“What is?”

“Excuse me?”

“You keep saying that, but really, what is it that’s so okay?”

I used to know. Nowadays, I’m not so sure.

I’ve always had a problem with feelings. It’s not that I don’t feel, or that I don’t know what I feel — I do know, I do. But sometimes I think I know it too well that I just don’t allow them to surface because why should they? Why should they affect other people. Nothing good would ever come out of it now, would it?

I can’t see you today

I think I’m in love with someone else

Take care

Love yourself

Are you okay?
I’m okay. I will be.

“I don’t know. It’s an acknowledgement, Isnt it? To you, to me.”

Especially me. Especially me.  Maybe by saying ‘okay’, I get to distance myself from any possible disappointment – self preservation of the future self (it’s stupid). It’s stupid. Nothing good comes out from this. Nothing has. Maybe when I say ‘okay’, I’m really just telling myself that I should be.

I cant see you today
But I was really looking forward to see you.

I think I’m in love with someone else
I know. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough.

Take care
People only say that; I’ll pretend you mean it.

Love yourself

Are you okay?
I’m happy, I’m afraid it’ll all go away.

Are you okay?

Are you okay?
I’ve learnt that, it doesn’t matter.

“An acknowledgement of what?”

“Of all the things I don’t say.”

Our Story

There we were. Round table, three chairs. Every month we’d be there – the same lonely café. I didn’t like the place for obvious reasons; this was after all, your neighborhood. But Ann liked the concept. Loose tea leaves, coffee with toasted marshmallows, natural sunlight through glass walls. Plus, there was a pleasantly great lack of people. It was a good place to write. It was a good place to think.

Continue reading “Our Story”

Sweet scandal

“How could you do it?”

Do you really think I wanted to? Sleep with a woman I didn’t know, tend to their physical and emotional needs, detach my self? I have good reasons for the drama I choose – reasons you will never know of nor understand.

You see, there is no such thing as detaching the self.

You close your eyes and kiss someone. You don’t think about the someone, you think about how your lips feel against another, you think about the softness that resonates with your inner want. Your fingers will stroke their skin and it isn’t their skin or their reaction that strikes you, but how there is another body waiting for your touch. Only your touch. And halfway through God knows, you’ll be staring at the hotel ceiling trying to figure out if this is what you enjoy.

And you take parts of them. The whispers that escape them, the smell of their perfume, the way their body arches. Even the way they sit and take their coffee. They become a part of your memory. You carry them in every breath and in every bed you hop into. Your last thoughts will always be how they’ve caressed your face and pulled you closer.

You see, there will always be the self. The other people. The memory.

And no matter how much you tell yourself, it’ll hurt.

Ha. ha. ha.. clearly I’m not cut out for a certain kind of writing

the stories i write

“So tell me! What do you read? What do you write?”

Romance? The word felt a little off on my tongue. Romance, really? Is that what I’ve been writing? The stories between you and I, the alternatives of what we could have been… I think the proper word is longing. But romance came out anyway.

“Im guessing you have loved a lot!”

“Maybe it’s not about how many people I have loved… but how I’ve loved one person enough.”

Because in all of my stories, all of them, there is a little bit of you. Maybe you are that one story I can never close a book on. Maybe you are that one story I will never be able to truly tell.

What we tell ourselves


She hears it. She hears her name being called, spoken softly between her ears. She hears it as she falls asleep, as she sits in silence, as she’s alone. It’s almost comforting. Almost. There is some warmth in self preservation.

It echoes through her veins, the voice of everyone before and everyone after. All focused on a present singularity. And Layne would faintly look down, registering what she’s heard. So much can be heard in a syllable; you are fine, I am proud of you, you are loved enough. 

It almost works.

IMG_2193.JPG Sometimes, it feels like our very own headspace is far too compromised. Maybe that’s when we need to learn how to comfort ourselves?

If We…

I was standing in the rain. The kind of rain that kept pouring and pouring. There was no lightning, no thunder. Just rain. And I could feel it, I could feel everything: the rain drops crashing, the weight of my clothes dripping, the thin layer of rainwater underneath my feet…

And you came out of the building. Red umbrella in hand, slowly turning towards the street and meeting my eye. I could see it – you were taken aback, unsure if you should step forward or walk away. You always walked away. This time I stopped you.

“Do you think we would be better at this if we lived a day in each other’s life?” I shouted over the rain, “You’d live as me, I as you; we could find out what lives in our hearts.” I was going crazy, I knew I was going crazy. Seeing you there was enough to go through every memory, every good memory. “Just for a day, please?” My face was wet and I wasn’t sure if it was just the raindrops. “If we..?”

Your grip on the umbrella tightened. You closed your eyes to think – you always do. But you closed them because you got tired. You got tired of me. And we were standing in the rain, except not really – you and your umbrella, me in the rain. And you walked away again. I couldn’t stop you. “Go home.”

I watched a video of one of my favourite singers today. She sang live and cried towards the end of the song, trying her best to keep singing. It made me wonder how anyone could do that – being strong and vulnerable at once.

Is this closure..?

“What happened to that prose you were writing?” she asked, swirling her coffee with a spoon, legs crossed, eyes prying into my own.

It didn’t register for a moment. It was like I’ve forgotten it ever existed: strings of sentences that knew every feeling Ive had. Strange isnt it? After all the time spent.

“You mean,” I paused, knowing the answer but asking anyway, “the one about her?”

She nodded, her face frowning as if I’ve written anything else in prose. It just seemed so far away from me now – our story.

“I don’t need to write about that anymore,” I said, tilting the tea and feeling the warmth against my lips.

“But the story wouldn’t end…” she trailed, engaging in a thought, “There’d be no closure.”

I sighed, reuniting the cup with its saucer. She didnt understand it. She didnt understand how I could just throw away so much time. I supposed it made no sense to her – knowing how much I have bled into the keyboards, only to leave it all in the archives.

“It’s like this,” I start. “I know I still stop whenever I catch a whiff of Issey Miyake’s Rose, or come across red poppies.” I blinked, an image of you already starting to form in my head. “But that’s it. That’s all they are, just signals for memory.”

You know, there was a time where I couldnt do such a thing. I couldnt reduce you. I couldnt let our ending leave without an end. Cause maybe we’re not ever going to end. After three years, I still find myself staring at my phone whenever you leave a stray comment or liked one of my pictures. I’d sit across you every school reunion and our feet would touch with winces of the resulting present. You see, people don’t end.

“And I think it’s okay that it happens. I mean, I know it’ll never end. And after awhile, it becomes okay.”

IIMG_7905.jpeg‘m convincing myself of this sense of closure. I read about this concept in one of my teacher’s prose piece and felt strongly to respond to it. Maybe this is why I’m having a lot of difficulty in one of my long pieces that was based off someone important to me. After awhile it just sums up to knowing that I have once loved someone so much. And that is it, that’s okay.

The story behind a story

“Why are you writing


“It’s um..”
It’s personal – that’s what I wanted to say.

“It’s from the heart?”

Yes. I gulped. But it also seems like it’s from so much more than that.
When I write this.
It’s like I’m living through them again – our memories.
And it isn’t just from the heart. It’s from every part of me. And every part of the past. And every part of you.

And I am trying to get you out of my system in the most beautiful way I know how. Because you are the best memory that has been engraved in my self. And this is how I would like to remember you – detached from me.

“It’s from



I am writing this.. project.. which I hope to one day finish and publish and maybe then finally I will call it a ‘book’. So yeah, I’m not posting anything about it yet except that Im following this writing style (and that the protagonist is a writer). And the whole theme is just so personal I think – to everyone – not just to me. If that makes any sense.

What do we love?

Once upon a time there was a little girl who grew up in a world of science with a head filled with words and a house full of teachers. Every one of them wanted a doctor or a lecturer out of her. And she listened. Because she was good at listening to people.

She was also good in school. She loved going to school. She took so much pleasure in writing narratives and pouring chemicals into glass beakers. It fascinated her – the reaction between certain molecules, the change in colour, the product of purification. It fascinated her – the meaning behind words strung together, the subjectivity of subtext, the necessity of purpose.
She loved them all – both chemistry and literature. But of course, nobody said she could be an editor or a publisher or a writer. How could she? The world doesn’t need them, they said. How could she? All she was getting were the lowest grades. And she knew she was settling because she thought that sometimes the thing you love isn’t the thing you’re good at.

Then it came – letters on printed paper and everything turned backwards.

“Let’s face it, you were never really good in chemistry”
And they were right.

“It’s impossible to get an A for literature”
And they were wrong.
And the little girl didn’t understand.

She was so happy. So very very happy. In that instant she couldn’t care less about any other grade. Her words got her an A. She got an A.  She was so happy she didn’t give herself any time to grieve over the one thing she always thought she was good at.

Because sometimes we question if the thing we love was just a construction of what the world was throwing at you.

Now the little girl does not know.