My Insomniac Heart

You swathed it in bandages that try to heal
Holes that I’ve created for myself
Just to see what would happen if I pushed too hard
Even though it’s common knowledge
That’ll everyone bleeds, and it won’t stop

Standard procedure
At first, your raw, warm bandages
gave me relief that came with the thin remnants of antiseptic fumes
The forming of cells, leukocytes

Soon, I began to pick at my scabs
And realise how constricting these bandages feel
But you said, leave it
It’s good to keep pressure on open wounds

False dilemmas

Can you love someone so much, that sometimes, it hurts, and it rings in your head, and you can’t breathe, but you know you aren’t supposed to be feeling all these things because loving someone and being loved back is just supposed to create a bubble of happiness, and not make you feel all these strange things? Yeah. And you feel guilty everyday because it’s all you, and really he is just trying his best, and he doesn’t deserve to deal with all this shit that goes on in your head, and you try not to let him because he really doesn’t deserve being thrown into a pit of your feelings.

“You’re just a hell lotta crazy”

How does anyone know when love happens? People are skeptical of love, especially at the ages when you can’t even vote yet. Everyone says “love isn’t for you, you can’t even drive yet.” It becomes a commodity of the old, something treasured and encapsulated in old people sex, and anyone who isn’t at that stage are misusing the word.

Maybe when I decided to follow my heart, around the age of 15, I was being a hell lotta crazy. That was about the time I decided that out of our mediocre existence(s), love cannot be something that was mediocre. It was a choice, and it wasn’t going to be something normal, something as common as a greasy school girl trotting straight home on a Wednesday afternoon. This led me spiralling down a rabbit hole of sex, drugs and alcohol. (No, I’m just kidding, I have no such freedom (yet) hurhur)

Admittedly, it did lead to me do some stuff that most people would consider pretty crazy. It also led me to take what I thought resembled love by the horns, and ride it into the sunset like a badass rodeo bitch. I don’t regret my decision. I don’t regret being “a hell lotta crazy” and taking risks and jumping right into the tsunami of feelings we all try to pretend is a peaceful swimming pool of a high-class social club. Most of all, I don’t regret loving everyone I have loved, because right now, love is making me happy, mostly.


What a shitty way to phrase things. To most people, I’m nitpicking or just wanting too much. I seem happy, loved (by an amazing, sexy bf) and pretty much on top of my work (yeap, that’s right I’m Asian). Despite that, sometimes, the amazing bf isn’t so amazing. Sometimes, there is so much unspoken space, that he would probably think it’s just comfortable silence. Sometime, crying fits hit me and I don’t know why but I’m always with him when they happen. Sometimes, there’s an inexorable sadness that eats at my heart, even though I know that at that moment (every moment, actually), I’m loved, and I should be happy. So be happy, dammit.

There are so many moments, when the tsunami crashes a bit too hard, and capsizes the ship of my heart (I should go be a tumblr caption-ist). Those moments, he is so concerned but I can’t tell him what’s wrong because I don’t know myself. The thing is, he is trying to play his role of the boyfriend, I know he is, and I love him for it. I just don’t think it’s enough. I think, after it all, after months of comforting love, I am being taken for granted. And this scares me to no end. It just goes right back into my fear of mediocrity. I can’t be mediocre, our love can’t be mediocre, give me fireworks, sky-written love letters, and the whole nine yards. I want everything romantic comedies have set me up for.

The thing is, why is mediocre love so bad? Isn’t it the tenant of long-term marriages, love that seeps through the dirty dishes sitting in the sink, love that sits quietly beside mothballs in the back of the couch as reruns of Family Guy are broadcast into a moderately lit living room? It seems like the inevitable end of the pursuit of happiness. And yet, it scares the living daylights out of me.

It wasn’t like this before. Before, it was effortless, it was reckless, it was everything a starry-eyed Taylor Swift junkie could ever want. But as her songs rise and fall from charts, it can’t be effortless forever. But now, when other connections flow effortlessly as the past, I gravitate towards it, I am attracted by it, like flies to a light on a rainy evening. I am scared of myself. I am scared that after so much effort, after so much risk and love and investing my heart, I might retreat into something new, something more effortless, and give up on what I still think is the love of my life. It’s hard to imagine how that can be the case. I can’t seem to explain it properly, not after thinking about it for hours on end, not after a sleepless night.

At the end of it all, I just can’t accept the love that sits beside pills of vitamin C, as part of a care package for the sick bf. I can’t accept the love that its latched in mundane reminders of bringing important exam documents and of what essays are due. I can’t accept the love that would culminate in a king sized bed of crumpled sheets, electricity bills and daily schedules. And I know I’m being a bitch for wanting more, when the lovely bf is already trying his best, and that I am just sad sometimes. But maybe that’s what I get for being hell lotta crazy – I can’t accept it when it becomes normal.


How I feel sometimes (blended into the crowd)

How I feel sometimes (blended into the crowd)

“Why must everything have to have a beginning and an end?”

– the BF while we debated over the existence of God. (I’m agnostic, he’s atheist)

Because. Because we find comfort in beginnings, we find comfort in happy endings, sad endings, endings period. Because we would then know our lives were more than just a speck in the space-time continuum.

A space-time continuum.

Even though it is against all my powers of logic, I still believe that everything needs a beginning and an end. Logically, the world exists externally, appears as discrete objects with no causation. We need our continuum, we need our stories, so we give them cause and consequence. We plunge our hands into the world and imagine we had a role to play in shaping it.

But I digress. I guess I can’t really call these writings the beginning, since I’ve done it all my life. The only difference is that I want to put these thoughts out there for all of you (yeap you, actually all of one of you) to read, and maybe you will have a different perspective, another lens that you can see through.

After all, writing is just providing another lens, a new pair of spectacles.

I just hope that through my speck of existence, I have given my lens to other specks so that we can continue to imagine that we can change the world.