back
2.26.2017 @ 07:27
2016 has been a year of emotional growth for me. From meeting great people, and to learning how to talk about what I truly feel, has been honestly fucking good for me. I think the whole idea of keeping a diary has completely lost its meaning for me when I was still learning to pick myself up from the mess but I can safely say that I am now a-okay and I am ready to document everything that is going to happen from here on out.
I'm also encouraging myself to use honest words and simpler phrasing because who am I trying to impress, really. And writing is great, anyway. For 2017, I hope I never stop writing, loving, and hopefully living. Have a great year ahead y'all and I'll let you know if I plan on moving this else where!
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I DONT KNOW BUT I WANT TO DIE
8.17.2016 @ 09:43
My fingers are black from mascara stained tears that I do
not wish to weep. My mouth is dry with words and excuses and lies I keep
mumbling under the many breaths I have taken since you left. They say a smooth
sea never made a skilled sailor but it’s so fucking hard to believe that the
depth of the ocean is not as scary as the various depths of self-hate I will
throw myself into. Nothing seems right and all I can think about is the colour
black, and how glaring my computer screen is against a supposedly suicide note I
plan on leaving you. Funny, because I never wanted to leave but you walked away
anyway.
I cannot think about anything else – everything else is a
wreck and beneath it all is the carcass of my body that had died long before I did.
I wish I could point exactly where I started giving up, or where my mind had
decided to shut itself down. This will only carry on with tradition – how am I going
to get better if I am not going to admit that my emotions are validated and
enough?
I am so afraid of becoming the mess you left me to be.
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promises
9.11.2015 @ 11:48
I am merely a bottle of emotions that are never my own. I am merely an empty vessel of aspirations that I will never achieve; and I am filled with promises I make but hurt myself over.
I am merely the infected strip of plaster you put on a fresh wound: I am no good at anything. Every word you say to me will root itself under layers of skin. I cannot guarantee anything.
I cannot guarantee that the thoughts in my head were not conjured up by someone else seeking solace from me. I cannot guarantee that I know who I am completely.
How do I start finding myself if I cannot even affirm that my words are not from another.
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the end
9.02.2015 @ 11:28
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crossroads
11:38
It’s harder for me to write when I am happy, because no one
wants to read about how completely wholesome someone feels when they are
surrounded by the people they love.
I don’t want to write when I am happy, because I don’t want
anyone to take my memories I have of you and claim them for themselves.
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note
11:15
A lot of my friends have been talking and going on about how
the people around us have changed, because of the different situations and
circumstances they have been thrown into. I think it was only then that I had
an epiphany about the whole notion of changing for the better/worse:
When someone changes – whether in character or morals – it would
never be considered bad, on their standards. When we say we don’t like something,
it is almost always based on our own perception and standards of how we would
like for it to be.
I was basing his shift in morals on my standards, and not
his; and I think that this has made me think a lot about how when we say we do
not care, we are simply saying that we do not care enough for something that is
not good enough, based on our own expectations of it. We do care, but just not
enough for us to want to change it, yet enough for us to grumble about how it
can be better.
Better on our own standards.
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for myself
7.15.2015 @ 10:12
You should never have to feel like your temporary foolishness will discredit your lifetime of goodwill. You should never have to think that the people you meet are reflections of who you are: because you are not the monster he made himself out to be.
I cannot compare you to the light at the end of the tunnel. You are not my fresh breath of air. You are not the butterflies in my stomach. You are not the fluttering of my heart. You are not the taste of good, strong wings of freedom.
You are enough. You are your own bag of mistakes. You are your own tangled up strings of emotional attachment and hope. You are your own mess to sort out. Put trust in believing that I will stay by your side while you pick yourself up. I do not wish for you to glue back the broken pieces he left behind, I wish for you to untangle the knots in your mind, and to start untouched.
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but
4.06.2015 @ 09:16
“You know, I never really thought that she suited you. She
was more of a square person, ya know? And you two weren’t quite the same.”
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shit
3.21.2015 @ 10:38
shit. she's lovely. and pretty boring.
shit she's lovely and pretty. boring.
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-
05:52
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+/-
3.13.2015 @ 11:18
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hello?
11:16
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fascinated by colors
12:06
It is three in the morning but the sky is still black and the birds are probably asleep. Why do I find listening to the sound of birds chirping in the morning so therapeutic? I've always tried my best to sleep at 6. I want to watch the sky turn white again before I get some shut eye. I told you about my sleeping habits before and you only laughed it off.
"For someone who complains about being tired all the time, sleep should not be the least of your worries."
If people were colors, you would be black. Because you are both arrogant and humble; you can be the nicest person on earth but you demand constant attention; and because you are both my favorite color, and also the color everyone else loves. You were never really black.
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I'm sorry
11:55
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happy!!!!
11:25
Today is a good day because I acknowledge it to be one.
This morning I was having breakfast with my parents. My dad
commented about how the amount of money I spend on food every day is too much,
but I defended myself by saying that I couldn’t help it because we rarely had
dinners together. My dad stops talking about this and moves on to talking about
something I was too lazy to want to listen. My mum also went on by talking
about how a close friend of hers just died from heartbreak. Her husband had an
affair and left her and her eighteen year old son, and thirteen year old daughter.
This hits home.
I do not want my suffering to be gossip for those who are
bored.
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クロノスタシス
03:17
I have been listening to Japanese music lately and I love
it. I am only frustrated by the fact that I do not know what the band names are
and what the song title is without translation. I hate relying on something
else to assist me in doing something so simple.
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last
3.07.2015 @ 07:13
I am still not feeling my best but I guess it really is okay. (I'm very sure it's because) I've talked about it for an hour last night, and I feel a little more in control now. I never want to do that again.
I have spent the last hour watching the trailers of movies we planned to watch and I have come to realize that I would not have enjoyed half of them as much as you would have. If feelings came in colors, I am white. Not because I am simple or unclouded, but because I am watered-down and defenseless as fuck. I hope you admit that what you did was convenient and hurtful; (I think) for the both of us.
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Chronostasis
06:46
"Do you know what chronostasis is?"
"I don't," you say.
It's a phenomenon.
Where the clock appears to have stopped.
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When
3.04.2015 @ 10:24
How is a series of thoughts I have in my mind about you, about this.
How is a series.
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How
10:21
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how pt.2
10:19
We did do the right thing
"Do the right thing."
"Did we?"
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how pt.3
10:17
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pathetically inadequate or unfashionable
02:33
I'm just glad we found time to talk and sort out the knots. I'm positive the break we're going to take will be good for the both of us.
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i rather listen to songs than you talking about your school
2.27.2015 @ 10:09
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subtitles
10:06
(I think I'm still sore over the fact that I'm up at 2 in the morning writing about you while you're probably at home sleeping and I am also so afraid and tired)
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not the best but still okay
08:32
I am the girl you think about at 2 in the afternoon wondering why I won't talk to you.
You are not the boy I buy cigarettes with,
You are the boy I won't talk to because I know that if I do I cant make you think about me at 2 in the afternoon.
We may not always be our best when we are together but we're already here.
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i've tried so hard to burn alive
06:24
My thoughts are drawing circles in my mind and my words come out like spirals. You are not toxic because you're not bad for me, but you can't do any good either. I'm sorry, I'm really not making any sense and I figured writing might help. It isn't. I figured talking to you about it might help but I forget that you don't like long conversations about things that don't matter. I'm not feeling the best right now. I can't talk to you.
I don't know what to do.
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i don't have a brother
1.16.2015 @ 23:19
The first time I met you, I was fourteen. You smelt like
antiseptic wipes and the hospital. You were seated on my couch at three in the
afternoon, with a cup of coffee in your hand. I assumed my brother had made it,
judging by how thick it looked. Your eyes were particularly misty – almost
cloudy. It was as though all the life your frail limbs could gather from the
universe was captured in your pupils, and where moons died and suns lived with
every blink of those eyelashes. I almost forgot to notice the lack of hair on
your head. You were beautiful.
My brother most definitely would agree. After all, he talks
to me about you every night. When my brother’s friends ask about you, he would
describe how you smell like sunshine, how your eyes are as clear as the Dead
Sea, how the scar beneath your bottom lip is shaped precisely like a crescent
moon.
He fails to mention how sick you are – and how you
absolutely do not smell like sunshine; but instead, you smell like disinfectant
and heartache.
He neglects to mention the size of your chest, the width of
your hips, and the length of your skirt – the apparently important details that are supposed to matter to eighteen year old
boys with their heads above sea-level; but he has been holding his breath in
ever since he met you.
The second time I met you, you finally told me your name.
“Eve,” you said softly. You stood up from my brother’s bed, your long legs
unfolding beneath you as an over-sized sweatshirt fell until your knees. It
made you look small and lost, but I guess that was what you really were in a
nutshell. You titled your head a little to the right and the dim lights shone
on your bald head. And by normal standards, it should have freaked me out, just
as sick people had always. But you were different. Instead, everything about
you screamed out to me.
I did not have the chance to see you for the third time. All
I knew was that you had done something. Something so grave and big that my
fourteen year old mind could not comprehend. My brother had come home from the hospital
with swollen knuckles and red eyes and he swore never to go back again.
I knew that both of you hated putting labels on things. You
would be curled up against my brother’s lap and fiddling with your camera. He
would place innocent pecks on your forehead. You loved him in ways you would
love everyone else, but you were the only infinity my brother could ever bring
himself to love wholesomely.
When my brother lost you, I lost my brother.
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very short
1.13.2015 @ 09:24
You will find her collapsed between the spines of long
forgotten poetry books – timeless despite the dust and crinkled pages. You will wish
to keep her the same way you do with all the girls with edges and spikes like
hers; but she is not as easily captured as words on your dirty napkin, a
makeshift paper for the letter you will be writing to our mother at four in the
morning – letters that you can only dream of ever sending.
To those that believe bones, teeth, and skin, can be possessed like property and gold, she is fiercely sovereign. She will dig beneath your mattress and rummage through your cupboard until she finds the bits of you that you were too afraid to keep. Her touch are riddles. Her eyes are bottomless pits with iridescent gems buried beneath the dirt on the walls. You used to think she had an entire galaxy in her mind, but now it is so much more.
To those that believe bones, teeth, and skin, can be possessed like property and gold, she is fiercely sovereign. She will dig beneath your mattress and rummage through your cupboard until she finds the bits of you that you were too afraid to keep. Her touch are riddles. Her eyes are bottomless pits with iridescent gems buried beneath the dirt on the walls. You used to think she had an entire galaxy in her mind, but now it is so much more.
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thunder/storm
1.03.2015 @ 07:39
You are like thunder. You are nothing without sound. And
what is thunder without sound anyway? You are loud, majestic, and you’ll scare
everyone else except me. I like sound. You know I do.
And you are like rain. Not just any rain, but the kind that falls fast and heavy and blurs everything out. You’ll create a rhythm wherever you go, and it always varies. Sometimes I might have to tap tap tap SHOUT OVER YOU BUT tap THAT’S OKAY BECAUSE I KNOW tap tap YOU ARE MORE THAN JUST TAPS ON WINDOW PANES tap tap tap tap AND SOMETIMES WHEN THE TAPS BECOME HURRIED tap tap tap I KNOW BETTER THAN TO FEAR THE IMPENDING SIGNS tap taptaptap OF YOUR THUNDER STORM, tap tap because I know you are more than just a passing rain cloud and I ought to get used to it.
And you are like rain. Not just any rain, but the kind that falls fast and heavy and blurs everything out. You’ll create a rhythm wherever you go, and it always varies. Sometimes I might have to tap tap tap SHOUT OVER YOU BUT tap THAT’S OKAY BECAUSE I KNOW tap tap YOU ARE MORE THAN JUST TAPS ON WINDOW PANES tap tap tap tap AND SOMETIMES WHEN THE TAPS BECOME HURRIED tap tap tap I KNOW BETTER THAN TO FEAR THE IMPENDING SIGNS tap taptaptap OF YOUR THUNDER STORM, tap tap because I know you are more than just a passing rain cloud and I ought to get used to it.
Your wind will be cold – not the harsh and skin-biting
numbness kind, but more like cool air that sweeps past your forearm, and only to
dance off the tips of your fingers. It’s the kind of lingering and yet oddly
soothing chill you give that sends me into a frenzy of whether or not I should
be thankful, or lonely.
The puddles you leave behind will look like
bottomless pits. They have the depths of all the oceans combined, and you know
I cannot swim. Your puddles are stationary, but they will only grow in size. If
I’m not careful I might fall into one. It isn’t scary at all, trust me. The
complete darkness in them is almost welcoming. I cannot trust myself to climb
out of the puddles you have left behind because the fall is starting to feel
like home.
Labels: Writings
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lucid 2
10.19.2014 @ 09:59
Last night I found myself in the middle of a war. I was
quite confused because for some reason it was a war between Germany and
Singapore and I kept thinking of how could Germany even come all the way here.
My mind kept questioning the plausibility of the entire situation – and I
eventually told myself to believe that Malaysia was in cahoots with Germany. I
think I was in school at that time and everyone was running everywhere. Nobody
died yet though, but we kept seeing soldiers running to and fro from the
reservoir.
Apparently the war was to be taken place at the reservoir and I was very near to it. I kept fussing over how I would get provisions to survive, how I would be able to wash my face, and how to react if I heard a bomb drop. I was so afraid Singapore would turn into a third world country that I cried and hugged the person next to me. I don’t recall who she was but she kept smiling and I ran away.
I ran to the Mac lab on the 6th floor and there were people inside dying. I think it was some disease or something and I immediately decided to go home. I decided to fly (I could always fly in my dreams) and I flew all the way back home. When I got home, my mother told me that there was a vampire on the loose. It was biting everyone I know and I didn’t want it to bite anyone else so while I heard bomb sounds coming from TP, I went on a hunt for the vampire. Half-way through my dream, I found out that the vampire was too strong for me to kill, and I got into a frenzy and jumped off some cliff.
I woke up in my next dream and I knew I was a ghost. I
started flying around and telling everyone I was dead and for some weird reason,
only the aunties could hear me. I tried flying to my own house to see my Dad
but I would get lost and end up somewhere else instead. I met a few ghostly
friends and we had fun stealing other people’s Starbucks. Don’t ask why.
I also went around stealing clothes but got sad afterwards
when I realised that nobody would be able to see me wearing them. I got so sad
that I decided to go to the cathedral where Vernetta and I went for the night
festival. I wanted to go to every temple, mosque, and church, to find God. I
think I wanted to ask him to make me an angel so that people could see me in
all the clothes I stole when I decide to show myself.
So I think one of my ghostly friends suggested Googling
where God was but we didn’t have a very strong Wi-Fi signal. She showed me a
map and circled the lawn of the cathedral that I had initially planned to go,
saying that it had the strongest Wi-Fi in the whole of Singapore. We decided to
go there and on the way I randomly made a joke that we would burn if we went
in. She didn’t laugh and called me weird. We got tired of flying and got on the
bus to City Hall instead. I was so happy that nobody knew we were on the bus
(the perks of being invisible).
Before we got off, I remember meeting other ghosts on the
bus and we started chatting about how cool and awesome dying was – although I
didn’t tell them I died from being a coward and jumping off a cliff. There was
a party at the cathedral and both of us wanted to have fun and dance. But the
moment I stepped on the grass of the cathedral, my feet started burning and
that was when I convinced myself that I was an evil spirit and that I was also possibly
a devil.
Labels: lucid
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2.
10:37
I woke up feeling horrible as fuck. I had a dream that we
were talking again, and you started telling me about how much you missed me and
how much you missed us being friends. I think I laughed at everything you said
because I was too happy to even reply anything. Everything seems so bland when
explaining it in words. I want to write whatever you said to me last night, but
I can’t remember anything.
I don’t even know if it was a dream or some kind of subconscious hallucination I had of us together. I woke up feeling horrible and this is why.
I don’t even know if it was a dream or some kind of subconscious hallucination I had of us together. I woke up feeling horrible and this is why.
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1.
9.29.2014 @ 10:43
I lost a friend today. This is normal, I am not worried at
all. There are many reasons why things didn’t work out but I choose to blame no
one – not even myself. I’m a Sagittarius, and by that conjecture, I am always
happy and never serious and things pass by quicker than I can to feel regret or
loss.
Now I can’t even feel normal. I don’t know what normal. I am
always either too sad or too angry at the fact that I let someone this good
slip right through my fucking hands. I want to be okay with everything, I keep
telling myself that, and I want to be okay with this entire fucking situation
but I just can’t seem to wrap my head around how you left me without really
saying why. And I don’t think you understand but every night I am merely just a
husk of myself and I hate how pathetic I feel.
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you make cigarettes taste like home
9.20.2014 @ 09:40
I would shoot myself in the mouth just so I can feel something again other than the touch of your fingers tracing the nape of my neck from six hundred and fifty days ago.
Hi this is Roxanne and I cannot seem to write. I think I've momentarily lost the ability to actually come up with something nice so I'll try to keep everything short. If things go south I might write about something personal (again) oh god. Or I'll do a photo entry, I really don't know.
Labels: Writings
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Mansions on the moon - don't tell
8.31.2014 @ 01:41
i might.
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awake but not really
8.30.2014 @ 23:49
Last night I dreamt that I was a murderer. I dreamt that my
mother was assassinated and my Dad told me to go to Dubai to avenge her. I did
not understand. I think I was 20, but I felt 14. I felt lost and terrified and
when I got off the plane and landed in Dubai, I felt like everyone was
rejecting me. I don’t recall having the ability to fly, but I do remember being
able to jump super super high.
I met my cousin at the airport and apparently we bounced our
way back to the hotel. When I got to the hotel it was all red – red walls,
floors, the staff working there wore red, the bed sheets were red, and
basically everything in the hotel was red. For some reason, I went up to the
receptionist and told her that I was on a mission to kill somebody. My cousin
told her his name and she said that he was killed; or probably murdered, I
don’t remember. I felt really happy and I could almost feel my mother’s ghost
hugging me. I think I cried while I made my way to his room.
Inside, I tried to find solace in seeing his blood, or dead
body; but I saw nothing. All I saw was red and it scared me. Turns out, he
faked his death and tailed my cousin to the airport. I turned around in
realisation and I saw my cousin’s dead body lying in front of me. I think I
jumped and kicked him but he shot me and I felt my lungs deflating. I think I
was having a mini Biology lesson flashback and pictures of the lungs flashed
through my mind like PowerPoint slides on energizer. I soon gave in to the
boredom (I felt no pain and was awaiting death) and decided to commit suicide.
I knew I was in a dream, and that’s usually how I dream every night, and I shot
myself in the mouth.
Labels: lucid
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Get your emotions on track
8.22.2014 @ 03:57
I want to glue my feelings for you on my skin. I want you to
see how much I hate you, and how nonchalant I am of how we are, but I don’t
want to tell you that. I want you to think that I can’t stand you, and rot
inside out thinking about it, than for me to tell you straight on that I hate
the way you laugh.
You sound happy (and you shouldn’t be) and you talk to me
about everyone else like as though I was the least interesting person in the
world (and you shouldn’t have) and you cry to me about how bad your school is
and how everyone in school is so hypocritical (you know I can’t handle
emotions) and you keep telling me over and over and over again how you’d get
better (which you haven’t, till date) and I keep telling you how unlucky I am
to have met you because you throw all your emotions on me like as though I’m a
sponge and you keep telling and teaching me how to make someone feel better and
you keep trying to make me get excited over boys but I can’t and you expect so
so much but I give and try so little and in some instances (like now) I don’t
even know I if I should be thankful or regretful for having someone like you
try so hard for me.
And when you called me at 2 in the morning crying, I shouldn't have gotten angry at you sorry I hope you read this and understand that I don't like sacrificing my sleep for silly things like that.
Labels: personal
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trees and things
8.02.2014 @ 23:07
There is no real, definite reason why you would want to kill
yourself. It’s the constant, never-ending gnawing at the back of your skull
that drives you insane. I found a way to shut it up but I had to cut so many fucking branches that I wouldn’t
stop bleeding and writing your name on each leaf that fell. You told me to
forget it all – but how could I forget
everything if it was written all over my fucking arms? You kept asking if I
knew what was wrong with me but all I knew was that I needed a god damned
chainsaw to cut all the branches off and maybe then I’d know what went through
my fucking mind when I met you.
Labels: Writings
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confessions at 3:01am
8.01.2014 @ 22:39
A CONFESSION I’D NEVER TELL: I
hate it when people tell me that they completely
understand the pain I’m in because they didn’t have to feel their best
friend’s tears soaking up their shirt while his dad was at home too drunk to
even remember he had a family. And I hate it when people tell me that I shouldn’t exaggerate my sadness because they
didn’t have their best friend die in their fucking arms and pretend that life
was still beautiful in rosy hues because it is NOT FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.
Two days ago you called me at 3am in the morning and I
should have picked up.
Labels: Writings
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bare me
7.31.2014 @ 07:32
I wonder if the cross around your neck means more to you
than I do.
You wonder if the emptiness in me would swallow you alive.
You wonder if the emptiness in me would swallow you alive.
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b.coffee
7.03.2014 @ 09:27
You make me want to drink coffee (and you know I hate coffee with every fibre in my body). And you make me contemplate a second cup. This time, without sugar. I think I want to feel the bitterness of it on my tongue and I would like to see if I could ever possibly choke on it and die but I guess it felt refreshing and I made another cup (black coffee black coffee coffee to drink of course). I want to choke on coffee. I want to choke on coffee. Choke on coffee, not words. Is this what realisation feels like? I like realising.
Labels: Writings
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living-but-not-really
09:13
I think I just had an epiphany today.
It was honestly the best feeling ever. I stood in front of the
mirror and oh my god it was beautiful. It occurred to me that: wow I actually
have a life and hair and fingers and I do exist in this world and I am part of
this 7460309489 lucky people to be alive and I can do things like wow roxanne you
can actually do something worthwhile with
your life. And this feeling of sudden realisation was great therapy for me
because I was going through this living-but-not-really phrase and I felt like
spilling acid all over myself and feel the burning sensation go through my
bones but now I am actually grateful and happy to be so GOD DAMNED ALIVE and I think I’ll stop complaining from now because
people do die. It’s not just a movie
scene about someone fictional dying but I am legitimately breathing the same
air as people who are LEGITIMATELY DYING FROM THE LACK OF AIR and it scares me
to death (haha) but there I was, in all my sheer ingratitude, and stuck in this
I’m-dying-inside-but-my-body-doesn’t-know-it limbo. I wouldn’t know if they’d
been secretly in love, or secretly dying all their life, or if they had a hard
time at work, but all I do know is that I was such an ungrateful bastard (for
being able to live TO THIS SECOND AMEN MOTHERFUCKER) and I know I have to be so so so so so so much more appreciative of the
littlest tinniest microscopic details about anyone and everyone because we’re
all alive and incredibly happy and grapes-ful (sorry I figured this wasn’t a
serious post).
Okay my epiphany has ended.
Labels: personal
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Polite Fiction - perspective
6.28.2014 @ 09:24
Labels: mixes
0 comments: leave a comment
clear as you
09:22
Smile like you do,
Come around again.
This presence of mine,
Perspective can lend.
Take, take, take,
You give and take.
How’s it gonna’ feel
When you break, break,
break,
This thin veneer?
The air of indifference
you make.
Tell me how tell me
when I’ll ever tire of you here?
And I could comb this
town for years and years and I’ll never find a gaze that’s quite as clear.
Clear as you.
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acid and other burning sensations
6.27.2014 @ 09:33
[12:15am]
they said:
love makes you pretty
but i'm pretty sure
you are so much so
in the dark
[1:07am]
i wish you’d notice
the hollows beneath my cheek
like the way i notice
your ever-present crease
between your eyebrows
[1:30am]
i am sorry
i am sorry
i am sorry
i am sorry
[2:17am]
i dont think you heard me
but
we dont have time for that
i seem to be breathing in
something other than air
[2:30am]
I AM SORRY
I AM SORRY
I AM SORRY
I AM SORRY
please hear me
do you?
[2:35am]
i thought i saw
your fingers twitch
but it's too dark
to know for sure
[2:58am]
i wish you'd hear me
[3:07am]
there is something here
in my lungs
i think
get it out
get it out
get it out
please
[3:15am]
I AM SORRY
PLEASE
HEAR
ME
[3:23am]
wake up
wake
up
i am scared
is this how
home feels?
[3:45am]
your eyelids twitched
my sadness is beginning
to feel like home
i dont feel comfortable
here
(sorry)
(i am)
(really tired)
[3:55am]
i want to scratch my soul out
rip myself out of my skin
and claw
shatter
break
my way out of this catastrophe
and i want to bleed
and feel something other than your
fingertips on the curve
on my back
[4:05am]
remember when i asked you
"do you ever just want to. like. die"
and you said "you're just crazy"
am i?
am i really?
[4:06am]
I AM SORRY
PLEASE
I AM
SORRY
[4:10am]
i don't need you
to hear me
anymore
[4:15am]
(i am so god damn sorry)
[4:23am]
(you
deserve
so. much.
more)
[4:33am]
love makes you so pretty
and you said his name
with a smile -
like you knew him for years
and i guess what scares
me the most
is you being the better-me
and me being me
[rr]
Labels: i tried, poetry, Writings
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go away
09:17
I wish the weather stayed like this forever. Because what is
the use of a sun if I can’t see a god damn thing.
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why didnt you burn me when you had the chance
09:05
I am afraid of looking at you in the eye, but not if a
volcano erupts and burns me alive. I hope that you realise how god damn stupid
it was of me (I know I fucked up) and I hope the hate doesn’t blind you too
much.
Labels: Writings
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ought
09:04
It is said that people can be captured with words
By that conjecture, you are smart. Incredibly so. And funny
without even trying. You’re an undisclosed avid listener of alternative music
and you scream when you see birds flying. Not because you like them – but because
you know I hate them and I’ll scream just as much as you. By that conjecture,
you’re beautiful without even bolting out the bad. Admirably insufferable, you
are entranced by motion;
and I am entranced by you.
Labels: Writings
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obligation
09:03
It is said that people can be captured with words
Labels: Writings
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i hope you don't
00:20
Labels: Writings
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-
00:13
you said you lost feelings but I'm losing my fucking mind.
Labels: Writings
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an abrupt ending to something good
6.24.2014 @ 05:10
I don’t think we’ve ever been in love. I guess I feel in
some way that I do love you – I know I do – but I don’t know if I was ever in love with you. I did patronise the
idea of us being happy together but it felt strange (that we could have been
the best god damned shit that’s ever happened to me but I don’t think I’m ready
to have things start going my way).
We were never in love, but boy we could have been.
Labels: Writings
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maybe more
6.23.2014 @ 06:55
Labels: Writings
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brown instead of blue
6.20.2014 @ 23:16
It’s as if we hadn’t met in years; and the second our eyes
meet you give nothing but stares and ask why I smiled with my lips touching
instead of my teeth peeking out from between them. I didn’t know how to reply but I guess
that’s what happens when the light gets drained out from you.
Labels: Writings
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today
6.19.2014 @ 01:48
Today, you said I was different (you make me so happy you
don’t even know) – or was it complicated. I’m not too sure I can’t remember but
you said I was something-different-something-complicated
and I just want you to know that falling in love with a writer is quite
synonymous to the smell of atmosphere after a day of rain; because you’ll
admire their work until you realize what had to be done for those words to be
written.
But the problem is: as beautiful or as destructive those
words may be, I don’t want to share any of it with anybody. I don’t want to
talk about my cantankerous alter ego who wanted to set her house on fire, or
about my mother who wouldn’t stop talking about sending me off and packing, or
my first (and probably not last) attempt at drowning myself in my sketchpads.
Labels: Writings
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voice voice voice
22:57
I wish I could make up a word that would sound like your
voice; because if I could then god bless this horrid mess I’ll stay up awake
every night embedding your voice into the parchment of my books. And your voice
will be the first thing I breathe in the morning; and the last I will when I
hopefully die soon.
Labels: Writings
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good occasions
05:15
I used to write. But now I guess it’s seasonal – I can’t
write anything now. I feel slightly ashamed that I had once proudly broadcasted over
the internet that writing was the only one sustainable thing in my life, wow
look what happened. I mean, I do try, very hard, to start writing again. But it
doesn’t work – it hardly ever does. Here, I tried:
you you you you you
Labels: Writings
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keaton henson - lying to you
6.15.2014 @ 08:33
and I feel in some way I do love you
but babe, I'm not in love with you
Labels: mixes
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1975 - robbers
6.14.2014 @ 03:36
Labels: mixes
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not sad, not angry, or happy, or annoyed
6.13.2014 @ 00:29
She’d wake up every morning to the soft caress of fingers
dancing along the strings of a guitar – each note too low to even be heard, or
appreciated. It was majestic and ambiguous and a whole lot of sad but it was
her house, nonetheless.
School sounds like a mixture of extreme chords – all of
them so loud and so soft at once that she could barely figure out whether to
love or to hate the chaos that made her afternoons bitter-sweet.
But whenever she was alone, she would hear nothing but
the silence and the sound of air leaving her body. She’s reminded of how empty she
is – and that if life was a river and everyone were anchors, she would be floating
on the surface too empty to even sink.
Labels: personal
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how did it end up like this
6.02.2014 @ 07:14
Labels: Writings
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i don't know what you're saying but i like you anyway
6.01.2014 @ 02:57
I am here, in my room, picking at my callouses with one knee up
and I am putting my favourite song on repeat;
Robbers
This reminded me of two things:
a) That I’ll have to get the tickets to see The 1975 real soon
b) That relationships don’t always go right, or wrong, because
sometimes they can be the best god damned nightmare you will ever have and you
would just love to have it every night.
Labels: personal
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home is where the heart is
5.31.2014 @ 01:06
I met a friend last night and the subject of home came up. She
asked me:
What is home, really?
I was going to say that I felt like home
in your arms but I'd probably beat myself up about it later for being such an
overindulgent and emotionally dependent girl that I kept quiet and listened to
the silence that soon followed. I honestly did not know what to say because who
would actually say that they felt like home in the arms of someone than in the embrace
of their own house? So I gave her the generic answer of oh home is where the heart is and
that didn’t really help at all because my heart was never really with me, or
with you, but it was out there somewhere and I haven’t have had the time nor
the motivation to find it. But as much as I want to say and believe that you were
nearly as unimportant as how I tell everyone you are, you were actually the
closest I've ever been to understanding myself and it’ll probably take years
off my life to even try and admit that.
But I'll have to thank you for showing me
the way home - even if it was temporary.
Labels: personal
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she can't be what you need if she's 17
5.28.2014 @ 02:06
I can make sense with or without bulleting my sentences. Such
as:
- coups et blessures
- do not romanticize my sadness
- punches and injuries
- you only grow older; and if you're lucky, maybe a little wiser
- do not mock the pain you have yet to endure
- joie de vivre
- i do not know which tattoo to get first
Labels: personal
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you're not even remotely, remotely kind.
5.03.2014 @ 09:20
I had to
do a personality survey for class yesterday. It was to determine what kind of
working attitude we had in general and I’m not sure if this is a joke but I am
(apparently) an interactive person. It’s quite nice knowing that I’m not as
unsociable and displeasing as how I make myself out to be.
But I’m
not sure which one’s a bigger joke: me having a work profile or me being
interactive.
Labels: personal
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The world is scary and potently chaotic
2.21.2014 @ 07:52
there are no daises
or roses
in the garden (in her head)
instead there were flames;
ashes,
and a little bit of sadness.
she wondered if the cigarettes her father had;
(that lasted longer than their conversations)
had set her mind ablaze.
but she couldn’t help but notice –
the world was fire,
and she was kindling at the seams rr
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The battling duo, in chime at last.
2.15.2014 @ 00:48
The majority of her past week was spent sitting in front of
the prehistoric contraption, banging her head on the keyboard and ripping her
hair out from their follicles. She was cursing herself for being such a nosy
and overindulgent girl when she could just quite literally not subject herself
to the torture of really caring about anything at all, and for being drained.
Being drained is probably the worst thing; the frustration of being so
uninspired and useless will most likely leave you rotting under the quilts of
your bed like a besotted teenage fan girl on a hiatus from stalking.
And every so often she would stumble upon a gif or two that
would make her giggles sound shrill and girly, but she ended up laughing too
much and too loudly over each and every one of them that soon, her mind wasn’t
quite attentively and actively there; and the glimmering appeal each motion
picture had had lost their shine as quickly as they had gained it.
But the idea of writing still quite appealed to her – the
crisp freshness still floating about flimsily in her mind. Firstly, she liked
to think that she was emotionally stable (haha) enough to continue, and
secondly she was rather determined to return to writing after such a long time
of being dead – and for an extraordinarily unmotivated person like her, that
was not only massively shocking but glaringly rare.
But on a rainy day like today, she couldn’t help but wonder
if the entire notion of writing was something she did out of boredom – because
the internet was already a lost cause and she wasn’t sure if she could subject
herself to laziness any longer. With lead clouds lining the horizontal skyline,
the rays from the sun could barely peek through the heavily padded clouds –
much less reach the cement pavements. And just like every other tirelessly
boring day, her mood didn’t exactly improve. She didn’t write anything that day
– or the next – and when she slept at eight, it was fairly surprising for the
people around her since it was pretty early for someone who was decidedly more
active during the early hours of the morning than during the day.
And when she left for work the very next day, she was
greeted with the soft chiming of hellos and the occasional “you look like
crap”, which she would reply with sarcastic thank-yous and loop-sided grins of
“don’t talk to me”.
Labels: Writings
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And every time they screamed, it sounded like machines to me.
2.07.2014 @ 03:12
She arrived home to a mostly
empty house, save for her mother who was sleeping on the couch. After spending
about two minutes trying to tip-toe to her room in the most soundless and
elegant way someone as gawky as her could manage, she locked the door behind
her and turned on her ancient computer. She waited approximately ten minutes before
that damned piece of prehistoric contraption actually whirred to life, and
another five for a Word Document to pop out. She was determined to make the
best blog post she’s ever written.
The plan she had imagined in her
head, however, didn’t go quite as smoothly as she’d hoped – firstly, it was
eleven and work had been exhaustingly horrible (making smoothies had its
pressures, too), secondly, all she’d written was:
I came home after work to a mostly
empty houeofnl kmo.’=[pppppppppppp9{‘;ppppppppppppg
She looked at it with mild
disappointment – but mostly just amusement and knowingness, though. She didn’t
know if some part of her had actually hoped for her half-asleep self to produce
something worthy of reading, but still, she was forced to come to terms with
the fact that her unconscious state of mind was just as useless as her sober
state. So she sat at her desk a little while more, cladded in work attire and
all, and stared at the screen until the words were just mere blots of black on
a white – otherwise perfect – piece of parchment. Every now and then, she would
think of a sentence to write but she backspaced them all; they sucked anyway. The
drumming of her fingers against the keyboard was not at all musical nor could
it create something as great as the old, dusty cello her mother had kept in the
storeroom. She had convinced herself that night-time wasn’t her time – even
though she was probably going to spend the night away shopping online. Unseeingly,
she reached for her phone and stood up. Tomorrow, she’ll write the best
goddamnned thing Blogger will ever have.
Tomorrow.
Labels: Writings
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