anxiety ridden. smoke billowing between hair strands. words on the screen blurring together and words from my mouth spinning into webs. and i wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow I wake up and fish fall from the sky instead of water, and birds swim the length of the ocean. i wouldn't be surprised.
life happens and you think real things are the things you can touch. but real things could be the things you believe you are touching. it's all in our head in a way. the past merges with the present and sometimes it's not the past that shapes the future but it's the future that dictates the past, to some extent.
i love you, i love you not. it's magic, and yet a decision. to hold on. to approach. to turn and walk away. you imagine and you decide. and chances give you a reason. you think it's meant to be. but perhaps, perhaps, it's simply chances. just, merely, chances.
i am bent forward on my couch/bed, fingers moving up and down, arms straining. and i'm getting tired but it feels good to ramble. and by now, at this hour, it doesn't matter if these lines are read or not. pure ramblings. just pure.
i float on air and air rest on the pillows and my feet are getting cold so i cover them with a fleece blanket. the lights are off so it's dark all around. except, of course, the screen. but sometimes mid-sentences the screen seems to have dimmed too. fading off into shadows. i'm thinking of you but i no longer know who "you" are or is.
counting sheep. counting days. counting minutes. counting seconds and then counting hours. live intensely under pressure. or maybe pressure is overrated and only cause meltdowns. and i'm really too busy for meltdowns at this moment. i'm busy counting. counting the many things that have shaped my life the past years. counting the many things i will miss. it sucks you know... yet it's exciting. it truly is. i'll be back in that land painting pictures the color of the sun. and your eyes will have to avert because they'll be too bright.
i'm sitting up. i'm lying down. my eyelids are heavy. they're closing. i'm dozing off. i'm letting myself sleep.
falling.
falling.
falling softly into the land of dreams. tomorrow the sun will color my shadow a deep shade of purple.
lists for the new year
mong 2 tet
the 2nd day of the lunar calendar. insomnia had somehow slipped in with the new year on the 1st. i laid awake till dawn, streams of thought racing through my mind, crossing each other as they head off in every possible direction. stopping nowhere, getting nowhere. simply running, endlessly, into the darkness.
tonight, i've decided to sort what i can into 3 piles. and maybe my head will clear up and sleep will return. the things i like, the things i don't like and the things i don't care abt. at least at this moment. tomorrow i might change my mind.
things i like/want/care about:
1. Freedom. i can write pages and pages on what i mean by freedom, but for now imagine blank whiteness, free of form and meaning. and whatever that is exactly is to be discovered in the coming year.
2. 頑張る気. Hard work. aha. but i still need to find paid work.
3. Being curious. the key to progress and to get my lazy ass off the ground.
4. A number of people. yes, that includes you.
5. Being comfortable. very crucial to being me.
6. The ability to want and care about something. apathy is truly a terror.
7. simplicity. working towards simplifying and minimizing.
8. Creating. a joy. be it in the form of words or shapes and colors
9. more materialistic stuffs - Food. crucial to sustaining happiness and the mortal body.
10. walks.
and so much more. starting this list was a foolish attempt.
things i dislike:
1. lack of imagination. leading to all sorts of "lackness". a serious disease.
2. laziness. like dust collecting on shelves, or rust on bicycle chains, requires regular check ups and clean outs.
3. depression. ahh...the hormones.
4. discussion of the self. a frequent and on-going mistake that paves way to nothing more than boredom and confusion.
5. the exhibitionist streak. an unappreciated quality. very much so.
6. inability to carry through a promise. better not say anything in the first place.
7. self-pity. cry and spit it all out if necessary. but pick yourself up and move on.
8. phonies. fake conversations and procedures. they kill me.
things i don't care about or rather don't care enough about: 1. money. while this is a serious concern and the main cause of aging in the last year i just can't seem to care all that much to make improvements. sigh. other than that since they're on the "don't care" list there's really no point in thinking about them in the first place.
phew. this listing business is getting me all worked up. maybe i should lie down and count sheep. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5...
the 2nd day of the lunar calendar. insomnia had somehow slipped in with the new year on the 1st. i laid awake till dawn, streams of thought racing through my mind, crossing each other as they head off in every possible direction. stopping nowhere, getting nowhere. simply running, endlessly, into the darkness.
tonight, i've decided to sort what i can into 3 piles. and maybe my head will clear up and sleep will return. the things i like, the things i don't like and the things i don't care abt. at least at this moment. tomorrow i might change my mind.
things i like/want/care about:
1. Freedom. i can write pages and pages on what i mean by freedom, but for now imagine blank whiteness, free of form and meaning. and whatever that is exactly is to be discovered in the coming year.
2. 頑張る気. Hard work. aha. but i still need to find paid work.
3. Being curious. the key to progress and to get my lazy ass off the ground.
4. A number of people. yes, that includes you.
5. Being comfortable. very crucial to being me.
6. The ability to want and care about something. apathy is truly a terror.
7. simplicity. working towards simplifying and minimizing.
8. Creating. a joy. be it in the form of words or shapes and colors
9. more materialistic stuffs - Food. crucial to sustaining happiness and the mortal body.
10. walks.
and so much more. starting this list was a foolish attempt.
things i dislike:
1. lack of imagination. leading to all sorts of "lackness". a serious disease.
2. laziness. like dust collecting on shelves, or rust on bicycle chains, requires regular check ups and clean outs.
3. depression. ahh...the hormones.
4. discussion of the self. a frequent and on-going mistake that paves way to nothing more than boredom and confusion.
5. the exhibitionist streak. an unappreciated quality. very much so.
6. inability to carry through a promise. better not say anything in the first place.
7. self-pity. cry and spit it all out if necessary. but pick yourself up and move on.
8. phonies. fake conversations and procedures. they kill me.
things i don't care about or rather don't care enough about: 1. money. while this is a serious concern and the main cause of aging in the last year i just can't seem to care all that much to make improvements. sigh. other than that since they're on the "don't care" list there's really no point in thinking about them in the first place.
phew. this listing business is getting me all worked up. maybe i should lie down and count sheep. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5...
Food and You
the room smells of baked cookies and as my hand reaches for the 5th one there is this smugness of sitting on the carpet surrounded by you. it is not the first time i feel grateful. i wish there is a way to paint my love on your walls. instead of putting nothing but words up here.
it has become a tradition. i float around, wear myself thin searching for a point in life. and you patch me up, pound in plenty of food, some common sense. and repeatedly tell me i need to eat more protein.
"Eat more protein!"
doesn't tofu count?
You lean back. the weight of you anchors me. It has been so long...
It's not a bad place to be, don't you think? the spot between friends and lovers.
I like to look at the way the shadows of your hair dance across your face. the way she laughs and raises her voice at the end of each sentences. the way you pretend to ask for opinions while you know exactly what you want. the way she hums as i run my hand across her hair. the way you all try so hard. cook a storm, box and build those muscles. keep and endure unbearableness. you strive to live strong. and i, to be like you.
i embrace you all. though i know i can never embrace enough.
it has become a tradition. i float around, wear myself thin searching for a point in life. and you patch me up, pound in plenty of food, some common sense. and repeatedly tell me i need to eat more protein.
"Eat more protein!"
doesn't tofu count?
You lean back. the weight of you anchors me. It has been so long...
It's not a bad place to be, don't you think? the spot between friends and lovers.
I like to look at the way the shadows of your hair dance across your face. the way she laughs and raises her voice at the end of each sentences. the way you pretend to ask for opinions while you know exactly what you want. the way she hums as i run my hand across her hair. the way you all try so hard. cook a storm, box and build those muscles. keep and endure unbearableness. you strive to live strong. and i, to be like you.
i embrace you all. though i know i can never embrace enough.
Mourning
Mourning with one's body.
When they danced their version of mourning i am able to feel my own loss. their jagged movements, slow and deliberate, delicate and intense, their dance of raw being, of living and suffering somehow created a space that enabled concentration. a space that allowed me to look straight and not to the side. a sad silent space of understanding.
There are many kinds of mourning. mourning of death. mourning of loss, of the irretrievable nature of certain things that happened in our lives. things that we cheerish and adore, things we wish we had a little bit more of. more time. more love.
more time. more love.
more time.
there are mournings that hover over you like a darkened cloud, heavy and wanting to rain. but unable to. you expect a downpour every second, only to hold your breath. one minute. two minutes. three days. four months... it hovers. and you anticipate rain every minute. and you keep anticipating. one day it'll pour. and then, not only the rain will wear you out. the waiting has.
i have never been to a single funeral. death came in words over the phone lines. more than once. a week late. unexpected. cold. unclear. with realizations always a year too late. with its heavy drooping clouds hanging over me for the time being, for the days and months before reality pours in in the land on the other side. i fear. i worry. i don't want to be the outsider looking in. not when parts of my inside are lost.
loss leaves its marks in many forms. scars, memories, bodies. lives. marks of sadness. marks of violence. marks of loss.
the lost of you was like coal on fire tossed on raw skin. it burned. but i bore no visible scars. the lost of you left me facing myself, mirroring enola. the word bouncing off the wall. echoing.
perhaps i mourn with the hours of the night, listening to the sound of cars. and of silence. Three types of silences come through the bedroom window. The sound of silence after a passing-by car -- the sound of emptiness. the space misses the seconds it was filled. The sound of silence before a car comes -- the sound of anticipation, of waiting. and the silence between the "empty silence" and the "anticipating silence" -- the silence of resignation and settlement. A silence that accepts its solitude.
When they danced their version of mourning i am able to feel my own loss. their jagged movements, slow and deliberate, delicate and intense, their dance of raw being, of living and suffering somehow created a space that enabled concentration. a space that allowed me to look straight and not to the side. a sad silent space of understanding.
There are many kinds of mourning. mourning of death. mourning of loss, of the irretrievable nature of certain things that happened in our lives. things that we cheerish and adore, things we wish we had a little bit more of. more time. more love.
more time. more love.
more time.
there are mournings that hover over you like a darkened cloud, heavy and wanting to rain. but unable to. you expect a downpour every second, only to hold your breath. one minute. two minutes. three days. four months... it hovers. and you anticipate rain every minute. and you keep anticipating. one day it'll pour. and then, not only the rain will wear you out. the waiting has.
i have never been to a single funeral. death came in words over the phone lines. more than once. a week late. unexpected. cold. unclear. with realizations always a year too late. with its heavy drooping clouds hanging over me for the time being, for the days and months before reality pours in in the land on the other side. i fear. i worry. i don't want to be the outsider looking in. not when parts of my inside are lost.
loss leaves its marks in many forms. scars, memories, bodies. lives. marks of sadness. marks of violence. marks of loss.
the lost of you was like coal on fire tossed on raw skin. it burned. but i bore no visible scars. the lost of you left me facing myself, mirroring enola. the word bouncing off the wall. echoing.
perhaps i mourn with the hours of the night, listening to the sound of cars. and of silence. Three types of silences come through the bedroom window. The sound of silence after a passing-by car -- the sound of emptiness. the space misses the seconds it was filled. The sound of silence before a car comes -- the sound of anticipation, of waiting. and the silence between the "empty silence" and the "anticipating silence" -- the silence of resignation and settlement. A silence that accepts its solitude.
Home
"Home is where the heart belongs"
But if home really is where the heart belongs then for many in this era home becomes "homes."
It is not possible to live in a place for an extent and not grow attached to it in some ways. attachment comes in many forms. be it the fondness of a location that holds a sparkle of genius, a moment of understanding, of realization, of appreciation; or a place that holds moments when one feels loved or falls in love. even the spot where one's heart breaks into two, or three, or more, carries the impact of home. for it is when the heart breaks that it understands where it wants to belong.
be it welcoming arms. or even be it a space you had to push your way into and claim yours. be it routines and repetitions that verge on dullness, but in moments of unrest in foreign places carry the sense of security and familiarity only time can build. be it street corners. be it a type of music that frequents a room. be it the smell. the sense of you filling into a space.
The heart belongs to the people. and It is not always possible to gather everyone you love into the same corner. People travel, people move away. you travel. You move away. and when you part, home is once again broken into pieces. of course over time you find other things to fill in the chunk that had chipped off, but it will never fit the same way again. home is always fragmented.
home. it is hard to point out where home is. here or back there. or back when.
you carry space and air. Travel to a new place. live in an unfamiliar location. the unfamiliarity will become familiar over time. not complete, but enough to create a crust around your skin. enough to seep into your pores. enough for the ones you left behind to figure out that you no longer smell or taste the same.
can your heart feel just one place, just one person? you wonder. demand it and perhaps you will rip.
But if home really is where the heart belongs then for many in this era home becomes "homes."
It is not possible to live in a place for an extent and not grow attached to it in some ways. attachment comes in many forms. be it the fondness of a location that holds a sparkle of genius, a moment of understanding, of realization, of appreciation; or a place that holds moments when one feels loved or falls in love. even the spot where one's heart breaks into two, or three, or more, carries the impact of home. for it is when the heart breaks that it understands where it wants to belong.
be it welcoming arms. or even be it a space you had to push your way into and claim yours. be it routines and repetitions that verge on dullness, but in moments of unrest in foreign places carry the sense of security and familiarity only time can build. be it street corners. be it a type of music that frequents a room. be it the smell. the sense of you filling into a space.
The heart belongs to the people. and It is not always possible to gather everyone you love into the same corner. People travel, people move away. you travel. You move away. and when you part, home is once again broken into pieces. of course over time you find other things to fill in the chunk that had chipped off, but it will never fit the same way again. home is always fragmented.
home. it is hard to point out where home is. here or back there. or back when.
you carry space and air. Travel to a new place. live in an unfamiliar location. the unfamiliarity will become familiar over time. not complete, but enough to create a crust around your skin. enough to seep into your pores. enough for the ones you left behind to figure out that you no longer smell or taste the same.
can your heart feel just one place, just one person? you wonder. demand it and perhaps you will rip.
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