dear diary...

bewitched

“dude you look like a witch”

” A WHAT???!”

“i’m being serious! a witch! like you’ll actually be scary in yesterday’s haunted house!”

…sulks…

she’s a girl with light frizzy hair, hair that is brown and wavy at the tips

a nose slightly too long and pointed that attracts stereotypical asian comments and questions like a magnet

“are you chinese?”

“dude, you have a pretty sharp nose for an asian!”

beautiful and lively eyes sunken in an ebony-coloured cradle on an otherwise fair and blemish-free face

she’s quite an artist but every time i bring that up, she humbly denies

17 and so damn independent i wish i had her as my role model back then

 

 

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dear diary...

dying

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currently, i am sitting in front of my desk, cuppa coffee on my right and a dying hamster on my left.

I observe…

every ounce of energy and every sinew of muscle is orchestrated to heave his lungs and chest, to draw in that little bit of oxygen

which doesn’t quite reach him, being obstructed by mucus

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click…click…click…obstructed breaths inhaled in an unsteady rhythm

deep sighs, gasping for oxygen…in futility

cold limbs barely supporting your feather-like body

swollen, limpid eyes staring at nothingness, as if resigned to fate and Time

flopping ears gradually turning from red to crimson due to the life draining from your veins

sagging jaw desperately inhaling gulping and swallowing

the only comfort i have now is your occasional movements. though helpless and clumsy, they’re the only signs of your being alive. the only source of solace is the sound of your heavy, obstructed breaths, the sound of your suffering.

春, you are spring.

you are life, vitality and 元気.

春, ガンバて!

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dear diary...

on a rainy afternoon

sitting in front of my desk, i stare blankly at the translated text of The Arabian Nights next to an endless to-do list.

the blinds seem to have lowered by themselves. i always keep them up in the afternoons.

it’s the sky, like a sheet of chromatographic paper dipped in black paint. the black seeps through and layers of grey spreads till the paper is white no longer.

enclosed in an air-condition cubicle, i hear the winds whistle as they perforate the gaps beneath the windows, sweeping in the revitalising smell of petrichor.

the lazy hamsters adjusted their positions, still engrossed in their mid-afternoon trance.

 

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wanderlust

RCX ✈️ Kuching

four days and four days too short.

a  nostalgic throwback to happy and carefree days prior to college. to the days of riverside meals and milkshakes, of morning boat rides, or bicycle commutes, of constant reminders of the colonial past, of the happy squeals of contented kampong children, of kueh lapis…

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dear diary...

magazines

something in me ticked off that friday evening. it was in part due to a hormonal tidal wave that has caused such hypersensitivity and heightened irritability that entire week. but it isn’t the first time. and as much as i want to sweep it under the rug and live this life in pretence and denial, to shut my eyes from the truth, to close my ears from these disquieting murmurs,  i needed some space and time for reflection. and this meant i needed distance,  away from all the negativity that has accumulated in me and that is pounding its way out of my chest. and in the event that it oozes and overflows, i’d gladly be casualty.

i’ve always thought you were a good friend. and indeed, i’ve enjoyed your company. until it was company no more. detachment, unfamiliarity and awkwardness soon took its place and worked its dark magic. our conversations are rivers no more, dammed (damned) by uncomfortable silence and small talk. i am holding back so much, no longer feeling secure enough to entrust my thoughts and feelings and fears to you. we are magnets no more because somehow, one of us became so charged with negativity we lost our attraction.

it might be just me. maybe it’s my eccentric emotions. maybe it’s my childish craving for attention. maybe it’s my inability to tolerate and empathise and understand. maybe i’m just not making the effort demanded in a friendship. maybe it’s you, too. if you didn’t browse through people so casually as if they were magazines on a rack, things could’ve been better. maybe if you treated people like people instead of shoes, i wouldn’t have felt so used and discarded.

anyway, these are the words i have kept locked in for a while now. you may feel that i’m shunning you. you may feel that i’m not talking to you as much. but it’s for your own good. after all, people don’t live near volcanoes if they had a choice.

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dear diary...

falling

not really sure when i started falling. to crave every moment, every second of your presence, even if it means occasional awkward silences or the slight embarrassment every time our fingers collide for a millisecond.

i just held on to every memory of us together, in a common space, breathing in the same air of a lecture hall, a hawker centre, a minivan. i look forward to every meeting with you. i do. to evening runs when i try to sync my strides with yours. to breakfasts bonding over prata and spilled curry. to the lectures and talks that you would enthusiastically invite me, and where i try, oh so helplessly, to focus my eyes and thoughts on the presenter. i look forward to every acapella practice session where i can soak in the warmth of your baritone voice.

i just wanted to say, we’ve barely started. but i am ready. your pull on me is like gravity.

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