re: living

immersing myself in fictional narratives as a weak attempt of temporary escape. it doesn’t actually change anything. the only thing that changes is the time I have left. how is it simultaneously too fast and too slow? why are weeks stretched but hours whiz by? the pain remains the same, buried then excavated; repeat the cycle of feeling too much and feeling nothing at all. life passes you like a boring movie, the fluorescent light of the theatre screen on your face, dazed eyes merely watching the motions but not entirely present. you don’t know what it’s like to live properly anymore. is this how normal people feel? am I overthinking again? am I supposed to ignore the growing void within me and cope with life as I have been dealt?

why is it so empty please fill me with something I just want to live vibrantly is that too much to ask for

restore my grey skies with colour. it seems like the palette is just within reach, yet I can’t find it in me to pick up the paintbrush. wrap your hand around my wrist, intertwine your fingers with mine, teach me how to experience life again, as it should be – a vivid technicolour dream.



this is what it means to know me

everyone is always curious. peeking through a slightly ajar door. around a dim corner. devoting their attention to my external being. examining your stature, the purse of your lips, the flickering expressions in your eyes.

but I wonder if they really want to know me. if they are daring to take that leap of faith. if they are willing to pull apart the fibres of what it means to be me, if they are patient with the frustrating entanglement of meanings within my strung up soul, if they are okay with forming the deep connections I so desire.

is everyone just scratching the surface with their fingertips? fabricating friendships from these shallow impressions? or maybe I am being a ridiculous, petulant, stubborn child, demanding the universe to understand me when I don’t even have the answers to my questions.

I just want someone to reach inside the expanding void in me and tell me, I know how this feels. I want them to say, I shall stay here, lay down with your emotions and unpack them, slowly, carefully. tonight, we shall unveil the constellations of thoughts you have been keeping to yourself and free you from this insomniac struggle. is it too much to ask for?

finding the right chemistry

how do I measure

covalent radius

from heart to heart –

the imagined distance

an arbitrary constant, constantly changing.


how do I determine

attraction (or repulsion)

of our shared electrons –

do you feel the pull too?

or are you experiencing the withdrawing effect?


how do I evaluate

effective collisions

between the atoms of our being –

a microscopic molecular exchange, so chaotic,

searching for the right orientation to fit into.


maybe this is how:

careful experimentation

with painfully slow distillation

of garbled words, condensing meaning

this science must not be rushed.


in the midst of it all

we precipitate transition metals,

colored crumbs in conical flasks,

out of trial-and-error;

realize we still split ourselves in half to find another.


one day we’ll stop wasting such energy;

instead learn to swallow light,

excite ourselves like we’re children again.

learn to ride the ups and downs of wavelengths

of our heartbeats, echoing our emotions endlessly.


know that this is how alive feels like.

when entropy no longer sweeps you off your feet,

when you no longer feel the need to experiment,

because they are all of the answers –


sorry for the train delay:

would you really call it an accident

when it should really be called a tragedy;

for it was staged, meticulously,

not just a sudden push off the edge,

but a slow accumulating

of decay, the rotting of a soul

decomposing into a grave

dug with their two bare hands –


stop pointing fingers

not at the corpse

or the family

or, anyone.

the body is heavy enough

weighed down by years of agony

bones shackled to train tracks

and heart too weary to lift itself

or even beat again


the blood splatters may be easy to clean

but can you really wash away something so ugly?

can you mop away the horror,

a gruesome scene

of twisted limbs and limp frame?

guts splayed across metal like

yarn, unraveling, the past

memories; tangled

amongst thread we use

to sew our eyes shut, theirs too,

with the remaining red string,

fate severed, short of

something more


the media stops weaving stories altogether.

soon they blend into

a single entity, enough

to blanket the entire country;

yet is buried under, cemented

platforms and rustling wheels



arrives at the nearest light

when the sun rises

and the corpse lowers

into a quiet cemetery, a lot

among lots of old souls.

too tired to carry this burden

so we lay it to rest –

we cannot afford so much

pain to fill the emptiness.


when will we learn

to put an end to our suffocating society?

let their muffled voices rise

above the screech of

train tracks, the cacophony

of hustle and bustle;

we should never busy ourselves

with forgetting.

let go and let live

their stories, unearthed

from buried grief.


would you really call it an accident

when it really should be called a tragedy?

would you really call it an accident

if it was my body; laying there?

you are your own scapegoat

how do you scratch the itching guilt away – a burning, writhing skin you never asked for, cursed to wear as a prisoner of regret. the dj casually mentions a can of worms and it becomes your tipping point, your truth spilling over uncontrollably, seeping into the cracks. the car radio fizzes into white noise as you feel the squirming creatures crawl over every nook and cranny of your insides. they eat away underneath your skin, festering like an old wound reopened, tearing apart painstaking stitches from a past life. you claw at this growing scab, wanting to shed this visible layer of pain; but the bleeding warns you against impatience. it is always too early. the hurt remains long after, because it will not allow you to forget. it follows you in your shadows, a parasitic being, feasting. 

i’m aching to douse this wound in spirits, my only way to swallow bitter pills, even though yes, i do know, that’s a toxic combination. but only then, will i be free.

captain’s log: 9/3/2018

i keep running away in my dreams. the chaser changes with every dream – assailants with shadow faces, the first tsunami wave, technological aliens descending to destroy earth on doomsday. my feet take flight in fear and i never seem to stop; the destruction behind me does not allow me to. maybe i am afraid of what will happen if i fail to outrun the enemy. i wonder, what is it that i am running away from when i am awake? i stare down at my legs. i am still grounded. or maybe my soul has already escaped this burdensome body, abandoned ship; it is craving the sweet release of freedom, a carefree life with no responsibilities. but that is not how i will live. a child cries when their balloon floats into the blue sky and rides the clouds, leaving its owner stranded.

and so i shall stay grounded, pinch my cheeks and remind myself – this is life, and i am going to face it, head on, with my eyes wide open.

i shall run towards it, towards you and embrace, i shall.

when home feels like an one-way window

sometimes it feels like a picture-perfect moment, frozen within a wooden frame; the glass catching the glint of winter sunlight, reflecting your smiling face of contentment, peace.

other times, it feels like you are gripping too hard, until you’re just clutching onto cracked glass, the fractured bonds spread thin like spider webs, almost invisible to the naked eye. the web catches the morning dew on the corner of your pillowcase, glimmers ever so slightly.

your hands let slip the framed picture; the shards pierce through paper skin and the film bleeds nostalgia. you are transfixed, but you can’t fix this – you can only wait, for each piece to reassemble into their respective places. things like these – you can only wish for things to fall into place, like catching the first snowflake from the sky in your gloved hands, a delicate, warm moment.