Thoughtful Brain, Troubled Mind

Tag: night

Under Sirius

On dying moments like these, I wish I was never sensitive to language. Now, I have to convince myself wholly that the subtleties in your voice and intended purposes are a projection—and a shaping—of my own’s from yours.

Under the silver moon, our skins touched but you shy away most genteelly as if this consequence—from what had accumulated before—was unwonted. Your confession began heated, intense, powerful, unequivocal, but crashed like a dandelion’s strength. I saw through hidden figures, of metonymies that came alive, hooking the insides of my pupils, taut.

I wish I was never sensitive to language so that I wouldn’t write pages to you every night: noting my growth, or a lack thereof, sans a full satisfaction. An incompetence would cloud me from proclivities to poetry, and I will be mellow not.

The night wind coos

the night wind coos so very flirtatiously
I like it
my parents are watching a Hong Kong drama downstairs
I was reading
the words of Dostoyevsky painted human nature greatly unflattering
I feared him

then again
everything seemed to fall so seamlessly in place
like feeling warmth from newly ironed clothes
like watching blobs of water slide cheerfully off feathers of a duck
like listening to Jay Wadley’s pieces

  My heart falls quietly on my bed
I watch it beat silently
feeding it with fresh words each day, a newly learnt social skill

I hope it is happy
I hope it is content
I hope I’ve quelled the mayhem

Let Me Out

I am eating a piece of flattened bread after coming out of the screaming showers. I am once again feeling horribly hollow but with no distinct reason. It is as if sensitivity has gone to a whole new level where now, there is absolutely no reason needed to catalyse this void sentiment. The skin on the joint of my third finger on my left hand is unknowingly scathed, with its skin gently torn, revealing its crimson disfigurement. I don’t think I can sleep again tonight; only to toss and turn repeatedly, floundering like a baby on flaming charcoal.

It will not be the horrors of “The Boy” that prevent me from sleeping. Rather, it will be this intangible cavity that sucks all vitality out, expelling them in the air – carried away sadistically by the quick wind. I can indistinctly see silhouettes passing swiftly out of the windows and downstairs. Should I be fearful? Why has my heart skipped a beat? if they are present in my house, only to fetter me to my bed and terrorise me with their utterly grotesque features and repulsive stench, I hope that my conscience is still working; for I promise, I will wake up after the paralysis, only to transcribe lucidly about my harrowing experience with the possibly bodiless things.

Who am I kidding?


It’s 3.09AM and I can’t sleep, yet again. It’s as if I’m being played, a target used by sinister beings to mock at and be teased by. I am fatigued, completely tired; when I shut my eyes, I know I’m ready to sleep. Yet, the macabre thought of having dark claws flirtatiously running through my skin threatening me to stay awake surfaces. I then succumb to these thoughts weakly, being absolutely under their subjugation. Everything seems to be portending evil – my prayers imply failure and my room brimming with oxygen makes it distinctively deplorable.

I can hear motorbikes speeding off sporadically, an indication of life and that I’m not alone; that someone is out there perhaps making a delivery or going for work. I lie straight, looking up blankly and think rather perversely that something legged would have its limbs spread out like a tarantula, glued to the false ceiling – staring right at me – preventing me from taking rest.

My body shouts in agony and I can hear its cries; the tiny twitches of pain in my stomach, my arms and my seemingly clouded vision. Nights are once again a deleterious process. I crave for sunlight now more than ever – and am considering waiting unto 6AM to witness the first crack of light indicating safety. I have had enough of everything that is hampering me from sleep; here I am writing this rather pathetic entry made possible by sheer trepidation. This is exactly why I tell my friends that one day – just one – that I could possibly die from a chronic psychological illness; only to be smothered in my sleep, childishly creating my own murders through grotesque imaginations.

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