Wednesday, July 15, 2009

...and you can't fake it hard enough to please everyone, or anyone at all...

Currently listening to: The Places You Have Come to Fear the Most - Dashboard Confessional

Kawah Putih, Lembang, 2008

...You know what?
Good job.

When I was little, you didn't give a damn about how well I could draw, or sing, or write, or fluently recite classical poems kids my age weren't even supposed to be able to read. All you cared about was my freaking academic achievements.
You didn't care how sociable on the surface I was, or how many friends I had. You didn't care how sad, and depressed, and lonely I was as a kid, deep down inside.

When I came home with my end-of-semester report feeling elated because I got full marks for English, you sulked and asked why I almost didn't pass Maths.
When I told you my vocal teacher praised me for nailing that absurdly complicated Ella Fitzgerald song at practice, you pointed out I could've done so much better if I had continued with my boring piano lessons.
When I asked for permission to join the high school choir, you protested, claiming singing would distract me and thus further damage my already messed-up grades.

You never gave me the space I needed.
You say I'm slow. And lazy. And unmotivated. And simply good for nothing.

You got yourself worried sick everytime I came home late from school, even after I reached seventeen. With no reason, because I wasn't even acting out. Not anymore anyway.
You scolded me when I decided to choose Social Sciences over Physics and Chemistry. Then you assured me that I had successfully let go of my one chance to succeed later in life when I made that foolish decision.
From then on, you refuse to acknowledge my academic achievements. Even when I managed to get an almost perfect score for my TOEFL test, you weren't even proud of me.

You bragged about how you were already making money when you were my age, and brought me down for not being able to do the same for myself right now.
You threatened to kick me out of the house when once I had the courage to stand up for myself and question your integrity.
You took my first love away from me at such a young, tender age.
You deprived me of my teenage freedom. And you forced me to grow up far too soon.

You never liked seeing me happy in my element.
You wanted me to embrace your ideal picture of what you thought I needed. Everything wasn't about me being happy; it was all about you wanting me to relive your unfinished ambitions and unachieved goals.

You told me, over and over again, that I would never be as good as you. Ever.

And yeah, come to think of it, I wouldn't want to be as good as you even if I could.
Everything is just so out of control that I don't know what to believe anymore.

Now that I'm graduating soon, you're already starting to worry about what I'm gonna do with my entire future now that it's lurking close right around the corner.

No excuses. No space for me to even worry about myself. Everything is about you, and your thoughts, and your insecurities, and your fucking neverending expectations.

I can't even look at myself in the mirror now because you have stripped me of every last bit of self-confidence that I used to have before all this.
I can't even force myself to believe that I'm at least good for something because you have never convinced me that I actually am.

Hell, I can't even be free to see the people I love, and the one person I care about the most, simply because you have jailed me in my pretty little golden cage. Well-groomed, but trapped. Self-sufficient, but helpless.

And now that everything's said and done, I don't fucking know what to do with myself.
Thanks to you.

"This is for your own good" just doesn't cut it anymore. Alright? And neither does "You'll understand when you're older".
I think I'm old enough to decide what's good for me. Seriously. Back off.

You gotta start learning to accept the fact that this surly, over-demanding son of a bitch is really who I am. Warts and all. Your call.

I'm sick of always trying to be the person I don't wanna be.
I'm sorry. But this isn't what I want.

Please give me some space. To breathe. To break free. To think this over.
And to recover.

Heaven knows this may only be the only chance I got.

Friday, July 03, 2009


SQ962, T2 Changi Airport, June 2009


i wake up in a daze, my breaths ragged, my eyes bleary.
my trembling hands lie open, powerless, weak.
with every pulse of my heart that beats in silence, i feel you, i miss you, i so long for you.

my brittle hands, they knew.
last night, in my dream, they were reaching out to you.

i watch, helpless, as the visual fragments of days long gone begin to unfold, engulfing this worn-out soul with the senseless guilt of an unrequited passion.

every move, every smile, every word, every little twinkle of your puppy-dog eyes...
they chase my weary thoughts away, endlessly.
i've got nowhere else to stay, but here. inside the warm confines of my sweet misery.
with you.

and i shudder, as i begin to remember, to recall, to celebrate the trailing steps of your nonexistence.

the way you sing to me the soft lullabies of the stars,
the way your velvet voice entertains my senses,
the way your beautiful brown eyes lock oh-so-gently into mine,
a thousand words communicated in silence,
as your fingers trace the outlines of my lips,
ever so carefully...

so delicate,
the rapturous delight i find within the comforting warmth of your sheer presence...

and so i let myself sway, gently, along the fragile lines of my sorrow. slowly wasting away like an empty vessel void of emotions.

the inane thoughts i have of you are all but a blur, swimming in a puddle of could've-beens, would've-beens, might've-beens...

for everything has an end, each story a final epilogue.
and so it is. our story has reached its afterglow, even far before it has a chance to begin.

what's the use of dreaming about all the things that never were when all i can find is despair and regret?

but i just can't help it.

with no safety net,
i have let myself fall.


"...imagine there was no tomorrow,
imagine that i couldn't see your face,
there would be no limit to my sorrow,
'cause there's nothing that could fill this space...
i don't wanna put it off for too long,
i didn't say all that I had to say,
i wanna take my time and right the wrong before we get to that place

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

...still when i'm a mess, i still put on a vest...

Currently listening to: Superwoman - Alicia Keys

Wellington Rd, Clayton, May 2009

...Er, hi.

*pushes cobwebs out of the way*

I have now come to terms with the fact that my supposedly-superb writing skills are now as obsolete as Mischa Barton's nonexistent movie career. And that reviving the spirit of this neglected blog is proving to be a foolish attempt even more terminally futile than trying to pronounce yours truly's long-ass name without having an oral seizure of the spastic variety.


I do know that a dismissive lift of the left eyebrow and a bashful, happy-go-lucky grin won't pass as a decent excuse to rightfully explain my extended absence. But I needed that break. I needed to get away for a while. I had to organize my thoughts, and deal with my emotions.
And so I did.

In retrospect, though, I do think that the blog deserved some down time of its own, too. A part of my self-absorbed psyche likes to believe that the world was a better place, on a micro scale, during my absence. One less irrational wave of noises to deal with. One less snobby blogger to bitch about. Definitely wasn't world-peace material, that's for damn sure. But this irrational-noise-making fuckwit was simply having too much on his plate. So I guess in the end the silence was well-earned for. Wasn't it?

So, yeah. For the sake of humility - or lack thereof, I'll just shut up and humbly take the blame, basking in the unspoken guilt that all ye faithful readers - yes, all three of you - have unconsciously put on me when I was away.

To be frank, I did receive some complaints regarding the coma-like state of this blog over the last couple of months. Fragments of comments and questions ranging from trivial one-liners in the middle of casual conversations to borderline hostile paragraphs sent through various 21st-century social platforms. And they were all valid comments, actually.

Come to think of it, it is only natural for us to complain about stuff, right?
I mean, as community beings in charge of our own sense of self, we are rightfully entitled to occasional bursts of negative social commentary.
Or are we not?

Well, I know for a fact that affluent, effortless complaining is one of my precious few - if any - discernable talents.

I complain about my too-short Jakarta getaway. Three fucking weeks!
I complain about already missing Melbourne as soon as my plane touched down.
I complain about the weather.
I complain about traffic.
I complain about the lack of proper coffee in my house. And when I say proper coffee I earnestly don't mean tangy, weak, watery coffee of the instant variety.

I complain about the local TV shows that I get exposed to whenever I turn on the telly.
I complain about bad grammar.
I complain about not being able to afford better seats for Britney Spears's Melbourne concert. *sobs*

I complain about not getting enough sleep.
I complain about having nothing to do.
I complain about not being able to be out and about simply because the sheer presence of the only form of modern transportation that I can get access to here is as scarce as the amount of hair follicles remaining on Donald Trump's head.

I complain about not being able to write large blocks of texts containing witty lines, incoherent words and jumbled-up sentences with ease anymore. And this is precisely what drove me to refrain from blogging in the first place. Right now I feel like my over-the-top literary skills now reach as far as my koi fish's ability to remember their feeding times correctly. I mean, hello-o-o, how many times do I have to remind you guys that bobbing your slimy little heads by the sides of the pond at 3pm isn't gonna do anything to get you food?

Umm. Yeah. See? Incoherent?
*clears throat*

But anyway.

I complain about the miserable state of my skin, and how my face now resembles a large, greasy, cheese-covered meat lover's pizza, for lack of a more descriptive comparison.
I complain about my weight.
I complain about only getting a big fat C for my BHS2711 essay.

I complain about not knowing what to do with my life.
I complain about not knowing what I've made out of my life so far.
And yes, I complain about being such a total jerk for complaining about everything.

Yeah. Being an acute complainer definitely has its perks.
But don't we all complain about stuff we don't like?

Notice how many times I have repeatedly used the word 'complain' during the course of this post. I've used it far too many times and now the word fails to make a point.

And why the hell did I choose to start yapping about complaining in the first place?

Maybe I'm just uninspired. At least I tried.

But hey. Thanks for all your concern.
The sabbatical did me good. And now I'm fully recharged, ready to churn out more incomprehensible, witty-sounding words for you guys to get crazy about. Or not.

Now y'all can heave out a sigh and be rest assured that this man *points at self* is not dead, yet. And this blog will continue to be the bane of existence of you guys o faithful readers - oh yes, all three of you still - as long as the resident bitch, namely me, lives.

I hereby welcome you back to my realm of unintelligible social discourse.
Make yourselves at home. And have a pleasant stay. *winks*

...'Till next time.