One day I woke up thinking,
"Maybe I'm not a drama student anymore"
There's an annoying little voice in my head that's constantly telling me,
"Paint. Paint and you'll be happy"

I wonder what it's like doing an art degree
Sure, it must be tiring as hell, but I don't mind spending hours in front of a canvas not needing any interaction with humans just so I can find myself again.
Some days I get embarrassed, even when I'm alone, on my own

I don't like one bit of it at all

Can I detach myself from my emotions
Because they are just not helping
Somebody tell Paul Layzell I'm going to art school

Art

"What is he (dancer/artist) then to do with the rest of his life, knowing that he was no longer a glimpse of God? This is one of the most painful reconciliations to make in a creative life. But maybe it doesn't have to be so full of anguish if you never happened to believe in the first place that the most extraordinary aspects of your being came from you. But maybe if you just believe that they (talents) were on loan to you, from some unimaginable source for some exquisite portion of your life to be passed along when you're finished with somebody else."

- Elizabeth Gilbert's words from a TEDtalk: Your Elusive Creative Genius, and author of Eat Pray Love.

A very, very short story that I wrote at 6 AM because I could not sleep.

ART

It is the 21st century.
We are learning to see things in black and white alongside Brannan, Nashville and Valencia.
Emotional distance is sacred; We are our own heroes.
Apart from that, it's either subdued Willow or everybody's favourite, harsh-ass Inkwell.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to tell.
She wishes she were born a hippie; she wants to live in a literary world of natural magic behind technicolored frames.
Focus.
Light spills out of the Stabilo colour pencil as she lasers the shit out of the empty page.
Ah. The smell of burning papyrus…
Desperate, the hippie gulps down every curlicue of smoke. This is when her eyes start rolling back into her head, like rabid, internal pinballs bouncing off every surface imaginable, not missing a single ding.

Woah.

She steadies her woozy self atop a weak stool, determined to prove her pinpricked focus to a blank wall in the smoke-filled room.
Grunting, the hippie gathers her black and white clothes, holds them against her abdomen, and with a monstrous heave, she does projectile like never before: every nook and cranny spewed in thick, tacky gunk and glittery saliva.
With flared nostrils the size of Russia, she stands over her masterpiece and yells, "Now THIS - this, is REAL ART!"

Across the street, her neighbour stirs, wonders what the heck that was, and goes back to sleep.

It's the 21st century and stories are hard to sell.
But fuck it.
Fuck fashion, fuck the press, and fuck this mediocre, never-gonna-make-it life.
The hippie wields her wooden lightsabre and holds it up like a trophy - a magnificent, shining middle finger to the black and white world.
So go grab your Faber Castells everybody, b'cos it's time to get high.

A monologue

I am thinking of turning this into a monologue.
Might be part of a future play.

Over these couple of years, I see myself laughing at things that I found repulsive in the first place. Moralistic as it sounds, I have learnt to embrace the perverse perspective, and many times, I don't actually like it. I laugh, because it shows that I have no fear. Until the day I saw you laugh. That was when I realised I didn't want to be like this anymore. I will say "Ew" at things I am truly grossed out by, and not mask it anymore. I try too hard to be like you, because I admire you. I want you to accept who I am - but 'who I am' was created according to your tastes, your interests and what you find beautiful. I know that to you, I am not beautiful and you wouldn't look twice at me if I continued wearing clothes you found tacky. Revolting. Tasteless. If you heard this, you'd probably be mad, and you'd lose steam in light of the countless of times and ways you've tried to show me your love, your acceptance of who I am, and that I am the one who is doing all the comparing. But recently, I've been observing the ways in which you un-love me. It started when loving me was no longer a necessity, where there was no longer pressure to keep this whole 'love' thing alive. I am not enough for myself, and I will never be enough for you. There are so many girls to feast your eyes on, and there is only one me - nobody looks at me. And I am okay with that.

So honestly, I am not tough. Not in this way, at least.
And I don't have to be.

I don't want to make you laugh anymore.

I am growing quite wary of our current domestic helper.
Or maybe it's because I'm a pretty suspicious person.
By the way, as a disclaimer, we respect her and empathize with the fact that she has to wash a daily batch of laundry contributed by four persons living in this house excluding herself, cook, tend to the garden and clean the rooms.
Most days it's hot as hell outside and she wears long sleeves so she doesn't get bitten by insects when watering the plants.
She smiles and greets us good morning, which I guess I'm quite crappy at returning (I don't like talking in the mornings, neither will I whisper sweet nothings to my husband in bed when he wakes me up next time).
I guess she wants us to accept and to commend the work she has done. But my parents aren't the most encouraging people around. I mean, what for? In fact, they are more critical than anything else, and I am quite critical as well but I guess the difference between me and them is that I'd actually say "The food is nice today," or "Thanks Elma."
I try to not be so nice all the time though, because it gets to her head.
When we tell her she did something wrong, she dismisses us with an "Okay" and a smile, and does the same mistake AGAIN.
Her command of English is pretty weak, and she doesn't write things down even though we've told her umpteen times - just so she may remember what to do the next time and not commit the same mistake.
When I come home to find my things rearranged, I get all stressed and my mother just says, "you have to tell her." I wish someone could record the number of times I've told her not to do this and that, but she never gets the message. I'd rather speak to an answering machine.

I don't trust her.
It's been six months but I still can't warm up to her.
I want Johnna back.

- but -

y'know,

i wait to write poetry but it never comes

the mood to write is so

delicate

it passes me by so quickly

i want it to be intrepid

- but -

i use vocabulary i don't quite understand,

can't quite explain

and still,

i am here

waiting to write

waiting for the words to flow

- but -

i am bogged down

by the depression a writer knows all too well

slipping beneath the undertow

the gnashing of rocks

against my head

and still,

the words will not flow;

they keep on

rolling,

rolling on,

like waves

in this head of mine

telling me

you have to write, you want to write

- but -

when it hits,

it just

leaves

full stop

Never too late

Today I was thinking of social media and how it has shaped me.

Because of it, I have become more judgmental, and as if I wasn't an 'appearance-first' sort of person before, it has made me become even more aware of what I look like to others, and how others look like to me.
Especially my spiritual life. 

I want to change all of this. I know it starts from an individual, but if I can't even capture my mind's most selfish thoughts on a day to day basis, how do I start? The question was, WHAT can cause me to surrender these poisonous things and in turn, slowly change the world? 

Abiding In The Father's Love 

YAM Retreat 2014 started on Saturday morning and ended on Monday afternoon - a three-day retreat that I clearly underestimated. In fact, I underestimated God. On Sunday night, I assumed that it was "too late to experience the Father's love" and Him being God, blew me away as usual. 

Pastor Barnabas encouraged us to, instead of going out for supper, stay in the hotel ballroom or to go back to our own rooms to simply spend a little time with God. 

I had no desire or intent to, and even asked a friend of mine: Eh, what do you want to do? Do you want to go out (sincerely) or are you going to spend some time with God (sarcastically)?

Then he lost his phone and a few of us went downstairs to look for it at the ballroom we just left after Pastor Barnabas' talk. 

When I walked in, it wasn't the low whirring of the air conditioner or how quiet/focused everyone was that hit me. 

It wasn't all that, because a thought popped into my mind: "Lord, Your presence is so attractive, I want to be with You now." 

But like on an episode of The Prodigal Daughter 101, I ran away. I went upstairs to find Belle, but I just couldn't get that sentence out of my head. 

It was all too strange to me, because that was what my heart wanted but my flesh wanted to go out to play, to talk nonsense and waste the night away. To enjoy it MY WAY. To end the whole fiesta with a bang - but at retreats like that, the "bang" is encountering the living God. That was the difference.

I told myself, "if God wants to meet me, He'll give me the desire to do it. And He'll give it to me now."
Sure enough, He did. Because I had never felt this drawn to go back to a place that I had previously found so boring.

I knew that even after He gives me the desire to do something, I still have the choice to either abide by it or to completely ignore it; AKA free will.
But this retreat showed me that I need to start relating to God as Father, not Boss. 

So this time, I went back. Belle went with me, and I was so encouraged by the way she said, "Let's go." 

At first, I was HELLA nervous to even step into the ballroom. The presence of the Lord was so strong; He was there, but I didn't know what to say. I chose a quiet corner and sat with Belle, and I still didn't know how to start. 

"Um, hi God, I have nothing to offer You. I don't even know if it's too late to come and meet You."

The model answer is no, the Jamie answer was no, and the real, honest-to-god answer will always be no.

It is never too late to meet God. 

And what's amazing is that He knows the depths of your heart before you can even start to make sense of it. And without knowing it, the secret longing of my heart was, "Draw me close to You, because I can't do it alone."

So after Jamie prayed a prayer with me, inviting Christ to come and find me again, she urged me to spend a little time on my own with God.

I want to record this down because it was beautiful.

I flopped down on the floor (Belle said everyone saw my butt but I was so unaware of what I looked like that I just continued lying in that position for about an hour), and asked the Lord the most self-indulgent, yet simplest question I could ever ask: "Lord, how much do you love me? Show me how much you love me." 

Immediately, I was reminded of a phone conversation I had with my father, who had called me around two hours ago to ask, "Ling, have you eaten dinner yet?"
"Yes I have! Do you want to see a picture of the place?"
"Okay!" 

"I'm coming back on Monday night."

"Okay, good. Okay, bye!" 

Because I am Chinese, I understand my father's heart perfectly when he asks me or any of his children, "Ling, have you eaten yet?" 

It is one of care and concern. It is one who wants to know you're doing fine, and you are well. 

And this love crosses boundaries. 

When I was in the UK and it was midnight in Singapore, I received a phone call from him with him asking, "Ling, what are you doing now?" 

Ling. What. are. you. doing. now. 

And my response just HAD to be, "Why you call me? I'm packing my things. Why leh?" 

That was my first response - cold, blunt, and even cutting. 

I knew it wasn't the most tactful reply, because I heard him say, "Har..." which is "Oh...", and he quickly moved on from that to ask me something else. 

After I was reminded of that, I felt the Lord say to me, "You see that? I love you a hundred, a thousand times more than how much your earthly father loves you."

And I just stayed face down, on the carpeted floor, crying and laughing as I acknowledged His love and saw my dad's face in my mind's eye. 

This was my Father's heart for me.

All it took was a little time spent with God - and that experience fills me to the brim. That experience makes me want to become better for Him. 

On social media, our profiles look brilliant. Even our spiritual lives look flawless. "I already know God. I am a Christian. I am a winner!" 

We forget that we are very, very, broken people. We forget that God longs for a "broken spirit; a broken contrite heart that You will not despise (Psalm 51:17)". We can't even save ourselves, let alone save humanity. We are born selfish, moralistic and are quick to anger and judgement of others. 

At this camp, Christ said to me, "Come as you are. And I mean it. As. you. are." 

And knowing how He has treated me, how He loves with an everlasting love, this means that I, too, am equipped with the same love He has shown me. 

"But even though my condition tempted you to reject me, you did not despise me or turn me away. No, you took me in and cared for me as though I were an angel from God or even Christ Jesus himself." (Galatians 4:14)

Come to the Father

Though your gift is small

Broken hearts, broken lives, 

He will take them all 

The power of the Word

The power of His blood

Everything was done, so you would come

Falling face down was the smartest decision I've ever made at church camp. 

'God is most glorified when I am most satisfied in Him.'

My remainder

I love how faithfulness is akin to a solid rock.
Unshakable, unmovable, even as white horses charge at them, they remain.

I was looking through a friend's Instagram account and my god, how he has grown.
I was psyched (though very awkward) when I saw him at the OCS Commissioning Parade yesterday.
The nine months of hell are etched all over his face. From a boy to a man. It's absolutely bonkers.
It just hit me how much I miss this guy.
And I really miss my polytechnic friends.
Some days I think to myself, how could one mistake like that fuck everything up?
From September through to March, I was constantly asking myself the same old question: how am I going to let it all go?
But I had to, because nobody said a word. Not a single word.
It was the silence that hurt the most.
The only words I remember are, "Li Ling, it has been so painful working with you. I really hope that whoever you work with in the future never has to go through what I had to."
It was a feverish Monday afternoon and I had all the time to study for the Law paper but no time to tell you I needed your friendship, your trust and your understanding the most.
I was terrified. I can't forget the panic.

It was in the way I looked at you and looked away again, because there was nothing I could say if you wouldn't confront the reality of the situation with me.
Even as I write this, I'm painfully aware of the fact that I probably sound pathetic. But bear with me, because this has been the greatest letdown I had to ever make anyone go through.
And I must say, it wasn't easy to bear the brunt of my wrongdoing either.

Two years after and I'm not hurting anymore, but I remember those three months, from the build up to the climax and how it all flopped back down to silence - all as clear as day.
Silence is a whip, and it is harsh as hell.
So when I saw A yesterday, I was disappointed in the awkwardness between us. But it was MY own awkwardness; I could feel it in my fingertips. I felt myself freeze. I hadn't seen him for ages and once, he was one of two faces I wanted to see the most at school.
Even when I was rushing my work and he needed help and I snapped at him over the phone.
I tried to find a reason why. I told S and G that it must've been because he got mad at me before. Mad and condescending, and above all, irritated. And when someone gets like that towards me, I can't function. I was so confused throughout it all, and even amazed at how could a single thought manifest into hostility.

But when I saw him yesterday, nothing mattered.
It wouldn't be the same for you though.
The blow was way worse, but I wish you the best wherever you are in the world, and whatever you're doing to make your life count.

A person can only have so much pride and today, I never thought I'd be letting it go.
When some friendships are lost, they are lost forever.
But there will always be those who remain like rocks.
Faithful.
Unshakable, unmovable; they remain.

This is my remainder, and I believe whatever has been lost will be restored.