crash. boom. bangg.

Years away now. Years my life without you near. Years in solitude and just like that you came back into my life. No signs, no hunch. No sting in your gut trying to tell you this is the day. This is the day you’re going to again meet the love of your life. You got rid of him and now the universe is giving you a second chance.

What have I done? I set you free. I have set you free.

In July

You and I moved fast and slow, twisted time to match the beat of our hearts, eyes closed to something no one dared to see. Go on, I said, you’ve made your choice but we breathed and lived for all the wrong reasons and you left for years without looking back and here you are now, bittersweet perfection, sullen and angry like a Cat 3 hurricane too far offshore to be noticed, sad and angry like the hot tears you once cried so long ago in July.

Diana Perry

for a thousand more.

When you proposed you didn’t have a ring, and it was not pancakes, it was eggs. It was not fairytale-like or slow paced romantic. It was late morning and you smelled like penicillin. Your hair was crazy curls and you hadn’t shaved for like a week. You blurted, “what if you changed your name into Mrs.C.” I was stunned, offended, my eggs burnt. I said you can’t say things like that, smelling like that, looking like that. First take a shower, get a ring, and ask on bended knee. You said nonchalantly: my knees hurt.

nada, perhaps.

…because friendship and intimacy are subjective, and there isn’t a widely used scale researchers share to define those concepts across studies. Closeness can be particularly squishy. 

read more.

the light.

Jeanette Winterson

neither.

… the overwhelming majority disliked [“childless” and “childfree”], with one being seen as stigmatising and the other gleeful and nasty in its implication that parents somehow need “liberating”.

… that’s one reason why – when absolutely necessarily – “doesn’t have children” is the kindest, most neutral descriptor we can hope for. Though we can also hope to be moving away from one’s parenting status needing to be defined at all, especially for women, who still face this question far more frequently than men. Language matters, and as ever it often says more about us and our assumptions than we realise.

read more here.

so much.

you have no idea how much.

lighthouse.

a flicker in your eyes that tells everyone in the room that i am more than just.

those blues you sang.

from here.

someday. (4)

keep going when you’re on a high…

how to capture emotions

x past mistakes that follow you everywhere


x IV needle stuck on his arm, he’s breathing too slow


x impending goals you can do nothing about


x burnt lasagna in the oven when you’re taking calls for too long


x paper cuts from paperworks you don’t want to sign


x terrible exes arguing with the good ex (about you) in a formal meeting.

youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers…

by hermysticvibes

growing up i’d been depressed, hopeless, unaware i was raised abusively thus often mistaken abuse for love. it wasn’t always physical, although it many a time involved violence. i wiped it off, brush it off, renarrate, deconstruct, reconstruct but never the feeling of shame and an abundance of guilt for being simply me. i had questions answered with humiliation. my intelligence was responded with punishment if not embarrassment. it took years for me to realise, i was different. i was ahead of my time. i was in a wrong place, with wrong people. i haven’t found my people.

only by physical distance the pain and burden of being blamed was less intense, but i since long ago have always been aware it will never disappear. i am forever a wounded animal, born to bear resentments of who they were and what they could not achieve on their own, making it easy for people to walk all over me and have no concepts of setting boundaries.

All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair.”—-Mitch Albom

PTSD

To me it’s the early mornings that lingered, longer than they should, when I groped and grabbed and nothing. It’s an empty bed, you weren’t there and I let you. I let you be alone, in another room, in the bathroom, the living room, sometimes in the basement, lying near the laundry pile, vomiting. It’s more practical there, you said. You grabbed a sheet, puked, and crawled to the washing machine and threw the wet sheet in. I would never know, for in the afternoon they would be minty fresh laundry. I’d just pick it up and went on with my day.

You never asked me how I felt. Lying there in the dark, I too, alone and torn. Desperate, frustrated, for you to share your pain. But it’s yours, not mine, you said. It’s not for me to take. I wished I had been more understanding than I already were. In my mind I would be more than a lover, I would be something closer, deeper, more meaningful than a companion. But it’s yours, and not mine to take. So I lay there sinking within a surge of my own pain.

Sometimes in the afternoon, when I slowly open the lid of your dryer, I forgot to breathe, for it was not yellow stain on the sheet, but dried up brownish blood. I tried not to wonder. Because it’s yours, and not mine to take.

all the answers you’ll never get

i had a surgical procedure recently. i was going to be anesthetised, sure i’d love to be dead for few hours, sure, i’d feel nothing, sure but i knew it was going to be very, very painful once the drugs worn off, so i asked you, you who had lots of them thank you me, what did you do when you knew, did you give in to the pain, what did you think about when you’re in so much pain, where did you go?

you didn’t say but you told me you saw me in a meadow, wearing white, and that second you didn’t care about anything anymore.

how sad, how deafening the silence after that.

maybe, i thought, just maybe i’d think of you when i’m dying, i’d drown me in your blue ocean eyes and i’d forget everything, i’d have no care for the world anymore.

but when it stroke me, this immeasurable pain i’d never felt, i was nowhere thinking of you. i tried.

i tried to think about your eyes, i tried to picture Nantucket home, the cliff and the ocean, nothing. it was grave and i couldn’t find you anywhere even if i wanted to. i tried to think of you the same but you weren’t there.

I Can’t Really Say I Love You

Initially set to the same time, these identical battery-powered clocks will eventually fall out of sync, or may stop entirely. Conceived shortly after Gonzalez-Torres’s partner was diagnosed with AIDS, this work uses everyday objects to track and measure the inevitable flow of time. When one of the clocks stops or breaks, they can both be reset, thereby resuming perfect synchrony. In 1991, Gonzalez-Torres reflected, “Time is something that scares me… or used to. This piece I made with the two clocks was the scariest thing I have ever done. I wanted to face it. I wanted those two clocks right in front of me, ticking.”—-moma.org

dear people who have been seeking to contact me via every possible platforms and planes, i gladly would like to inform you i am alive and somewhat well (let’s just call it that). we’re keeping it on the DL since the big bang and the rattles that follow. we are scattered around the world and are unable to regroup (yes i am that many, i am we and us and them) thanks to the ever prolonged pandemic. we have thousands stories to tell, poems lurking here and there, and we are looking (and longing) to share again like the good old days.

though these past three years have changed us in a way that is unimaginable, rest assured, we are still productively creating in abundance of peace and in a more private realm.

for you especially who clicked here, yes i see you and i appreciate you (i can’t really say i love you but i do). we will soon be together again though soon seems too far away.

until we meet again.

this existence hurts my skin…


they say tomorrow might be the waves i cannot see
the sheer anticipation of what might have been
we’ve grown so old from heartbreaks so young a dream
we’re so vast a universe but no words to swarm in
this existence hurts my skin it hurts more everytime it doesn’t bleed
here in this dark place everything is shameful and unforgiven but
there’s a rabbit hole down here and there’s you and i and the world disappears we need to be somewhere else
but here we are, bloated up
and shrunk down into an instagram post

And Then I Felt Sad…

And then I felt sad because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see the people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.

Life After God, Douglas Coupland

It Doesn’t Conquer All…

 

a ring on your plate when i cooked you

eggs, our years apart summarised into one morning

of jars and jars, bottled up feelings

of you looking into me, looking into something

of me saying things without a sound

our lives in suspended compartments

bubbles of cliches against time voices people

 

it is kind, it is patient and it is all you need but

it doesn’t conquer all, it’s never the answer

 

my love for you, insincere and vague.