[07 Nov 2005|12:48am] somehow i was stuck in a groove thinking "I AM A FORMER SHELL OF MYSELF" when you said 'shelled'. shelled? what? shelled? oh yes i am confused. how many words to go till i reach my word limit? shellshocked. bitten well and deep into my soft-shelled heart. what can i say that will not be inappropriate or cruel? i wish you well? if that is what you are saying, that you must go away, then the only kind thing i can do is bid you well on your journey out. was i so failing in my attempts to be opaque? can i leave these things without being cruel, i am not leaving sentiment to rot, i am not trying to be cruel, but at least i think they should be put to rest, to gentle slumber; which i thought the months would do quite adequately. but apparently i am wrong. i am sorry i feel like i'm being cruel anyway. i probably am. cruelty. i never wanted that to be a trait of mine. you do not know how i am dying but i am clinging to some former semblance of living but GOD KNOWS I DON'T KNOW A SINGLE THING ABOUT WHATS HAPPENING ANYMORE. i do not know if i will ever know what it means to be happy in the near future. you know the time you said even then you wanted to be there to listen. well i guess i messed it up good that time and now. i dont know how to get back there, or anywhere really. i'd tell you what a pickle this all is now, what a disaster i made by myself anyway. but i have to write my essay now and i really dont have the time to do this now. i am weak and please stop. (stop what? i should stop it. stop what?) or i will not know what to do. ♥

[02 Feb 2005|12:26pm] so hate me. but i am so tired i am almost beyond caring. not out of lack of caring for you but lack of energy to lift a finger to move oneself off the railtracks of an oncoming train. so live and let die. are you seriously expecting me to deal with this when i haven't properly slept in two days? what does it matter? your happiness, my happiness, anyone's happiness; what does it matter any more? nothing. it means nothing. why do the giant moths keep coming to my room? you said moths to a flame. not in error, a candle burns at both ends. explode and burn and consume each other. then we are nothing. the power of broadcast, word is virus, spliced messages unintended audience, infect and destroy. william burroughs says tape recorder 1 is host tape recorder 2 is access tape recorder 3 is death by adam's shame staring him in the face. this is tape recorder 3 and i am god ensuring that the viral infection complete. you read this and die. i told you not to read. ♥

[30 Jan 2005|01:29pm] i rationalise that i am always inclined to meet you for drinks because i figure we both need a good stiff drink to make the living a bit easier. of course you dont know that, no one knows except me, someone could kill me on the way and no one would know why i was there, except you. (he. does. not. know.) why do i relish personal secrets like these? dark ugly secrets. soon i will be like the madwoman in the attic, but locked there from my own doing, loveless, hopeless. what is this mess? i dont want to hurt mark but he wont understand why i need to see you. hell i don't understand why i need to see you. you'll have the wrong idea (or will you) and he'll have the wrong idea (or will he?) and i have this idea trapped in my head and i am trying to do you good. it hurts every time i see something that reminds me of the past and i can't show it because i dont want to hurt anyone and its not working and i'm probably fucking things up like this. wengfong if i fall in love with you again i will most certainly lose you for good. mark if i told you my fear that i will tire of this and am beginning to, you would flee this ship like the sinking boat it is and i will close my eyes and it will be the same inside and out--alone again (how do you work on things like that? its not like working on a spare tire its intangible to begin with). sometimes when no one else is around in this room alone i already feel that way. but there was a time when conversation between us was magic. was perfectly synced and everything fit together so perfectly i couldn't have asked for anything more but the continents we are on seem to have shifted imperceptibly and surely you would have felt the little earthquakes but all i am dying to find out is HOW DO I GET BACK THERE AGAIN HOW PLEASE TELL ME how do i get back to that place. i dont want to lose you. i am so fucking tired so tired so fucking tired do you know that. no one can know this. ♥

[19 Jan 2005|11:51am] knowing my name, my room phone number, the location of my room number in hall, my philosophy, the institution at which i live and study, my sexual habits, and calling me gorgeous -- still doesn't entitle anyone to proposition me for sex. or phone sex. i may be liberal but i have no reason to sleep around with total strangers. i'm not a desperate housewife. i may be very curious, insistent on wanting to know who you are first, but its because do you know how creepy it is to have faceless voices tell you they want to fuck you now? then again, sounds like a really kinky fantasy, but lets not go there. i peer out of the window nervously as you tell me about how close by you are, how you want to drive down now and lick me, how you've kissed me before, although i certainly don't think you're any of the boys i consciously kissed. don't mistake my curiosity as a come-on. gee i think i'm going to be latching my doors just in case. if i leave them open will you mistakenly take that as an indecent invitation, secret admirer? i feel vaguely betrayed by my body. ♥

in the morning i felt tragic again. [18 Jan 2005|08:49pm] really, i'm just speaking rubbish again. but i'm dying. dear god i'm dying can you please do something about it. i'm dying. i'm sitting on the arm of a library chair with my back facing him so he can't see me cry over nothing, really, and that's the worst part. over nothing. the voice in my head, it wants me dead. i give up trying not to leak all over the carpet so i leave the library, back into the slipstream where i can't walk ten metres without meeting an acquiantance who wants something from me, faces are blurry, stumbling back to room and lights off. in the lull, he calls me on the phone to ask me if i am okay. i'm okay, i say. but i don't say that there's a knot in my right lung from failing to cough up some of the words which are still stuck in my throat and maybe the pain's because my migratory heart has been wandering all around again. just so that you know i really do have a cough and a stabbing pain in the right lung. ♥

[18 Jan 2005|01:26pm] so Occam's Razor states that when multiple explanations are available for a phenomenon, the simplest version is preferred. so i can code html backwards with my eyes closed but my custom-made 404 php errors coming back to mock me after they reinstall PHP is completely out of my league to handle. children get tired of games. i sit in the calm centre of the dark room and the devices go off one by one and i type A A A A A A A A A A H H H H H this is my playground, and surely you realised that i see everything, there is no stone i leave unturned in my wanderings, i know where everything is, where everyone's words are, and knowing the power of personal publishing it is the same reason why i remain cautious not to list familiar ties like damning fingerprints at a murder scene, the sick cycle of connectivity, thoughts on a treadmill. i am proficient at the art of being intentionally vague, creeping in shadows, if i wanted to, no one would ever know this exists, just as others have gone unnoticed..... but i can keep secrets, can i? can i? i have kept secrets for you. i still continue to do so. dear you, i dont know what to say..... to an archive of letters that shouldn't read, pages i shouldn't browse, i want to hold this page in, like this breath, for as long as i can, until i cannot hold it on any longer or i perish, choking, bereft of air. when do you think that will be? 1 ♥

astray [17 Jan 2005|08:05am] [ music | aspidistra fly - stranger. here is where we live ] george chua / aspidistra fly at the substation a pale blush of nostalgia in 8mm light bursts, brakhage splashes and glimpses of boxed homes and limbs and a floral dress. small frail hands with soft slow touch washing up on the seaside. i wish i could settle with something simple and beautiful like that. instead of being clingy at road junctions, and so eager for another sip like as if the hum in my head will tell me something i don't know already. restless, that twitch in the leg is my electrical need to walkrunjump. cure this nervous disease. i must admit i like to pretend that i am on holiday, that everything is alien to me and i'm seeing it for the first time. so i don't have to use the building this way, i don't have to turn the door handle this way, i don't have to turn on the light. i'm going to tear it down piece by piece. deconstruct. take me away so this can feel new again. i need to forget to remember. now i do. and what about you. here is the confessional. what about you. i want to know everything about you still. ♥

[14 Jan 2005|03:03pm] to my horror, i only jolted awake twenty minutes after pharmacy class was to have started but thank god for friends who will hold seats for you in huge alienating rooms full of faceless science students and ah! such beautiful music! thomas surprised me with his band's CD and it is gorgeous so gorgeous i could just explode. after postcolonialism & postmodernism class (such dirty words!) mitch bought me lunch at the munchie monkey, where he regaled me with tales of his decadent winter in vegas; sin city, lush hotels, strip clubs, pimping taxi drivers and casinos; pretty girls make graves and interpol were on the huge MTVasia screen behind us and the weather was dazzling. i was on my way back to my hall when min called, telling me to look out of my window. "but i'm not even in my room," i said to her. "but i just saw someone walking around your room!" she told me, so i ran back to my door fumbling for the key half expecting another bizarre haunting, but it was another close brush with occam's razor; for quite apparently she had mistaken my canadian neighbour's room for mine. i feel ridiculously chipper and i want to read Jane Eyre nownownow. his voice on the phone sounds more familiar to me than my family. ♥

[13 Jan 2005|07:45pm] my teenage declaration for the week: got lucky with a random class and could be having cute redhead tutor who i've been wanting to get to know for the longest time ever. she of smart chiseled features in her tight men shirts and skate pants and that confident swagger in her step. i feel like doing anything other than the work at hand. two 4am nights spent slaving over codes, forced friendly conversations, hall dinners that surprisingly haven't killed me yet. sometimes he gives me bruises and papercuts but rough handling is fine by me. DEATH BY PAPERCUT! speaking of which, i feel at my most inventive when bogged down with work. i believe we should start dealing in invisible ink that glows under UV light, form pirate booths with expert stamp artists who will replicate the doorstamp at clubs so that one can avoid the cover charge at pricey events. i believe sleep is a drug, each day i feel like i'm waking up in another continent in someone else's body. i live on cheap thrills. cheap thrills. spill your guts. i want to know everything about everyone. act sober and no one will suspect a thing. there are times when "this is just the way things are" is not the answer i want to hear. but there is no other way. we should live such that there will be nothing to regret. at the same time, the way i am is not an adequate excuse for the way i treated you. on the cusp of morning, holding you close in the car, it was noble of you to say those things, but you should not make excuses for me, it is better for my conscience to feel deeply hurt by the circumstances as well, to suffer silently wanting nothing but to give you happiness yet knowing i cannot; these tenuous things. this is why so many people write love songs. do you feel alive now, hurting, wanting? --- ( 01 the faint - in concert ) ( 02 junior boys - when i'm not around ) ( 03 cut and paste ) ♥

sugar on the six-fingered beast [09 Jan 2005|01:01am] in the evening i sat in the backseat of the taxi with forty beautiful balloons, forty sweet trembly balloons eagerly leaning against the windows and ten more huddling in the car trunk. pressed into the seat, holding on to these flimsy threads. being left alone has become a road with the street lights fading out at night, as the lights dim and you're guided by dim headlights that hardly light anything more than a few centimetres from your toes; it is confusion and a new realisation: i am branded. i scrawl "easy" on my wrist, met by raised eyebrows and puzzlement in dim hotel rooms, surrounded by un/familiar faces and then some. words, these are just words. my feeble words. you don't understand, i say, i can't forget, so i might as well write it out. infidelity by memory? forget it. have another drink. but the alcohol has begun to hurt, racing from sugar to acetaldehyde too quickly. perhaps i am addicted to the poison, the pain, the hurt, if love is an excuse to get hurt. this could be the time of my life. blindfolded and dancing in smoky clubs. don't let me mix your drinks. don't let me into the closet. don't bang on it while we're in there. shut up we'll live our lives any way we like even if we don't know what we're at. somewhere something must be going right. its like that moment in that christian death song which i love so much, the one where there is part in which rozz goes, "love?"; and in that voice a question -- divorced, strange, estranged. the picnic. in the botanical gardens. beatific scenes of balloons hiding in soft brush where spiders creep and spin their gossamer webs, rats scamper across the lawn like scouts before the army is unleashed upon us. i watch a small boy wrapping bread around stones and throwing them to the swans (i am disturbed, disturbed). sitting in the middle of a gaudy purple victorian gazebo, it is mark's ex who is one of the first to arrive to the picnic, marked by the somewhat awkward lull in speech. i ponder long and hard about the word Attraction; one wonder, without passing judgement on anyone or anything, what is it that mark used to see in her? or then, what is it that mark sees in me? and ablutely crossing the street, one wonders, what is it that weng sees in me? this i do not know. they say that understanding what other people see in you tells you more about the other person than yourself. people are such mystery. or do you suppose they should have remained myths all their lives? that i shouldn't have so carelessly stumbled in and out the door. mark is such a sweet boy such a sweet sweet thing sometimes i'm afraid i'm going to mishandle him too. stolen walks in the rain. the hospital across the road makes me think of suicide cases and ambulances. you already know what ambulances remind me of (the artist). along these city streets there are endless connections to be made in the mind. layer upon layer. superimposition. each road is accidentally laced with nostalgia, to choke you in bitter saccharine. school starts tomorrow so farewell sweet holiday. ♥

navigation [ viewing | most recent entries ] [ go | earlier ]