torn

you tore my lips

with but your gaze

and now bitter blood 

escapes my wound

with words i vowed

my lips won't utter 

now it all sputters 

onto your face

my blood and words of bitter 

days 49 - 52

"messages to you & everywhere"

upon a purple sunset. conversation

i am alone

so am i

but you have so many friends around you. you have a lovely man who loves you

but I still feel alone

but you have them. i don’t have anybody. no friends. no lover. no body

i have all of them, but i still feel alone

you have no right to feel alone. you have them

i know. but yes, i feel alone

i am truly alone

me too  

day 47 & 48

"brother. brother. give. take"

Unraveled

It was crowded, yet again. I looked up and saw her. She was standing right in front of me, her face beaming as brightly as the plastic orange seat I was sitting on. She smiled; I turned away, casting my face downwards, pretending to sleep. Lying through the pretense of my slumber – I was getting good at it. Besides, I knew that she was not as old as she looked, and that despite appearances, my body was more tired than hers: I had been working the whole day. Tiredness and age are not proportionate variables, this much I knew. I looked up briefly and soaked in what I could see of her. It was always my belief that one should always know the faces of the ones they love, hate, are betraying, hurting, mocking, or killing: ownership. She looked like a dozen carnations popping out of a block of cement: the sturdiness of her body, erased by the aura of colors and fragrance of flowers. She was like a memory. I could also see the density of grays that peeked out of her hand-woven sun-hat. Her hair was beautifully bun up with intricate braids that ran along both sides of her oblong head. I sliced my eyes open from my fake slumber again and saw blurry hands, viciously in motion: like a murmur on steroids. She was knitting something. Orange.

... 

*

once upon a window
he saw a choir of clouds
singing praises over a land
they called him to join them
but alas, he chose to reside in his darkness
behind the glass of the window
never opened
and there he forever stayed

inversions

sometimes it's nice to see things the other way round. talking to the back of someone's head instead of their face - you get to avoid unnecessary changing facial expressions. brushing your teeth - still with a toothbrush - but with a different hand, so as to enjoy the awkwardness of the experience. i remember reading somewhere that doing things differently, even simple things like the using a different hand to brush your teeth, or closing your eyes when in the shower, helps prevent memory loss in old age. that is certainly a good thing now, isn't it. 

inversions. to be inverted. or to invert. inside-out. flip. flops. just don't drop.

day 46

"dream mother"

day 45

"February 14"

finally updated with art-a-day

o what beauty it is

the efficiency of well-oiled machines

with the willingness of flesh

perked 

productivity

days 41- 44

"Kohl"

"moth maiden"

"the fountain"

"comatose"

days 39 & 40

"Cityscape"

"The Forest"

day 38

"bimbo-eating plant"

days 32- 37

"notes on her" 

"butterflies on a zebra"

"chimneys"

"flower boy" 

"love us!"

"the clowns"

day 31 | dream bottle

days 27- 30 | faces

day 26 | return of art-a-day

The Interpretation of Untitled Loves

need.to.catch.up.on.everything.

staccatos

picnic/vision boarding spaghetti "everybody dance now" eyelid in the eye, engulfed Tiong Bahru to Tanjong Pagar silent smiles 9-6 seuty gaiman him leaving through my sleeve water day 3: a product of the system shanthini Sugar exploding veins fumbling with the lens erased gangsta songs right art-a-day late. period.

lost. Drown. afoot. stories.

i lost my mp3 player on my way back home from KL. was a tad disappointed in myself for not being careful with it, but then thought, what's meant to be, will be. i will be able to read more now, i thought. which happens to be true: two books in a week.


Drown by Junot Diaz

something about reading really stunning short stories. it chokes. it must be what being hanged feels like. to be painfully grabbed away from breathing. the throat's passageway deemed useless - folded and twisted into a cut that engorges the body, whole. his stories are like that. the first one is a heart-stopper. it kills you into an awaking.

his stories also makes one feel like a trespasser, strolling stupidly into a world you know nothing about, and yet are trying to stake a claim upon. what a fool. and in the end, the stories do just that. it fools us and we cannot do anything else, but accept it.

at the same time, i find myself silently searching for parts of the characters in me. sadistic, almost. but such a beautiful yearning.

a must read.




afoot. work. it brings out the true value of a 'friday', the TGIF. i spent mine walking. my temporary workplace overlooks a gorgeous sky and often i wonder what lay beneath it. so this morning i planned a route. it was two train stops away, a route i had never walked before. Tiong Bahru to Tanjong Pagar. it would take 5 mins by train but about 1 hour 15 mins on foot. worth it though.

stories. the characters have been born. time to breathe air into their limbs. o heart. stop feeling. let the mind do her work. shoosh.

untitled

shut my eyes

and I would cry with every quiver of my chin

for my face weeps

for a heart that cannot 

passing worlds

in the reflection of his body
he sees worlds pass by
made up of lights that light up
of light swallowed by darkness
each beside the other
a couple's kiss
worlds telling stories of its undead
breathing before you and i
and even after
worlds passing him by
none latch on
none stay
and at the end of the journey
he exits
carved out by his own emptiness
they watch as he steps onto the platform
fully void