le sigh

all sentiment is right

There are things that come back to me, quick and unannounced, like jump cuts. Or perhaps I am the one thrown back. The scene cuts and I am thrown into the past, or into the world I’d rather be in. The gun gets shot prematurely. But as if in perfect, deliberate delay, I ricochet between these worlds. This right now, that right one. I am walking and there is a breeze. I know I am embraced by the acacia, I feel the unpaved road beneath my feet but now I am walking on cobblestone, and it is cool and the sun feels too gentle on my face. And chattering, in a language so foreign it is familiar, cocoons me. I am walking down this road and it leads to the wrong museum. The painting at the end is too dark, too dim. It is not that vibrant blue, the ocean that engulfed me, the white zipping through like that the hitch, that one beat resting in my throat right on the second you smiled at me for the first time. There, every curve was to a song I sang in my head, hummed with closed lips, the one that rested on my hips. but here–they are the last 100 meters in a kilometer I am always running.

And here the leaves rustle and branches shake when the wind blows. There it is clear blue, or clear grey, or just a pale sunlight. Where have I run off to now?


apocalypse, now

the end started when you kvetched your way back to bed, back to this panic room. the night began, but the moon disappeared when you started digging crescents unto my back. outside the wind howled when you breathed out bullets, so i wanted to weigh our chances of escape–i counted the times that came, and ways i could pick you up and pick you out. my hands trembling over your mouth like a mask. us in motion, just in placation, seeing stars, and watching each one fall parallel to the space between our bodies; quaking, our fault lines forcing the crush, the extinction. the whole planet flattened and you are still on me. i buried sighs into your neck, and i blamed decay for the marks under your jaw, on the spot right below your ear, and on the corner. the nook i would tuck myself into for shelter. i blamed inertia for the seven, eight rounds and revolutions for every hour up to the eleventh; i blamed combustion for the right shade of red under the skin of your lower lip, your cheeks, under stomach under matches, under the waxy pads of my fingers. if i could trace my steps back three hundred days and fifty eight seconds i’d still end up in the same spot on the small of your back, and i’d call it gravitation. the pull of the universe towards the center. you lying down, supine, restless. you on all fours, you on crumpled sheets, arms bent and hands behind your head as in victory, as in surrender. seven years could pass and the records would play the same, broken cry for help. our SOS on the sand, the one you drew on the back of my hand. the sun could pass and we’d still be here. bombs of light billowing to cloud nine. i’m not looking to be rescued anyway.

aaaaaaand this shit will remain shitty and unfinished. i tried, guys. i really tried. holy shit what is this even.

23:45 // when are you selfish?

It is a quarter until the 21st of January, year 2014. I hate the idea of Wednesday, but I am already so fucking set on finishing Tuesday. I hate the middle of the week (see: wednesday woes). Stuck between the viscous moan of Mondays and the soft-edged relief of Fridays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays were always the worst. They marked the point of no return, the halfway point that made optimists squeal (much to my chagrin) and made pessimists, like me, reach for a glass of vodka.

So here I am, three fourths through a glass of vodka sprite (my current favourite) and unfortunately being drowned by my utter disappointment in the current state of my life. The feeling of wanting to just skip this week is invading my every decision and thought. I lost my fucking sigsheet; I foresee a very broke near-future, and all my plans and priorities are trying to unsuccessfully wrestle their way into my planner. And as a cherry on top of all of that, someone is ignoring me, and moreover, I realised that to some of my friends, I am a commodity. Or at least now our friendship is measured by the amount of time I can place in something, not by my loyalty or dedication. (I don’t know what to feel about this yet– all I know is that I don’t have the energy for this shit.)

Anyway, to veer away from possibly endless midnight rant, my friend asked me this question last week: when are we selfish? Aren’t we always? No matter what we do, whether it benefit others or not, we do it for ourselves. We do good deeds to help other people, but we also do it to make us feel better about ourselves. To make living with yourself lighter, a little more bearable. So I suppose the better question to ask is when should we be selfish? I am getting increasingly annoyed by the assumption of a universal moral compass. Are we born with an idea of what is good or not? Or is everything moral relativism? (Note to self: read more things about this.) Wow, I am getting so far from the point.

Fine. Basically what I wanted to say was that at this point in time, I can no longer give a fuck about your standards of right and wrong. Your standards are oppressive, and it only benefits you. I just realised that I have been wading in a pool of close-minded and judgmental people, and I am getting sick because of the filth. Stop trying to disguise your self-centeredness as concern, you duplicitous fuck. And to the other one, I really don’t like chasing after you. At least have the decency to reply.



(un)comfortably numb

it’s frustrating to try to fix a part of your life, only to find that some other part has moved past you.

i’m starting to think that i’m doomed to running after things, always just trying to catch up to people and places long gone and moved on. i’m really tired of pushing this boulder up the fucking hill only for it to roll back down again, as if with one step forward i’m still two steps behind everything else.

i wouldn’t mind it if it wasn’t so persistent. the feeling of inadequacy creeps up on you like a fog, consuming and surrounding, legs moving blindly in the bright white.

i forget how taxing it is, the process of cementing your place in someone else’s radius. at this point it’s not jealousy, or anger, or even frustration– it’s the droop in your gaze, the slight slouch of my shoulders, the chill and the kind of tired that seeps under your skin, nestling in your bones, filling your veins. 

poem of the day

I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.

I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother’s face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.

Rainer Maria Rilke