n. toughened areas of skin which become relatively thick and hard in response to repeated friction or pressure

I could only say this: for the rest of my life, I will keep writing you letters that I’m all too certain you’ll never, ever get to read not because you can’t but because you wouldn’t want to. You never wanted to read the letters in which I tell you all about my dreams and fears, so I do not have much hope that you’ll want to bother with the rest of the lighter, perhaps much more intolerable crap I write to you during days when I lose all sense and just decide that I want to write to you because this was how we used to be. We used to write letters back and forth, and it has been years since I last read your letters and do you ever re-read mine? Or is it stashed in the “Treasure Box” that more often ends up nothing but a square thing that collects dust and holds inside it things that were once treasured, things whose memories become more than enough to sustain the importance of

Whatever, dude, I can’t keep doing this shit, I can’t write for shit. You know what, I don’t even want to try writing all these thoughts. My fingers can’t quite keep up with my brain, and I always find that when I write like this, devoid of focused thought, I end up with sentences I would never have strung together had I been in better mindset.

In the beginning, there was always Something. Something off about the timing, something annoying about the way you follow people around, something unnerving about your ability to say you love someone without batting an eye (whatever that means and however it’s done). Something was wrapped around you and clothed you in questions, mysterious gestures, wondrous answers. Something was the way you walked, that uneven gait, that curved back from years and years of carrying heavy books in long-suffering bags. Something was your grin and that lopsided smile I once caught on camera and had printed but very quickly destroyed.

And then, ’round the middle, there was Somewhere. This was where I sat down and realised that when time came, it was your name I ended up looking for in the roster. This was the garden where we almost kissed, and this is the long-winding road home that we always used to take. Somewhere was where I first thought to give it a chance. Somewhere was the first kiss, the first hug, the first touch of fingers and palms.

In the end, there is Someone Somewhere who once did Something, and I don’t want that, but Something is off and Somewhere is vague, and Sometimes thoughts are always painfully irrelevant to emotions, and I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

Things that make me happy:

Food, coffee, mocha, chocolates, books, blankets, pens, paper, notebooks, musical instruments, people who play musical instruments, games, desk lamps, the smell of grass in the morning right after the dewdrops settle and right before the heat rises, rubbing my feet against rough textures, late-night showers, “some goddamn peace and quiet”, a mango fruit, distractions from real-life bullcrap, stories, electric fan winds, the first few winds that blow away the summer heat, the first few drops of rain that herald the arrival of storm season, the smell of books, the smell of coffee and books together in a cosy place fit for rainy days, rainy days, bestest friends, useless fierce friends, jealous mothers, overprotective real mothers, thought-provoking fan fiction, inhumane drawing skills, other people’s happiness, and his eyes.

I could only say this: the greatest enemy is pride.


Albumism #1, and coming out of comfort zones

From top left: Ed Sheeran – x | Arctic Monkeys – Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not | Arctic Monkeys – Humbug | Arctic Monkeys – Favourite Worst Nightmare | The 1975 (Self-titled) | Bastille – Bad Blood | Saves The Day (Self-titled) | Coldplay – Ghost Stories

A bunch of new stuff to listen to for the next few months; if I don’t get too un-comfy with the thought, maybe I can even review some of these things. Much thanks to friends for the copies! I promise, when I get a job and a credit card, I’ll start purchasing music on my own. No more torrenting. I swear! (But do internet promises really bind the conscience?)

It’s this new house. I’m sure of it. There’s something in the way this house fails to become familiar to me. Nearly a year since we moved, and I still can’t figure out why I can’t sleep properly here; it never settles, either, but I suppose that’s because the whole thing is made of concrete and lacks the midnight creaks I’ve grown fond of at home where everything was ancient and wooden and wonderfully, painfully known to me. I could go on forever rambling about the things I find wrong with this house, and I would never truly find a single good thing about it save for the fact that it looks nice. Looks nice. Doesn’t actually function well enough.

I’ll just go back to Carlin.




There is a man, a boy, a girl, and a lover.

There is a knife digging deep into the lover’s back; a knife digging deep into the girl’s chest, rife with horror and despair; incredulity making a show of all sorts out of the people in that all-too-vivid scene of illogical murder in the middle of the Plaza streets. There is a boy with a plastic bag of stolen goods, standing in front of a girl who only had to be kind for one second before letting the young thief laugh a cruel, harried laugh and leave with a manic smile on his face. There is a man. The weather is cold even though the sun is high up in the sky, and the man is livid. His eyes are never focused, his hands clench and unclench, hungry for the next neck to wrap it around. The man doesn’t smile, and the lover and the girl try to get past him but the man sees, has better eyes than the onlookers who have nothing better to do in a nightmare than to look around in disinterest and make the fear seem more palpable, frighteningly mundane… The lover drags the girl away in a hurry, but the man drags the knife away from its sheath and lets it soar straight into the back of the lover who looks so much like my Julius John. And then the knife that buries itself inside my chest is colder than the weather and suddenly it’s hot, and the boy thief is right there looking on and there is a dead body fifty metres from where I lay sobbing and clutching at air trying to reach the fallen lover, and the man looms over us and twists his head for a moment before his mouth arches in a smile and his chapped lips bleed where the smile forces it to part—

And then, the nightmare.

Odd Things

The odd thing here is that I know I fucked up, and that I’m scared shitless about what happens next.

The odder thing is that my fuck-ups have gradually begun fixing up even without any sort of intervention on my part, and that while I’m scared shitless about what happens next, I’m actually happier than I’ve ever been.

The oddest thing is that my brain is emptier than it has ever been and wringing words out my head makes me just want to cry, and I’m scared shitless about what happens next, but I’m excited about hurting my head and breaking my long writing hiatus apart by telling myself everything that happened like I wasn’t there and like I didn’t feel a thing about it when it happened.

When I swore to stay away from ALA, I meant it. That place has a life of its own, and it thrives on its members. [that word, right there, is a parasite to my brain; how long has it been since I had a non-perverted thought in my mind when someone says “member”? I cannot recall.] I was there when it was only beginning to flourish, and a mixture of self-loathing, commitment issues, and running away from the shit I’ve caused led to what was at once that best and worst decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. (Excluding that one time, with the cow joke and the corned beef.)

I still haven’t apologised to the people I should have apologised to. I’m not really quite sure how or when I should.

I wrote a letter once, to our then-moderator. I never gave it to him.

It’s a very strange thing to watch people around you moving fast.

People say life isn’t like a movie, that no matter how close movies get to reality it will never truly bleed into what happens around you that are outside the realms of such illusory things. There is, however, that one line that reminds me how awfully false these thoughts could be: stranger than fiction. Reality is stranger. Fiction allows me to time my friends’ maturities, keep them as children that have no responsibilities further than those a school organisation requires. Fiction would let me let us stay the same. I wouldn’t have to watch them drift away because of work or other things, and I wouldn’t have to feel left out again because ‘oh look they’re doing things with their life and I’m here drinking coffee and wondering what happens next and oh look they’ve graduate with honors they like what they’re doing they’re happy where they are oooh food’. Fiction would let me stop these people from moving fast.

Or slow them down, at the very least.

The odd thing is, I’m not quite sure what happens next, and yet I’m happier than I ever was knowing where I went.


In the mornings, it is filled with a drowsy silence that seems imaginary come afternoon, when everyone arrives in trickles, gradually talking Silence into a deep sleep that ends at night, and all the way until the next morning.

It’s hard to imagine I’d be right back where I began. Two years ago I had committed myself to the laborious job of forgetting everything that has to do with writing and art. It was a phase, I suppose, that I swore I’d never get past, and I’ve never been more wrong. This place is home, and yet not home at all. It’s a black hole that swallows you up and clamps on to you if you get too close. And while I truly adore these people and love them to bits, there’s a looming destructive force that surrounds every second I’m with them that just frightens me. They’ve all changed, and grown, and I’m the rear guard and…