stripped bare

Lost

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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.

Written by smudgi3

April 23, 2013, Tuesday at 02:17

Posted in Insanity

I know.

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The hand that held her phone was trembling as she read the text messages on her screen. She was crying. She was remembering. I know, because I do that too.

I looked down at the top of her head, imagining myself stooping down and giving her a hug, or any kind of comfort. That was as much as I could do, or I could risk embarrassing her, and potentially myself, by doing something like that in public. She swiped her tears away with her other hand, and wiped them on her jeans, smudging her face and staining her clothes with mascara.

A short while later, when the tears on her face had dried and her shoulders stopped heaving with sobs, she took a deep breath and looked up, and realized that I had been staring. She didn’t look away, so I smiled, hoping she would understand that I understood. That I know, because I did that too, once, at a place with faces even more foreign than these ones.

She smiled awkwardly, then stood up because it was her stop next. It was my stop too. When we both stepped out onto the platform, I handed her my pack of tissues and squeezed her hand when she reached out for it. She looked up from her hand into my eyes, and her tears fell again, as if on cue. This time, she pushed her small frame onto mine and hugged me tightly, and didn’t hold back. I put down my bag and stood there with her.

I don’t know how long we stood there, two strangers, friends for that fleeting moment, sharing pain, exchanging comfort, not uttering a single word. When she was done, we both looked at the wet gray smudges she had left on my left shoulder. I frowned at her and she giggled. She knew that I would understand. That I know, because I was once her too.

 

 

Written by smudgi3

April 22, 2013, Monday at 20:56

Posted in Dear Diary

Closure.

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A whisper, a flutter, and silence falls once more, between the worlds.

Brief Lives, The Sandman, Neil Gaiman

Written by smudgi3

March 10, 2013, Sunday at 23:22

Posted in Dear Diary, Perversion

Wake Up

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大藝術家(The Great Artist) – 蔡依林
作詞:嚴云農

他眼神湛藍 像從愛琴海邊剛歸來
上半身像詩人 下半身像流浪漢
妳愛他神祕 愛他危險 YEAH
愛他頹廢 愛他的優越
他心裡的野獸 比畢卡索更狂野
桃花比村上隆 畫的更氾濫鮮豔
他愛妳隨和 愛妳方便 YEAH
敢怒不敢言

妳自我催眠 他是藝術家
妳給他色盤 去拼貼背叛
他不是梵谷 也不是莫內
他的模特兒 卻都從來不缺少
面對妳他裝的 乖的 乖的
背對妳卻亂來 壞的 壞的
NE.NE.NE.NE.NEVER STOP
他只想蒐集 更多 芭比娃娃

Wake up 妳是大藝術家
妳真心創作的愛無價
Wake up 別再做慈善家
妳其實沒有那麼愛他
愛是繆思女神的吻
誰都應該被寵愛紋身
GO GET IT GO GET IT
那種美能讓 維納斯誕生

妳無需忍受他的 人在曹營心在漢
要學會放下不甘 戒掉母性氾濫
他要妳讓讓 妳就讓讓 YEAH
說的愛妳 只是嚷嚷

他的 博愛 始終沒有極限
複製 謊言 瓶頸不曾出現
妳該說再見 就說再見 YEAH
千萬別留戀

妳自我催眠 他是藝術家
妳給他色盤 去拼貼背叛
他不是梵谷 也不是莫內
他的模特兒 卻都從來不缺少
面對妳他裝的 乖的 乖的
背對妳卻亂來 壞的 壞的
NE.NE.NE.NE.NEVER STOP
他只想蒐集 更多 芭比娃娃

Wake up 妳是大藝術家
妳真心創作的愛無價
Wake up 別再做慈善家
妳其實沒有那麼愛他
愛是繆思女神的吻
誰都應該被寵愛紋身
GO GET IT GO GET IT
那種美能讓 維納斯誕生

美不美麗 不是安迪沃荷能決定
大藝術家 要有屬於自己的感性

愛過就要 擁有勇敢放手的淡定
大藝術家 會讓愛情再文藝復興
DO IT NOW

Wake up 妳是大藝術家
妳真心創作的愛無價
Wake up 別再做慈善家
妳其實沒有那麼愛他
愛是繆思女神的吻
誰都應該被寵愛紋身
GO GET IT GO GET IT
那種美能讓 維納斯誕生

Written by smudgi3

January 24, 2013, Thursday at 11:23

Posted in Moods

Rebirth.

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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

Written by smudgi3

January 1, 2013, Tuesday at 23:59

Posted in Insanity

Hello, Stranger, Goodbye.

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Hello, stranger, hello.

My eyes met yours today when the bus I was in stopped at the bus stop where you stood, hands in the front pockets of your jeans, headphones over your ears.

For the few seconds that the bus was stationary, time stood still as well. Here I sat and there you stood, safely separated by a window and anonymity, and the fact that we will never ever meet again. So boldly we stared, not pressured by space or names, and in that moment, that short fleeting moment, we were lovers.

Perhaps you were listening to the same music I was, the same beats and lyrics pounded in our ears in the seconds we shared.

Perhaps we would discover that we have a lot in common and conversation would flow in a long, continuous stream of words, dreams, and promises.

Perhaps I would find myself in your bed and our bodies would fit perfectly, just like my hand would in yours. Our foreplay of words would lead to sex, and the aftermath of our sex would transcribe into words, one no less important than the other.

Perhaps we would start completing each other’s sentences and with just a glance, you would know exactly what I was thinking. We would then decide that there would be no one else for us, that we each have found our missing halves.

Then perhaps Fate would become jealous of this love we shared, so Destiny would cut the invisible string that had tied us together.

So one day you would find that I knew you a little too well and start to pull away from me. And, mistaking your insecurities for the diminishing of your affections, I would begin to demand more of you.

So we would go on like this, this emotional tug-of-war, seduced by the warmth of our joined bodies and lying to ourselves that we were enough for each other. We would feed on the memory of that electrifying gaze we shared and drown our thirsty demons with glasses half-emptied with hopes and promises.

So then we would have nothing but resentment and anger left between us, and we would realise that love alone could no longer keep us together, when your words were no longer written for me, when I have murdered a part of you that had nestled deep within me with my own hands.

So we would walk away from each other’s lives, occasionally wondering what it might have been, occasionally wondering if it had all been a dream, occasionally reminiscing, occasionally regretting.

I hadn’t shifted in my seat, nor did you move from your position, but so much have passed between us. With each blink an episode of many “perhaps” and with each breath several “would haves”.

The bus started to move away. I had already fallen in love with you, but I knew I wouldn’t look back. You knew it too and that’s why I was gone from your mind as soon as our eyes broke contact. I was sad for a while, but what were a mere few seconds when it comes to the grand scheme of things made up of egos, pride, and selfishness?

So farewell, stranger, goodbye.

Written by smudgi3

September 27, 2012, Thursday at 01:18

Posted in Dear Diary, Perversion

Tired

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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.

Written by smudgi3

September 11, 2012, Tuesday at 23:55

Posted in Dear Diary, Insanity