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

 

Hot afternoon

This is the kind of hot afternoon where you're too tired to bother about shame and the things you've done to make anyone feel better about themselves. You just feel so sorry about everything.
This is also the kind of afternoon where the house is quiet except for the murmuring of Chinese actors coming from the TV, speaking about their emperors and morals and whatnot.
No one is particularly in sight or, if they are, they are chained fast asleep to the sofa by their headaches.
The main and glass doors are flung wide open, and the heat is like an evil spirit, an uninvited guest that brings unwanted company, the type that you cannot give thanks for.
This heat sets the mood.
You see yourself making a cup of hot green tea, put some poison in it, have a sip, retreat into your air-conditioned room and climb into bed, under the fairy quilt. You deserve to sleep in cool air because you won't wake up anymore, you don't need to wake up. You deserve this reward.
And no one would've known how they let you slip out of their sight or heart or mind for the past few years, or how they could've saved you because your own discernment failed them.
Failed them.
The kind of phase you've waited long enough for to pass but it never did, so it couldn't have been one.
After you've been surrounded by people for so long but yet never being able to hold them or to let them hold you, and the process of watching comfort slip away has been the most excruciating so you decided that you had to decide. And you have.
You never thought you'd commit to anything, you don't even give out cards and presents on time but this is important to you, so you wrote letters to people the weeks before this wondrous, hot afternoon came.
Three categories, each category a different length of words, because you're superficial and intentional like that.
The first category is to the people you love through and through. The perfect ones who have shown you the blackest sides of them but yet you dismiss these flaws and  you write enough to let them know you love them and the rest is up to them to believe since they can't ask you anymore. You write about half to three-quarters of a page.
The second category is to the people you hate, you make sure you sound vicious enough but ending it off with gratitude because they had taught you something. They are obviously still wretched liars you would never associate yourself with and you are over the moon about departing permanently. You write about three pages.
The third category is to the people you love and hate, with a "I have loved you all my life" to end it. This category includes your mother, your lover and your child. These letters take about, perhaps, three paragraphs, like a monologue. The shortest of all three categories, but for these, you've spent the longest time working on their diction and tone. They need to know you love them and hate them for many things. Like for failing to be your protector: that's why you've stopped calling, having lunch, having sex and checking homework.

Only that long, long sleep allows you to protect yourself.
Of course you're uncertain, but it's better than giving into the temptation of relying on the ones you love.
Flee from temptation and the devil will flee too, right?
You're the only devil you've always known.
Suicide doesn't always need to be an escape or a selfish act; some people just don't understand.

Been wondering if I should've gotten up to play.
It's in the silence with so many things left to say.
I just want to kiss you but I can't because I know I'll just cry.

_|_

I detest having dinner at home because I feel like I face two parents who don't need me.
I lose them from 6.45 PM all the way till 8 in the morning.
I lose them to a freaking Taiwanese television programme.
Nobody gives a shit about my life, only during dinnertime, because that's when I'm asked to come home.
And when I'm home, I don't feel any different because they're always stuck on the bloody programme.
They talk as if they know the characters in real life.
I used to think it was funny but now it's taking a toll on our relationship.
Mediacorp, you need to realise LIKE FINALLY REALISE THAT THIS PROGRAMME ISN'T FOR THE FAMILY, YOU MONEY SUCKING RETARDS.

I hate that I want my parents' attention.
I hate that I'm even admitting it.
Money isn't everything to me, damn it.
I don't even wanna show them my face anymore.
Just leave me some money in the box before you go out.
I should just run.
Don't even wanna come home to these people anymore.
They're parents? Really?
God, what the heck are parents?
I'm going for a fucking run because I don't wanna disappoint you or myself or risk anyone leaving me for shit.
What the fuck did I do to deserve this fucking show in my life.

There are no words, no poetry, no language that could make me show you my heart, or to persuade you to show me yours.
I want to find love all over again, love that had no expectation, love that had forgiveness, love that had patience and love that had confidence.
And I have a feeling this love will make me so strong by making me so weak.
If this is what I am going through right now, then I will stick to the narrow road.

Some more than others, some less.
The olive must be crushed to produce the best oil.
To make nice pasta.
Mmm nomnom.

I feel paranoid and unattractive today.
And I can't harp on it or shake it off either.

List, O list!

I think everyone has fun making lists.
This is what I'd like to stick by this holiday.

1. By the end of this holiday I would have, above all, learnt Lazy Eye on the guitar.
Just one song, I know, but it's my favourite song :>

2. I would also really like to shed some fat globules. At the moment, they are having a party; particularly rocking hard on my tummy. Patience means I'm going to do one form of exercise everyday.

3. Mmm I'm currently reading up more about fashion now. I am going to Queenstown Library to get books about fashion during particular time periods. I feel more motivated since I have volunteered to take up the role of Costumes Head for the upcoming theatre production in school.

4. Make a day-to-day "Make Every Day Count" logbook during these six weeks. So this will be proof that I'm not wasting my time away.

5. Visit the Salvation Army thrift store.

6. Read, holyshit, read.

7. Remember God, always.

This is the kind of post I'm wary about making because it involves planning and I've been so afraid to fail by not setting out to do what I've planned to do. But feelings of failure must be swept aside to make way for discipline. Of course it has to. I want to eat char siew bao now.