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

I’ve damn near got no dignity left

Loneliness is the proverbial monster under the bed, it keeps us company with fear. This heartbreak seems to be eating at me at places I don’t even register. Eating my feelings became something I do, and my complexion is telling me to take my emotions down a notch. In physiology, your body will always have a reaction to highly-stressed states. Whether you want to admit it or not, you are stressed and upset when your body is permanently on cAMP. Cause and effect is confusing even in medicine. Especially when it’s a vicious cycle of stress and depression.

I need to stop finding comfort in company, and be okay with being alone. Already I thought I was making progress, reducing the texts and eating alone. Yet, I let myself get carried away with the attention, and the warm embrace of being desired by someone. People aren’t band-aids for my gaping wounds, or the Xanax to my crap.

I will not be a victim of romance,
I will not be a victim of circumstance,
Chance, or circumstance, or any man,
Who can get his dirty little hands on me

– I Was An Eagle, Laura Marling

Because everything I love has gone away.

I don’t think that it’s the end, but I know we can’t keep going

How is it that we can’t define love, and yet know when it disappears? Logically it isn’t possible, you can’t feel the loss of something if you don’t know what that thing is. Yet, I feel it acutely, in the depths of my heart, echoing in the vacuums of one-sided phone conversations. Every nightly phone call, a lump in my throat impedes the dutiful reply of “I love you”, to your constant effusions. And yet, it comes out, strangled and apologetic.

When did your declarations go from warming my heart, to stabs of guilt? I used to screenshot texts, just to make them last longer. When we fought, I used to look back at these images, and smile at the knowledge that we loved each other.

And now it’s all over. It’s amazing how someone who meant so much to you at one point in time; who could cause so much pain, just fade away in the forward rush of time.

When we began, I wanted a love that was as all-consuming as the sun, a love that could penetrate space-time continuums, and warm our hearts from light-years away. Instead, we had one that existed in concerned texts, grocery shopping dates and care packs of vitamin C. My impatient heart couldn’t stand such love that resided in between bus seats and errands. I did try so hard. Tried to make you happy, tried to listen to all the worries of your life, tried to love deeply.

Yet I knew that this was one-sided, and it will probably always be. I knew that you loved me but you loved yourself more. Physics and yourself are the two great loves of your life, and I’ll always play the second fiddle in this strange harem. As you’ve said before, if I chose to leave, you wouldn’t stop me. So I did.

In your post break-up regret, you swore to love me as strongly as I did. But we both knew it was a reaction to the sudden lack of familiarity, a reflex to the loss of a daily habit. I couldn’t change who you were, and it was foolish of me to think that maybe my love could.

Thank you for being in my life, and for letting me love you. Thank you for trying in the end, even when I let go. If I had another chance at life, I would still put myself through this journey of loving you, even if I knew it had an end. Thanks for making me a better and more selfless person, in love and in life. I will miss you and I don’t quite know how this heartbreak will affect me. But I hope you’ve grown from this as well, and find someone who will be okay with your harem, or maybe even someone who you can love before anything else.

Don’t you dare let our best memories bring you sorrow,
Yesterday, I saw a lion kiss a deer,
Turn a page, maybe we’ll find a brand new ending,
Where we’re dancing in our tears

– Lost Stars, from Begin Again

When you aren’t around

What do I really miss? Do I miss you or do I miss love? When we love someone do we love them, or do we love loving them and being loved back? I accept your flaws, I love your idiosyncrasies but that’s what I think love is supposed to do.

All this, we’ve never talked about this. We never really faced this part of me, this part that I feel that really is, the core of me. I think. I don’t even know myself. I don’t know many things, and I admit them, only to myself. You are this all-seeing eye, you think you know everything, and you seek to know everything. But I exist in my ignorance, and in front of you, wear this mask of knowledge.

Bleary eyed scrolling through articles on thoughtcatalog tagged under love and sex, sometimes under breaking up.

Realising that everyone is confused about love and no one is a guru. Not getting tips anywhere, no guidance, stop living my life according to arbitrary lists.

We talk about forever because we seem to believe that by verbalizing it, we are making it truer. Since when did truth have a degree; there is truth and there is fiction. We find ourselves in the chasm, reaching for truth with our words. Or maybe you don’t find yourself anywhere but grounded in reality. I am never grounded anywhere.

me vs. you

I found this year-old post sitting in my drafts (with some edits from current-me), and it’s amazing how it really sums up how I feel nowadays. Past-me understands current-me more than thoughtcatalog. Also, this means what I’ve feared a year ago seems to be slowly solidifying and becoming a reality.

I’ve always wondered how i could love someone so grounded in reality, so adamant that only our perceptions of reality are valid. Granted, you expound on wormholes and alternate universes but they are all backed up by scientific documentaries you’ve watched. Everything is grounded in science. Even our love is grounded in science, in the transmission of electrical impulses. I don’t think you understand why I was sad when you claimed that all human emotion can be reduced down to neurons.

Words are my thing and math is yours but love is ours. I pour mine out in letters and diary entries while you express yours in fractions and infinities. We fumble along our incompatible ways of loving, trying to accommodate each other, trying to not lose ourselves among this amalgamation of languages. Our expressions may be variables that we find hard to solve but our love has always been the constant. And I am thankful that among the complex metaphors and long prose that I attempt to capture our love in, I will never succeed. We will never succeed. Because our love cannot be contained, cannot be expressed in fractions and quantified, cannot be known and expressed by an ocean of words, by all the versions of dictionaries. We exist in this continuum we have built between us, floating, struggling, together.

Despite that we will keep trying.

Ironically the day that we stop trying will be the day that our continuum breaks down. I don’t know about you. But I will fall. Hard. Through my woven web of words and phrases, I will fall. I will grasp at every past prose, verse and line written about you, and wonder if we managed to reconcile my words and your numbers, we would have made our continuum a new reality.

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.