I can't decide whether to give up on you or keep hanging on

clear history?

it's good to learn from the past. my mistakes, my experiences, my struggles, the journey i've been through. there is good in the journey by itself.

but sometimes i want to be new. to erase all the negatives i seemed to pick up so easily from all the guys i've fallen for, turned to, found comfort and friendship in, kept secrets from. im tired of picking up and keeping negatives. they seemed to have made a home in my chest and cast a dark cloud over my heart. the best thing is, i dont think i learned anything...

it's like the pop up that says "this browser has 999 cookies" and i just kept pressing "continue". the future is so bleak. perhaps because what im heading to, is already is a page in my past? i dont feel new. i feel trapped, going in reverse.

i still don't get it. she seems so basic and you seem quite different. is that why you're not 100% committed to her? am i just an innocent passer-by that somehow became the side casualty of your doubt.

whatever. i refuse. i make a judgment, right now, that i won't be a part of it anymore. no matter who else is or isn't there.

i wont be like you, or E. i wont be that girl who settles. i'll be with someone who interests and surprises me all the time. i would rather be alone than be with someone i'm not 100% committed to.

challenge to self

I am going to try staying up through the night, and if i succeed, I am SO going to get myself a Burger King breakfast as a reward. :)


but i wish hunger isnt a problem for staying up through the night :(

the weary traveller

Is anyone out there? Please answer me.

I need you.

my information/knowledge bank is low, and i need to start depositing.

i know you are falling in love/have fallen in love with me.

but keep one eye open, because i am capable of throwing knives with a blindfold over my eyes.

and you were never my target.

lately i've been second guessing the hell out of myself, putting myself through the gamut. ive felt the lowest lows and self-doubt that shook me to the core. but...

it has never been in my nature to fight fate. i am not the type of girl who goes for what she wants, im the type who believes that if i dont get what i want, it wasnt meant to be. i believe in fate. i believe in bigger plans and a greater controlling power.

I have my own system. so sue me. i dont care. i dont care if im not strong. i dont care if im kidding or deluding myself. i dont care if i dont face up to facts. i dont wanna force myself to go after what i want anymore, to keep giving myself pep talks, to make this small plans that always fall through, to overanalyse everything. i just wanna stop being sad and insecure.

I thought I knew how it felt. I thought I had memorized the feeling of not being happy, of wanting more, of being ajar. I thought I had settled for this second skin; the acceptance that sometimes it just isn’t a choice. It is a luxury to be able to feel what you wish to feel, and more often than not, life cannot afford such ease.

The problem with being a dreamer, a writer, a poet, is not that they feel more than everyone else. It is that they cannot escape from it. All the pain, ache and explosions,- others can dismiss as merely a feeling that cannot be contained. But for us, there are endless words to describe the way we feel, to actualize the feeling, to give it existence, to gravitate them. The irresistible impulse to label everything, to get to the bottom of every unexplainable feeling is crippling. To live as a writer is non-apologetic. Everywhere that you try to escape to, is aesthetically numb. Even when you do not see what reminds you of it, words are running madness inside your head.

This is about existing within a world where love is not on my side. This is about struggling every day to stay afloat. This is about my greatest love story. I thought I knew how it felt. I had made a pact with myself that I have no other choice. But that doesn’t mean it makes it any easier to live with. Heartstrings are broken whenever I think to myself, we may be so right for each other, but there will never be a way to find out. So many things remind me of you that not a day goes by that I am able to be completely content. The problem with being a dreamer, is that I feel too much for my own good. When I think about us, I feel dismantled, familiar, damaged and every imaginable adjective in between. There is no other person as capable as you to destruct, love and forgive me. You may never understand it, but it is just a truth that I must live with.

The idea of being happy is extraordinary. Sometimes I dream of not feeling. Of just existing. Of not being physically able to hurt inside. I did not choose to be a person that feels too much, or someone that is compelled to write word after word after word. Every time I think I could be content, something thrusts me back into a higher feeling that I cannot control. I thought I knew how it felt, how everything is, how people are, but I cannot will my heart to think the same.

I can't lie to myself anymore. I have been lying to myself for far too long. I need to be true to myself.

i realise that no matter what, i do believe in love. i have to. it's the only way i know.

in dreams you lose the heartache, whatever you wish for you keep

im miserable

im so miserable. i really am. i need to put a stop to this bullshit right now.

sometimes i think loneliness is abit like dying a little everyday

fuck it. i like allen. everyone can just fuck the fuck off. i dont give a damn.

this article squeezes my heart into a tight sad ball:
http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/why-you-are-wrong-for-me/

i want a cynical, arms length relationship. but im not broken.

hard to kill, easy to live with.

im not hard hearted. i know that hurt and sadness lasts only until you stop wishing for the hurt to stop. i know that in love, unrealised hope is a bigger monster and harder to kill than crushing pain. i know that the only alternative to hurt and loss is purgatory. the former is always inevitable, why take a longer time avoiding it?

what you see is what you get. what you see is what you get?

So i get to thinking that maybe I am different from other girls. Maybe I can accept you as you are. With you, what I see is what I get. No complications, no games, not much passion or affection either. I like you, and I was comvinced for a while that I was the perfect girl for you. Because I wouldn't need much attention, or affection, or excitement. All I would need was a good person who would be there and listen to me. I was obsessed with finding a way to get you to realise I'm perfect for you too. To get you to want to be with me.

But lately I've been second guessing myself. I feel happy when you do the smallest things. Flirt or compliment me a little. Remember what I texted you one week ago. And I think. Is this what I deserve? To feel inordinately happy when you do the smallest things that dont require much effort? When you show the slightest indication that you notice and care about me? It's like...being one of those battered wives who are ridiculous happy when their husbands are normal and happy and not beating them up. Isnt it?

Then i think: but it's you. You're the exception. You're treat everyone with the same coldness. So is it not warranted that I be happy when you act slightly different to me? Only I can answer that question. I just have to trust myself. I have to trust that I know you well enough, that my feelings for you are not....bad for me or wrong. I have to shut out the naysayers, inside and outside my brain.

Because I know what I like about you, and those things are real. I know how cheaply excitement and affection and passion can come. But when they're from you, they're not cheap. You're the serious that tempers my false carelessness. You're the reality to my disconnect. You're the solemn to my awkward cheerfulness. You're the wit and sarcasm that I appreciate, and I'm the jokes that you appreciate.

So I normalise. I vacillate. But the irony is that, through all this excrutiation, I'm not desperate enough to lose you as a friend.

why are there so many "i will never be"s and "i can't"s in my world?

i dont miss you, like i did, yesterday.

hm.

it's not a season of wildness, nor a season of settledness. it's a season of becoming.

stop my heart

i am tired of falling for the wrong types, for people i can't have. tired, and heartsick.

could it be, dare i hope... that i'm finally starting to learn what I'm supposed to learn in this short life?

last push i need

to get you out of my life.

paolo

Lately I’ve been dreaming of having a boyfriend like him.
He doesn’t smile a lot but when he does, it’s so easy, happy and bright that it hurts to look at his smile.
He doesn’t say a lot and when he does, it’s most of the time inconsequential nonsense.
He doesn’t seem to care about anything or pay me much attention but he notices. He just doesn’t do anything, but he knows.
He doesn’t care what school I went to, what I’ve achieved, how smart or well-dressed or well-spoken I am. But he always lets me speak as slowly as I want to, and I feel like he listen as if every word is a tune he would craft into a song.
He walks slowly and looks at the world. He doesn’t care if he’s late.
He likes to travel. He’ll go somewhere even if I can’t and he lets me go as well. He leaves all the time, and he comes back all the time, and he’ll tell me everything I want, but not more than I’m interested to hear. I imagine his smile grows broader and easier, his hair messier and his eyes sparklier every time he comes back.
Every other girl thinks he’s somewhat sexy but he looks only for me in a crowded room and put his arm around only my waist.
When I cry he gets sad too.
When I want to be left alone he leaves me alone.

i really want to save the vestiges of friendship, but when it comes down to it, it's always out of my hands

lately i have a really low tolerance when you try to give me your fucking bullshit.

i remember now, how easy it is to live half a life, to keep trying to outrun lies.
to get sucked into that blackhole of quiet despair, hopeless hoping, of feeling not good enough.
i am good enough. i'm good enough for anything this life can offer me. who am i to tell myself otherwise. who are you not to choose me?
circumstances, luck, fate, conventions and rules throw veils over our eyes but this much should be clear to each and everyone of us.
if we get disappointed, if we do not succeed, if we come in last, if we are looked over, if we feel ugly, still, how can we let life lead us to believe we are not worthy?

I am worthy.

B.A.R.C.E.L.O.N.A.

Barcelona, I miss you right now.

if i die young, bury me in satin

i don't want to die young. i want to live, long, and keep learning. I realised on my one month holiday in europe that the world is huge out there, and everywhere is so different. i want to go everywhere and do everything and just, live and breathe and be amazed. my life is so precious, and what i feel inside matters. i matter. when the light shines on me, i wont shy away. i wont waste my time away anymore. i want to read, and watch, do and speak and just, learn. you know? that yearning. to feel everything i can, because i know i can. to absorb everything around me and to make a difference where i can.

in barcelona i watched a flamenco show and i was amazed at the energy and the showmanship. in girona i watched a seagull systematically attack another seagull. it was a prolonged attack that we watched in silent wonder. the seagull eventually got away although there were times i thought it was definitely a goner and that the other seagull was determined to kill it. i dont understand what i watched at all, but i feel lucky to have seen it. in paris i met a man who had the painfully brilliant eyes, and who kept trying to strike up a conversation with others. he is also crippled, and muslim. i dont understand why he wants to keep talking to strangers. his friend with a kind smile helped me with my curl up my laptop charger. in rome everyone looked at me with suspicion while in london a guy told me "alright, i'll trust you. you look trustworthy."

these are the events i rmb most on my travels. what's the point i'm trying to make in recounting them? i dont rightly know myself. is there value in these events? there is certainly value to me, which is perhaps why im writing them down, in case i forget. other people write down itineraries. which places to visit, where to get the best bargains.

i feel like singapore is just not enough for me anymore. i want to go, i have to. in three years time i'll go again, on my own. on my own this time just to see whether it will be any different, whether i'll feel any different.

Memories become shrines. Altars I visit to mourn, worship and remember. Well-preserved, adorned with black and white photos. Some are visited more often than others, some have more photos, some are older and dustier, with cobwebs strewn across, but if it's a shrine, you will always remember the photos and the lives that lie there. It's always silent at these shrines. The quietness turns to feelings, and feelings turn to thought. But what is dead is dead. No amount of silent reflecting will return them to me.

Everyone forgets that there is so much sadness and inequality in this world. Some people live in luxury, with more than they know what to do with, and it is inevitable that they waste it. Some people don't have enough money to buy their next meal or have parents who can't afford to pay their school fees, and barely enough to buy school books and uniforms. They live in countries where the government don't pay enough to attract good teachers, or provide good jobs and housing and clean water you can drink out of the tap, or to keep the streets and air clean so you can have a healthy living environment. We are given different abilities to learn and work, some just learn slower than others, or cannot learn at all. Some people are born without four limbs or lose them in an accident.

Everything I have comes from God. My intelligence, my abiilty to learn, my adequate and healthy body, the family I was born into, with parents that make me never have to worry about money or love. Sometimes all I need to do is remember to give thanks, and give to others whenever I can, whatever I can.

she's waiting like an iceberg, waiting to change

I want to be a paragon of
1. Virtue
2. Thrift
3. Diligence
4. Meticulousness
5. Self-reliance
6. Adaptability and courage
7. Stability
8. Perseverence
9. Patience

Catch a Body | Ilse Bendorf

"Catch a Body"
Ilse Bendorf

Salinger, I’m sorry, but “Don’t ever tell
anybody anything” is a string of words
I would like to wrap up in canvas and sink
to the bottom of the Hudson, or extract
by laser from the ribcage of all of us
who ever believed it, who felt afraid
to miss someone, to be the last one
standing. “Tell everyone everything” is
not exactly right, but I do believe that if
your mother looks radiant in violet
you should tell her, or when a juvenile
sparrow thrashes its wings in dustpiles
and reminds you of a lover’s eyelashes,
you should say so. We are islands all of us,
but we are also boats, our secrets flares,
pyrotechnic devices by which we signal
there’s someone in here we’re still alive!
So maybe it’s, “don’t be afraid.” We can
rewrite Icarus, flame-resistant feathers,
wax that won’t melt, I mean it, I’ll draw up
a prototype right now, that burning ball
of orange won’t stop us, it’ll be everything
we dream the morning after, even if we fall
into the sea—we are boats, remember?
We are pirates. We move in nautical miles.
Each other’s anchors, each other’s buoys,
the rocket’s red, already the world entire.

Does wanting someone have to go hand in hand with liking them?




I really don't think so.

I am afraid of being alone in the world out there.

to feel small

There are moments when you literally feel your heart shrinking so rapidly it might disappear...

You musn't, musn't, musn't think in ways that are poisonous to your soul again. not in this department again.

Banish those thoughts repeatedly.

So I learnt a wisdom today.

Life involves give and take sometimes. Don't give if you will regret it, don't take if it will make you feel guilty.

Do you believe that things will be better in the morning? i do.

- one day i will tell you, that i wish you wouldn't leave, and you wouldnt hurt mum, so that she wouldnt be angry at us. i dont care about you or what you do with your priavte morality, i care about me -

my heart aches somewhere deep inside as i say this,

Maybe you don't exist.

i've no focus, i have no faith, nor trust.

i keep searching.

i'll be a girl who reads

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.

Written by Charles Warnke

arent you tired of slacking yet?

NO, i'll never get tired of slacking haha.

but islamic commercial law readings beckon to me :/ and work and family readings....

twisted

i'm afraid that im twisted and dark inside and i never really knew it. that there's something wrong in the way i've been leading life that's built up and culminated to this feeling. that i'm twisted inside, not whole. a person that's been functioning badly and didnt know it.

maybe there isnt enough discipline in my life. maybe there isnt enough honesty. maybe there isnt enough passion. maybe there isnt enough bravado. perhaps i've shut myself into this corner that i cant even find myself anymore. i cant find my way out into the light, into fresh air. it's like putting your hands over your mouth and breathing in the same damn humid deoxgenated stifling air you've been breathing over and over again. i think im doing this to myself, and im as dark and twisted as gloria is and that's why i cant look at her. cos im like her.

i wish someone would take my hands away from my own mouth and open my eyes. and lead me on a run that would get my heart pumping and wouldnt let go even if i wanted to stop, even if i was tugging away and would yell at me to run faster and never let go, and tell me khalisa, change your habits. change ur mindset. you can do it, it's as easy as holding my hand and trying. it'll be better, just breathe the oxygen that's all around you and open your eyes.

Dear Mak, I hope you know

That you are the person I love the most, and I really want you to be proud of me. That is my foremost goal in life, although I may not show or say it. In my most perfect and satisfying dreams I imagine that I would be able to give you all you need and have you live a life of comfort, relative leisure, joy and pride.

I wish that Allah will bless you with health and keep pain and suffering far from you as you grow older. Although you hurt me sometimes with your words, and it leads to doubt sometimes that you really love me for me, I know that in the end you only want the best for me in getting all that this life has to offer, and that you want me to be safe and blessed in the hereafter as well. And what more could a child ask from her mother?

Even more than that, you have a unique sense of humour and can make me laugh. You care when I am sick, or hungry, or need peace for studying. You believe in my intelligence and beauty, and you understand my weaknesses, better than myself.

I love you. I love you the most.