They Would Never Know

He woke up crying that day. It was a full-blown sobbing spell, the kind that burned the back of your throat and ripped your lungs apart. It had been 40 years since he had cried the exact same way, the heart-wrenching weeping that would've been too ugly in reality but would be perfectly complacent when submitted to words.

He had thought that he was too old, too wise for the ardent feelings that young people seem to display these days. He had himself fooled that she was completely obliterated from his mind, that he wouldn't know her even if he saw her again. 

And yet, there she was, standing by the window with her back to him. He saw her again, with the halo on her golden hair and a mole on her neck. He wanted to touch it, kiss it.  Are you an angel? She was in his class, and he nearly flunked the first semester having spent every lecture staring at her. 

Then, miraculously then, she talked to him. She let him hold her hand when they took long walks to the city, where he lived. She let him kiss her, hesitantly at first, the brushing of lips. When she agreed to marry him he felt like dragging her to the nearest church and have the priest marry them immediately. 

There was a fight. It was stupid, really. But they were proud. Relentless. She wouldn't look at him, wouldn't listen. He was terrified by the look in her eyes, such cold animosity. Cry, yell, wring your arms, anything but standing there, watching me with those hard, unforgiving eyes. And in his fear he sought out to be stubbornly unyielding, the same frosty mist clouding over his eyes to shield the fear. 

He walked away. 

He would never know that she would have ran towards him - had he showed the slightest hint that he still loved her - arms flung open to embrace him in her bosom, to repeat the word I'm sorry over and over again until he silence her with a kiss. He would never know that she prayed so hard for him to just stop walking away from her and turn back, that her whole body shook with the ferocity. 

He would never know that she did not remarry, and she would never know that neither did he. And they never knew that it would be the last time they would see each other ever again. 

The Love We Buried

It was in the darkness

That we -

Groping and fumbling clumsily - 

Buried the love 

We had made.

If I forgot the warmth of your

Fingers splayed across my back,

I amended by tasting the phantom honey

Of your lips

In drift between sleep. 

But the rain is full of

Ghosts tonight. I dreamt that

You kissed me hard and rough.
What I had forgotten then
I remember now.

My soul was on my lips

And you licked it all away. 

So, This Is What's Going On

1. I want to start jogging again but somehow something's always up whenever I'm all set to go and I have to postpone. It's been, hmm... one and a half weeks now.

2. I am suddenly craving Japanese food. Someone pos-laju for me? 

3. I'm feeling nauseous lately. Maybe I'm just bored to the point of vomiting. 

4. I'm re-reading Julie and Julia and it's making me want to whip out a pan and cook the best damn boeuf bourguignon ever. Searched for the recipe and boom, practicality took over and I slump back to munch on my apple with my tail between my legs. Thoroughly humbled.

5. Had a disagreement with Dad. He thinks that Royal Stout tastes better than Guinness Stout. Umm, no way. Guinness Stout rocks the stout world. 

6. I'm dreading tomorrow the way Anne Boleyn must have dreaded her execution 500 years ago. Choir till 4pm tomorrow. I wonder if I can survive it. 

7. Looped 'Breathe Me' by Sia hundreds of times in a day. Trust me, I'll get sick of it pretty soon.

8. Reading up on ancient Rome (as usual). Here's an interesting fact: the punishment for killing one's father was to be drowned in a sack along with a viper, a dog and a rooster. Umm, I didn't find any source that states the reason behind this. Anyway, don't you think that ancient Romans are plain cute?

9. I have this sudden urge to go travelling in Ko Phi Phi. I think it's Leo's fault. It mustbe. He makes everything inexplicably hot. Even getting my ass roasted in the sun. Right, I see the irony.

10. I'm trying to read Chinese novels. Currently reading Killer by Giddens (九把刀) and let me tell you this: it's mind-bogglingly boring. While my favourtite English thrillers are all from the polices' point of view, this book is from the killer's point of view. I don't know why this book lulls me to sleep when the English thrillers scare the living hell out of me. Can't blame me, I tried. I swear.

Ode To Destiny

I love you in the dark undercurrent
Of the sea.
In the ungovernable swirl of
Emotions, I kiss the tips
Of your whorled fingers.

I wake in a stupor, and
My soul is wet from weeping.
The cumbersome weight of love
Sits on my chest
And I couldn't breathe.

What we were meant to do
We have done. The shadows passed
Us once but in our hearts it was infinite.
We loved blindly; our lips will forever search
For the other. And we loved
In fire and in ice.

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.