Re: Your recent comment

If you haven’t been intimately privy to my recent struggles, you have no right to leave those comments on my blog. If you really cared, you’d know better than to ask those questions. Don’t presume you know what you know simply because of the things I post. You may or may not know that Life is a vicious cycle that goes back and forth. Today I rule the world, but at night, I have to nurse my wounds.

I removed your comment and my reply from my blog, Long-time Silent Reader, because you could have been genuinely concerned and didn’t realize how insensitive you were, saying those things.

If you knew of the things I’ve been doing outside of my blogs, you will see that I have been actively trying to “give up and move on”. However, I admit I am holding myself back from greater things, but that’s only because I’m still trying to reclaim my Self that I seem to have lost. But, as you’ve observed, “he already has someone else now”, so what is the problem again?

One day, perhaps, you will see me posting happy blog entries about my newfound happiness, or sharing photos of every meal I have with my new man, of every thing he has bought for me, of every time he holds my hand in bed, and maybe, even of every time he fucks me, but till then, whenever I get emotional, or whenever I’m feeling the need to rant, I shall post whatever I want to share on my blogs, because that’s how I must deal with it.

Thank you for caring enough to comment, though. Thank you.

Lost

That brilliant moment just before you fall asleep where you have a sudden creative streak and an idea starts forming in your head. You can see it taking shape, slowly but surely, and you know it will be beautiful. You will love it because it was created when you were most relaxed, most unguarded—isn’t that when we all fall head over heels?

Then reality creeps in and builds obstacles in your way, like little pebbles that cause you to trip over and burn the skin off your knees. As you bend over to dust the soil off, that moment is gone. You can only watch, helplessly, as the idea dies a slow death in your mind. The idea bleeds into tears, which soak your pillow wet under your cheek.

The desire is lost, and so is sleep.

Rebirth.

The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune’s spite; revive from ashes and rise.

~ Miguel de Cervantes

Tired

I had a really long day at work. And before that, I had woken up earlier than necessary because of some bad dreams that I had. Right now I’m fighting to keep my eyes opened even though I’d very much like to complete this post. My thumbs and forefingers have been rubbed raw and are now swollen and painful from handling tiny hidden zips on thick layers of fabric all day. I broke two nails and pricked my fingers on fucking needles that were hidden under those layers of clothing. I have blisters under my feet from walking to and fro from the carpark to the photographer’s studio. That was all fine. What broke the straw on the camel’s back was that I discovered that something I loved had gone missing.

Earlier in the day, I had rushed home from the studio to grab my steamer because the studio didn’t have one. So I grabbed a rolled up carrier from my bedroom, one that we had bought in Yokohama on our first trip there together. It has never been used because it was too precious to me. When I discovered it missing at the studio I became flustered and asked everyone on the set if they had seen it. Of course they didn’t. My heart broke and my eyes started to sting, but I kept the tears in because I knew my colleagues would think I was crazy for crying over a cloth bag. The photographer offered me a plastic bag but what did he know? It wasn’t a particularly expensive bag, but it was dear to me. I used to take it out from my drawer and reminisce about our first trip to Japan together.

It wasn’t until I reached home and heard my cat’s bell from the other side of the door that the tears fell. It would have looked ridiculous to my neighbors if they were to come home right then, especially when I was holding my key, poised at the door, and crying uncontrollably. I came home, sat on my sofa, and had a good long cry before turning on the tv to reruns of 娛樂百分百 and a dinner of my leftover birthday cake. Nothing but a delayed reaction to all my pent-up frustrations, bottled-up emotions, and anger at myself for even thinking of using that bag today.

If I never find that bag, I can only accept that it signifies the loss of all existing hope I have of ever going back to what it used to be.

I’m so tired right now.

Why I keep going back

Because you’re addicted. Because you know exactly what Edward meant when he called Bella his own “personal brand of heroin” and you’re ashamed to admit you feel that way. Because you’re like a moth to the flame with this person, because you know you’ll get hurt in the end and yet. Because a part of you knows better and another part doesn’t want to; because you’re not ready to all-the-way know better. Because this is a suicide leap but the way they make you feel makes it somehow worth it.

Because they speak your language. Because they understand you even when they don’t. Because on some deep, intrinsic level you just get each other. Because sometimes it seems like they know you better than you know yourself. Because they’ve seen the worst of you and the best; because, regardless of how they hurt you, you still feel an inexplicable trust.

Because you’re afraid. You’re afraid you’ll never be loved like that again; you’re afraid no one else will be in tune with you, your moods, the essence of who you are in this necessary specific way. Because you’re afraid you don’t have the capacity to love anyone like that again; afraid all your love energy is spent, afraid you’re incapable of ever emotionally getting it up for anyone else. Because you’ve never been so vulnerable with anyone else and the thought of even trying makes you feel hopeless and tired.

Because you think this time will be different, think that with all the naiveté of someone proposing marriage to their drug addicted mate hoping that’s the move that will cure them. “This time will be different” — you hear people say that and you roll your eyes so loud you wake up the neighbors but you do exactly the same thing; the same thing over and over and expecting different results. Because you think you can make this work if you try a little harder, if you just push a little more.

Because you believe in it, against your better judgment. Because you think it’s worth it; because you don’t stop to consider the very real possibility that the negatives outweigh the positives. Because you think you owe each other, your history, something still; because you feel inherently bonded and you don’t want to break it. Because you leave logic out of it; because after all, the heart wants what the heart wants and what can you do about that.

Because you live in the past, because you remember who you were once, who they were, and what you had; remember this and want to rewind. Because you think it’s possible to somehow recreate an idealized past in an unsure future. Because you’ve been holding onto the possibility of becoming a whole again for months, for years, safe and protected by the idea that no matter what happens, you’re not alone because of that faint background possibility of Us.

Because you think they’ll change, you’ll change, the circumstances will change; things will somehow mysteriously get better. Because you think this time around you’ll appreciate each other because you know what it’s like to be without. Because you have kids together. Because you have a dog together. Because you have amazing memories together. Because you have an “amor vincit omnia” tattoo. Because Hollywood or literature or God made you believe that love is enough. Because you don’t want to think about the possibility of a world in which it isn’t.

Stolen from:

Why You Keep Coming Back
– Mila Jaroniec, Thought Catalog

Vice or Virtue

Am I less of an intimate companion because I don’t smoke or drink?

I find myself wondering about this every time. I will never know what it’s like to share a cigarette, whether with a friend or a lover, or clink glasses of red and empty mugs of gold. The jolt to my system when the smoke hits my nose stings my eyes, and I won’t even begin to explain the throbbing in my temples when the alcohol seeps into my bloodstream.

Too many times have I lost you to cigarettes and alcohol. Too many times have I laid or sat there, alone, feeling like I’ve done something wrong. So many times that I have—and still—wondered, would things have been different? Would I be where I am now if I had inhaled and consumed the things that would hurt me, as I am doing so now?

I.

I am nothing but a fake.

I don’t deserve being where I am right now.

You think too highly of me.

Square One

I thought I have been doing a good job holding back my tears.

I thought I was strong… In fact, I was pretty surprised at how well I’m coping with the situation I’m in now. Work has been crazy—good crazy—it leaves me with no time for day dreaming or the human mind version of the vacuum effect – the culling of current occupants of the mind only becomes an excellent breeding ground for new ones.

I was supposed to be going to London and Italy next month. All that badgering to get my leave approved and for me to check the rates for my own flight, and to find out which places I want to go, and to book the hotels. My father has already been to Europe, so while he gave animated suggestions about where tourists usually go to, he doesn’t want to revisit those places. My mother, as always, doesn’t give a damn where we go and how we get there, as long as she likes what she sees. Other travellers take months to plan their Europe trip. I have three weekends. Then yesterday, my mother told us that she tried to apply for leave from work but her project deadline has been moved forwards and she feared we may have to leave for London a few weeks later. My boss has been very understanding about this, but I hate behaving like 20 year old who can’t make up her mind.

It disturbs me that my parents don’t think very highly of my job. My father’s snide remarks about me “just playing around with the computer all day” or being insistent on me “just leaving the house earlier” so I can be in time to meet them for an early dinner is getting on my nerves. But then again, nothing I ever do is good enough for them.

This, and what just happened with my cat and my mother’s plants, only brings me back to those angsty teenage years I had put behind me. Here I am, buying my own meals, paying my own bills, offering to pay some of my mother’s bills to take the load off her finances, thinking I’m all grown up. Today, I’m reminded of all the years I had spent arguing with her over my privacy and the freedom to make friends. Of how a score of 98 in Math was disappointing because a careless mistake had cost me 2 points. She hasn’t changed. I’ve just grown older.

Not too long ago, I thought I had a very good chance of escaping this. I had a knight in shining armour who lifted the dull spell that had cast a shadow over me and promised to rescue me from my tower of darkness, and we would run away from the invisible shackles that bound us painfully to the people who have given us life. But my warrior had grown weary and had given up on his quest, and I am suddenly back to square one. I am that little girl who stopped studying, because she realised it didn’t make much of a difference. I was the teenage girl who played hooky from Creative Writing class on weekends because her over-protective parents didn’t allow her to go out with her friends. I was the girl in her early twenties who went out every day and partied till wee hours in the morning because she couldn’t stand being at home.

After my last vacation to Tokyo with my parents three years ago, I told myself to never ever travel with them again. No matter how enticing the idea of going to Europe is, I have told them repeatedly that I’d prefer if they’d go without me. Of course they piled on the guilt about my father’s impending retirement, which may mean our chances of travelling would diminish significantly. The urge to cancel is extremely strong.

Sometimes, I get angry thinking about how my brother has flown the coop and gone far away to New Zealand—on our mother’s account, no less—and left me here alone with them. Recently, I have come to envy his apparent lack of responsibility and ability to distance himself physically and emotionally from this family without a tinge of guilt. At 30, I’m still living with the parents because my father doesn’t believe in the notion of his unmarried children living away from him. I’m still trying hard to seek validation and approval from every one, still trying to believe someone will see the goodness in me and love me. I’m back to square one.

My parents haven’t changed, and neither have I. We’ve just grown much, much older.

Nocturnal Playmates

0447 hours

She finally allowed herself to close her eyes and prayed that Sleep would claim her right away, sparing her from fighting that war again tonight. But Sleep had forgotten about her again.

It was as if they could smell her fear.

No, she begged, please, no. But she knew they were upon her before she could even try to resist them. They could read her mind and control her body, and when they were this determined to conquer her, she knew it wasn’t worth fighting them.

They have been waiting all day for her, these playmates of hers. Hatred came and sat next to her, stroking her hair and whispering those dreaded words softly into her ears. Pride brought her a new dress, flimsy little thing it was, but for a moment, it made her feel beautiful again. Pain, never one for words, simply took her into a fierce embrace, choking her, hurting her.

Then Love, always late in the game, crept up from behind her and cupped her palms over her eyes, disorienting her. Remember me? Love asked, her voice no longer as familiar or reassuring as it used to be. Frightened, she pushed them all away, falling backwards and tumbling down an endless black hole of memories.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone once again.

The tears fell like rain. In the dead silence of her room, you could hear the beating of her tears as they fell onto the pillow behind her, the anguished cry that was caged in her throat threatening to escape. The tears fell like rain, drowning out the words that Hatred had whispered, soaking through the dress that Pride had brought her, seeping like Pain’s embrace into the open wounds these nightly games have given her. These tears must fall like rain.

To cleanse her. To soothe her. To heal her.

I Wish I Was An Illiterate Girl.

You Should Date An Illiterate Girl
By CHARLES WARNKE

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi, and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale, or the evenings get long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail, frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return, or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent as a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, god damnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so god damned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. I hate you. I really, really, really hate you.

 

via @wallflour