Water

I wish I was born a mermaid
With hands white as ivory and lips
Running red.

I want scales on my body
Glittering and shimmering.
I want to store my sorrows in them
Bit by bit by bit until
It weighs me down
And flakes off.

I want to breathe water;
Fill my lungs with water.
I want to drown with water; I
Want to drown with
Out water.

I want to cry and drown in my tears.
I want to melt.
Into water.

The Death of Beksinski

There were days when he could not get out of bed; when he wallowed in his week-old pyjamas, slept in grease and sweat. But who was there to witness his disgrace? He was alone in the studio, surrounded by paintings, sculptures, all by his own hands. They were never judgemental in their gaze - perhaps they were too lost in their own grief, in their own torment that they did not notice. Perhaps they adored him the way children adores their parents.

He wanted to hold a congregation to prove that the old cliché, that every cloud has a silver lining was total bullshit. His son had committed suicide a year after his wife's death. Could people have misinterpreted the message of this cliché? Could it be that the silver lining was originally meant as a strike of lightning that does further damage rather than the equivalent of a rainbow? He had so many questions, so many God damned questions that even God himself could not have answered.

When he painted he created life. He painted skeletons and death and gore but it pulsated with life. He felt the pain in his deformed figures, throbbing in sync with his heart and he wanted to tell the man in his painting, I hear you, I know how you feel.

Often he lost himself in his painting, in the furious stroke of brush, as if he was uncovering rather than painting. He was an archaeologist, removing centuries of dust and sand to reveal pulchritude. He was an anatomist, detailing each human bone with care. He was a murderer, tearing skin off his shrieking victims, watching the blood gush vibrantly red from the wounds.

Life is ironic this way. He was suicidal, manically depressed for most of the time in the duration of six years after his son's death. In the year 2005, he was found dead in his apartment. He was not a victim of suicide, rather, he was stabbed to death with 17 stab wounds.

If he had committed suicide before the incident, would he have died a far more pleasant death? Would he have died peacefully in his sleep after swallowing some pills? Did the thought perhaps flash across his mind as the murderer stabbed him, continuously for seventeen times? Or was he afraid that his blood would splatter across his paintings and ruin them?

It's funny how we sometimes reach our desired destination but with an alternate, less preferred mean of getting there. If he had known that, would he have wished to live instead? Or would he have complied with what fate has in store for him, seeing the pain only as a collateral cost in order to achieve the eternal peace? Was he certain that he would've rejoined his family after his death? Did he have any doubt that he could've been stranded in a void, utterly alone, bodiless, cold, cold to the very core? Or was he just tired of the world, tired of being lonely?

I have so many God damned questions, so many that God himself could not have answered.

My First Surprise Birthday Party

But it's not mine. As you know, my birthday is on the 24th of July. *hint, hint*

Okay, so this is terribly long ago. I've meant to post it a while ago but somehow, I've forgotten about it. (As usual) I only remembered when I browsed through my mum's photo albums just now.

Anyway, for my mum's FORTIETH (haha, she's old now) birthday, we gave her a surprise party. Actually, her best friend and my cousin sister organised the whole thing since we (my father, my brother and I) don't know a thing about surprise parties 'cause we've never had them either. But we managed to keep quiet about the whole thing.

So on that day, we went to Daorae, the Korean barbecue restaurant in Crystal Point and blah and blah. I was kinda disappointed about having Korean food since I'm not mad for them and it's not really worth the price, but oh well, it's okay. My cousins and my mum and her friends think the owner is hot, so whatever.

Anyway, here are the pictures:

From left: Maternal grandfather, mum, her two best friends.

Note: See that little girl in white T and a purple scrunchy, second from the right? Yeah, she's the one I mentioned, you know, who lent me her Coach purse and who has Gucci boots.

It must be the smoke, I kept blinking when taking photos.

From left up: Cousin sister, Mum's friend, Mum
From left down: Friend, friend, Mum's sister (my aunt)

Cousin sister and her husband.

My favourite niece. (Even though I'm not supposed to be biased.)

From left: My brother, me, mum, dad. Have you noticed that I'm trying to choke him? Yeah well he's trying to snatch my phone from under the table. And my father's wearing nerd glasses cause his broke. I like him better in nerd glasses but he won't listen. =(

Dear Add Maths,

I don't know how to deal with you.

I thought we're on good terms now. I thought that after all the effort I've made, all the trouble I've gone to, you've forgiven me. I thought you finally loved me back.

What have I done that is so egregious, so intolerable, so unforgivable that you have to treat me like this? Yes, I know I've been a complete asshole last year. But haven't I been making the utmost effort lately? Haven't  I spend the most time with you this year?

Please, I can't take it if you hurt me again. My heart has suffered through countless lacerations that you have bestowed upon me. I will stay strong for you, but I don't know if I can survive any more of these torture. I don't know if I have the strength to continue. I will try my best to wait, patiently; to work my way up in hopes of gaining your affection.

So please, take pity on me. Please, deliver me.

Love, forever and always,
Sheryl.

Something To Laugh Off

Alright, I swear this is the two of my favourite scenes in all the movies that I've watched to date. Seriously, I swear. All. Oh right, the movie. It's Inglourious Basterds. (Don't worry, I didn't misspell.)

Col. Hans Landa: [giddy] Ooh! That's a bingo!

[Aldo and Utivich stare at him in confusion]

Col. Hans Landa: Is that the way you say it? "That's a bingo"?

Lt. Aldo Raine: You just say "bingo".

Col. Hans Landa: Bingo! How fun! 

Brad Pitt, which is the man in white tuxedo (in case you live under a stone), is an American spy. He disguises himself as an Italian, thinking that the Germans, which is the guy in uniform, would not understand Italian as he himself speaks horrible Italian. But it seems that the German speaks much, much better Italian than he does. In fact, the German speaks flawless Italian while Brad Pitt speaks with an obvious American accent. Absolutely egregious.Anyway, the German ends up teaching the supposed "Italians" Italian pronunciation.

In My Dark Sanctuary

If only I could drown my sorrows
In the silence of the night;
So immense, so
Illimitable, that it looms ahead -
Deafening.

These are secrets that unveil themselves
In the sanctuary of the dark.
Uncoiling, incessantly disgorging
Vitriol. But I am snug and warm enough
In my blanket of duplicity.

My ears are numb with hollows
Ringing deep from earth's sepulchers.
And I feel the rhythm in my bones, of
Napoleon's dead soldiers marching
Through the infecund land of wintry Russia.

But the dead are unaware of the cold -
They died from it.