I like you too


Thank you for making me feel beautiful. For letting me realise that my ego and confidence isn’t something that I created out of the hot air of insecurities.

Maybe love could exist between the spaces of our fingers when we fist bump. In the pause between puns, and in the baskets of Cappadocia hot air balloons. In the awkwardly placed plane seat armrests, and floating in the stale air of the bus that drove 13 hours from Antalya to Cappadocia. Isn’t it funny how we skipped steps and did some pretty romantic shit together? Yet, we remind ourselves, baby steps.

I can’t imagine how you find the strength and patience to wait for me to sort out my life, and for that I promise I will. I’ll chase away the ghosts that broke my heart before I met you. I’ll clean up all my messes and hopefully, if you are still around, come back home to you.

“Walk with me, hand in hand through the neon and styrofoam. Walk the razor blades and the broken hearts. Walk the fortune and the fortune hunted. Walk the chop suey bars and the tract of stars.

I know I am a fool, hoping dirt and glory are both a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up. I see like a bug, everything too large, the pressure of infinity hammering at my head. But how else to live, vertical that I am, pressed down and pressing up simultaneously? I cannot assume you will understand me. It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear. Some story we must have. Stray words on crumpled paper. A weak signal into the outer space of each other.

The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it is immense. We send starships. We fall in love.”
― Jeanette Winterson, Gut Symmetries

Turning Point(s)

I’m not going to do those ‘looking back at 2014’ posts, I think my attempt at journalling has left enough bad writing in my $5 typo notebook. Hopefully I won’t let the writing bug leave me again.

A lot of sad things happened to me in the past year, and in the pathetic end bits of J2. (Wow, look at me reflecting on 2014 even when I said I wouldn’t) Good things too, but I can’t really say exactly how my life for the last two years were. I stopped reading, writing and creating. Every time I try to start I give up because I judge myself very harshly (also I’m lazy). Who would want to read this shit or look at your feeble attempts at art? But after a very strange 2014, I’m leaning towards the tired ‘YOLO’/’fuck this shit’ trope and hence, the rejuvenation of this blog.

For the past few years, I think I’ve experienced how people could burrow away at life, and then wake up one day and ask themselves, “what the fuck has happened to me” Not that I’m claiming to be a troubled millennial with a quarter-life crisis (please, so passe *ahem* thoughtcatalog), but I do feel like I just woke up from this dream that was the past 2 years. I won’t go into deep analysis of how I even let myself lapse into this phase, but mostly, with the advent of Candy Crush, and more recently, Tsum Tsum and Simcity, emotions can be distracted by a few swipes of the screen, and primary coloured rewards that emit cute tunes. Never has satisfaction presented itself as adorable as tapping open a premium box to get a Frozen Ana Tsum Tsum. Also, the never-ending pile of assignments and ‘things-to-do’ distract me from really reflecting on things that happened. Emotions never lasted as they are ‘resolved’ by a quick rant or a few sighs and a pat on the back. Instead of dwelling in them, I threw them under my growing pile of responsibilities. Which isn’t good either.

I honestly don’t know what woke me up, it all seemed such a haze. The strongest feeling though, was that I couldn’t remember much from the past 2 years. Emotions that stayed and circulated in me for weeks until I wrung them out in words, in images and in tears, were the ones that I could link to memories. And the last occurrence of that was about 2012, early 2013. Time was definitely a factor, an expensive commodity that I decided to sacrifice retrospection, only to spend it on lives in Candy Crush and other time-related games that dangle new tries with a clock. How stupid.

Maybe I’m procrastinating from cramming anatomy into my head, and starting on biochemistry. Procrastination at it’s best. Whatever it is, I’m going to do some emotional spring-cleaning. My life, along with my emotions, has stagnated and mosquitoes are breeding. I feel like I’m in one place, and my head in another, and my emotions, everywhere. I have become a stereotype of the average smart asian kid, filial daughter and good girlfriend. I’m suffocating, help.

By the way – reading through my old blogposts, I actually quite like how I used to write… *self-praise* Hope I still have it in me.

Well, we’re back here at 1.26am

I saw this coming. After 2 weeks of actually studying (I literally tried, like 4 hours a day tried) I knew I’d end up here at 1.27am in the morning. After nights and nights of sleeping at 11 and waking up at 7/8, I knew I had to fuck with my body clock one last time. My period is late and I am stressed out over the notifications my period tracker app sends me. I’d like it to come so that the worst of it wouldn’t coincide with the exams. Please do.

I don’t remember how I ended up here, 1.29am in the morning, telling everyone and no one about my uterus problems and fearing the future. I never would say that I’ve studied hard in my life. Mostly I think because I’m scared. I’m scared to reach my ‘full potential’ because it may be very near and reaching it might mean that that’s it. That’s the most I can achieve. And I can’t deal with that. I can’t do anything and say, “yes, that’s all I have”. Because I want to believe that I am more than that, I’m more than 4 hours of studying a day, more than a ABBB for prelims, more than a desperate med school reject (I seriously hope at this time next year I will not be typing a post about being rejected from medical school because that would seriously S U C K)

Ironically though, this stupid, insane mentality is keeping me from my best. Do I have the courage to find what my best really is? I don’t know if I do. Maybe by admitting that I don’t have the courage would help. Guess that’s why I’m rambling in this one. I am praying to myself, literally begging myself right now. Please have the courage in this 5 days to reach your peak. ACKNOWLEDGE THAT YOU HAVE A PEAK. And fucking reach it, climb up it, embrace the fucking peak. Reach this peak so that you can find new ones. You need to stop putting clouds above yourself so that you can’t see the end. IF you keep doing that, you’ll end up being so disillusioned that when one day, reality catches up and blows the clouds away, you’d realised you barely moved at all. Once again that would seriously S U C K.


1.38am. I’m hungry.

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

“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.