‘Okay’

“Okay.”

“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
Okay.

I think I’m in love with someone else
Okay.

Take care
Okay.

Love yourself
Okay.

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
How?

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

Are you okay?
No.

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

“An acknowledgement of what?”

“Of all the things I don’t say.”

Advertisements

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

“Layne.”

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.

Not Writers Block.

There are some days where every sort of feeling seem to course all around you. Where every single thing seem to exist a little too much in a singular moment and every reaction is telling you to do something – to write.

And so you take out your trusty notebook or open up an empty word document or whatever application it is that you use and all you are doing is just sitting there, absorbing the space around you, being in this magical sort of moment, feeling like there is so much you could write about, so much potential. And you’re sitting there, just sitting there, trying to translate whatever it is you are feeling about whatever it is that’s filling your head.

Only there’s actually nothing in there. At least nothing tangible yet, not even tangible to the mind. But you’re feeling it, trust me, you’re feeling it and you can’t seem to point out what exactly is going on in that head or heart of yours. So you tell a friend, you tell them you feel like writing but you have nothing to write, not really. They say it’s writer’s block, you say it’s not. It isn’t writers block. You would know what writer’s block felt like. And you’re right, of course. This isn’t writers block. They aren’t this magical. You wouldn’t be feeling if you had writer’s block. But you are, you are feeling.

So this isn’t writer’s block. This is just a block. A block. A block of life, I guess, in whichever way you see and interpret it, progression or obstacle, they are both blocks for you to pick and play with, just choices of what’s next and reflections of what’s happened. They are blocks you just look at, to marvel and to feel and to remember that sometimes it’s just a feeling for you to feel. The feeling to write. You have the feeling to write. And that’s okay, that’s magical. Whether it ends or whether it doesn’t begin that’s okay, it’s just a block.


I dont know what this is. It’s a completely new style of prose writing for me. But this is very real nonetheless

The story behind a story

“Why are you writing

‌this..?”

“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

everything.”


 

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.