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.