretty preachy person.

I wonder if I can have the same, trusting love if I never had this perception in my head and was okay with my boyfriend watching pornography.

Pornography has hurt me before - it made me a person of addiction, and it made me look at men disrespectfully. No matter how the general population of men perceive women or look at them lustfully, it doesn't matter - it's the way I looked at them.
And it scared me, because it was vicious.
If you judge me after reading this, you're funny.

So when I can fully accept the fact that I allow my future husband or boyfriend to watch porn, does this mean I am conforming or giving in to the "secular" world in a way?
Then again, I feel that the "secular" world has shown me so much more love and acceptance than at church sometimes.
The church is not a bad place. I just don't feel comfortable.

I always think what I'd be like if I had abandoned Christianity and not held onto it, just like last year.
I'd never know when I'd be hurting myself, and I'd never be more self-aware than I am right now.

Maybe I've fuelled my own idealism all too much with what I expect of in a husband or lover.
I don't know. I am a pretty extreme person, always absolute and taking sides.
When and where may I find someone who can handle me and understand me, to let me rely on them emotionally while being independent?
This doesn't mean I don't appreciate my current boyfriend.
I have a feeling I may be a biased parent. I hope I won't be one.

You don't have to move

A poem for a video Ken and I may collaborate on when time is on our side. To choose the home or our current family state we are living through right now, above any other escape or self-pampering we may have in mind:

We must want to be somewhere that makes us feel like home.
Not a country that makes you gasp and moan and claw walls for - but home.
Understand that it is perfect.

Perfect because it is imperfect.
Imperfect, because, it is home.
Where lust and greed and pride reside
Where charm and labour and silent suffering are bound to hide
Hide, in the quiet of your father's violent nature
In the chaos of your mother's warm, nurturing womb
And where home is,
There your heart will be also
There your bones will ache
For your treasure is one that will strike you
And never redeem you from the sacrifice you have made

This love -
It is a real one
And reality will lash its whips in your face
But use the same, porous kitchen towels that smell of sunflower oil to wipe the blood off your face - Face it -

Again it cuts
Again it soothes
Again it moves,
It has to move
But you don't have to.


In this country we have both called restrictive and lame and angry
On this land we have both deemed haunted and boring and repetitive
But I trust you, and I trust me,

That perhaps we may find this facet of us in a cold forest abundant with lush undergrowth and sweet, stark berries - which we call Iceland and Paris or London or romantic Rome
Find one's self as a god and chosen daughter of the universe, when the beams of the aurora borealis pour down upon me as hero, like the yolk of the sun of the City of Atlantis that once thrived and will forever be reborn again in your soul
But there can only be one hero.

And this trust we have in the countries that the mystery of being human has led us to want, to smell, to lick, to break into two -
Yet when I am a screaming demon,
Cursing my deserved quality of life,
The standards I can never again achieve
The free songs of a bird I may never again sing -
Life tells me to trust it.
Because:

Again it cuts
Again it soothes,
Again it moves, it has to move
But you don't have to.

Still, should you be on your way,
Run home.

Penang

The current state of my toe started to piss me off as the day came to an end.
My crew was so nice to send me home in this teh-peng-filled-long-kang rain.
Just read that MSG could possibly trigger a gout attack in the midst of finishing half a bowl of korean cheese-flavoured noodles.
Die liao lor.

Life, for the past fifteen seconds, has been hard, since my mother is telling me she's going to cancel HBO and I don't really have a choice- because they watch that darn Taiwanese show everyday.
I associate this Taiwanese show with every sort of evil and brainwashing there is in the world.
I've ranted about how this show has made me distance myself from both my parents at dinner time till late, and I do not wish to fake "family time" over content like that.
Compromise must be done wisely and trust me, this programme doesn't make me any smarter, given the situations I've put myself in before.

On a light, fluffy, almost pass-the-bong note, Wongy will be back tomorrow!!!!!!
Exclamation marks!!!!!!!!
I really want to go back to Penang with Ken and perhaps friends who don't mind coming along as well.
My uncle was here the previous weekend and I told him I really want to be buried / cremated in Penang.
I have always regarded the country as my second home ever since I was a little girl, flipping my long hair obnoxiously and prancing about in my flare dresses and printed pajamas.
I was so well loved, unlike here.
Youth is when everyone clambers for attention but when in Penang, I was simply loved for who I was.
Who gave a shit about competition and being the star? No one. And I want that in a family. (Idealistic, I know.)
My favourite memories are especially when the rain falls and I'm simply passing time playing Pokemon cards with Zi Sheng, talking to Shu Han 姐姐 in her room or reading ghost stories in their home.
Then we have Cheng Beng every year (glutinous rice + my favourite ba zhang that my third aunt makes) and the usual question of "Ma, where are we going next?" and the typical response of "Aiya if you don't want to follow just stay at 'home' or go to Gurney to shop lah, keep asking!"
Ah Ma's funeral was one I'll always remember - because the whole family was there and we were sad and merry together. I burned a hole through my uncle's with a joss stick. That was funny.
And in the wee hours of the morning of Mothers' Day, I thumped up the stairs, waking my cousin up to tell her my grandmother had passed away. I forced myself to cry, because she was my grandmother and I wanted to feel an emotional attachment to her even though I was afraid of what the elderly looked like then. And we just kept silent the whole night.
I had hugged her once. I remember tearing when I saw that she kept a photograph of young me in her cabinet. I'm tearing even now. I never knew how much she loved me till then. And it impacted me very much.

I love every one of them so much even though I have been disappointed because I am too trusting a person...but I never want competition or gossip to break my mom's side of the family apart. They are precious people with a sense of humour I will always want to retain.
I honestly think they are the only reason I want to brush up on my Mandarin and Hokkien - I can't understand Singaporean Hokkien one bit at all.

I want Ken to be there with me to experience Penang.
My uncle and aunt already like him. They called him handsomeeeeeee.
I have been very sad in this relationship but I have been the happiest fool in the world.
Sierra Mulder wrote that a high school love is a smothering one.
May I be with my high school sweetheart forever?
And then there's university.
And my fleeting heart.
To fear oneself is to save the other from heartbreak.
"There are all kinds of love in this world, but never the same love twice."
I love you more than anything else in this world at this very moment right now, I'll have you know that.
I have expired for you and found it stupid. I have wanted to leave but always felt a sense of regret - yet had I gone, I would never found the same relief I anticipated at the same time.
Why do you have a hold of me?
I don't know, but you may shake hands with my right paw and kiss my gouty toe.
I love you and miss you very very much. :'(

I trust that the morning light will bathe me in something better, something worth putting my faith in.
I find every single phase you go through a sort of wreckage my body needs to pierce into and I feel splinters lodging themselves into my face and feet.
You shock me, and I do not get a kick from it. Ironic how it is so consistent.
Somebody tell me the formula to letting go and forgiving the people who have hurt you because of tactlessness, because they thought it'd be nothing.
It is my loss.
If you cannot sit through this bitterness and pain with me, it is your loss as well.

I have blamed myself more than I've blamed you.
Everything I've said to you I've said to myself first.
I cannot win.

-

I realise I cry more nowadays because I get frustrated too much.
Perhaps being in a relationship has caused me to become more anxious, to strive for perfection too often.
Even in my relationships with people, I tend to try to please.
But when I don't, I get a kick. And then I am offended when they make snide remarks about me.

How has it come to this - that I care so much about the people I love, so much so that I have forgotten to love myself more than I love my boy?
That when my mother told me fat was ugly, I believed her. I believed the world.
And now I hate it, because you are my world, and you believe the ones who get offended are idiots, the ones who are unable to come up with counter arguments are the unintelligent.
I can't speak to you when you are in front of me, I can only cry and kiss you and talk rubbish because my head is full of you - is this an obsession or am I in love with the memory of what you once were?
For all I knew, for all I knew, once you used to glow, you used to make me implode and yes you still do, but now it hurts my insides and my heart and my head.
And that was all I knew but when you started to evolve, when you started to transform, I started to see you as a monster that I could only let devour and yet stroke affectionately and calm you down all at once.
But then I started becoming the one who had to be calmed down by you.
Jon says "But isn't that the point of loving", to be vulnerable.

How may I tell you that I can be humble, but in the end, I am not humility personified.

Nowadays I cry and make sounds that I am afraid of making in fear that my family may hear me, but I am in deep anguish and you cannot save me.
Is this because I have started to worship you?

And this is the crux of loneliness.
This is the heart of the frustration it has brought me, even when I have a hand to hold or a job that I love.

cemetery peace

I bring the same peace I experienced in the cemetery here.

The night it happened I couldn't breathe.
It was as if all desperation hit me and then I had to see it hit you.
Yet today I'm beginning to see that it wouldn't have been any party's loss.
Because we have both been made whole from the start.
What was interesting though, was how we prayed.
And everything can be forgiven, and made new.
Thank You for hearing my cry (literally).

I ask for grace but I must be able to offer it as well.

Yesterday I thought to myself, "It'd rather have someone tell me I like you than I love you."
I love you are words that are hard to say.
I'm not playing hard to get, I just think that love is a heavy word and I am not ready to keep saying them over and over again with the way I have been hard on myself, and hard on you.
But I like you very much, "I like you so much", as you always say when you hold me close.
I know you do.

It's going to rain again.
Yesterday around this time, it was pouring and the crew sat together under the back hood of the van and I couldn't stop laughing about everything.
They are so nice. That was nice.
Then Georgina, a bird watcher, whisked my producer and I away in her car to go on a 15-minute trip to watch the birds in the cemetery.
We were lucky, because we saw Whitesocks perched high on a branch, an eagle that many people have wanted to see but unfortunately, went away without having spotted him.
We also saw black drongos fly about in flocks and stopped for awhile under their tree with the windows down and listening to our surroundings as the weather settled.
It was so beautiful.

I wrote a poem just the other day while on the bus, influenced by the many trips I've recently made to Bukit Brown Cemetery with the crew.
This poem is for my mother.

At his funeral I want everyone to know I worshipped my father
I don't wish him dead, don't get me wrong - I know he will live forever
I hold him high and when he lets me down, it breaks me.

I want everyone to know that the only person who had to
Swallow my wrath and let it hurt her was my mother
Sometimes it feels like she's a single parent when our day goes sour
But I always ran to the other,
Always worshipping the father
Taking for granted sacrifice that was rooted,
So firmly beneath dark earth that lay.
So quietly, subtly, that went unnoticed.

My mother's love is like a grave that is about to be exhumed
Life is the priest, ringing its bells and chanting endlessly about its many toils in this world
In this world, her love is the once-living body,
Whose beauty was nourished, not marred
Made amplified, though not justified,
By earth my father laid on her
To make me.

And when she was to be resurrected, I died.
But every child is dumb and wretched and I couldn't let her be born
- So I became her ghost and cried for many days and nights,
Weeping and making sure they heard my wailing resonate through the cemetery
Singing morosely oh how my mother loved me, how my mother is part of me.

Do you think we gave birth to our mothers?
Because when I killed her I killed me too.

At her funeral I want everyone to know I worshipped my father
But this, this is a poem about my mother, and I will let her have it,
Let her call me baby,
While we are both alive and loving, loving, loving,
Loving, loving, and living.

--

Tonight I'll be having dinner at Robertson Quay with Ken and I know it will be a good time.
If you're in love, you're the lucky one.
But if you're out of love, you're the lucky one as well. Don't let anyone tell you differently.

thinking

I thought about chunky things while running around with the crew today.

I thought about awkwardness and how real it is.
I thought about the line between being able to say things that reflect who I really am as a person and who I really am as an intern.
About how I trust too easily.
About lust and how love truly wins over any body part you think about. Shawn was right.
Incompetence wasn't a thought, it was a feeling.
And I'm finally seeing how hard I've been on myself for the longest time.
How I'd like to stop being anxious, stop wanting to take the blame so much for something that I only caused partially or sometimes not at all.
God let me live me the day I stop saying sorry.

I thought about those words f u again and again and why I swear like that.
It was okay, everyone's going to tell me it was okay, but it was mighty rude.
Anyway, don't lecture me, okay.

I thought about where we went and listened to Intro by The XX on repeat while chilling at the back of the van. Every driver out there looked at me like I was a prisoner, with a "Something in my vision moved- WHAT is that a girl sitting at the back of that van?!" face.
Soundman and Cameraman stopped behind the van on a motorbike over a couple of traffic lights. I just, looked elsewhere.
See how real awkwardness is.

I also thought about you.
And how you'll always be the friend I'd always love to have watch me in every production I act in or gig I (will eventually) sing at.
I wish you stayed by my side.

Everyday, I'm mentally noting down something new to write in the Thank You cards to everyone at work.
Everyday, I'm listening and watching these people react to situations.
I also talk a lot of crap.
Downed all three cupcakes Ken's mama baked for me; I'm really happy.

een turn sheep

It's only the start of internship and I'm already thinking about what to write in each Thank You card to everyone at Sitting In Pictures.
I am so happy with the way my colleagues at work show me grace.
Happy was a rare word before the 17th. Joy kept me steadfast and helped me to persevere, but happiness was a temporary emotion I chased after and wanted so much - and now I have it.
(Of course, scoring Ken feels better than anything else in the world.
Scoring Ken is like being that really lucky winner at the arcade whose automated "picker" grabs his heart. Only that there are no other toys in the machine. Just, uh, Ken's bloody heart. Okay, maybe in fluffy cartoon form. In Mao form.)

"You're an intern, of course you're allowed to screw up."
"Of course you need 'grace', you screw up all the time."
"You always think you're holier than other people. You've done so much shit in your life already."

I don't know, I'm just going to sit and smile at you.

Anyway, this crew is amazing, and I'm not about to get all 'sian' about doing anything, even if I really need to pressurize the cameraman for the timecodes sometimes.
Because they don't deserve my sian-ness. Because they are that tough to tolerate and enjoy the work they really love.
I guess I only get sian when I'm stuck in my chair at the office, because I can really feel my butt growing bigger. But shoot days are fun as hell.
I really love these guys.
And it's only the second week.
Oh, the office has really nice biscuits too.

Thinking back, it's been awhile. And it's painful how I still hear your voice in my head.
From the person that everyone loves to revealing to me how ill-meaning you really are.
I want to let you know that you are a bad person and I will never take back these words.
I could give you words that know how to taunt, but the thought of you already makes me tired. You're like a bloody dementor.
The week after my encounter with you, I felt like humanity was a massive shithole sucking me into it.
I wasn't even tired of myself, I was just tired of being human.
I think sometimes we amplify our failures, but at other times, people amplify them for us.
These people are shitholes.
Of course I've learnt from you.
I've learnt to clean my butt and wash my hands thoroughly after shit like you is out.
Go dancing.
Which I did.

Number Three

Today is the eighth day.
I told myself I'd write poems everyday during these seventeen days leading up to internship.
So far, I have written only two.
I'm going to write one more.

I know I listen to melancholic music.
Melancholic, not sad,
Because being alive has no lack of drama.
Even the conservative know that.
Nothing is ever sophisticated,
When we know we are equals.
I know I am born with eyes that are defocused,
With a heart that harps all too much,
With a wanting to take the short cut - to cut.
Of course I have cried knowing I am merely me.
To be so painfully human sickens me,
To give pain to others defiles me,
To remember pain helps me to grow builds me.
Why do we need to live to understand facets of "me",
Why can't we float?
Why can't we be immortal?
I know I listen to melancholic music.
Melancholic, not sad,
Melancholia, not sadness,
Because being alive has no amount of forgiveness.
Someone told me the air we breathe is corrosive in nature,
Where is forgiveness in that?

This makes it three.
Then four, which Ken and I are going to collaborate on to use for a video :)
I wish it were cold out today, wish it were freezing.

Jesus was meek too

I remember the night during ballet class when I was 7. 

I had forgotten a few steps and Miss Sharon told me to stay back, and Miss Tracy told me to go through the whole set with her again.

Miss Sharon wrapped the class up and I had to stay back to continue learning. 

I have never forgotten how she got absolutely irritated and disappointed with me during that one hour.

But I couldn't learn anymore. I couldn't even remember the first few steps of the routine.

It was as if all memory of it was wiped out of my brain. 

I still remember the lighting and smell of the studio, the freezing aircon pricking my sweaty skin, the tension in my muscles I tried to get over second after second and Miss Tracy looking back at me, not understanding why I kept backing away subconsciously. I felt my feet shift towards the door but I couldn't do a thing about it but stare at her forehead and goldfish eyes. Miss Tracy was very kind. But I retreated because I was scared of her; because she was starting to change into Miss Sharon in my head.

I've been experiencing this same emotion for the past month, and I've been looking to escape, so much so that I've neglected my work trying to find comfort in circumstances that I have had to compromise for. I start to find myself looking at things around me. Like leaves, and wondering how beautiful it must to be a tree. You feel, but you don't speak. You sway in the wind and you are part of nature, which is peaceful. Not a part of an eternal conflict involving Man's pride and the need to be right. I look at sand and walls that are so strong, so quiet. Things that are non-living. With no expression and vibe that could pierce another. 

The day you told me they wouldn't back down, I gave up.

Until the morning Li Feng told me: "Jesus was meek too."

I remember how much He loved his disciples, yet Peter denied Him 3 times and Judas betrayed Him and gave Him away to be crucified.

And that broke my heart to forgive, to have courage and strength to say I was sorry. 

A lion does not always need to roar.

                                                   

I could have no better comfort than you by my side. 

From the day my heart was struck with fear to the night you called me to stop me from acting rashly. Till today, till tomorrow, till the end of this project, till the next year. 

You have been the one for me, and you have been my destiny.

I love you.

Thank you for being a true friend.

There's really nothing much to say.
Nothing much to type, nothing so important I need to comment about.
Really.
I'm just thankful. God recently took from me, and at the same time, He never ceased to give.
To let the people who love me stay, here by my side, never being too far away or wherever I couldn't reach for.
It required no sacrifice from me, just my surrendering.
I am not in a phase of breaking, I'm really not, and I'm just so thankful to be alive.

The Wait

I fear all the ways I have become a burden, appear to have thought of no one but myself. I fear them so much that I may only be satisfied in dreams of dying, to put an end to my foolishness. Yet another part of me wants to be strong, so I get up almost effortlessly in the morning to assume my responsibilities again, surprisingly with joy. Home can be such a prison for the soul sometimes. After I have rested, I get restless again. And how much crying can one do when it is pointless, so I have not cried at all. The wait kills, the brain does not shut up. The amendments I would like to make, the sorrys I would like to retract/give and the words I want to watch stick themselves like blades under my skin, under my frail idea of hope, then take them out as I bleed blue and stick them back into you. We are all poisonous beings. And thre is no shame, no pain in sharing poison. We build relationships upon these poisons, they come in only both blue and red. Like how those who hide in the comfort of their rooms inject love into their veins - we get high on these poisons, high on hurting each other. I have the courage to do that, and I can wait for you until you are ready. These are days when I revel in joy, in beauty and in decay. One day you shut God out, another you embrace with your lung tissues spilling out of your chest. (He knows how much you have been screaming inside) Embarrassing, isn't it? To have let a mere night break you down. The fact is that I let it, I let you have me, I let you whisper these words and watch spoilt children tickle themselves silly with tears the weight of feathers and hurl stones at their heads aching with pain, filled with images of slaughter and wanting so much to have that first moment when they learnt how to breathe before drowning in their mothers' wombs. Was that me? My mother is not a bad person, it is not her fault for having loved me with so much water. My brother told me about the boy who wanted the moon, he said many people died for him as they made ladder after ladder to ascend the orb. Have I killed you in this way too? The world has no tolerance and we discipline those who have made mistakes with actions, courageous ones, the kind that pricks and breaks itself like an egg yolk full of fresh venom into your life. Life, because suddenly a human represents humanity in all its vanity and lack of compassion. Don't get me wrong, I lack it too. I lack it for myself. I know how to stand here with a knife in my hand to protect myself, but should I need to rid myself of me, I will gladly do it. Though slowly. Though surely. If I wait for you, will you wait for me?

it's not my birthday

It's time I wrote.
Because my fingertips have been crying for days now and all I want to do is flood this box with words.
I haven't written here for awhile because I don't aim to write succinctly.
I want to write something substantial - not for readers who want to know what I've been thinking or even wanting to know if I've felt any sort of negativity towards them, but for myself.

I feel like my lungs are logged with tears I can't cry out.
I've been sad about the way things work, the way success works, the way I progress. I realize that I actually stop to progress. And that isn't very acceptable to anyone. Especially not in the month of July or the next two months to come.
I told my friends how I've always wondered if I'm not meant to be an academic, or maybe even an intellect. I mean, I know that deep down, Media Law & Ethics isn't going to be a subject I'm going to excel in.
Perhaps they thought I was looking for answers from them, but I wasn't.
I just wanted someone to encourage me.

And this is the thing about me.
I look too much for encouragement, for comfort from people I hang around the most.
And maybe that's why they may feel the pressure to tell me the things I want to hear, and to take in the current burden I cut up and distribute like birthday cake.
But I need to learn that sometimes, friends don't have plates for me. And that it's not my birthday.
Friends break these plates on purpose, just so I may finally shut up and deal with my own problems myself.
Maybe that's not the best way friendship works but perhaps the time to rely more on myself has truly come before I break during internship.
I'm not embarrassed to admit since I have found company that I can laugh with and share with, being alone hasn't been something I crave for very much anymore.
But living through this week has shown me that I tried hard, even if I've felt like ending my life for an hour.
Even when I asked unnecessary questions or questions which answers were based on the most commonest of common sense, I asked because things weren't the clearest to me.
And I tried so hard, and forgot to look for alternative solutions - all at the wrong time.
All I ask for is to acknowledge the ideas I suggest, not ignore them. Don't worry about me losing the will to fight for my ideas or even giving up after anyone/everyone has rejected them, it never runs out until it fails to be for the betterment of our project.
But I don't beg for forgiveness or my friends to understand me, because I make mistakes. And it has hurt only myself, not anyone else.
I'm thankful that in that hour, I had my best friend and lover on the line and there's really nothing more I could ever ask for.

I've been missing you so much because you are the person I'm the most comfortable with.
You tell me things I need to hear, you hold me and shower me with love so dearly, I'll never get used to spending quality time with you for only twice a week.
I'm sorry I ask for your attention.
I still wish I could shrink, make a little bed in your breast pocket all day long, and just sleep, where it's close to your heartbeat.

This week I have felt so broken and mended at the same time.
I haven't understood why I make myself so available to get irritated and mad at; I'm still figuring that out.
But for once, I need to trust myself.
And I need to stop missing theatre sessions.
The actor in me needs to jump into some improv really soon.

silence

It always seems to me like I can't ever catch you at the right time.
I honestly love spending time indulging in conversations that provoke me in every way, and maybe the expectation of having that with someone like you is just... too much? Or is it unnecessary?
But why? I can't deny, it is a necessity to me. It's how I bond. I talk you talk, we understand each other and if we've got chemistry then BAM. I want to revel in every kind of rawness a conversation has to offer, but people get tired and tire of speaking so much to each other. Especially lovers.
Why do two hearts have to be quiet?
Sure, they're quiet, they connect with each other even in silence but they would have already understood each other before that.
I still want to know you some more. There are so many questions I'd like to ask but I don't know if you'd like to answer them.

Silence scares me because there are so many potential misunderstandings that could arise from it alone.

I've stopped counting the amount of times I've silently freaked out - and I do it silently because it brings nothing to the table and it isn't the sort of 'truth' I want to let you know because I already have, but it presents itself to me as a sort of failure.
A failure that doesn't let you open your heart to speak to me.
Speak to me about me, about you, about the world, about ideas, about what makes us work, what makes things work, your ideals, why you gave up on things, why I might give up on things but still hold on - everything.
I want to know everything.
I want to experience you so much, and I haven't felt this desperate to achieve this ever since God knows when.

People

I've never felt understood by most people, so when Jon texted me tonight I felt like I could give him a pen and he'd know what the themes and issues my life story would encompass. And he'd score an A for that essay. Not A+ because he isn't actually me.
I miss him. I have so much to say to him and to tell things to, and I want to listen to him more than ever, and to wait for him to tell me his crazy plans and theories, especially since he's in the army and we can't meet as often to get ramen.
He's the kind of friend I don't need to physically hug to know we're close.
Some people hug you and you hug them back, as if you're trying to push yourself into them and them into you but sometimes, in the end, you don't even know them and they don't even get you.

Tomorrow Jia will be 19. In three more days, she's going to leave for Australia.
That means I don't get to see her on Sundays for dinner with the family anymore.
I've always felt so thankful for the compassion she has and how much she strives to understand me when my family misunderstands me. I forgive the fact that she has misunderstood me, many times actually. But I love her for the fact that she makes the effort to look at me like a person, and to love me like one as well.
We're not close.
We're not like sisters or even friends.
It is a pity that there wasn't another word, because I am neither those to her but I can be comfortable yet not entirely comfortable around her. But when I'm comfortable, it's like sinking into a bean bag. A green one.

I need to stop writing about how loving someone romantically makes me feel.
I need to write something for my friends too.
I am ever blessed to have friends like Zany, Hana and Adrian.
The fact that I saw my very first shooting star with Zany and Adrian is one of the biggest blessings I could ever be bestowed. Bestowed, because that night was such a gift.
I realised that I don't give a shit if people listen. I give a shit and many shits in fact, when people understand.
That is so hard to come by.
I want to live out the next two months to come, yet I want to preserve them, always.
People are so intricately made, how could there not be a God who loves?

heart full of wine

I finally opened the Glacier Wine that Perry got for me for my 18th birthday.

The trip to Sarawak made me the happiest with my friends and the saddest with you.
Today I don't feel like I can face you or speak to you, because these feelings have all been poured out already and there really is nothing left in me to offer you or to make you understand.
I fear that your understanding of me is shallow, and it is something that causes me great distress.

Since the day you joked about me crying about every little thing, I realised that I have been crying more.
My age is something that I am ashamed of every time I cry.
I am not only tired of the struggling, but the fact that I am made to struggle.
Why this has happened, I have no reason for it, and I have given up seeking answers when all you can ever say to me is "the only ones we are in control of are ourselves".
But you have retreated and I am advancing but always losing.

I just want to know what I'm dealing with, because my enemy is invisible and he is prowling and I am not winning this war.

Servant Leader

Last night I was watching this Chinese period drama and as usual, a servant who is to be put to death begs for 'mercy' but is eventually lugged away by palace guards.
I've never understood why people ask for 'mercy' before their kings and queens.
Why do they want to demonstrate even more selfishness by existing and hang on to their own mortal life if they know their wretchedness cannot save them both physically and morally anymore?

It's been a long time since I've entered a time of prayer, and I run back to Him all the time because of my sin. I don't ask for mercy, I just want to know He accepts my Sorry.
I can't forget what Claire told me last New Year's Eve: He forgives you but He was angry at that point in time when you sinned.
Anger is not a common attribute of God and it scares me. Yet, although He is the One who disciplines, He is also the One who chooses to have mercy on me.

As I was saying my usual "sorry"s with my eyes closed, I suddenly saw Him walking into my room towards me. He bent down and He started to wash my feet.
And He was silent, and He was gentle.
Which led me to remembering the question: "Will you let Jesus serve you too?"
And as He finished washing my left foot and was going on to wash the right, I couldn't help but to feel so ashamed but I let Him do it.
When He looked up at me, His face was so bright I couldn't see His features. But He looked so ordinary and familiar, and He told me that I was once again clean and pure and my identity was a child of the Most High God.
That when He came to visit me, the whole land was filled with such a brilliant light and it was deemed as blessed. So much so that demons that lived in secret corners in houses and people's minds fled their fastest to the furthest ends of the earth - and all this was done because He came to comfort me.
I don't think it was a vision but I do reckon it was something that was done in the spiritual realm that reminded me of His love and ability to lead me by serving me.
I know it was not of my own imagination because after I opened my eyes, I felt a peace and a hope in the One who fights for us. And I was smiling.

Nothing that you do can make Him love you more/
and nothing that you do can make Him close the door/
Because of His great love, He gave His only Son/
And everything was done so you would come.

tiny hatred

Someday you will find that so many things are able to break your heart, and you only have yourself to mend it back. Not even the one who swore to stick by you. Intentional forgiveness is very hard. Embracing it has incited a tiny hatred for giving in. Just a tiny one.

When I said I lost you at the altar, I really meant it. I forgot to tell you that you lost me too.

of my own failing

The things I love fail to move my boy.
I write to overthink.
I sing to tweak my voice.
I act to escape my inability, to make him see me in a new light.
I feel to cry somemore.

Differences really break my heart.
And there is nothing wrong with that, really.
Then there is nothing wrong with feeling the way I feel as well.

How Do Lovers Work Like That

you have duties and i have them too
just that i prioritize you over some of them
just that sometimes i need you to be able to work
you want to live away from me, we as separate entities
but i want to smell your feet, i want you to want to be close to me
you are independent and i am a sticky cunt


how do lovers work like that?

²³ Those who listen to the word but do not do what it says are like people who look at their faces in a mirror ²⁴ and, after looking at themselves, go away and immediately forget what they look like.


James 1:23-24


So many times I have forgotten what my face looks like, but You have not. You speak in so many ways, if only I make the effort to seek You. It's something that requires discipline, and I lack that. I attend to my studies and my playtime first, but I don't feed my spirit as often. But You are always there to meet me whenever I need You. You're always so quiet, Lord. So gentle and You wait, because You are not intrusive.  

soft heart

u r the kind of boy whose ideal girl would be all buttoned up when she's with u
when u both r on your way to meet the world
but her perfect breasts r tucked behind black lace and expensive lingerie
bought with the money u worked hard to earn
with the money that separates both of u for a few weeks
but that is ok because
missing is done so that
now
(reserved for only now)
u may enjoy her behind closed doors

soft hearts
that beat
well they get hard most of the time
but when they are soft
they r very beautiful
to the skin, to touch, to feel.
u may touch me now

but i want you to know that sometimes
you make me feel like cutting my breasts off

The First Woman

Your boy will hear you when you cry, she said,
And abandon his sick jokes and
friends who expose their Freudian slips on purpose
to be there for you

Your boy will never let you lose to any woman, she said,
Nothing - not her breasts, her legs or the tears behind her eyes
Because all that makes him happy and makes him cum is that
There are none behind yours

I was a policewoman
He told me I looked sexy in my uniform
And as this boy became a man
I started to wonder was it me or the fetish he married

But she was a woman
And she was a friend
So when I look at your hands,
They are always reaching for something
Other than me
More commodities
Lesser me
Then lesser commodities
More me

Don't forget my hands
I told my boy
Don't forget I've always loved you quietly from afar
I don't know if he got it,
But I was here first.

--

2.37 PM

Lord I always forget to give You my thanks and praise. Even with a bad day or highly irritable mood, there was always something to give thanks for. Especially for people's kindness, for people's hard work and Your protection in the dead of night. You are worthy.

The Loveliest Rose in the World by Hans Christian Andersen

Today I am struck with a fever.
But there is always something more than my circumstance, something more worthy to observe, to be quiet about and to be astounded by.
This evening I sat by the foot of the front door of this house and looked at the tree just outside the gate, the flowers and the plants my Mum has in her garden and they all looked so peaceful in their many forms. I do things like that when I am sick, like lying down on the marble floor next to the dining table or rolling about in my room. I chose to sit up this time round. A swallow flitted past and greeted me with a swoop, as if thanking me for noticing her.
Which made me think about the swallow and how fast she flew away, and wonder what difference it would make if I had missed her.
I think God is like this.
I think when we sit and listen, God greets us there.
I think when we want to see a glimpse of Him, He will show us His glory through anything.
And so He did.

After awhile, I decided I would pick up a big book of fairytales titled "The Complete Illustrated Stories of Hans Christian Andersen" that had been tucked away on my shelf for the longest time.
It's probably about 20 or even 30 years old.
I flipped to the Contents page and there was such a long list of story titles, so I decided on one and flipped to read "The Loveliest Rose in The World".
And all the while I was wondering if it was absurd of me to be reading fairytales at the age of eighteen going onto nineteen, but this story proved me wrong.
Because to me, it turned out to be neither fiction nor a fairytale.

This is the story:

The Loveliest Rose in the World

by

Hans Christian Andersen

(1852)

HERE lived once a great queen, in whose garden were found at all seasons the most splendid flowers, and from every land in the world. She specially loved roses, and therefore she possessed the most beautiful varieties of this flower, from the wild hedge-rose, with its apple-scented leaves, to the splendid Provence rose. They grew near the shelter of the walls, wound themselves round columns and window-frames, crept along passages and over the ceilings of the halls. They were of every fragrance and color.

But care and sorrow dwelt within these halls; the queen lay upon a sick bed, and the doctors declared that she must die. “There is still one thing that could save her,” said one of the wisest among them. “Bring her the loveliest rose in the world; one which exhibits the purest and brightest love, and if it is brought to her before her eyes close, she will not die.”

Then from all parts came those who brought roses that bloomed in every garden, but they were not the right sort. The flower must be one from the garden of love; but which of the roses there showed forth the highest and purest love? The poets sang of this rose, the loveliest in the world, and each named one which he considered worthy of that title; and intelligence of what was required was sent far and wide to every heart that beat with love; to every class, age, and condition.

“No one has yet named the flower,” said the wise man. “No one has pointed out the spot where it blooms in all its splendor. It is not a rose from the coffin of Romeo and Juliet, or from the grave of Walburg, though these roses will live in everlasting song. It is not one of the roses which sprouted forth from the blood-stained fame of Winkelreid. The blood which flows from the breast of a hero who dies for his country is sacred, and his memory is sweet, and no rose can be redder than the blood which flows from his veins. Neither is it the magic flower of Science, to obtain which wondrous flower a man devotes many an hour of his fresh young life in sleepless nights, in a lonely chamber.”

“I know where it blooms,” said a happy mother, who came with her lovely child to the bedside of the queen. “I know where the loveliest rose in the world is. It is seen on the blooming cheeks of my sweet child, when it expresses the pure and holy love of infancy; when refreshed by sleep it opens its eyes, and smiles upon me with childlike affection.”

“This is a lovely rose,” said the wise man; “but there is one still more lovely.”

“Yes, one far more lovely,” said one of the women. “I have seen it, and a loftier and purer rose does not bloom. But it was white, like the leaves of a blush-rose. I saw it on the cheeks of the queen. She had taken off her golden crown, and through the long, dreary night, she carried her sick child in her arms. She wept over it, kissed it, and prayed for it as only a mother can pray in that hour of her anguish.”

“Holy and wonderful in its might is the white rose of grief, but it is not the one we seek.”

“No; the loveliest rose in the world I saw at the Lord’s table,” said the good old bishop. “I saw it shine as if an angel’s face had appeared. A young maiden knelt at the altar, and renewed the vows made at her baptism; and there were white roses and red roses on the blushing cheeks of that young girl. She looked up to heaven with all the purity and love of her young spirit, in all the expression of the highest and purest love.”

“May she be blessed!” said the wise man: “but no one has yet named the loveliest rose in the world.”

Then there came into the room a child—the queen’s little son. Tears stood in his eyes, and glistened on his cheeks; he carried a great book and the binding was of velvet, with silver clasps. “Mother,” cried the little boy; “only hear what I have read.” And the child seated himself by the bedside, and read from the book of Him who suffered death on the cross to save all men, even who are yet unborn. He read, “Greater love hath no man than this,” (Greater love there is not --) and as he read a roseate hue spread over the cheeks of the queen, and her eyes became so enlightened and clear, that she saw from the leaves of the book a lovely rose spring forth, a type of Him who shed His blood on the cross.

“I see it,” she said. “He who beholds this, the loveliest rose on earth, shall never die.”

-

I just sat there with tears in my eyes, biting my shirt, because this story made me realise that Hans Christian Andersen had planned that the words "Greater love there is not" to be read out by a child deliberately because of a child's fresh faith.
And this really stripped my mind off the consciousness that I was actually holding this book as an 18-year-old.
I'm grateful that many people understand that Science doesn't entirely make this world go round.
Even so, Einstein used science and logic to prove that there is a God.

Also, I was awestruck because in the midst of reading this fairytale, I wanted so much to know what and where the loveliest rose came from, wondering if this author could actually live up to his name or be disappointing by presenting something lame to anyone who had laid eyes on this story - so much so that I had actually forgotten there really is none other than Christ's blood and love.
Which humbles readers and myself so, so much because even the author himself could not and did not bring himself to write about something else or cook something 'fictional' up.

This story blessed me so much this evening, and I hope it blesses every other believer out there.
Even with this fever, these words have made me well.
Hope you've had a great week in school/anywhere you are so far :)
Cheerio!

why

Darling, why are you frustrated with me?
I know why, but I want to ask you:
Why?

/It's the hard part but the true love way

I Love You So Much

The words "I love you so much"
Are filled with so much wanting it hurts to speak them out loud
An intentional let-go so you may be happy
When we finally outgrow each other
I want to let you know I love you so much

But for now I'll still want you,
Want you when you're in another woman's bed
Bestowing her the same touch that set my body on fire
Want you when you're out there in the adult world
Never again will you be embarrassed of being short of anything
That just-right-sized, white and black house in woods not like ours here
Want you when you want some space to be away,
Away from earthly troubles and painful cuffs
Away from emotion and
me

Forgive me 

Because I've looked too much for the sadness

In the both of us

And arranged questions in my head

Which answers would make you make me cry

Just to try to prove to us both

That you don't want me the way I want you

Yet all I've ever wanted was you to want me, that is all

Please look past the stupid games I play

And the blind pride I strive to feed;

The deeper I delve into you,

The more I don't know

Can't figure out the measure of my love

Can't make out the depth of yours

Yet I know how much you love me,

Somehow.

And all this I meant to say to you

When I told you,

"I love you so much."

--

Gossip

Today over lunch, Diane was telling me about her family's fights and I was just so envious of how she was so light-hearted and even laughing about them.
I thought about the word "composure" and the advice to not take myself so seriously.
I want to be like that. I want to be slow to offense.
I wondered if me being quick to anger is natural, but even so, the path to being forgiving can be cultivated.
So I'm starting today.
It's not a special day, but I think the day you choose to be faithful to a resolution is always a good day.
I thought about my influences and the friends I mix with, and I'm always grateful to be able to decide who I want to hang out with. I'm so honoured it's my God-given right to be able to do that.


I want to surround myself with friends who will always choose to be the bigger man, who will never badmouth a person even though an injustice has been done to hurt them.
Friends who are humane; friends who are imperfect because we all judge but are ultimately forgiving.
Friends who will be loyal not just in front of me but behind my back as well.
I used to wonder if I'm simply analysing people and the things they say, but I realise I've been focusing too much on the bad sides of people and not enough of their good.
Our tongues are double-edged swords.

Also, sometimes I please people too much.

I need to learn to be true to myself, but without misunderstanding, being unforgiving or hurting others as well.

And I can do all that just fine by being peaceful and accepting about things. 

"Likewise, the tongue is a small part of the body, but it makes great boasts. Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one’s life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell.

"With the tongue we praise our Lord and Father, and with it we curse men, who have been made in God's likeness."

"For where jealousy and selfish ambition exist, there is disorder and every evil thing. But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, reasonable, full of mercy and good fruits, unwavering, without hypocrisy. And the seed whose fruit is righteousness is sown in peace by those who make peace.

- James 3:5-18

Realised that using the F word incites a fiercer anger in me compared to not using it.
I don't want to forget that I'm a Christian either, no matter where I am or who I'm with.
I like this line alot: Because the ones that mind don't matter, and the ones that matter don't mind.
Peace ^^v

crazaaayyyy

Half a year and I'm still crazy over you, I really am. :3

Love

Tonight at theatre: After watching White Light/Black Rain and remaining depressed for a whole hour, we watched I'll Give My First Love To You, a Japanese film.
I died at the part where Takuma said the boys saw Mayu's pink bra (because some jerks splashed water on her to make her white shirt see through) and he said he wanted to be the first to see it.
I got very inconsiderate with a few minutes of wailing.
Can't imagine how I'd react to anyone close to me passing away.

Anyway I tried to take a golden half picture of my dad cutting an orange for himself because believe it or not, I have never seen him cutting an orange before.
It's just little things like that that I love so much.
I was so disappointed when he had finished cutting it; I still had toothpaste in my mouth but I was too late. And I didn't wanna look freaky or spoil the moment so I just went out of the kitchen.

I know I'm biased towards my mom, I don't readily grab my camera to take pictures of what she does.
But while we were watching the atomic bomb documentary today, I imagined my mom under the rubble with her face burning and knew I'd die with her if that ever happened.
So I know I love my mom in my own way, even if I tell people I hate her sometimes.
I'm sad because it has come to a point in my life where I have stopped holding hands with my mom.
I am so, so sad about it but it is natural because I'm all grown BUT I'm still so sad about it.
What changed?
I can still hold my dad's.
Maybe it's because my mom has rejected my hands when I wanted to hold hers in secondary school.
She was fuming mad at me because she had to pay my overdue library fine.
I wanted to hold her hand but she said no.
Maybe it was that.

6:59 AM

by Shane Koyczan

I’ve been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day

but if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.

"Deep" stuff

People usually disregard writers or poets or content producers whose works are "deep" or "cheem". The worst label is probably, um, "hipster".
This morning I was struck by this topic so I told myself, I have to write about it. Now. 
I've been told that I'm generally a "deep" person and they wish they could think like me - but I could never think like them either, yknow?
Some more than others, some less- whatever, we're all good and bad in our own way.
(One thing I'm not afraid of sharing is that I cry alot because I get stressed easily. Two things that are also good about it is that it's natural stress relief and I don't get puffy eyes. Okay, back to the point.)


So I'd like to propose that all respected content producers/ writers/ poets/ artists only have their own human emotions and personal experiences to work from and are simply sharing them with you.
They don't mean to do it in a self-indulgent "I am very expressive bitch, I need to express them if not I'll die, bitch" sort of way - and I believe people who think this way are the critics we don't need, the people who do not know how to appreciate art or literary form and the people who are jealous because writers are making money and gaining fame from it.
Let me just say the fame they receive is appropriate and rightly theirs because of their hard work.
Even Lady Gaga. (Though having gone bankrupt 4 times in her life due to the millions she spends on clothes is her problem.)
We take very little pride in the fact that we are able to analyse things beyond their face value but we don't purposely go round trying to preach or making up analogies like: 


OH LOOK HERE'S A PIECE OF BREAD. LOOK AT HOW POROUS THE SURFACE IS, LET'S GO DEEPER. HEY IT LOOKS JUST LIKE OUR LIVES, WITH MANY HOLES AND FLAWS AND SOMETIMES WE GET SMOTHERED BY JAMS. TRAFFIC JAMS. TRAFFIC JAMS CAN SOMETIMES CAUSE THE WORST HUMAN BEHAVIOUR AND MAKE US KILL EACH OTHER. SO STOP EATING BREAD.


Geez.
We're all materialistic because we all can't deny that we cherish a good download speed. True?
But please understand that a content producer's utmost priority is to reach out to his/her audience and to be relatable.
It's not even about being rich.
I'm not a huge fan of Potter but I really respect Rowling. To read more, clickito this linko:

J.K. Rowling: 'I've Made Enough Money'

A true writer only wants to be relatable. Not rich, not elitist. You buy their works for what it's worth. Yet it's worth so much more.
To be relatable is to admit that they themselves are human beings of equal standing: think of every human heart as a canvas. None look quite the same, with different experiences in the form of paint strokes, textures, colours- yet they're all the same thing, whether complete or not. They are ultimately canvases, from beginning till end.


I've always found the goal of the writer's the hardest to achieve.
Because he spends so much time creating the right metaphors and choosing the right diction to bring out emotions in its most accurate form.
The more accurate he is, the more credible he is, isn't he? Who wouldn't want that? Because that way, you gain respect.
As John Green writes in Paper Towns:

"We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor your choose, because it matters...the metaphors have implications."

The thing I fear the most as a growing writer are phrases like "It's the type of feeling that you can't describe in words".
I want to let you know that we actually recognise the possibility of not being able to achieve a 'representation' of something that is important and personal to you.
And with that said, we just keep challenging the "impossible" anyway. Call us stubborn, but we're not stopping till we finally understand ourselves and every facet of our weird selves.
Because being human is all we've ever known.
Ourselves first, yes, but with the general audience in mind as well. Balance.
And it's evident every writer and artist struggles with battling their own ego, Sarah Kay can second that. You don't even need to be an artist to struggle with that- we struggle with humility and pride everyday of our lives!
See, my point exactly: we are human in every way.

I don't know about you but the strangest thing to me as a human being is having emotions. Not physical pain but things that the spirit feels and laments and goes into self-withdrawal about or bursts with so much joy and love that it may be seen in every step a person takes and every detailed action a person does. 

Obviously some works have accurately translated your feelings into words and visuals and trust me, all the great, late writers and living ones of this age celebrate in both their crypts and cribs. (see what i did thar)
Imagine every time you are able to relate, that paragraph/page glows because it made a spark in your life. You are never the same again. Because as a reader and member of an audience, you understand yourself a little better. You are able to propel your fight for life again once more. It makes you want to touch another's life the way that writer's words touched yours. It's like sharing canvases, showing someone else your heart - and sometimes that 'someone' becomes 'some people' and 'anyone' and all of them appreciate what you feel. It even makes you feel less alone as a writer. You're both reaching out and being reached out to. A mind blowing two-way process that has played a huge part in completing your joy and playing a role in contributing to theirs as well.


Being a writer is not about showing off your vocabulary - some people take advantage of beautiful language and throw them into sentences that don't even make sense.
But for those that actually offer meaning, readers naturally know that the writer understands that there is no language as vast as the English language, whose vocabulary has been refined through and through to only achieve one thing every dictionary on this earth longs to be: To be accurate.
And that's why them using 'big words' is legit.


So my point is: If you think literary works are 'deep' and 'hipster', then you're just lazy to make the effort to understand them in their entirety. Then you're not curious enough. Same goes for religion. You need to taste it, sink your whole soul in it to believe. I don't think many people would be able to live without books.
I know I can't.

All throughout life, we are all we have ever known.

Ourselves.

Our personalities, our habits, our gestures and our work ethics.

And we are okay with that until someone comes 'poking holes' in our once-perfect selves.

"You can be slightly unreasonable in a relationship," Perry once said. 

The holes hurt because that person is beautiful. 

And you love this god and you want him/her to look at you always although you are such a wreck.

Love me, because I am ugly and I want you to love me so I can feel better about myself.

But that shouldn't be the case.

I hated it so much when the narrator's sister in The Perks Of Being A Wallflower based her self-esteem on her boyfriend. 

"You are a woman, and you are not a muse nor are you a bunch of metaphors. You are a woman."

I cried so hard at this line when Sarah Kay performed this poem last night. (That's the closest I can remember of that poem because it's new and it's not posted on her website yet.)

This is Private Parts by Sarah Kay.

The first love of my life never saw me naked - there was always a parent coming home in half an hour - always a little brother in the next room.
Always too much body and not enough time for me to show it.

Instead, I gave him my shoulder, my elbow, the bend of my knee - I lent him my corners, my edges, the parts of me I could afford to offer - the parts I had long since given up trying to hide.
He never asked for more.

He gave me back his eyelashes, the back of his neck, his palms - we held each piece we were given like it was a nectarine that could bruise if we weren’t careful.

We collected them like we were trying to build an orchid.

And the spaces that he never saw, the ones my parents half labeled “private parts” when I was still small enough to fit all of myself and my worries inside a bathtub - I made up for that by handing over all the private parts of me.

There was no secret I didn’t tell him, there was no moment I didn’t share - and we didn’t grow up, we grew in, like ivy wrapping, moulding each other into perfect yings and yangs.

We kissed with mouths open, breathing his exhale into my inhale - we could have survived underwater or outer space.

Breathing only of the breathe we traded, we spelled love, g-i-v-e, I never wanted to hide my body from him - if I could have I would have given it all away with the rest of me - I did not know it was possible.

To save some thing for myself.

Some nights I wake up knowing he is anxious, he is across the world in another woman’s arms - the years have spread us like dandelion seeds - sanding down the edges of our jigsaw parts that used to only fit each other.

He drinks from the pitcher on the night stand, checks the digital clock, it is 5am - he tosses in sheets and tries to settle, I wait for him to sleep.

Before tucking myself into elbows and knees reach for things I have long since given up.

x