Sunday, July 17, 2011


I logged on to Facebook today. One of the few disadvantages of having a Facebook account when you're someone like me, someone who basically has no life, is seeing the people you grew together with finally becoming what they once said they wanted to be, while you're stuck in this snow globe, surrounded by pretty things, but this time, you're on the inside, looking out.

While horizons of possibilities stretch out for my friends, here I am, waiting for my future to unfold. I'm never one to wait on people, never one to wait for things. Had I not made one single, stupid mistake, I would be walking that road with them.

Don't get me wrong. I love the life I'm living. My family always gives me whatever I want, but somehow, I want to be able to stand on my own. I want to be that kind of girl who lives on her own, who has a job, who has a circle of friends to go out with for drinks on Friday nights. I want to have to face deadlines, cram for reports for the next day, make hard decisions. I want to live, and this jealousy is killing me.

It's depressing o look at old photos and see yourself with your friends. With youth scribbled on your faces and dreams sparkling in your eyes, that glimmer of hope you once had. It's hard, remembering the laughter you've shared, the words you said before the camera flashed. It's hard, knowing that they're all over the world now--- in Singapore, making their dreams come true, dreams that once included you; in their alumni school, teaching; at home, tending to their husbands and kids. Everyone's rowing their own boats, and you feel like you're lost at sea.

Despite this, I keep telling myself that it's only a matter of time. I have no idea what the future holds for me, but I know that if it's taking this long to build, it must be something pretty.

Oftentimes, wonderful things don't come easy.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Thursday, Hurtsday.

There are those moments in life when, one particularly gray Thursday afternoon, you'll step into the shower and cry.

Loss is a word that should be illegal for a dictionary, or any person to find synonyms for. After all, it's not something any word can describe. I even believe it's just called loss so people would have an easier time expressing how they feel.

It's annoying how life hits us sometimes. One day, you feel like you're on top of the world, like a kid on the longest slide, enjoying the air in your face, not realizing that sooner or later, it will be over. And then there's reality, right at the very mouth of that slide, waiting to swallow you whole. You won't even have time to scream.

Loss. Longing. Is there a difference? Is one wound deeper, more painful than the other? Loss, I think, pertains to something you once had. Longing, on the other hand, is wishing you've had that very thing, which then brings you to experience loss.

Sometimes, I want to pinch and peel at the scabs of my wounds, just to see if my skin is healing itself underneath. Sometimes, it's already whole again. Most of the time, I'm left bleeding for the same reasons.

My tears feel prickly in my eyes. I wonder, if I jab at my stomach hard enough, if the words I can't say will spill out of my mouth, just like the most previous meal does when I feel like I don't deserve it. Just like it does when I remember that feeling of elation, so heavenly, like there's a star caught in my throat. It used to feel like walking barefoot on grass---falling in love did. I wonder if it still feels like that now. I wonder if butterflies will still lurch in my stomach when someone else regards me as no less than beautiful, like they do now when I think of the last time. I wonder why, after everything that's been said and done, I'm still here, waiting. Like a best friend perched on the front porch steps of the guy she's loved all her life, waiting for him to crawl back to her arms, if only for a little while. I wonder if one day, I will just wake up and tell myself that it's over...that it has been over, all this time.

It's like slipping on a puddle of black tar on the floor, and holding on to a live wire for dear life. Both hurt, one more dangerous than the other, but you hold on to it anyway.


Because no matter how hard you try to talk some sense into yourself...

No matter what your mind says...

You know. Your heart knows. It's the only thing that keeps you standing.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

Where The Things That Hurt Are Not Things.

In this dream, I was walking.

No, running. I'm running, fast and hurried and looking back every five seconds or so to check if they've caught up yet.

I didn't know who  or what I was running from, but I knew I was in danger. Was it the past, the future, or the present? Was it the spaces in between them, all balled into one, the times I've never really been sure about?

In this dream, I was at a plaza one moment, panting for breath, looking for a friendly face, and the next thing I knew, I was in the middle of an endless, empty field. Empty, except for the one farmer who pointed me where to go. Who was he? Was he all the dreams I wanted to achieve, showing their selves to me in person?

Don't worry, dreams. I'll follow you.

Off I went, to this gray city with even grayer skies, like a monster whose teeth are made up of old buildings, covered in peeling paints that once used to be white. Its grunts were the car horns, dead, shallow. I was with my friends, and we were talking about getting to the top of the highest building. Why?

This is not as wonderful as you thought it would be. If you're settling for second rate, you might at least want to be at the top.

In this dream, I could easily bleed the colors no one would have expected. Green, because I'm jealous of everyone else whose lives turned out to be more convenient. Luxurious, even.

Red, because my sorrow is just that much.

Black, because it's all the colors, combined. I've been through everything. Warm, cool, appealing, repulsive.

Do I regret any of this?

No. I'd do it all over again.