I’d call myself a plus sign. Not that I’m always up and everything. If I keep reminding myself that I’m a plus, I’ll stay happy and optimistic. I’ll think of things that keep me happy. I’ll not think of you.
Not you.
surprising (or perhaps not) how a little alcohol and a pinch of personal drama can awake the slumbering writer in someone. i’ve missed you, old friend. while writing pen & paper comes fairly fluidly, typing is a tedious, tedious task. i ought to put this through five spell-checks though, my alcohol-muddled brain can not be trusted. i can’t even bother to capitalise.
first, an apology or two to people who’ve suffered at my expense today. i know, apologies are mere words; what are you supposed to do with words? they’re not even edible. i wish so much that i could make up for how things turned out, but i can’t. for all that i boast of my brain-power, i can’t solve this sort of thing within my boundaries, and knowing my powerlessness is just as helpless. i am truly sorry. if one day i am to make up for you, i will.
right now, i am very tired. i can’t think of another word. just pure tiredness seeping into my bones, my every muscle, and yes, the heart is a muscle, soft, persevering, restless, it too can’t escape.
but i can take far more damage, to any part of my body, than this mere infliction, i think. i can take injuries much better than you can give them. internalisation. it’s very useful, and you can solve everything without bothering with others.
my dear i am rambling. i shall set my thoughts down tonight and hope that my dreams carry them through, and tomorrow brings clearer skies. as much as i would like someone to kiss it away, there is no one. a fact put out not to be complained about, but to be acknowledged.
the stars are kissing me good night, i tell them i love them far more than any living being, even if their light is an illusion, and they have been dead for many earth years already. it would be grand if any person, dead or alive, could send out illuminations like they could.
good night. i love you still.
Falling out of love is common. Those few notes that once signaled the onset of butterflies, goosebumps or even the need to sing loudly into a hairbrush often subside, leaving the oh-so-familiar feeling of nothingness that’s comparable only to running into your ex-high school love at a grocery store.
Only it’s not your high school love, your college boyfriend, or the man you thought you’d marry. Fickle as it is, it’s a band. Because if you’ve once clung to an album or recited a song with the conviction that some reserve to pledge allegiance, you too understand the feeling of being shaped by something so meaningful that to eventually gaze upon it with emptiness feels wrong.
Of course, it wouldn’t be natural if it didn’t happen. And yes, there are the groups that transcend adolescence and adulthood, and take such a permanent residence in your heart that the notion of parting with them would be the equivalent of burning down your childhood home. But then there are the others. The others that represent a time, a feeling or even a person that soon gave way to the next, leaving you looking at the past with the unfamiliarity of someone who can’t recognize herself in the mirror anymore.
It’s the feeling you get when you see an old friend and can’t move past small talk. It’s that disconnect that ensues when you realize your university major isn’t your passion. It’s that alienation of standing in a room full of people and realizing you have nothing in common with anyone. It’s growing up. It’s evolving. And it’s inevitable.
You transition, you move on, and that album that meant the world once upon a time now reminds you of how foolish you felt when that guy broke your heart. That band you saw three times in a week now represents those awkward years when you were trying to figure out who you were or what you’d become. And that song is now simply an anthem of long ago, evoking imagery you’d rather keep at arm’s length.
And you wish them the best. The bands, the musicians and the artists that shaped you can’t be punished for your own changing tastes. You want them to succeed, you tip your hat, you shake their hand; but like you’d do to that ex in the grocery store, you don’t reignite the flame. It’s out, it’s over, and the new version of who you are isn’t who you once were – and neither are they.
But such is life. Stagnation is dangerous. Your friends change, your life changes, your soundtrack begins again. And maybe when that band comes through and you have time to see them, you’ll listen to their music without flinching or shaking your head. Because like falling out of love, they once meant the world, and because of that, they’ll always be a part of you.
(Source: juneandafter)
I am apologizing to you because you are the one who called me out, but this is a collective apology to everyone who has been bothered by my words. Words I irresponsibly spit out on whatever whim I want, taking for granted the people that would listen (and have always listened to me).
(Source: separateheartbeats)
is of traveling on motorbike from Hanoi to Lang Son, a mountainous province near the border. It is not too much of a story, but I think it’s the first time I’ve ever remembered anything that I can still legibly recall. Although it was definitely not my first journey on this route, which went serpentine through the mountainous terrains of the far north, it was the first time I had ever paid attention to the scenery as we passed by. I think it was some time after the winter, and everything started to burst out of its shell. I couldn’t tell if it was in the morning or afternoon, for the sky was replete with indignant grey clouds that don’t seem to move. My mother held me tight, wrapping me with a thin veil (no, not like those you see at weddings, but rather like the screens you use to keep mosquitoes away while you’re sleeping in a tropical jungle), between her warmth and my father’s on the small seat of the old motorbike. The winding narrow road seemed to trick us into some sort of labyrinth, as we had probably been riding for almost 3 hours and the town of Lang Son was still nowhere to be found. But at that moment, as we rode into a valley, the road curved between two mountain slopes, an extraordinary image struck me. Above our heads was an enormous bridge rising from one side of a mount to another, standing strong and tall against the dull sky. It was a bridge for the railway, I was later told. We went past it, and I, still dazed by its simple beauty, turned around to watch as it stumbled back and gradually receded from view.
because Tracy had returned to Vietnam a few weeks ago. I was supposed to post a photo of us together here, but I don’t have any /sobs. Well, maybe laters
i wish i could hate you. or be indifferent about you. that’s better. that way, you wouldn’t take up any space in my thoughts.
you’re the worst, the last thing i want on my mind, and i really wish i could hate you.
(this is actually applicable to so many things in life, well.)
