Showing posts with the label brewing

the inadequacy

photo by Filip Gielda source: unsplash

in the end, i left. because i realised that we both wanted different things. i wanted the Technicolor, pickett-fenced family life while M, well M just wanted me. me and nothing else. no plans, no moving on. just me, my scars, my jagged edges, my sorrow.

was that not enough, you ask.

it was. and it was not. i liked being the centre of M's attention, i liked the times we had spent together, exploring the depths of just how much you could want a person. and discovering that love did not come into that equation. like M always said in that matter-of-fact way that those words were always spoken, without remorse or sarcasm or delight, 'what's love got to do with anything?'

but M preferred only these ugly and sad versions of me, those cold, cold days when the world was too much for me. i only received terms of endearment when i was sad, when i was chasing a deadline, when there was a funeral. M treated me differently when i was not sad; we…

them butterflies

nervous could not even begin to spell that disastrous feeling in Desmond's chest, waiting to explode. nervous could not. if you asked him right now how did he feel about going up that glorious stage to give an acceptance speech, he would puke.

literally. that was how darn jittery he was. he had lost count of the butterflies in his stomach. he stopped at one thousand, one hour ago.

Desmond paced the corridor behind the stage. his tie, his hair, everything down right to the lapel of his coat was perfect. perfect to the core. only that he was, well, nervous. at the point of no return.

the MC up front called up Desmond's name. he walked up to the stage. the whole auditorium applauded. Desmond gingerly took his trophy from the VIP's hands.

Desmond inched closer to the dreadful microphone. and opened his mouth to begin with 'hello.'

and out came ten thousands of them pitch black butterflies, in a flurry of such a delightful evening, fluttering about and around while the…

the thievery

"those clumsy, inexperienced but generous hands; how he gathers me in his arms, gently rocking side to side, resting his chin on my shoulder; the way he understands that i will have to leave soon and that there is no way we can be together other than these stolen afternoons.

the windows wide open, noise from the traffic downstairs drifting up to the 23rd floor, the sultry wind lazily spilling in.

my hands untangling myself from his embrace; my empty promises, my ravenous heart.

him sitting by the window, not once looking at me whenever i am leaving."

the morning

"sometimes i just lie very still in bed while Caspar goes downstairs to feed the cats and make our morning drinks (his black and mild French coffee and my milky but strong Columbian or Guatemalan coffee), listening to the creaking of the stairs as he reaches each one, to the sound of his sure footsteps softly padding across the carpeted hallway. i know i'd miss that someday, that familiar comfort of the sureness in the way he always knows where he is going, even when he mis-reads a map, even when we are in a town we haven't been before. i like to listen to every footstep, i store them away in my head so that someday, if i somehow become a wretched coward and run away from this commitment, i can look back and remember how it feels to feel safe with another person. it's a privilege nowadays, isn't it, to not feel compromised or at risk. with every new person you meet, you risk so much of yourself; your freedom, your comfort zone, your sense of self. but i guess tha…

The Importance of Courage

I knew he was on his way, I knew he would arrive and I didn’t mean to spoil tonight but somehow in that one split second that it took for him to be late, I got the courage to do it and I took my own life.
            Was it painful? I think it was, if I remembered correctly. The knife was sharp and I had long studied which part of the wrist to attack. It was fascinating at first, to discover that I had finally done it, although I couldn’t actually tell how it happened, whether it was slow or fast, whether it was efficient or careless. But the blood kept rushing out, like it had been in a dam and today the dam had been breached.             Caspar was coming for a chat, a snack, like all our casual hanging out sessions and we had had this arranged the night before. But I hadn’t been feeling fine for weeks, for years if I were honest. I hadn’t wanted to live for years. First there was the disease, then the repercussions, then just pure despair, just a shell living the futil…

tentang kita

kita, orang-orang terkorban  natijah para wali keramat berperang dilempar diusir dilapah ditolak ke tepi ke tengah
perang selesai yang terkorban jadi terbuang pelarian di segenap ruang kekok dan terlalu asing kerana cuma tinggal serpih-serpih  yang tidak disempat dimusnahkan tadi
antara sampah dan cerca  para wali saling berpedang antara gema genta perang para wali saling bertempik kita, orang-orang tinggal mengutip sisa-sisa jiwa, jantung dan mimpi sisi-sisi carik yang takkan sembuh merenung di kejauhan tentang gelap
telah jauh kita ditinggalkan, sedang para wali sudah selamat pulang ke syurga. 

(copyrighted. an original work by author/owner of this blog.)

the unreason

It's the same question I'd interrogate myself over and over again every time I watch Seth play his cello during orchestra performances. And it's always during these occasions, in the midst of solemn looking people in tuxedos, suits and evening dresses, in a solemn auditorium with padded walls and reflexive points for maximum auditory satisfaction that the question hits me worst and I begin to fabricate excuses.

            Perhaps it's the solemnness of it all, with all these prim and proper looking people attending a high-culture event that my conscience begins to taste guilt. Or the music itself, meticulously arranged and skilfully performed that the very neatness of it plays a stark contrast towards unkind behaviours, makes the guilt scream the loudest; I do wonder if people in my predicament also feel the most guilty during events like this, an opera, a play.

           Or perhaps, if the case is to be taken person by person, it's because that was h…

tangibles II

it was long ago. so long ago. and i have forgotten so many things. age, and time would do that to you. another number on calendars, another number you write in forms and questionnaires and then one day when you pile it all up, add it all up, the total figure, the curl of the eight, the complete closure of the zero, the stark concreteness of the one, you begin to wonder if the world had been made a better place with you in it.

i don't remember the exact spelling of her name, or even her real name for that matter. we never got to the stage where it was necessary to know that information. we had the names we knew each other by, and for that moment in time, that made up for everything else.

what i do remember, what i keep watching in my head, like a silent movie, is the form that i completed, requesting for a companion for that one last day before i left. one last day, i had assumed, because those sent to Sector 16 in Territory Lacmoore seldom came back. carnivorous plants, hostile l…

notes on a train to the north

it's not funny when you make efforts to call because you care and people couldn't even let you know that they are unavailable via phone.

it makes you feel discarded.

you are not complaining. you just wish to be informed because you feel frustrated when you keep getting the voicemail; you thought you have called at the wrong time. especially when you don't even know that people's phones are busted. especially when you're making intercontinental calls. especially when you think people'd be happy to hear from you. especially when you think you are important enough to receive a message that lets you know of other options for contact.

you thought people would have figured out an act of courtesy as such.

you know this sounds petty. possibly offensive to people.

you stop hoping.

you discover that writing fiction using 'you' is annoying.

you have reached your destination.

you stop wri.....


Afterwards, after all had been screamed and done, with you and I standing at opposite sides of the room having run out of hurtful words to inflict on each other, you would just look at me and shake your head in regret. But you never said anything after that point, after shaking your head. You would just change into one of your dresses for going out, grab your car keys and walk past me. A moment later I would hear your car zooming away, an imaginary fury that I have come to understand after years spending my life with you. When you came back later, you’d come and sit with me, and still without words you’d kiss me on my head, amidst my hair and all the anger that I got for you and all the world fell away.

Afterwards, when whatever movie they played on TV had finished and we sat there staring at the credits because you wanted to know the songs, all I could remember was the way you hummed the music, the words running on your lips and leaping into the air into a symphony a rhapsody that I …

unconditionally season finale

“I’ll see you after the surgery, okay?” She said to her father.
“Sure. Audrey.” He paused. “Audrey, you don’t have to, you know. I’m almost 60 already. It’s not like I have to go to work eight days a week.”
She smiled. “Don’t argue with me this time. I can’t take another fight with you.” She patted his hand and nodded.
“We fight so much.” He said and looked down to his hand, as if he was ashamed of this.
“Dad, has it ever occurred to you that we fight so much because we’re so alike? I shout, you shout, nobody's listening. And then we spend months not talking to each other...”
"Trying to remember what we were fighting about. " He said and smiled. Audrey bit her lip and then grinned.
“You’re my favourite kid.”
“Dad, I’m your only kid.”
“If I had ten or ten thousands, you’d still be my favourite. Do you see?” He softly said.
“That’s good to know.” She pointed out, kissed her father on both cheeks and left to her room. I followed Audrey.
“You two are really alike.” I said. Audrey gav…

perhaps it is part 1


Have you ever noticed how warm is the shirt that someone has just taken off when he/she wakes up, the smell of sleep, dream dust of unicorns running through fire and jellybean as confetti lingers in every nook and cranny of the fabric, in each of the thread that makes it and the morning that someone is leaving you cling to it with your dear life as if the moment after he/she is gone, you would not miss them so much that the very being of you aches with a thousand pierces of emptiness, and you close your eyes fiercely that it hurt wishing all of these are unreal, because once you have gotten used to feeling complete, the void in your heart overwhelmed with him/her to the brink, the spaces between your fingers fit theirs perfectly, you would never want to be on your own again.

That was how it felt, how I felt the morning he had to go away. When he had taken off the shirt that he had worn to sleep last night, I immediately picked it up and put it on before his warmth there puf…