Tag Archives: journal

On the subject of birthdays…

I honestly would post something more profound and broodingly thoughtful and—heaven forbid—perhaps even more enlightening before this day finally ends, but apparently this is the only thing I could manage to write for today. And aptly so, I suppose. So I’ll just be casually leaving this here and calling it a night. Happy another year of somehow still existing to me. 🎉

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Let’s Talk About Not Talking About It

Well I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said
I’m telling it straight ’cause it might be the only chance I get
Just shut up, just shut up, would you stop telling me who I am?
I’m sick of it, over it, however you want it said…

~*~

Some people find it really easy to write about themselves.

I respect them for that. For being able to express innermost thoughts and more private sentiments in articulate ways, and for having that certain imbued capability in their writings where other people could read their catharsis and be able to feel all their emotions, sympathise with their plights, and look at the world in another perspective, in their own personal perspective. Of course, even if they can’t exactly relate to whatever situation that person is caught up in, they could still nod their head understandingly, dole out some hopeful dime-a-dozen platitudes, and perhaps even offer some needed advice to them, just as normal human beings should.

Whenever I attempt to write about myself, my life, or my current feelings, I tend to drown it in cryptic nuances and fuck-all metaphors that are so incredibly twisted to the point where even I don’t find any sense in it anymore. That’s why I’m more adept with poetry than prose, and why I find music to be the most therapeutic outlet for myself, above anything else. And also why I hate the shit out of essays and formal writing so much. But in the rarest blue-moon times when I try to abandon that sort of familiar style and write something that’s concise and straight to the point, in simple words that are the closest to the truth, it always makes me so disgusted with myself because I always sound like I’m whining too much and making such a big deal out of nothing. And even then, I couldn’t help but add way too much labyrinthine sentences and complicated head-scratching quips to sugarcoat the naked ugliness of it all. Case in point, this very write-up itself. Sweet irony to further press the point.

I’ve always found it difficult to talk about myself. I don’t know exactly what what happened to me that made me turn out to be this way, but whenever I try to open up, a million desperate hands pull me back inside as a thousand alarm bells seem to scream and flash red lights inside my head, all of these, all at once, giving me a major dose of anxiety that takes a long while to wear off. I never know how to be completely honest without feeling awkwardly uncomfortable, and vice versa, it’s a great struggle for me when people start getting too real and personal with me. I tend to be a very secretive person, and I’m not a great support to come running to when you got problems and need to talk it out, because I’ll probably just intensify the headache that you already have and turn it into a full-blown migraine. Trust me, some of what-unsurprisingly-scant friends I have can testify for that fact in front of a court jury with both their hands on the bible.

(But on the plus side, being a secretive person also means that I’m basically Fort Knox when it comes to keeping the secrets of other people, so…redemption??)

I try my very best to be comforting and truthful when times call for it, but somehow, I could never completely shake off that vague feeling of uncertainty, that constant nagging voice at the very back of my mind that tells me that I’m doing something wrong, or tells me that I’m not doing enough, or tells me that I’m fucking overcompensating, or whatever stupid made-up issues it has with my attempt to act like a decent human being. I’ve always just found it easier to repress everything, every difficulty and emotion that’s going on in my overwhelmed mind, to simply keep it all to myself no matter how dire it is, rather than to bother anyone else with it, and I’ve always found it easier to keep people at a ten-foot pole’s length with acerbic witticism and sarcastic dismissals, because when they get too close, someone would always get hurt, and it always ends in a devastating fallout.

To put it shortly, I don’t know how to be empathetic. And I don’t know how to make people empathise with me. Up to now, I’ve always convinced myself that it was my biggest strength.

But perhaps…it just might be my greatest weakness.

~*~

I know I have issues
But I don’t need to hear it coming from you
It’s something that I’ll work through
The beating of my heart’s not stopping anytime soon
It’s not stopping anytime soon…

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Silent Films

For all I know, the best is over
And the worst is yet to come
Is it enough? To keep on hoping
When the rest have given up?
And they go…

~*~

Set the tone to soft sepia and watch me come to life

Like my favourite vintage movies, but silence is optional

I hate to mouth the words but I know that I’m right

And it’s better than to face the music composed in your journal

What you see is what you get, but it’s more than it seems

Amid skylines and downtown fiction, stories of nameless streetcars

I’m waiting under an umbrella, seeing neon signs in rainy grey

Until your clicking red heels arrive to light the pavement up

For the film is never complete without a dazzling star.

~*~

I hate to say I told you so
But they love to say they told me
(Throw me into the fire
Throw me in, pull me out again…)

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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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Shortsighted Longviews

Sit around and watch the tube, but nothing’s on
I change the channels for an hour or two
Twiddle my thumbs just for a bit
I’m sick of all the same old shit
In a house with unlocked doors
And I’m fucking lazy…

~*~

Life is heading nowhere

Let’s beat up junkies in this dead-end shit town

I’ve smoked my eyes red

And turned my whole life and brain upsidedown

My room is a total mess

Of posters, porn magazines and week-old pizza

But I don’t have to stress

If I clean it up, I’ll lose track of my own paranoia

My remote is so worn-out

Surfing the channels but I end up watching static

A tidal wave of chips and soda

Of trash and junk piling up under this ratty sofa

There’s no bullies I could fight

No school walls I can spray paint with fuck you

And I’m sick of thinking right

And looking for a father that I never even knew

My skateboard lost one wheel

And my knees are too skinned to recover now

Afternoon heat’s suffocating

I hate having to go out and have a blast anyhow

There’s nothing else to do

All my friends are busy making out behind diners

I can fake my own death

But I’m just too lazy to think about it any further

Soggy, bathed in apathy

Wasting time by counting the hairs on my head

Being a creep to the girls

Acne on my face spelling loser, I’d rather be dead

They say I’m being dumb

But I’m just another stupid kid who has the right

And I just wanna be numb

To the pain of thinking of growing up overnight

Am I whining again, mother?

This broken home I live in still hasn’t fixed itself

My head cracked like the streets

You don’t have to care if it’s all bad for my health

Playing the same old cycles

I’m just a hairy dog trapped under the summer rain

So where’s the motivation?

It’s fucking lonely, and I’m the only one who remains

I lit fireworks ’til I burned out

There’s no light at the end of this suburban purgatory

Nothing but a juvenile doubt

Picking scabs and bleeding, let me escape this misery

Maybe I will run away again

Hitch my way or maybe jump over the turnstile train

Until the pighead cops catch me

And send me back to bed, busted-up and beaten badly

I still wonder what the hell to do

They say it’s teenage angst, but I’m too fucking angry to listen

I don’t know if I’ll have a better view

When I come around the noose, and I’ll still be jaded even then.

~*~

Bite my lip and close my eyes
Take me away to paradise
I’m so damn bored I’m going blind
And I smell like shit…

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A Wayward Child’s Empty Pen

((The following entries are transcribed from a waterlogged brown journal, found along with a dried blue pen, in an abandoned park bench in Southwark, London.))

~*~

01/13/??; 01:25 AM/PM.

It’s so cold.

The Arctic rains pour angrily, beating down in relentless torrents

The languid sky is shaded with an amalgamation of sickly grey

Under my tattered umbrella, I attempt to figure it out but I can’t

If the lost sun is falling out of its orbit, or just breaking the day

Perhaps I wasn’t meant to know.

.

01/13/??; 02:00 AM/PM.

Nothing but unadulterated trouble, problems arising from the start

A cautioned winter’s tale as thorny and ancient as Eros’ pierced heart

It warned, leave that wayward child to find its way in a crooked path

For avariced Hell hath no fury than wicked disappointment’s wrath

At my current state, I know they’re right.

.

01/13/??; 02:26 AM/PM.

So I shattered all the best of china dinnerware, and bent all the tines

So I melted my sister’s only set of crayons and lied to waste their time

So I played hooky, hung in alleys, and started a chaotic playground war

So I scorched half our house, maybe a pet, just for a speck of warmth

But that fire was just so pretty.

.

01/13/??; 03:15 AM/PM.

I plead and begged and beseeched, but unfortunately, to no such avail

It seems that my dearest loved ones wish for me to simply fail

Wounding thorns clung to my sullied dress like demented hands

For they’re the only company I find reassuring and I can understand

Hello darkness, my old friend.

.

01/13/??; 4:00 AM/PM.

I know I’ve been a guilty bastard, I’m all but holy, or God forbid, saintly

I’m a cragged diamond, cracking under the pressure of my turbid sins

My weak conscience wrestles and grapples with my slippery sanity

Perhaps this time, I’ll cease being the referee, let one of them win

But I know I’m not that strong.

.

01/13/??; 4:55 AM/PM.

Counting all my remaining days away on my bloodstained fingers

The tragicomedy death of my feminine art nouveaux still lingers

Withered skin falls in fragments, peeled from my chapped ivory lips

Catch it like fairy dust or white snowfall, and make a quaint wish

Snowflakes taste like faith.

.

01/13/??; 5:01 AM/PM

You’re lost, you’re lost, my scalding mind accuses, accrues, accosts

An inane foulness of its profoundness breathlessly traipsing around

I’ve been nothing to seeing stars and dottiness but a gracious host

Honestly, why dare I even complain, what dare I even maunder about?

I saw it coming from miles away.

.

01/13/??; 5:27 AM/PM

Why thou’st I abated thy tempt, thy lust, gluttoned thy forsaken monster?

Borrowed words I’ve spoken now, chagrined regrets not mine, all rust

I was caught unawares in a graceless predicament tryst lacklustre

I discovered amidst the fuss, I was never worth my weight in stardust

I’m so sorry, mother and father.

.

01/13/??; 6:00 AM/PM

As this wayward weather ages, the jaded hurricanes growing much old

That lush aftertaste of bliss’t twilight indented within the fiery cosmos

I nearly hit a brick wall staring upwards, waiting for comets to unfold

Once again, I’m stuck at a dead end, regent shadows my blanket close

Ah, so it was afternoon, after all.

.

01/13/??; 6:30 PM.

Cold…it’s so cold.

I wish for a coffee, chamomile tea, or maybe a chocolate chip cookie

The frosty mist from my mouth is actually my frozen soul leaving me

An ebony feather drops from my back, searching for my palace free

I will amuse myself with black burnt matches and burnt out reveries

Yet no chthonic demons cackle nor heavenly Seraphs beckon me back

Rejected by both sides of the cruel horizon, sky beat blue and black

Walking like a spectre, even though I know that I’m no longer breathing

Cold…I’m so cold…please…why won’t anyone just…please…let me in?

.

01/13/??; ??:?? PM.

I’m all out of ink.

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