Tag: Writing

I saw, I am not

green towel dances in the wind
the windows are slated with dust—

iron & wine is my company tonight
my love for indie folk grows again
 out of the sick contemporary
a love for meaning, not for rhythms in disarray

I write like I bleed
keeping thoughts private
but end up keeping them one after another
who are they for anyway;
who gives a damn for bloody literature!

I see it in the mirror and in contemplations
seeking from those who observe
more than I do
a womb of cynicism
I see growth: a different man

a different man I, I
so desperately wish
to be

They ate the cake while I kept the candle

Humble Abode I
If grandfather was here, everything will be different. Perhaps, more make-believe and a greater satisfaction for food. If cancer was kind to my uncle, everything will be different. Perhaps, less situations to worry about and a greater satisfaction for food. There were conversations needed to be censored, of fury that needed immediate quelling. There was happiness to be found, of joy buried.

Humble Abode II
Dover Road. A homespun aroma of fresh wood and glazed floors. Of displaced books all around. Each apportioned a dying moment of joy, a phase of torture, all to an eternal growth. Curtains that cue privacy, a quasi-hermitage of sorts: for times that impel an imperative stroke of paint on canvas, mixing dark colours with bright ones, reflecting the deliberate mess of what we witness, of what we so unwillingly want. People of the arts! How detestable! Be real! Why can’t they be normal? In the house, there was a visual arts student, a student adept in design, a history graduate soon-to-be, but all men in the army. I was observing more than I should. What manners! Everyone glistened with impure talent. He talked about admiration for Kerry Hill, how his masterpieces made us—both pundits and greenhorns—sway in reverential wonder. It was above all, a climate best for detachments. I will set foot there again, with certainty.

Humble Abode III
Imbibe! We drank Pu Er with over-sweetened pineapple tarts from Johor Bahru, conferring with a mom and daughter about inter-racial marriage, about politics, about relations that are brittle and fading soon, about you and I, about those that made us sigh. She was wise, an archetype of post-suffering. A growth out of grief and utmost torture. 2 years ago, back in Literature classes, I couldn’t quite fathom a notion about death. But now I understand: “death is nothing but a great leveller”. We end up in coffins built in uniform dimensions, of space largely similar. Every man becomes equal. Nothing follows, nothing can be followed. And then we left—with a sweet aftertaste on our tongues, tranquillity ruled yet again.

Today, I am liberated

Even after a silent murder, there are still people who seek for answers even if it is for mere talk, people who seek for answers in hopes of challenging that belief, and of course, slighted people who revel in your action because their atypical behaviour has been quasi-validated. 

I guess I feel somewhat liberated. My phone seems to be less burdened, the battery surviving most healthily, and there is no compulsion for embellishments, certainty from nonliving things. I am content, silently content. 

Tanjong Katong and Upper East Coast

I feel so stockpiled with nostalgia driving through alien roads and witnessing architecture that is off the beaten track in Tanjong Katong and Upper East Coast. A peaceful heart enlarged. Old money goes off aptly, fermenting the air with a royally quiet satisfaction. The people here appear to be slightly different; there are a considerable few with weirdly foreign countenances, so to speak. Peculiar dressings present comfort.

The houses are silent, without pervading terror; roads large and wide, yet not fully. I have always been consumed by an inextinguishable wanderlust hitherto yet am feeling simultaneously unjustified. Simply because I am leaving areas here untouched without sentiment, without memory. I want to stroll in these quaint perimeters anon, filling myself with new notions to write about, making fleeting interactions nothing but golden. 

I find myself

I find myself reading your writings ever and anon, as if I am attempting to find relation, association, understanding and answers to what I feel about writing as a whole; perhaps answers to the most enigmatic and rueful questions.

I find myself marring my books with writings in lead – I like preserving writing in its most traditional form, the soft sounds of pencilled writing. I write, ad nauseum.

I find myself chancing upon those annotations of chicken scratches and marvel at the seeming importance of the syntax or metonymy I noticed. Something unusually painful or distinctly admirable once spoke to me in a way most compelling. Regrettably, its appeal now lost; an obliteration of sorts. I struggle to find new meanings, new purposes in the writing and to excavate every detail – from meter to the beginning letters of words, most innately as if these habits were duties to be done when reading. To reestablish the reveries of literay theories by Leavis; to be duly pensive because everything else is going on in a din, and reading seems to be the most salient sanity of all options. When all is seemingly accomplished, I write even more at the back of the book where blank pages usually lie — for ruminations that become alive in the mind! for ideas that are patented by transcription and not by anything else! for diction that I can learn and adopt in a way most fulfilling.

I wish I knew how to write when I was 12 so that I can remember those American memories yesteryear. I now only remember amber lights reduced to a stygian alley when walking alone, of the rosti that was too huge, of natives thinking I was from China because I was Asian.

I find myself watching English period dramas of qualities akin to casette tapes rather than indulging in Akutagawa’s first few pieces of gold. How absolutely fashionable both women and men were in the past, using language in a way most respectable with form. How characters spoke in such admirable eloquence!

There is but too much going on in the mind: of books and literary theories that are greatly enchanting, of characters in films I find wholly related to. Their disposition and everything else! Yes, John Davinier is charasmatic. But I desire like him not, for what good lies ahead of a man who is quixotic, and has luck brush him mere?

A confession to dear friends

I fall to poetry when I have a copious amount of emotion, because prosaic writing doesn’t seem to give rhythm and proper closure to everything – it makes everything seem deathless. I dislike using full stops and prefer using commas, more of it, the better; sometimes, I’d use dashes – to further elaborate on an emotion worth giving details and personality to. On and on!

But today, prosaic writing seems to be adequate, most unusually. The wind is passionately patient tonight and I feel immensely grateful for friendships and for the great people whom have stayed despite my busy schedule and other commitments. The sporadic replies too are sickening, I am aware. Yet I am thankful for people who want to keep me in their lives, for people who don’t mind listening to my grave considerations about marriage and romantic relationships, about my seeming misanthropic predilection, about my innate indecisiveness about what to have for lunch, et cetera, et cetera.

I want to let all of you know that prioritisation and preference were never born in my establishment; that love for all is truly equal and wholly passionate; that each of you are distinctly different and greatly consequential to my life where growth and company are concerned.

The year is ending and there is no better time than now to have this dedicated to my dearest of friends whom I have seemingly shunned when I am queasy or otherwise. I treasure each and every soul: for every song you share, every problem you encounter, every loss you experience, every gain you revel in.

Today, more significantly than any other, I am so thankful for having an affinity with words. To be able to translate emotions to pure words unmarred and with most pleasure.

This is to all of you, who stayed and were there from the very beginning.

Of rivers and time

the ginger tea inflames the throat
if not swallowed delicately
my hands of cat-stained-fur touch the desk
I think I left a memory

that night
we heaved breaths of fire
we perambulated what shaped us,
we revived memories passing bronze leaves and grand sights
“I remember the staircase being really huge and now it looks so small!”
“Did we have a running track?” “Not that I can remember.”
we walked down memory lane, literally
of sheltered basketball courts and bigger fields and bigger classrooms maybe
yet what stayed were the designs of our canteen —
their signboards remained iconic
we laughed, so very sweetly

before nightfall,
we snailed our way through Botanic Gardens,
of rabbit-in-the-hole terrapins and monitor lizards in manbuilt stones
all was peaceful; all was well
there and then,
you told me
you preferred doing things
in solitude
and said my mind had changed
through the words we exchanged
you too told me people studied music for two:
one, to compose a piece if they did feel blue
or to play a song or two, of their loved crew

do you remember Yiruma and River flows in you; the jargons our clique came up with so very creatively, we could all be linguists and comedians hybridised; we could be a new species!

7 years happened
philosophies changed and changing, priorities stacking, troubles burgeoning
what abounds!
you changed but are the same
your melancholic disposition was fainter and now faint
I think we all grew
grew out of the husk and cocoon

we’re at the river delta, only 19
things yet to be felt most dangerously
with grave intensity
we never know where we’ll be
we’re at the river delta, only 19

oh dear friend,
you’ve read my writings all along
and I never knew
but I hope that some day,
I’d get to hear your music too

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