because for the first time, it makes sense to try

Something fits with you
Everything falls into place
Makes sense

Feels like I could've been doing this ages,
Feels like I can.

Like I could do this for a while
Like I could be here longer than I'd thought
And then it sort of all gets a bit messy and I'm not sure what to think anymore and inside, inside it's just a tumble of words one after the other after the other
Reallycharis,whyexplainyourselftellmecomeontellmethinkthisoutthewayyoualwaysdowritewritewriteuntilitallmakessense

Except
I keep writing-
In snippets, in paragraphs, in breaks,
In breaths, breathless.
I try to think it out but I'm still left empty-handed.

I like that we've talked about bits of it today.
I do.

But I also know that I'm due to sit down,
By water, with myself, my pencil and paper,
And start a conversation that won't go in a direction I know.

Like peas in a pod

And then I think,

"Hey, I used to know her."

It's funny, but it's also kind of just a little bit painful at the same time.

I'm always left wondering what happened, and how it did.

But sometimes, y'know,

just because you ask doesn't mean that you're owed an answer.

And it's best left as it is y'know, just like that.

But for that bit of time, it was fun.

And I'd like to remember that-

The screaming, and ditzy-ing about. The crying, the falling over, the falling.

We were always able to talk about things a couple of layers deeper than it looked like we could. I loved that about you. I loved that you called to tell me the smallest, most important things.

I loved that I could do the same with you.

And so, no,

I don't know what happened.

But Twin, I sure as hell miss you.

And I just wanted you to know.

impossibly so, in fact.

It's chilly out,
A smattering of red and orange bits about the front porch,
The lawn and on the pavement that runs on forever.

You're calling out from the kitchen-
Something about the blender that won't work. I'm leaning against the red brick wall at the end of the driveway that is just about chest level, taking all of it in.
Then you're leaning against the doorway,
glass of juice (from the carton) in hand, having given up on that sodding blender.

And I'm thinking-
It doesn't have to be here, or there.
Doesn't have to be like all the things we've thought up, or talked of, or laughed at.
And I'd never want you to stay if you didn't want to.
But, you're here right now, and that's just the loveliest thing really.

"Dream up something first," they've always said,
So I do.
And my word, who knew dreams could be so beautiful?
And who'd have thought that this dream might be one,
That one might want to hold on to for a while.


just so you know, I'm impossibly I'm love with you

they're all hands and fingers

leaving me with dirt right underneath my skin, staining my bones


Whenever things like this happen,
I tell myself it's just me-
That I'm paranoid, sensitive,
Going half mad.

Then it happens again.
And I think,
That's just it;
I'm half mad

But I realize,
Big brown eyes can hypnotize
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i don't do this very often

Wow.
You know, I have no idea what just happened.

or why this feels like this.


I think it's because,
For the first time,
It's like, it wasn't okay to cry. Even though you didn't have anything to do with it.

And uhm,
I'm still grappling with this whole, feeling quite daft thing.

I'm not feeling the way I am because I'm embarrassed about how I feel and what I think,
Not because you need to know what to do with all this nonsense I've brought up,
But just a little bit because I didn't mean for you to sorta stare at the spillage ang think,
Shoot, this is bloody Pandora's box this is.
I don't mean for anyone to have to see this and think that.


Which is precisely why.

What's on the other side of the ocean?

In all the houses that I've lived in since moving to Singapore (save for the first, I think) we've never fully unpacked. We've never unpacked every single thing from its box and given it a shelf or a cupboard space to call home. Even back in Pasir Ris, we had stacks and stacks of albums and cook books, kept in large plastic boxes- never unpacked.
Sure we took them out now and then, and there always has to be that first boyfriend your mom will show your baby pictures to,
But it was never on a shelf that would always hold a dusty outline of it.

We were always meant to go home;
Our time in this place, a stopover.

The first time I had to pack, I packed thirteen years of my life into boxes. (Because when we first moved in, I was still little enough to warrant the unpacking of all that was me)
Everything that I'd ever known, everything that had been with me or been collected in all that time, all of it was wrapped in newspaper and put into boxes.
And so we moved, and I dealt with it. We didn't unpack all of our things though, there was never enough space for anything.

Then we moved again, and I was less sentimental as I was keen on chucking stuff. Boxes of letter from the ex, pictures or cutouts of stupid things-
They had to go.

Everything that's with us in our apartment now has been unpacked. God knows why we still actually have boxes about, but all our stuff's with us for sure.
The rest of- which is about three quarters of all that we own (possibly more) is in storage somewhere in Woodlands.
And yes, it is as out in the sticks as it sounds.

We're moving again.

Of course, I've known this for a long time now. I've been the one bugging us to get off our asses, ever since we decided to buy a place a year back.
But going about looking, sorta makes things more real I suppose.

On one hand, I am happy.
I could do without my toilet door attacking me every so often and having a swimming pool in our kitchen every time we do laundry.
But I am tired.
I am tired because the one thing left on my mind is-
When is this going to stop?
When is this, all this moving going to fucking end?

We've always supposed to have been going back home, and when we weren't, we were supposed to be joining family in the States.
But we haven't as yet, and meanwhile, we have moved so many fucking times.
Packing, unpacking, packing, unpacking.

And in this time,
We've lived some kind of half-life. (I'm pretty sure I've said this before.)

Y'know, there'd have been a world of difference if someone had just decided that,
Sod all,
We're bloody staying put here.

No, I can't say I'd jump around in excitement. But at least there would've been just one, solid thing.

I would never ask anyone to move with or for me.
I might ask if they'd like to, but I would never have a place picked out, a life cut out and say, "come."
I couldn't.

And at the same time, maybe that's why I've always wanted to have kids early.
Because before I have them, I'd pick a place, plant myself there,
And I will not move for the longest time.
Not because I hate moving.

But because in all my life,
I've just always needed something more than a concept to hold on to.

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I think

Talking would be nice.

It's there, all of it, what I need/want to say. A jumbled mess, but there all the same.

Most times, it's just infinitely easier to talk about other things. It's always been easier to present the less emotional side of yourself, the side that people look at and tell you makes them happy, because you are.
It's always so much easier to tell yourself, that if you focus on something else for a while, hold on to something you're sure of, the rest of it won't be real. And maybe, you'll get away with not having to sort out iffy things like your feelings or thoughts.

So here I am,
Sitting on the floor of the loo, my back against the wall-
Much like I used to do back when I was in school.
Believing, I think, that maybe if I sit here just a bit longer, the world will forget about me and I won't have to go back to it.

I wish I wasn't like this, feeling all this nonsense. And I wish I could understand it better.
I am generally upset.
For the most part, it's a lot of things added up. Perhaps if I took the time to sort them out into boxes, folders and sub-folders, it wouldn't be half as bad.
But I guess taking the time to do so has always been my problem.

Okay, wait, that's a lie-
It's never been a problem I've had because I have always, always found time to write and think and just, talk with myself.
I don't get that so much anymore.
I try to, I really do. But it's less writing, even during my alone time.
And God I'm tired.
That in itself is a contributing factor. This whole lack of time with myself (although I am left puzzled because I DO still have me-time, I just haven't been using it to write so oughtn't I just sit down to write then? Except I'm more tired these days and... Okay, we're going 'round in circles again.)

But I'm sitting here because it feels safe. The solidity of the toilet floor, the sureness of the space between tiles. I feel so safe I might just cry.
And the drilling and hammering and sound of machinery, it feels like we're lost in it. Feels like I'm lost in it.
But the longer I sit here, the further away I seem to get from all that noise and oh, just the rest of the world.

I am tired.
So perhaps it'd be okay to just, curl up here for a tad longer,
close my eyes and tell myself that the world will make more sense when I go back to it.
Although, I really sorta hate making promises that I don't know if I can keep.

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I don't want to do this today

It just doesn't quite feel like I can.
And I am listless and distracted and upset.

I don't want to do this today.
Anything actually.
I want to just sit in a corner,
Or crawl under a table,
Or sit on a couch by the window and stare out of it.
Just for, an indefinite amount of time.

I'm not alright, but bloody hell,
I don't know what's wrong me either.

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It's not enough, though it's too much. Why must it always feel like this?

I'm not okay today.

I miss you and oh, those words I've read a million times now-
They still make me cry.
Every single time.

It's one of those days where I feel like I'm ripping my insides out in what is supposed to be a way of therapy.
Except it isn't.

This is for you.
It's supposed to be for you.
It should've been for you.

I wish I wasn't so teary eyed.
It's not very good you know? Turning up for work ten minutes late and then being all teary. Hiding in the loo to feel sad.

But I've put myself in the middle of our empty studio.
Black carpets, high ceilings with red brick walls.
Feeling the ache that's come with the absence of you.

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So how's this work hey?

I just what,
Type an email and pretend it's not kinda weird. Or like, I know exactly what I'm doing when I don't and then just sorta let everything else fall into place?

Okay.
Okay, I can do that.

Or like try to decide how I feel and just sorta be like,
Hmm, uhm. Okay.okay.okay, I give up.

That's my problem I suppose-
My job let's me run away.

A couple of the kids said in a feedback form,
"Drama let's me be someone I am not."
"In drama, I can be anyone I want to be."
And that's only the half of it darling, really.

It let's you crawl out of your skin and into a character that you can create. It let's you step out to step in, let go and become.

Sometimes, it is awfully tempting to stay in character for long after the house lights have come on and the audience, emptied out.
Sometimes, it's a whole lot easier to be all the things that everyone else wants you to be, y'know, just for convenience sake.
Of course that only works if you can shut yourself out. Block out your needs and wants and all that you should be.
I never said it was a good thing, I just said it might be easier.

And sometimes,
It's a whole lot easier to just go with things, like you know exactly what's happening. When in truth, you're not even sure if there's anything the least bit solid to walk on, when you take the next step.

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Far Away

I guess there's been quite a bit going on (understatement of the year) and it's been one helluva roller-coaster ride not so much so this week,

but just, of recent.

At least on my end that is.

Afternoons on grassy fields, tearing up dried leaves, talking endlessly,

Or evenings with ice-cream by water, in playgrounds, talking endlessly,

we're quite a long way off from that and I find it a frightful shame.

I don't suppose I've thought about things very much. I think I've been trying to crawl out of my skin and get away from myself. I've lost my words, and I've looked around a bit and then sort of given up.

Tired. I'm tired, I think.

Most often these days, I sort of would just like to sit and talk.

Or sit and attempt to.

Or sit and just, not.

I don't half mind just sitting and being quiet.

Most days, it feels like I'm in a different place altogether and all that I'm holding on to is whatever is in front of me.

Because it's all that I can.

I'm close to tears and this is so stupid because I don't even have any bloody idea why.

Maybe I'm upset, maybe I'm frustrated. I don't know, I have no clue.

We were caught trying to get a cab from Gardens, mid-freaking-day. And five got stolen and then a couple here and there just passed us by.

Now obviously, they're just cabs and really, I don't really mind. Especially in retrospect.

But then, at the point in time, Oh My Word.

I wasn't so much so annoyed or upset as I was close to tears. Not because cabs weren't stopping, but because,

oh I don't know really.

Then I just shoved it into a box and didn't really want to think about how I was feeling, which is what I've been doing for,

uhm, well, fuck, I might as well admit it now-

the last three weeks I think. I can't quite be sure.

Maybe it's time to sit down for a bit.

Even if it means crying about seemingly nothing.

At the same time, I feel awful that I've subconsciously closed up a bit.

I don't think I was quite aware of it, and no I wasn't actively doing it or anything.

But still,

I'm sorry. More than I might find myself capable of telling you, but really,

I am sorry.

And it's not my favouritest feeling in the world, feeling a bit sort of

out of touch,

even though it's only been a few days.

But (and I'm not being callous about it or anything)

we'll pick our way through this, and sort it out.

And I really don't mean it to sound so task-oriented, really.

________________________________________

On another note!

We did quite a few homely things today, which was quite nice. I don't usually do such homely things with people and I quite like it.

There was Mass with Erika, and then there was Sunday Brunch which was Bak Chor Mee with Erika's folksies at Crawford. Oh the honour! (No really. I'm remembering the chilli, and want to just stop and bask in the memory of it for a bit) I thought it was awfully nice of them to bring me so THANK YOU ^^

Then there was messing around with hair dye and juice and sappy romance show and crisps-

And all at the same time!

Which came before checking out new apartments.

(That's another story altogether.)

Such a family day no? haha.

Oh Sundays!

And now, I shall take my leave because Mommy's made baked rice(:

Hold

When the floor gives way, we reach-

Clawing at walls, grasping at straws.

We cling on to all that we know, all that we are sure of, best as we know how. Except,

sometimes, when the world is determined to be difficult, we find that all we're left

holding on to has managed to start slipping through our fingers too.

And it feels like everything might crumble as soon as we touch it. We're at the end of our

rapidly fraying rope and shit,

It's a long way down.

Hold on. Hold on tight then,

To yourself.

Because when everything else is falling to pieces, when nothing's quite as you know it

anymore,

You are. And you are real, you are here.

And Lord knows, you've got to hold on to all that you know.

Because you might not know when you'll meet the ground, or where you'll be or when

you'll meet the ground. You might not know why it's happening or how or what it'll be

like to feel safe and steady again.

In the very least though, you'll know that the world might've stripped you of everything

you thought real,

but it couldn't take you away from yourself.

And there's not a chance in hell that it'll have the satisfaction of doing that.

Letter

"I remember Job though, lots of bad things happened to him."
"Uh huh"
"Yeah, I mean his wife got turned into a pillar of salt."
"Baby that wasn't Job, that was Lot or something."
"Yeah well, a lot of bad things happened to him too."

Sometimes people go, "Oh well, hey, it could've been worse."
Except, if you're right in the middle of the world crashing down around you,
it sort of doesn't feel that way.

So yes, maybe our cattle and sheep and wheat and barley aren't dead or being attacked.
Maybe our children aren't dead.
Maybe our wife isn't randomly turning into a pillar of salt.
But it doesn't make any of this any easier to swallow.


Yes, none of us can see Your major plan for us. And maybe, when all is said and done, we'll be one who finds ourselves looking back and smiling knowingly.
But I'm just saying, maybe it'd be nice to ease up a bit on the nonsense is all.


Because really, honestly,
There are some who could really do with You cutting them some slack.
And maybe there really is a world waiting on the other side of this pool of boiling lava,
But the world on this side hasn't been half bad and bloody hell,
This is one helluva lava pool.

Respite,
Please.

Before there's absolutely nothing left.




right now, I'd give the world, to have you slip into sleep breathing easy

We're the same sort of people. We'll give and give and give,
Because we want to.
But the moment it becomes something expected of us, something we ought to do,
Anything that feels like it's closing in on us just a tad,
We'll shift uncomfortably and want to run.

And we'll ask if it's just us.
We'll wonder desperately if there's something wired wrongly with us,
That we can't seem to handle the everyday that people breeze through.
But it's not.

Except, I can't believe that it's going to feel like it's just me soon.
Though I figure now, you probably felt like that for the longest time.

No one else's leaving feels even a fraction as bad as yours.
Because they've, we've, you've got a world of different reasons.
But it's sorta the same with us, and I know that while you must, it stings.

I am impossibly happy for you, but no one else is going to get it-
This, and all it brings.
They don't give a hoot. They're not half as emotionally attached.
I'm not saying they don't like work,
I'm saying they feel different.

That's why we think it through, and it still hurts to let go.
That's why we stay to tie up loose ends,
To wrap things up before we take our leave.
And that's why we'll always come back.

I'm a few steps behind you now.
And love it as I do, I know I can't stay. You could've told me that,
I think you might have already in fact.
It kills me to think this, admit this, know this.
But well.


I'll see you on the other side babe,
We're the same sorta people after all.

i cant believe it's actually getting to me

But it kind of is.

from the sidelines

Because girl, I love you for everything.
and even if.

so how'd we get like this, d'you think?

It's ten to seven on a Sunday evening.
You're on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, my head in your lap.
And that's all there is.

We could be doing things, we could;
Watching telly or reading or talking about what we ought to have for dinner.
Except we're not.
We're just on the couch, not saying anything. And I don't know about you, but I'm not even thinking anything either.

I curl and uncurl my toes, reach up and thread my fingers through yours, resting on my tummy.
The CD finishes its last track and whirs to a stop. The remote for the CD player is a mere inch and a half from where our fingers are laced.
Neither of us make an attempt to move, to start up the CD again, or load a new one in.
Neither of us make an attempt to move, period.


And we stay like that, just you and me.
Doing absolutely nothing in the world. Not even pretending, not even attempting to pretend to be doing something.
Just absolutely nothing.

I reach up, run my finger along your jawline. Your eyes meet mine then,
And you smile, just the tiniest tiny bit.

And I think,
I could do this for the longest time.
And I think,
There isn't anything else I'd like more than this.
And I think,
Oh my word, this is perfect.
This is completely and utterly perfect.


And I think,
I am impossibly in love with you

run devil, run

I wanted to run.
Outrun the insane wave of thought and emotion I've been wrought with (or in denial about being so)
Run-
Until my insides scream, my chest hurt, my feet burn
And my legs give out and leave me in a sodding heap.
Then,
Then I wanted to pick myself up and run some more.

Until the music in my ears become no more than the wind going crazy,
Until I am so, so painful that I'm numb,
Until I am shaky and delirious.
Until,
I can't quite tell that I'm crying anymore.

This Thursday

I got up and took my hour and a half long bus ride to the office in Sunset Way.
Just like I used to, for three and a half weeks straight during Youth Matters' rehearsals, I picked myself up two small chicken pies and an ice-coffee. The only difference being that it wasn't accompanied with a smoke.
I sat down, opposite Thomas and his Chee Chong Fun-
Breakfasting in this office for the last time.

Everything feels the same in such an impossibly different way.

I'm not particularly resistant to change,

I'm not.

And I suppose everything will always feel too fast for my liking.

But I can pack.

I'm good at packing. After all, three, four times over, I've had to pack my entire life into cardboard boxes.

I can do this.

The movers are here.

They always come a just a wee bit early-

and never, when we feel ready.

The rebirth of Kym

I cant believe I'm crying right now. I can't, I just can't.

I hate that I work myself up to trusting something, so, so impossibly much. And I hate that it fails on me.

Oh Dear God,

I was NOT meant to live in this era!

I was supposed to be living in tree houses, swinging about and talking in animal language. I was NOT supposed to be dealing with buttons and spreadsheets and passwords and codes and things that make you trust it.

MAKE YOU BELIEVE THAT IT IS THERE TO HELP YOU and then fuck you over.

I was not meant to be living in this frikkin' era.

And I called Starhub, panicky and in tears.

To be informed that I will have a brand new phone, that everything is and will be wiped out.

That there.is.nothing.left.

Nothing.

It's fine. It's fine, it's fine, it's fine.

It will be okay.

Nevermind all the pictures and videos; from work, from travel, from lazy weekends.

Nevermind the messages, haven't I almost by-hearted them by now? (Oh God, the loss of these saved messages are really really painful. Ohmygawd)

The contacts will fix themselves eventually.

And I will get over the loss of my messages. OHMYWORD, THIS BIT IS SO PAINFUL!

But I will suck it up and get.over.it.

In any case,

I've been made to feel better already(:

it was early this year, i do believe

And so I looked at me, at you,
At how I was beginning to feel and I how I already felt.
And I thought-
Usually, I'd be too lazy to think about this.
Usually, I'd be too lazy to feel the way I do.
Usually, it'd be about time for me to take my leave.
Except something felt different with you, impossibly so.
And I distinctly remember thinking to myself-
When all of this comes to a grinding halt, when real life comes knocking,
When it's time for her to leave and time for me to go,
This will hurt.
This will hurt in all the most fantastically unimaginable ways.

But I wanted to, even if it was just for that tiny space of time.
Somehow, I wanted to. I wanted to give as much as you would take,
Feel as much as I was allowed to, even if it meant having none of me left to hold on to in the end.

And so I did.

Except, you didn't take.
Let me rephrase that,
It's not that you didn't take, it's that you didn't drain me out,
taking what you can just because I might let you.

For some reason,
I can love you and not feel like I am losing myself,
Like there's nothing left of myself to hold on to.

And it's refreshingly different, it is.
When I finally met someone with whom I felt it okay to empty myself out for,
There wasn't anything she wanted from me.


And that's how I figured it was more than just feeling an immense amount for you,
And this,
Is how different you've made things.

i am tired

And mildly irritated at a lot of things around me.

People who take things for granted,
Others who cling on desperately to people or things,
Some who refuse to grow balls,
Who run about in circles, chasing after their own tails.

None of it even has anything to do with me.
For the most part anyways
Yet I find myself irked, and annoyed.

My morning was very nice actually.
I very much liked it-
Waking early, breakfasting, church at half eight, half ten and then half eleven.

But something feels a bit off.
I'm physically uncomfortable by something I can't put my finger on.
And what I want to do, more than anything,
Is find that spot I used to sit at sometimes, behind rows of old houses, right by a tiny shallow drain.

In the last hour and a half, I've felt like everything's fake and plastic.
Like we're swimming in a honey-thick pool of pretense and a collection of masks everyone's picking from.

And that's what's draining me out right now-
Feeling like I am just absolutely drowning in things that aren't even real.


I don't like how this feels,
Not one bit.

Sundays, a lifetime ago.

It was white, with blue patterns on it. Sleeveless, it had a wide strap on each shoulder instead and an extra bit that rested off-shoulder, on each side.
It was my favourite dress for the longest time, and I used to wear it to church a lot.
I had short hair, my skin was dark. Scar on my left eyebrow from being daft when mommy was pregnant with Janice, and three moles on my face- one small one near my jawline, another slightly above, and one that was a tiny bit bigger, on the right side of my face where my hair stopped in front of my ear.

Sunday school was in containers then.
Janice (who wasn't my sister) and Dezarae would always sit together somewhere centre of the room (if you could call it that), Beatrice and Shiyun would usually be against the walls on the either side of the room, nearer the front (they didn't always sit together), Keith, Earnest and the other boys would be against the wall on the right side of the room, except a lot further back.
Me, I'd sit with Ashley, at the back, more or less opposite the boys,
Leaning against the walls on the left side, right next to the door. We'd hold hands behind our backs and pay attention to what was being taught.
One particular lesson talked about trust, and volunteers would go up and get blindfolded and have their best friend lead them to the back of the classroom.
Keith went up, and picked Ashley to go with him because they were best friends.

Every Sunday, for as long as I could remember,
I would have tea that they served in the cafeteria, and fishballs selling at a dollar for a stick. Each stick had four, and Janice and I would share a stick.
When we were moved out of the containers, mommy started teaching sunday school.
She taught the eight year olds, which meant Sarah, Sophil, Samuel, Stephas, Inez, among others.
All of us were in the Joybells- the children's choir.
On one Sunday of the month, some of my classmates would get to leave Sunday School early for Holy Communion. Yoyos were the craze, girls became allergic to boys and I started getting an entire stick of fishballs to myself.

And that was how it was, for the longest time.
Tea, fishballs and growing up.
I'd play (or try to) soccer in the tiny playground round the back, in my favourite Sunday dress matched with frilly socks and black shoes from Bubblegummers.

Sometimes,
I'd sit on the four-seater swing set on the other end of the playground, while soccer was going on and Mothers yelled at their sons for messing up the Sunday clothes.

In time, I learnt that Holy Communion wasn't about eating a biscuit or a white wafer,
I started eating savoury food for breakfast, and an entire meal at that. It was where I first had Nasi Lemak and made it part of my Sunday routine.
I discovered the sanctuary of the library, playroom and the prayer room.

When worship stopped being cool, I would attend the adult service from the Gallery, and then slip back in to the worship for the tweens who were more keen on chucking paper balls at each other.

The lyrics of songs stopped being flashed on an overhead projector, and instead came up on screens with backgrounds made up of colours that faded in and out of each other.
Joybells missed one practice because we couldn't find a room, then another, and another, and another until we were on a temporary hiatus that we never came back from.
I started appreciating alone-time, loved worship, and wondered why I always seemed to fit better with people who weren't my age.
I grew, and starting needing, started searching even before I knew it.
And then I got tired of not quite fitting in, or only feeling like I fit with the ones who were just a bit older.


It's been years now, and I've gone to a different church for the last six years.
Going to churches (any sort, as long as it's a church building) always has me missing the one I grew up in.
I still love hanging out with Sarah and Sophil and the rest of the lot, whenever I do.
Ashley's still someone I can talk to, and he still feels like a close friend although we haven't really chatted all that much or all that regularly over the years.

The backgrounds on which song lyrics are flashed can now move! And behind
"Praise Him above, ye heavenly host" there's something that looks like running water.
The tea still tastes exactly the same, fishballs and nasi lemak are still sold in the cafeteria. My friends are on the worship team, and so am I, in my own church.

My cell group leader (who's name I've never remembered) married one of the friends I met at youth camp, there isn't a vast difference amongst the age groups in the Youth Ministry.
Some of us have gotten married, some of us will, some of us (the older ones) already have kids.

I've got new scars, my shoes aren't shiny and black.
When I say hello, people take a while before going,
"Wow, you're so grown up now!"

The swing set in the playground is still there, although the bits and pieces around the playground have changed and been moved about.

It's still a four-seater, that swing set, except it's much smaller than I remember.
It can only fit two and a half of me, when just a while back, six of us could clamber on.
Everything's still the same, despite so much having changed.
I'm not sure how that works, but it does. The cafeteria still smells the same, people I grew up with say Hello like they've been doing it every week.

I wonder when the swing-set shrank,
When we swapped out shiny black shoes for strappy sandals that made us four inches taller.

Everytime I go back, it feels like I'm stepping back into a place from a lifetime ago.
And I am.
We've missed out on each other's lives, but we've carried on all the same.

And so, I seat myself on that four-seater swing set that's now only big enough for two,
I sip tea that's tasted the same all these years,
And I sway quietly, back and forth.
The leaves moving about happily, even the dragging of chairs in the sunday school classrooms producing a somewhat musical sound.
It feels the same, the comfortable solitude that I've had on this swing set.

I never thought it'd ever change, when it did.
But we never think things'll change, do we?

But it's still here, this four-seater swing set.
And I might not be in my favourite Sunday dress anymore, but
I am still here.
Today, at least.

I am.

Tell me, tell me, tell me

Because I love the way she does-

Thoughtfully, like she's not recapping for the sake of it.

In detail, inclusive of the occasional laugh she had during.

Like it matters.

The way it matters now, and will, even tomorrow.

It's not like I'm privvy to everything, or that I absolutely must know. Some days are better than others, some days can be talked about while other days would rather be blocked out for a bit.

But what I love, is how we talk.

Not so much the content as the way we do.

And we don't, we don't really have to I suppose.

I, for one, figure that my days must sound like a boring continuous stream of things that pretty much sound the same. I quite remember talking about work a lot more before, but I seem a tad less inclined to these days, love it as I do.

It's refreshing, hearing about it from her. Whether it's work or friends or family or sitting around playing with lego.

I wonder if that'll stop, eventually.

(Not like I've been mulling it over and fretting, it's just a thought that occurred to be as I went about this post)

You know, if perhaps one or the other will stop asking, or just not feel much like talking. Not that one will always need to talk, and not necessarily always about work.

Just, well, in general.

If maybe one or the other (sometimes I feel I might just be in danger of this) goes on endlessly about themselves, tiring the other out with an overload of information. Or if, there doesn't seem to be a reason to ask anymore.

Isn't that what always happens, over time?

I've never actually stopped to think about things like this before, come to think of it. With anyone.

How odd.

It's the age old, "Charis, you think to much" thing going on. Not that it's any sort of pressing thing weighing on my mind.

Maybe it's because I'm comfy, maybe it's the way things seem to fall into place.

But I figure, when we stop talking about work, or projects at hand, we'd likely easily find new things to tell each other about. That's just me being presumptuous but it certainly feels that way.

Like I said,

it's not so much what we talk about, as it is the way we're able to.

So tell me.

This leaving business

It leaves me standing on shaky ground.
But,
but I'm not one to jump off a ship just because people think, or say it's sinking.

I can almost understand though,
Really I can.

Sometimes, we need to be selfish. We need to think about ourselves.
After all, one needs to sort out oneself before beginning to be any sort of contribution to another.

I wonder about myself though.
I've talked about leaving for so long, and I was supposed to,
had it all planned and set.
But then I didn't, I haven't. I can't seem to, and there're always reasons to stay.
Or at least,
I seem to find myself reasons to stay.

At the beginning of the year, I was just seven months away from leaving.
And somehow, I've pushed that back by ten, eleven months? How in the world did that happen?
Sometimes, I'm frustrated at myself for it.
But then, honestly, there's been a part that's wanted to stay. I mean, if I didn't want to stay so much, then I'd have left by now, no?

When I signed that contract most recently,
I wasn't just agreeing to terms and conditions. I wasn't just saying that I'd stay til the contract was up.
When I signed, I signed it knowing full well that I would stay until I had everything wrapped up, clean and shelved for future reference.
I signed it knowing that I would not be able to leave things hanging.
I signed it, knowing that even though I wasn't supposed to come home with my family end of this year, that I would.

People are different.
I want to go after what I want, and I will.
But not by dropping something like this. It's not anyone's fault if they choose to do differently,
But I guess, well I sort of feel it a bit unfair.

Yes I think it's good for you, yes I think you need to be selfish.
Yes, I think you should go. Go out there and get what you need, especially if you can't get what you need here.
But I'd be lying through my teeth if I said we didn't need just a little bit of help picking up the pieces you'll leave behind.

It's not that I'm resentful, please don't think that.
I guess I don't quite know how to take this,
And I'm just wishing it were easier. Not on me, it hardly has anything to do with me really. But on the ones who're fumbling, running to catch the falling breakables before they shatter.

I will leave too.
Eventually.
I will leave because I have to.
But maybe, just maybe, I'd have left enough of myself behind for you to keep going.

And hopefully,
That will be enough.

you won't be seventeen forever,

And we can get away with this tonight

"And we tossed the wig up, and it hit the fan and got flung out the window.
We had to scoop it up from the window ledge with a dustpan, and while doing that,
Our DM walked past."

"The boys in my class don't always pick the nice smelling deodrants, sometimes the pick the stinky ones and it sucks."

"It's really sad, the boys in my class are smarter than the girls."

"Hey remember that Chem teacher we had? The one with the most bizarre eyebrows?"

I miss being younger and in school and all the stupid things that come with.
It's sort of sad, how everything I say is in the past tense and everything I hear,
is what my kids are going through right now.
Never thought I'd miss it, you know.
And it's funny. In a sad sort of way.

When I was that age, I never thought I'd find myself wishing to be that age again.
But I do.
I'm tired and worn, and although I know I had my fun,
it's one of those random periods of time that I feel ghastly old and suddenly want to run about in the carpark with my hands flailing about.

I will shut up now, and have myself a pre-dinner nap.

You, are.

For Sunday picnics, fresh juice, bare feet and dried leaves that'll get caught in our hair.
It's enough, it all is.

I'll try not to use the dryer on days when it's sunny enough, empty out the dishrack on a regular basis,
and promise,
to always have jafacakes and digestives in the cupboard.
Just in case.

Lick batter off wooden spoons and eat ice-cream out of tubs.
Be an entire party, and a mess of one at that, all by ourselves.

It's enough.
At least, it's enough for me. All of it.

And even without all of that,
it still would be




enough, that is.

November

When I was younger, I'd count down the days til LA.
189 days, 188, 187.
I'd go through exams, my day to day and hold on to the days I had left-
100, 99, 98 just 98 days more, I'd say to myself.

It was a welcome break, a while in the life I was always sure was supposed to be mine.

The last time though was a tad different.
It felt more like I was living, and not like I was just living with (or in other words, holidaying). I had mixed feelings, the last I went back.
What with all the things that had promised to come through and hadn't.
I was frustrated, impatient, torn, hurting, drained.
I didn't count down, but it'd be unfair to say that I didn't enjoy myself.
Because I did, very much.

80, 89, 88, 87, 86
I am worried.
Because there's a lot to do at work, it hardly feels like I can leave.
There are programs that will run, and that will be in the planning.
I don't think it's fair to throw people a wobbly and have them clear the mess,
And I'm not doing that because this has been in the plan,
But,
I wish I could help a bit more.

At the same time,
There's an entire To Do list set for my doing while I'm over there.
I'm enrolled in The Acting Corps and will start my course four days after touching down in LA.
I will get my driving sorted, fix up all the things that need to be fixed up.
A lot of it is prepping,
A lot of it is real.

I am a mix of excitement and trepidation.
80, 79, 78, 77 days
It's different this year. I won't have that Christmas Party I have every year without fail,
And Bird won't have hers either.
About the holiday seasons, I cannot even begin to think about how it makes me feel.

On one hand, I've always loved the feel of Christmas round the corner.
Wherever I am actually, because it reminds me of LA.
The smells, the vibe, the sounds, the feel.
And when I'm there and doing my Christmas shopping, it is pure unadulterated joy.
The bustle, the everything.
The everything.
Sometimes it feels like I'm so happy, what with the cold in my nose and the christmas smells all caught up in my hair, so happy that I might actually cry.

"Might wanna rethink where we'll be in the long run." Mommy said to me the other day.
I don't know.
I don't know what to feel.

76,75, 74 days-
For the most part, I'm excited.
But there's a lot of meaning tied in. The stepping into, the carving out.
73, 73 days.

For the first time, I'm wondering about what I'd be missing out on,
And not just with work, although that is one indeed.
I'm wondering about what I'm leaving behind, and all the things that will/will not, may/may not happen.

It's strange because,
Before even boarding the plane, I'm turning round and looking behind me.
72 days,
72 days.

"I'm glad we're good"

Me too(:

4ever

I went blading tonight.
But Bird,
It's not the same without one of my best friends in the world.

Scenario Improv.

Then I continued to write.
Expand write.
My way of speaking aloud, putting my thoughts
in some kind of order.
Continue.
We talked. And God, it felt like it was taking quite a bit
out of me. For some reason.
Expand reason.
It's the first tiff we've had. And I was taken aback by how I was feeling.
Still am, to a point.
Expand feeling.
The realization that I, for the most part, would
otherwise be too lazy to feel. Would usually get annoyed
at myself for even beginning to feel so much.
Expand much.
Acknowledging that it is an issue, for one.
And taking in the reaction from different parties.
And deciding how I feel and what I'd like to do.
Expand do.
Usually? Walk away.
This time, I wanted to stay.
Uncomfortable as it made me feel. I wanted to stay. I wanted
to fix it.
I was surprised at myself for wanting that.
Conclude.
That,
I think I love her.

and i run, past memories, past would bes and what ifs, but i can't get past the reach of pain

She wanted to run.
She wanted to run and run and run; until the tightness in her chest burned, until her head pounded, until her legs gave way beneath her.
She wanted to run;
Outrun the regret, the impossibility of undoing what she'd done.

She wanted to run away, so that, honestly, she wouldn't be running away.
But she also wanted to stay,
Except staying, meant running away from herself.

She's staying, planning out her schedule, writing out To Dos.
She figures she'll find the happy middle;
The spaces she needs to crawl into for things to make sense.

But then, it gets changed-
All of it.

And really, there's nothing she can do. After all, she chose to stay.
She chose to stay.
Didn't she?

So she'll do it-
Full-powered work. On a day she'd really much rather not.

But you see,
When she chose to stay, she chose to stay in this life.
"This is real life," she'd said to herself after her meeting that first night.
And she chose it.
She chose it over you.

So really, it can't possibly be so surprising that this came up, can it?

But oh,
Then why, why does it hurt so much?
Why does it feel like she's giving you up all over again?

And why does it feel like something inside her is ripping itself apart,
Over and over and over again,
When all that's happening,
Is the real life she signed up for in the first place?


every inch of my skin,
Is crying for your hands

tidal.

I felt it coming, the bubbling of feeling that I knew,
I knew would have me doubling up, collapsing.
I knew, and God I tried to brace myself for it; but I should know better by now that it never works.


It caught me unaware, and I found I swayed slightly on my feet.
And then, I can feel myself crumbling; I'm a complete mess on the inside when just a little bit ago, I was all held together.
And I couldn't turn around just then, I couldn't, it was all spilling itself out.
The contents of the box finding its way against the lid and me,
I couldn't get to it in time to keep it shut with the weight of myself.

And I'm burning inside, burning. But I can make it go away for a bit,
I always do. always.
At least until I'm alone.

But then,
I don't count on her reading me so well.


And I find, I can't quite hold on to anything, let alone myself anymore.

"I'll be home for Christmas," it goes, "you can count on me"

She's on the couch, her body curled around a smaller one that's seated her lap. Her back is against the armrest, her legs tucked under, the soles of her feet facing the telly.
she presses her lips to the crown of the tiny girl's head,
Brushes wisps of hair away from the girls face and tucks it behind her ears.

The late November air has found its way through the blinds, and Michael Buble's bonus Christmas CD is playing in the background.
The walls are lined with shelves- DVDs, VCDs and Video Tapes arranged according to Genre and within each genre, alphabetical order.
The light quilt covering the two of them is a deep, velvety red- knitted by her mother.

She looks up as the door to the room creaks open, smiles and mouths a hello to her as the girl in her lap stirs and settles against the older one's chest. Her tiny hand unfurls to reveal a smooth small stone, with the markings of a ladybird painted on.
"She made this for you today," she says, taking the stone out of the little girl's hand.

The newcomer seats herself down gingerly, careful not to wake the little one.
Outside, there's the sound of sparrows, of the neighbour's sprinklers going off. There's the sharp ring of a bicycle bell and the crunch of gravel as someone's car pulls into their driveway.

She reaches over and rests her hand on the other's knee; Palm-up. She readjusts herself, inching closer just the slightest bit,
And slips her hand into the other's; their fingers fitting comfortably into spaces.

The early evening smells like Christmas, sounds like home.
In other homes there's the clink of glasses, the clatter of silverware as drawers are pulled open, the sizzle of oil in pans and the breath of cans being opened.

It's almost dinner, almost. And there'll be time for that.
But in the meantime,
They sit, with the weight of a tiny girl between them, to the calm that is Michael Buble's Christmas crooning.
They sit, in the comfort of the couch they'd picked out together,
With work miles away.
They sit,
in the familiarity that is each other, and the joy of a ladybug-looking stone.

rounding corners as familiar as the soles of your feet

This is why I don't like school breaks-
It destroys your momentum, catches you off-guard, leaves you grappling with an entirely new world- and for how long?
This time, just one week.

I'm not coming to a grinding halt, but there's bits of me that's asking myself if I know where I'm going.
Don't want to wander around and find you've spent your entire life just,
Going in circles, now do you?

I missed Muay Thai so much, well, been missing it so much, that I spent me some time shadowing.
The term "fits like a glove" does no, in any way, make sense.
In my last five minutes or so, I pulled them on. My gorgeous pair of gloves that I used to swear would never see a layer of dust on it (clearly that failed).
Yeah they fit, yes they were comfy.
But fit like a glove?
I could've crammed my hand into a cookie jar and they might've felt the same.
Familiar yes, but not like second skin.
Not the way it used to feel.

And I'd kick, and find I wasn't balanced properly.
At some point, dripping sweat, my eyes finding focal points to train themselves on,
I found myself on the line between frustration and fury.

Do you know how it feels?
Do you have any, any idea at all how it might feel?

It's like getting on stage and not knowing stage right from stage left,
Not knowing if I am down stage left or up stage right.
It's like being thrown into an improv scene and then, finding that I have nothing to offer, nothing to give,
Nothing to build on. Despite all the years I've done this,
Despite feeling like it's second nature.

It would be like getting on a bike and not remembering how to cycle it.
It would be like struggling to mount a horse, after more than a decade of doing it unthinkingly. And then getting on top and finding that you don't know which lead you're supposed to be on or that you barely remember how to even start moving.
I felt that way this evening.
All these things that used to come so easily, almost like second nature
Take a step back from it and then you find yourself struggling to even keep your balance.

It broke my heart, to see how far away I'd got from well, this.
But there'll be more of this.
There will

Live like we're dying, Mister Brightside

Personally, I don't fully agree with living like we're dying.
(Sorry Jay was making me listen to it and I've begun this rant.
On a random, minor digression-
Someone asked me about how I name my tech stuff. Well my stuff, because I don't just name the tech ones. I think it's been mentioned that naming your tech stuff is the new thing. Which is funny if you're one who's always named your stuff.
That of course includes Penny the Pillow and Barry the Bolster. Okay, not really. Ahmahgad! I am SUCH an ENFP! Digression over.)

So uh,
YES that's right-
I don't entirely believe in living like you're dying.
I think it's quite sad if life is so transient for a person, and not something you can hold on to for just long enough to smile at.
I should know, about half-lives or lives that are so transient-
I've lived like that for let's see, just about the sixteen years I've spent in Singapore.

I mean yeah, go try new shit and stuff, go jump off buildings if it gives you such a rush.
But don't keep feeling like you need to seek out things to live, or to make you feel like you're living. Because then you're always going to be trying to fill a space that just can't.

I think one should be happy.
It's simple.
I don't think one should waste time on things that tire you or annoy you.
Why meet up with that classmate who used to spit in your hair just because it's been a decade? If you don't feel like it, don't do it- that's what I say.

Take things as they come, and when it does, appreciate it.

Okay. Rant over!

In other news, my teacher's day was most lovely!
It was quite unplanned I'll admit. But then that's the fun in taking things as they come no? (Refer to above rant)
So everything after lunch was most unexpected but very nice.
Including the gorgeous amount of time I had to read.

I'm fantastically happy I've hooked up with Jodi Picoult again.
I haven't been reading in months.
And for someone's who's a bookworm and fuhreaking proud of it,
It's most uncharacteristic I must say.

But yay! Decent reading!

So I'm at Clementi Town right now.
My teacher's day present right after teacher's day?
Mock assessment.

all of me

You don't have to stay forever, I will understand.
Believe me, believe me

Sometimes,
I dissect things, chide myself for seeing too much into something, and discount some people's feelings.
Or what they say they feel.
(I just did it again didn't I? Haha)

Oh but really, I don't do it in a sad sort of way.
It's just sort of the way it is.


I've had a couple of conversations this year about not taking things personally.
I suppose I fancy myself the sort who doesn't.
Like, I figure, if you lie or give economical truths, then it's just something you felt you had to do. It's not like I can fault you for that,
It's not like anyone can.

I have a belief, that there will come someone with whom you can be completely comfortable with. Someone with whom you won't feel restless, with whom you won't second guess yourself or the other person.
Call me an idealist or whatever you like, but that's kinda why I don't think marriage is for everyone.
Sure, it takes work. Sure, it takes effort.
But the entire relationship ought to be built on something a bit steadier than time,
Or common interests, or a kid.

I mean, that's why living together sometimes makes heaps more sense than anything else, honestly speaking.
Because even when you've been living together for absolute ages, some part of you (albeit a tiny tiny bit) half wonders if there might come something that'll make you leave.
And it'll be okay to.

And marriage is supposed to be an entirely different ball game-
A flight where you get on, and chuck out the evacuation plan before the plane even takes off.

Minor digression, where was I again? -
That's right.
I think there'll come this one person with whom things just fit.
With whom you don't feel like you might still be in need/want,
With whom things just make sense.
And if you're not the exclusive sort, there will be just this one person with whom you'll want to be exclusive with.
If you're not the sort who likes doing laundry, you'll find you don't mind doing it for two.
Not because the other person changes you in any way at all,
But because it just sort of happens.
If you've never quite been the sort who believes, who takes people's word for it,
There'll be someone you can do that with.
Someone with whom you can fall asleep with, if you're not the sort who usually can.
Someone with whom you can sing with, despite being the sort who hates singing with people.

Or it might be one of those odd things about you-
Like dividing your Big Mac into half by splitting the two patties apart.
And someone out there's going to love you for that.

In the meantime though,
We fumble along.

So sometimes it might seem like I'm quite callous or unbothered,
But I think a lot of it is knowing your stand and how you feel about it.
And the rest of it, is really just taking it as it comes.

In my opinion anyway.


So.
I don't ever know if it'll be enough, most often I don't think it is.
But,
here's all of me.

waiting-

To be ready, to feel ready
(Even though I did, at the time)
To feel like I can,
To not be so afraid of myself

Waiting,
To trust myself again.
For someone to trust me enough
So that I can too

Waiting,
For that chance
To love the way I did, for just that week.
For strength,
The strength to hold on-
Not just to my feelings, but the chance to feel like I did.

To know,
That it wasn't, isn't, and won't be wrong.
And know,
That I was meant to. That I was meant to love the way I did,
And that I am meant to, again, one day.

So
I will wait.

come home

Exactly two years ago today,
I fell in love.


But then, I got scared.
I got scared,
Of myself, of my ability to love or the lack thereof.

And so,
I said my goodbyes and waited.
And waited,
And waited.

So sometimes, I don't know if it's just me being stupid,
Or me being stupid.
I tend to do this some mornings, think I'm right on time when I'm not. Or want to cab it halfway so I can have a pretty second busride (like today) and then get caught in a jam and end up having to cab it the entire way,
While churning out an extra six dollars, no thanks to the most unnecessary detour.

Or sometimes, I'd bus it half way, just to realize that I've taken myself further away from the route my cabbie needed to take.

Which is most daft.
I think I've done this quite a few times this week and I am just,
Completely and utterly flummoxed by the jaw-dropping stupidity of it all.
And of all times to make stupid mistakes, could I not have done it at some time that's a tad friendlier than peak-frikkin'-hour?

Jeebus.


And now. I'm a half hour early, out a twenty and did not have myself a lovely bus ride on bus 3.
Well sod it all.

So the best that'll come of this is me trying to figure out why I'm going about doing such Godawfully stupid things.

Maybe, especially in today's case, I really wanted some me-time while on a scenic bus ride down to work.
And I think in the case of the other things, I'm stuck somewhere in between having time and having none at all. But I suppose I must accept that an unexpected extra ten minutes or even twenty, is hardly anything at all.

So there we have it-
And I have just got in and out of my own head.
What do I do about it now?

Well if I need time for me, I should take it.
It can't possibly be something on my agenda/ to do list like-
1)Submit grades for xxx secondary school
2)Take 27minute bus ride and enjoy the sights of boat quay
3) Pick up cat food along the way

It's madness.
I should have time to take my time and not freaking schedule alone time.
Like, really charis, what?!

Okay,
So now that's sorted, I will stop feeling sore about the obscene amount of money that I've spent on cabs AND
Decide early on whether or not I'll cab/bus/train it.
No more half baked bullshit for me.
Especially not when there's no such thing as being too early and in any case,
The extra time can be spent zoning out and talking to snails.

And now,
Work.

anger like the doorbell to a home

Front door slams.
Shouts, hollers, slamming of bedroom doors and the thump of angry footsteps.
why didn't yous and I don't want tos spit themselves out angrily at each other.
"Why do I even come home," becomes a line casually thrown about like it doesn't hurt.

The angry slamming of remote controls against coffee tables, the sharp flipping of tv channels and the sound of faucets being turned on, running water and the pretense of washing the day off oneself.

Sometimes,
Just sometimes,
There are bigger problems than yourselves.


oh all the things that I'll keep away from

and all its joy

Monday,
Monday sounds like a plan indeed.

one last morning

You sleep like a log, the last I remember. And it was hell on earth, trying to get you up once you'd fallen asleep.
You'd be awake, the last person I said goodnight to before switching the computer off,
And then I'd text you in the morning about lunch, and you'd be awake, having pulled an all-nighter.
I'd call you crazy, stark barking mad. And you'd decide, just as school started for me, that it might be an idea to grab sleep before we met up for lunch.
And then vicky would go,
"Omgggg! We'll never meet him for lunch after school."
And we wouldn't, but we'd rearrange,
Except it never worked-
Until you slept at some kind of decently human hour.
It always seemed more possible to meet you before school even started,
I'm pretty sure we might have tried that actually.

It's seven right now, and it looks pretty much like those mornings I'd be on my way to school.
And, you're on your way.
It always takes me aback, how unchanged the rest of the world seems to be.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm clawing at the pavement, my nails scratching against concrete,
And I'm screaming, "No. Nonono, this is my life. THIS is my life."
If we could hold on longer to everything that we know, I'm pretty sure we would.
I'm frustrated at how unchanged the world is, while you sit,
knitting all that you have left together.

People groan at the sound of their alarm going off, they stand at the bus stops taking long drags off their rapidly yellowing cigarette,
Students think about the algebra quiz they've got lined up after recess and the lit paper they haven't finished, hating their life for what it is.

And I sit in an empty prata shop, waiting for you,
And wishing desperately that this wasn't what it is.

A huge part of me wants time to draw itself out painfully slowly.
For once, I don't mind sitting here waiting- if it means that time is extending itself and you're getting more of it.

I must make this all sound terrifyingly melodramatic, the sod that I am.
It didn't strike me how much it meant, to see you just this one more time before, until I almost couldn't. And it hurt, that single moment.
Everything spilling out like I wouldn't, couldn't contain it. I didn't know what I would do, and I felt like I was close to crumpling up in the middle of a mall.

But,
Things work out, as they do sometimes.
And I am here waiting.

It's twenty to eight, in this empty prata shop.
There's the smell of morning, the buzz of motorbikes, the gasp and sigh of buses loading up on passengers,
And I am here.
Waiting.

Some part of me wishing that you'll text to say,
"I'm damn sleepy," in that way you do, and,
"Can we meet after you're done with school instead?"

Baby, you have no idea.

But I figure, y'know,
It's certainly going to be a lot less painful if one stops clawing at the pavement as we get hauled away by our ankles.
And I suppose, you already knew this too.

my sunday

Left me with a fuckload to deal with.

Hello brain,
Have fun wrapping yourself around all of this.


and my kids, there'll be shit for them to deal with. But this won't be one of em.
Thanks a lot.

baby.

Suddenly everything pales in comparison,
Suddenly you find yourself wondering when the ground beneath you will give out-
And if you sort of expected it to anyway.

You're going away.
And fuck, I hate being such a sodding baby about this but,
You're going away.

I hate how it ends up coming to this;
People clawing at the minutes and seconds that you have left and bracing yourself for that moment when you know,
You know you'll have to let go.

But you can't fight it, you never can.
And yet it's not as simple as taking it as it comes,
Letting yourself get used to it.
How can you brace yourself for something you can hardly even begin to imagine?


It's not so much what's happened, or what will, or what can or cannot be undone.
That's all something that one will eventually figure out in time.
What gets me, is that it's you.
And there's so much more to you than this. And I wish, with all that I am, that you wouldn't have to go through what you will.
Maybe it's because I know you. Maybe it's because I know some part of you wished you hadn't.
I'm not saying that the world should be allowed to get away with whatever they fancy,
That isn't quite it.
I'm just wishing it could be just that bit easier on you.


And I think about you,
The person that you were, are and will be. And I think,
Who are we, who is anybody to pass judgement. To say what is fair or just.
And then, and then, I don't know what to think anymore.


You will be okay.
I know you will. But God I will miss you. Just like I've missed you this entire time I haven't seen you.
But the promise of tomorrow might just be worth waking up for.
And surprises,
They work best when you close your eyes.

alone with your thoughts isn't always the safest place to be

I was not prepared in the least for the onslaught of emotion that found itself resurfacing this afternoon.
And I think that became a factor in the resulting immense irritation I felt at myself.

Yes, that's the word for the feeling that trumped the lot-
Immense irritation.

The morning was nice, what with breakfast and saying Hello to Wallaby (I've refused to deal with the recent news of his eventual departure)
Lunch wasn't really in the plan, but it was one of those very pleasant surprises.
So yes, everything's been fine and dandy and then,
This.

And I'm over it now, that teary bit of my afternoon.
And in its place is this resentment and incredible annoyance at having so suddenly been caught feeling the way I did, not having the words for it,
And sort of having it spill over a bit.
Eurgh.

Maybe for the first time, work spilt over.
It linked, blurred lines and even though I tried to work, to fix it-
Tried to deliberately push past the ache, and wrench all that was real for myself and use it, use it to make it all better (both the work and the mess of feeling),
it didn't work.
It just didn't bloody work.

And maybe my annoyance and self-loathing stemmed from this,
This being taken aback and feeling all butterfinger-like.
And not being able to take the fact that, for once,
My thoughts and feelings turned.
And I couldn't do one.sodding.thing.

Maybe

Maybe I'll forget
How much you meant to me
And how you were almost my baby
Maybe


It's one of those days I think I might've run out of words.

Three minutes past Friday

My eyes are unbelievably sore and
I.am.so.tired.

I said my goodnights nearly an hour ago, and yet, I'm still sitting in front of Kirsten.
Actually, honestly,
I had work to do. Kid you not.

Well, I have work to do.
Except,
I settled down for a good read, albeit online. Haven't done that in a while.


But yes, still fully aware of work that is due. And how I should, most definitely, get that sorted.
Soon.
I need it done by tomorrow morn.


God.
I am tired.


So talk about my most recent trip (which oddly enough feels both recent and far away at the same time) got me thinking about the whole getting away thing.
The swelling on my face hasn't even gone down yet. wow whee!

But yes,
getting away for a bit.

A couple of my best friends have booked their tickets to Bangkok, and I was supposed to go with. Except, what with work and all.
Then I'm looking at going later/coming back earlier. something. I don't know.
But then, that's just it.
I don't know.

I miss Bird. And I'm incredibly tempted to hop on to a weekend flight just to see her.
I feel more likely to do that than Bangkok.
Odd isn't it?


My Fridays, they always leave me reeling.
And mostly, I'm not even aware that it's the weekend. The weekends sort of just feel like an extention of my week, and I'm often left a bit dazed.
By the time it's properly sunk in that it's the weekend, it's a Sunday afternoon and my Monday's dressed and waiting for me.

I love what I do.
I do, with every bit of me.


But then, half way through my second school, my fourth class of the day,
right in the middle of class, I tasted my frikkin' throat in my mouth. It's this Godawful taste of (quite literally) my throat wearing itself out.
Then you might say,
"Well that makes you a terrible drama trainer doesn't it, if you're SO all about voice projection and such!"
But there's voice projection, and there's, being at a constant and consistently loud volume, all.the.time. And it scared me, for a bit, that funky taste in my mouth.
It's not a first.

And ugh, my throat hurts.
And I, am just a little bit,
y'know,
tired.
Just a little bit.

Physically, that is.
And we can always fix physical. And I wish I weren't so tired, especially when it doesn't feel like I've been doing very much.
But oh well. I'd best suck it up, get over it, so I can sort the rest of my shit out.

Because I will do that.

Today is odd.
And not in an easy-to-swallow sort of way.

I guess I am flexible to a certain extent, but I really don't like schedules/plans changing at the drop of a hat.
rawr.

whywhywhyyyyyyyyy.
This is infuriating!

you

Are amazingly brilliant
an unbelievably beautiful person, inside and out
Are stronger than you believe
Are soft, sweet, sentimental
The loveliest thing

Aren't even aware of it sometimes

coming home

to the shrieks of laughter and tiny feet thumping against wooden floors.
To put on bossanova while I shower, and Andre Bocelli as I move about the kitchen.
to pick a couple of fruits out of my basket and try a new smoothie that'll match with dinner, hum to myself as I wipe my hands on my apron and pop cherry toms into my mouth unthinkingly.

Pause for the briefest moment, to run my fingers over the picture smiling at me from where it's taped, before pulling open the refrigerator door.
Wrinkle my nose at the week old half bottle of red, and decide against using it in the cooking because it's only a Monday night.

Step on a piece of lego that's found its way to the floor of the kitchen,
And curse silently while I hobble over to the sink.
Lean against cabinets and counters, and smile at the memory of picking them out.

To feel myself skip, just a bit, at the sound of a second car pulling into the driveway.
Getting to the door, throwing it open.

To you,
coming home to me.

because-

Oh,
You may just have enough of me to break

i am afraid-

That if I don't find a better balance, then on days away from work, I'd be left feeling listless, restless and like maybe I should just go back to doing work.

Let's face it, the world's not going to stop moving just because one's not in it.
And it might be a good idea to sometimes, just sometimes, get off my safe, steady, consistent forever,
To come back to what has and will always be there.

Even as I've stood in the middle of my world, the very ground underfoot has shifted, the scenery changed,
And I haven't even been aware.

I am afraid.

Because when people said slow down, you're moving too fast,
It never made any sense.
I wasn't moving too fast, bloody hell.

With work, and what I do-
I love it, and I know where I'm going with it. I know what I'm doing,
How to fix things, how to find my way around.
I know where I am severely lacking, where I need to work harder,
What's missing, what is already there.
I know it. I know it with everything that makes up my very being.
But then,
There is real life.
And it is everything that catches you off guard. Life is the shaky ground you're left to stand on when the concrete of your dreams,wants and ambitions collapse beneath everything you thought you were, everything you think you are.

I'm not moving too fast, chasing dreams, climbing ladders or building careers.
I am staying home, working with all that my body knows.

And when I take my final bow before the curtains fall,
I know that I am stepping out of a world we created. I am stepping away from lies, lines, character motivations, conflict and a tangle of mixed feelings.
I am stepping out of, and away from and I can breathe.
Life, however, doesn't always promise me that.

I am afraid because real life never seems to make half as much sense and although I've never fancied myself the sort who runs away,
I don't want to find out too late, that I have spent so much time out of real life,
That it's just packed up and left altogether.

I don't want to find myself so far away,
That there's nothing left for me here. Because it'd only be my fault.

And the only thing I'll be left with,
Is an empty stage, a theatre filled with an audience that isn't there and the clinking of keys that'll tell me
It's time to switch off the house lights.

tired

Zonked.drained.emptied.
Tired.

I have absolutely no idea how I did today. I've been on the go ever since half six in the morning; if not mentally, then physically, and if I'm not physically moving, then I am being moved (in a cab. I did not take any other mode of transport this entire day. Cab count: 5, 3 of them were booked.)
It was my ride around singapore day, I kid you not!

Hougang-tampines-boon lay-potong pasir-hougang-lor lew lian- east coast road- hougang.

Surely, surely, loyal cab-riders such as myself deserve some kind of reward!

And I am just, so, so tired right now- that I feel like sitting and sorting out my script. (It's madness I know)
But only because it sort of settles me, steadies me, gives me an odd sense of calm. Helps me know that I don't need to move around anymore. I am done.
I.Am.done.


Oooor, I think I might just curl up instead. The two cups of 3in1 coffee are working their magic and I'm feeling all comfy and dozy(:

Chasing Epiphanies was a lovely event with a fun crowd. Not a very shopping-y crowd, save for Enqing.
But a fun crowd all the same.


Some alone time will do me good I think.
I did have a bit, Thursday, right after Kuo Chuan, but then I couldn't sit in it for long enough.
The pockets of time every so often are nice and refreshing. But I'd like to sit still, just for a bit.
The world moves too fast and I hate feeling like I always have to be moving with it.

Goodnight, all you furry people(:

in all the places people forget to look

On days like today,
I wish you'd come back to me.
Even though I know it's the most selfish thing I could ever ask for.

"Could I stay a while?" "Stay forever."

a venture as romantic as an open wound, seamless as a patchwork quilt, fragrant as an alley after hours.
-- Rebecca Wolf

Try to stick two smooth sides together and you’ll find you can’t. They won’t hold because they’ve got nothing to hold onto. You also can’t put a smooth side against a top or a bottom because the pegs won’t catch. But you put the top and the bottom together – the parts of a Lego block you don’t get to see, the parts that you’re supposed to hide – you get a fit. Holds pretty well too.
-- Glenn


I don't believe I've felt like this before.
No, not like this,
I haven't.
It's a nice feeling, I must say. And I could stay put for a while longer.

life is exactly what we don't plan for

I was supposed to have left by now.


I think things are only as complicated as we make it out to be.




No.
You know what? No.
I will finish my script over tonight and tomorrow night.

conversation

"So, go." She says, looking me square in the eye, back straightened, legs crossed.
She's drumming her fingers on the wooden surface of the table.
I really like wood;
The smell, the feel of it. The way it makes me feel.
You know that, don't you? I've wandered into places with you, drawn in purely by the smell. I'd run my fingers over furniture, and I always say the same thing,
"You know, I absolutely love wood."

She clears her throat and I look up, startled, to see her staring at me, waiting.
"I, uhm" Faltering, I take the tiniest step backwards.

"You can't, can you now?" Her tone has softened, and she leans back to light herself a Menthol Light. "I'd say I told you so, but," she sighs, tapping her cigarette against the hand-painted clay dish she uses as an ashtray, "if I got a dollar for every time I said that, I'd be able to get me a year's supply of these-" raises an eyebrow at the neat little roll of paper between her fingers.

My eyes follow the odd little patterns in the carpeted floor, refusing to rummage through my tangle of thoughts and give her the answers she's probing for.
The room's gone cold, and I realize with a start, that she's got all the time in the world. She would have absolutely no qualms with waiting me out, just for my bloody answers.
"I," I begin, stop and breathe, try again.
"I, don't know what to feel."
"But how does it feel, right now?"
I shoot her a puzzled look, taste the words on my tongue before repeating myself, slowly.
"Good God!" She snaps, "I'm not a half-baked moron you twit, I understood what you said the first time. I'm asking how.this.feels." She reaches for another smoke, fidgets with it instead of lighting up, and waits for my answer.

"I, uh." She nods and I focus my eyes on the plant behind her, pretend that I can count the veins on each leaf.
"Well this, whatever this is- bits of it are a tiny bit painful, and sometimes, a tad hard to swallow." She pushes her box of Menthol Lights across the mahogany table, toward me, sets her box of matches in the middle of the box.
I give the smallest shake of my head, my right thumb tracing circles on the back of my left hand.

"It's a bit painful, but I'm not in a position to feel. At least," I pause, shifting my weight from one foot to the other,
"I don't think I was supposed to."

"And how might you feel about that?" She asks me, tapping her unlit cigarette against the edge of her table.

"Like...Like it's really my fault," I pause as she raises her eyebrows at me.
"For, y'know," I breathe, "feeling too much."

She reaches for her box of matches, strikes one and raises it up to the cigarette resting between her lips. Waving the match to extinguish the flame, she tosses it into the ashtray, and leans back in her chair to inhale.
"Well," she lifts her chin by an infinitesimal amount, expels her smoke upwards, "you know where the door is darling."

I nod and turn myself away, as she watches me.
Watches me run away from myself.

Dialogue In The Dark

I woke from the most bizarre dream this morning. It was nightmarish, but not in the scary sort of way-
More like, I don't think I'd like to have that conversation/situation to happen in real life.


Dialogue In The Dark was, eye-opening to say the least (pun completely unintended).
There was such an immense amount that one got out of it;
The acceptance of the sudden dependency, the need to trust-
Not just the guide who you don't know, or the group around you that you do know, but yourself.
Trusting yourself, your sixth sense, whichever. Just, trusting yourself.
And that was a big thing for me.

I guess the point for me was to lose myself entirely in this completely unfamiliar world,
And finding joy in little bits, such as figuring out certain letters and numbers,
Or figuring out what a particular object was.

That was the take this morning,
And my word it was interesting.

Noooow, post meeting,
I'm finding myself on slightly shaky ground. And wondering if maybe, there's something I might be able to do better for my kids.
Mmmm.

and I find myself wanting

You, and the oddest things we've talked about
jafacakes on a Tuesday evening, lemonade on a summer afternoon, large frosted-glass sinks, that picnic table that doubles as a bench, bedtime stories, Saturday morning, home-cooked dinners, family time,
and you.


It's nice to daydream, it always is isn't it? But then you smile and put it away in that box labelled, "Maybes & Whatifs", and you go about real life.
Except,
it's sort of a little bit different.
Because, for once, it feels like I almost could.
And I can't see that far ahead of me, I don't know how or if or when or where or even why,
but it's nice to think that maybe, just maybe,
there might be a sliver of truth to it.


So there's been a shifting of floors beneath our feet. Sometimes, you only realize it as you read through your writing that's spanned the last three months.
But yes well, there is/has been/will be a bit of change and,
I'm not entirely sure of how I feel.

I think in regards to some things, I just don't know.
That's not to say that if I did, I would understand either.
I guess, I'm just not familiar with such a situation or the dynamics of it, or uhm, whatever else it is. I believe I would like to, but I don't ever feel like I'm in a position to ask or wonder or, well anything.

I think it makes me insecure (for lack of a more fitting term) -
this whole, not knowing exactly how I feel. And I've tried to place it, believe me I have.
But nothing seems to work.
Usually, by this point, I'd have walked away from it-
the whole trying-to-place-how-i-feel thing, the whole this-might-hurt-abit,
and more than anything, the whole I'm-feeling-too-much.
So I can't say this is something I am entirely familiar with, this tangled mess of thoughts. And sometimes, I don't quite know what to do with myself.


I will fall asleep to pretty dreams though,
and the thought of Sunday evening's company.

break your little heart

Not that I understand, or need to

I can't quite place this feeling, and I wish I could word it-
Believe me I do.

Maybe my problem is that always try to justify how I feel,
Try to dissect and analyze it.

Whatever the case,
Until I feel like tearing it apart and sifting through it and su

ch,


I
just won't.

----

I'm just a bit away from the office. It's obscene, but I'm thinking about what I could do.

I love what I do-
Making people believe.
And whichever side you're on, on stage or in the audience,
You know what you're in for-
Getting drawn into something you know isn't real,
Or doing all you can to have someone believe that what you're saying/doing isn't a lie.

And then if you think about it carefully,
You'd figure that whichever side you're on, the only person you've been lying to,
Is yourself.

c'mon baby we ain't gonna live forever

come with me tonight,
we can make the night last forever

SO.
It's the first I've planned and organized a company retreat-
I've gotten everything down to the last half hour, with a fifteen minute buffer time for every.single.thing. I quite like how my anal-ness/ocd/whathaveyou come in quite handy sometimes(:
Of course, at the same time, I'm pretty sure things won't ever go just so.
But then there's the other side of me,
The lets-just-zone-out-for-a-week-side of me, so I won't be jumping around making us do like, eeeeverything.

We're headed to Batam this morning, hopefully without running into crowds and such.
It's a shame that sometimes not everyone's as hopped up as you are,
But to a certain extent, I kinda get it.
We've all been on the flip side of the coin at some point, haven't we?

So we're all checked in, and our manager seems infinitely more frazzled.
I feel, sorta, well I don't know.
I'm the only one sitting down and typing, for starters.
Hahaha.
It's so funny, all of it.

Lalala.

I had time for breakfast with The Little Creature this morning before we went on our way. I like(:

I don't know what to expect today, despite having planned it all.
But I suppose a lot of this unexpectedness makes up most of our life.

And sometimes,
All you can do, is take things as they come.

And hope it doesn't hurt

It's half past eight.
She's just finished work, pleased with herself and what she's done.
Crowds of pre-university students find themselves on the same bus and she fleetingly wonders what it'd feel like to be one of them.
Fleetingly though, because she likes where she is and where she stands,
And what she does.

It's half past eight.
There is an appointment to rush to.
One that has been put from mind and delayed, simply because she hasn't found a reason to go.
Not one some things can fix themselves, not when there are far more important things to worry about,
Not when there it is time that can honestly be better put to use.

It's half past eight.
She's taken meds without dinner, and there is an old man in front of her,
Sucking contentedly and thoughtfully on his denchures.

It's half past eight.
A kid from Junior College sits beside her, dozing.
His book is open to a chapter titled "The contradictory in Mathematics".
As if maths weren't confusing enough, why in the world would anyone want to read about things that make it more confusing?

It's half past eight.
Except, it's not really, not anymore.
It's almost quarter to nine now.
And she should've been rushing home to you. She should've been rushing home to you hours ago.
But you're not here for her to rush home to.
You're not here.

So.
It's a quarter to nine, and that place she always goes to when days like these get too hard,
It passes her on her way to wherever it is she's going.
For whaatever her reason is.

And she's not even sure of it, her reasons for going.
For once, she wanted someone to tell her what to do because,
Maybe if she hadn't had to make the decision herself, and factor in oh-so many things,
She wouldn't feel the way she's feeling now.

It's nine.
And she finds herself at a lonely little bus stop near a park she's been to a few times now.
She should go.
Because, because someone told her to go. Because deciding something for herself hasn't always been the best idea.
Because this time, she wants to listen to someone.

Except,
She's gotten off the bus, and let empty cabs pass her by.
And even though it's been decided for her,
She still doesn't quite know what to do.

But this moving world, it keeps on moving.
It keeps on moving and it's left her behind until she can think about what she wants to do with herself.
And my God, working out figures and timings and schedules and itineraries was infinitely easier than doing this one, simple task.

It's nine.
She should've been rushing home to you. She should've been rushing home to you hours ago.
Except you're not here and she isn't, she isn't rushing home to you even though she wishes desperately that she were.
You're not here, and it's one of those days that she realizes that,
She doesn't quite know what to do with herself.

And even though, this evening, she was supposed to do as she was told,
She finds that she can't.
Not quite. And not in a way that she can explain.

It's quarter past nine.
And oh she wishes she were going home to you. That she were worrying herself sick, hoping to God that you're okay.
That she knew exactly where she was going and exactly what to do because,
Because you were the only reason worth living for.

But,
It's twenty past nine and you're not here and she has no idea where she's going.
but she is moving, weaving through throngs of faceless people,
Feeling like she is inches away from disappearing.

Unfortunately though, she doesn't.

Then, it's almost half past nine,
And she wonders just how much it'll take,
To find herself rushing back to you.

August

Sometimes this ache, I don't know if I can take it.