The simple act of sitting in a train by the window looking out at the fields passing by. No skyscrapers or towering shelters. Just fields and tracks. Nothing higher than the eyes can see. I watch the world go by. I am here. The sun is warm today. I'm reading and looking up at the changing scenes. 

She woke up into a life that she had never envisioned. After years of questioning the living and breaking down wrong doors, even shattered windows she climbed through on all fours. Unknowingly she walked through the darkest portal filled with numerous trials and tribulations, funerals and rebirth. The stars aligned and with the right amount of force it pushed her through the last hurdle into the greatest unknown. 

It was different. The most unique of them all. The kind that while collecting death's certificate you smile and in love's loss there is an ironic insider joke. A really good one. 

Here's to the one that stayed. 

"When a vacuum form, something has to come along to fill it." 

"He does not exist here, with me, but flesh that does not exist will never die, and promises unmade are never broken."

Mental acuity was never born from comfortable circumstances.

"That pain you’re feeling is directly proportional to how much you loved and were loved."

When a push comes to a shove you will be sacrificed. Naive little one how could you forget. The tendency to be swept away to think that it won't happen to you is foolish. You are just another pawn in their chess match. A useful piece sliding across checkered tiles to be placed in positions to make difficult decisions. So you killed yourself. 

All that is left is a handful of disappointments one after another. Constant rearrangement of their placements. 

Now. You are no longer the same. 

As the day draws nearer. You feel solemn. More than anything else. Always. Wretched. It dawned on you that the truth is, you have been on a run for the past six years and there is a reason why. The beginning of it all. Why you are never here. It was the perfect excuse to never talk about it ever again. 

This is the analogy a friend said recently. Each of us have closets which we constantly close them and move to the next. However, unlike the fortunate ones who have the leisure to fold and pack everything in nicely, we on the other hand have been in such a chaotic state to throw and fit everything in base on survival instincts, in order to move on to the next. Hence, ours is an exploding junk yard which never had a proper ceremonial closure. It is always there. Always lurking. Unravelling when you least expect it.

The greatest test for the generations to come is patience. 

Remember how we would roll in bed and wait for a simple beep to indicate a text response and then spend the next hour cracking our heads to draft a message good enough to be finally sent out again. Because we know how critical it is to use the minimal number of letters to form words in order to catch that person's attention and interest so that they would respond to us and not keep us hanging. Individual text messages would be stored and fondly relooked at while waiting for the next reply. It was so precious. The whole waiting process even felt romantic. 

We were handicapped. Unable to check to see if the recipient had received the message or if it was intentionally left unread. No photographs. No directions. No maps. No phone calls. And I have yet to even start on the generations before who relied solely on pen, paper, stamps, birds and humans. 

Therefore, in the years to come the greatest challenge of all is patience. 

Be careful in the words that you say to each other. What comes out as spite could do damage that last a life time.

Maybe it was their upbringing and the skewed tunnel vision they are brought up to view situations and treat other human beings. You cannot deny that nurturing a child is crucial in their adolescence stage as it could tarnish their adulthood. Their nature is largely attributed to their nurture. Akin to a robot the programmer is the one that inputs the data for it to function.  

You need to breathe life into words again. Let them form and take hold of your page. I forget sometimes the need to leave a little of me online in this virtual world. 

It is a trend. There are too many scams out there offering you opportunities to jump onboard their easy way out solutions. The price? Your money. How about the media? It distracts you with fancy new things or news and all we end up doing is feeding this Monster with an insatiable appetite. 

Quote: Always online but never available. 

But the real price, is your time. 

And. Falling into the pit of selfishness. "Me" mentality syndrome. 

After one month, once a week, of giving away time to volunteering works, I won't say they need me. But rather I need them more than they need me. It made me grounded to the here and now. For a moment I am offline, doing something meaningful for someone else. 

It is always nice to know that in the sea of people there is one person out there waiting for you. Anxiously looking out, even if it is just a shadow or outline. Traces of you in the crowd is good enough to give the heart a little kick of thrill and joy.  

Quick... become the arrival I have been waiting for. 

It will no longer hurt or excite you. Those intangible hopes and foolish fantasies on your part. Be brutal to say that you were thrilled by your selfish thoughts. 

Turning around you cringe at the past, you look at the path leading to ashes and then ahead of you the path into the light. 

Another trigger point are past words written and left in closets of technology. You enter it door after door and there the horrible bare faced- truth; hides there waiting to expose your stupidity. But that is not the end.

You are standing here. Bidding goodbye. 

Unable to grasp this scene. You turn a page and it had been nine years. No longer that girl on the floor nor walking the streets at midnight courting rejection. You find yourself catching this bus at peace with yourself and the way things are now. 

It is frightening to see that you no longer write the same. 

They call you another name. 

In just a week they broke down walls and made a new passage through. Your memories are altered from what they actually were; the night stroll seem more romantic, the grass felt softer, the sun looked warmer and the atmosphere seem light hearted. 

Was it all in your head? Because your body was waiting to return to this routine. It knows that it felt right here as everything has changed there. 

You are not the same. 

And it is not a bad thing. 

I finished another book today. 

I flipped back to be sure that I was done with it. 

And now I look forward to another book, a new story and a different ending. 

I walked on to a new adventure just like I always do. And I cannot wait to see what awaits on this new page. The fact that I will always be the author makes this whole chase enticing. 

Another door slams

Another tear drop

The same defeat and defense 

You didn't know it was too much

You didn't know it was enough 

You find yourself hiding under covers 

Writing

Again to yourself

To write it out

So that it won't be too much

And that it would be enough

Just for tonight 

No one knows 

All you needed to do was to take the next step. Put down that bag. Unexpecting anything. 

And there at your door step you felt the first wave of forgiveness and understanding. 

It will be ok. Somehow. 

Difficult it is to go through the day where everything and everyone is a challenge and battle. They demand to be heard and answered. The tears of yesterday still lingers on the lines of your face and the remains hides behind your lids temporarily, ever ready to fall. The word of thanks no longer leaves an imprint. And the weight on your shoulders have left you on the floor. 

The same blank notification is silent and neglecting. It resounds the fact that you are forgotten and one sided all along. 

Why do you feel insignificant, standing facing the wind alone.

Often damages made are by unthought words being said. 

Saying "sorry" merely sends the message to the mind. 

But the heart refuses to listen and clutches on the gapping knife pierced hole with feeble attempt to stop the bleeding and suffocating feeling of hurt. 

It is less rationale and much more fragile than the mind. 

To repair or soothe the heart means attempting to restore that level of trust again, strong enough to withstand another blow most often by you. 

"There is nothing so black as the inferno of the human mind." 

I had been thinking about permanent gifts or things that would last. Not forever but at least maybe longer than I would exist. 

The answer came and I stumbled answering myself. 

It is immaterial. 

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Ferris Bueller, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)

“Be loved, be admired, be necessary; be somebody.”

Naively, you always hoped for support and encouragement from your loved ones; even if it does not sound like it would work out or even if it does not make sense to them. It could be the choice of faculty, the type of job you are applying for, even the funky hair colour you picked, quitting your current stable job or picking up a new side hobby. You just wanted to feel that your courage meant something or it is real and that only you can make it happen. You felt invincible coming up with that decision which you definitely did not make lightly. 

So you hoped. 

And you got stabbed by hope. 

And you were left bleeding out without hope. 

Helpless really seeing her frail and just lying there, looking small and sunken in the giant bed. You don't remember how did she get so old so quick. For that moment when the bed gets pushed into the ward there is a silence that fills the space and you are just standing there taking it all in as everyone was making way. Mortality. 

We don't live forever. And this tiredness of the flesh is temporary. 

This is another kind of prison. A self induced one. You are in it with strangers. 

"If I created the constellations and the earth, the galaxy, the clouds, measured the earths foundation...count the clouds and send the lightning bolts on their way.. If I can do all this... What is your worries or troubles or issues that I cannot do for you."

An aggrieved soul makes the body run longer. It produces an anaesthetised effect.

There will be days like today. Where you would feel it all raw and intense. You become so disgustingly delicate, fragile and sensitive. Because your darkness or the fact that you shoved and gave everything the benefit of the doubt, that the doubt decided to cheat and manipulate you to feel the immense sense of loss; making you it's fool. And that becomes the haunting truth of today. It is crystal clear and you are unable to let it go; not today. It demands to be heard, to be felt. 

It grips you like a knife going through your body and you hold on to the person's hand who had just knifed you. One hand clutching the bleeding gap in your body, one hand on the murderer. Your blood pours out smudging the clean marble floors and it soaks the rest of your shirt. The colour red is too red and the warmness of it too warm. 

You look up.

You. 

What have you done. 

"In love's service, only wounded soldiers can serve."

I used to hold a fabric to rule the world. It was comfort, home and sleep. Everywhere I went it went and I was never alone. Familiar and safe. But I let it go. To attain what the world calls it; maturity. Fully developed in body or mind. We were not ready then. On whose benchmark of maturity were we gauged on? 

The wrong thing for the right reasons. 

Today I am aware that she is back. The itch to write, the ache for a cigarette, the silent intentions. 

Who could know what time would show. 

Who could know. 

Louder than anything we ever mention. 

You wish they were dead. You wished they were dead. It would had been easier. All this too seems familiar. The same demands. We need to claw our way out of here, right now. Let us pack and go. Hop on the next flight out. 

Naive. Little wishes to get by. 

Sometimes the music is not loud enough to calm dreamed violence. The shake and shatter of a body. 

Scary isn't it. 

Some form of sadness takes you to places. Alone. 

Rare moments like these. That I am ecstatic. Knowing the impending finality of life is in death has an ultimatum and comforting release. 

Even if it was one drawer left as a weak attempt to own just one thing. Even that little heaven is taken. 

Let it go. 

Don't you forget. Don't. Forget. Remember me when I don't feel remembered anymore. You took too long to feel what the days have carried into the present. So you accept it all in drips and drapes as it comes in waves. 

The loudest shatter is one that you do not hear with your ears. It is clean, crisp and one of the most tragic signs before it's final fall.

You ran back to your books and pages to put it out there in blue ink and black words. Encasing it. Let it all slip away. 

They had a home consisting four walls and a simple routine. Carrying her on her back like a child; she was broken. That moment felt like infinity. She was the centre of her everything. She was spoiled and you were giving. She needed that moment again when she could throw everything out the window. Knowing that you will always be on her side no matter how irrational or unreasonable she sounded. But that can no longer happen. She is not prepared to be forgotten.  



I miss you every time I am not understood.  

Yes you got shot. It was unexpected and it will always be that way. Because these paper shots made the intangible tangible.  It seeps in and nestles comfortable into your gut. Each breath absorbs the impact. 

And I... Don't have a time machine. 

I'm in disbelief. Of my number. Saying it out in the open from my very own mouth does not seem correct, does not seem real. Am I joking? It sounds like someone else speaking in my proxy. 

There are ghosts all around me, where I walk, the walk ways, the train station. How many people have I walked with here and left behind. Do we ever grow up?

In case you forget. You are glad that this occurrence and chance only took shape and cast in reality now. Because you wouldn't had understand any of this during your adolences and amateurish self of self invented disllusion. You wouldn't be able to keep us here. 

Inner words are scrambling like ants, headless all over the invisible battlefield. The same old rugged, well worn out mat, fraying at the corners, it got tugged and pulled off its usual comfortable spot. Again. You could even see its stained marked frame on the floor. The human instincts says fight or flight. Both are release. Do you allow the chains of comfort hold you down to keep you safe and grounded or. 

It is subtle and present.

Your auditions makes you aware of what you can and not do or have. It is all but a shell on that platform, leaving it barren seems less tragic. Your shadows gets replaced, they call you by another name, your face will never catch the same shutter. You do not linger. You became nothing. 

Just because you do not show the world what you have, does not mean you do not have it. 

Photographs have knifes. Not butterflies. This playlist pulls colored memories into the present. Sometimes we remember wrongly, distorted versions of the past. You are greedy and demanding, deceitful and hurting. Because it was easier to be the one hurting than inflicting. 

It was easier to forget. 

You have known. Always known. That this day would come. It came. And it hurt. 

Dark is the way, light is a place. 

There is much truth to it. Hands blindly tracing the walls. I find myself stumbling and hitting out at the darkness. 

Clearly I remember. I need light. Just a little. 

"Is it normal to feel this exhausted all the time?" 

Say you are awake 16 hours and you only get 7-8 hours of sleep (or less) per day, mathematically speaking it does not sound unreasonable to be exhausted. 

Every action or movement we take we are burning away. A constant loss in exhaustion. A constant loss in living. So make it count. 

My last thoughts to end the year. 

Afraid. To be scrolling life away. Passing by these fences, within lies a probability. Have you missed the signs or misinterpreted them? Roll the dice and let them fall, move your piece. In sliding doors this would had two scenes playing out consecutively. Which is like you? Is there nothing after? 

That is how our generation sends out a flare of distress. A shot into cyber space to vent the unmindful ever wicked carousel of thanklessness. Could the weight of our efforts be satisfied with the mere click of an icon or comment? Are we all just looking out to scratch a mark on the surface of existence so that anyone who could recognize the need of that recognition would pause and give away two seconds of their life. To like. Or comment. A job well done. 

Desperate times. Desperate. 

All you needed was one set of undisturbed footprints. That is the hour you knew that a section of the structure has just experienced its first tremor and change. It was subtle yet brutal. Maybe that is how buildings fall apart. They get stripped by layers and then collapses inwards. It knew. 

When you stand alone, do you feel a little more brave? 

They will always kill the messenger. 

A thankless job this is. 

The remnants of yesterday lingers. It is a gapping hole that refuses to be denied of its existence. Patiently in the shadows it sinks it's teeth into your vulnerability to remind you the demage accompanied by the phantom scar where you frequently run your fingers across to feel the uneven edges. Defeated. Why not, not. You must feel the whole pendulum of the equation to know what is missing. 

"He finds a lot of wrong pieces. Then he finds the right piece. But then he leaves it behind. Then it ends." 

I have read and found myself dying all over again. Leaving a mark. 

Layers. You were a layer. And the many you's to come. Playing a single track while adding in the rest of the instruments piece by piece. How we recorded it all in a storeroom, that process was already learnt. The only change you could possibly make is to re-record over it until it satisfies. 

We are the victims of our own sloth, putting off the things that meant everything and yet they became nothing. You were the best memory. The early mornings, disheveled hair, pencil marks on paper, endless matching of words, going at it again and again till it fits. A kind of peace that descends once it is complete. 

"I remember the day that saved us. 

Do you remember this. 

This is never goodbye."

-Juliet Simms 

"I have written over it. I have recorded on top of it. I have reprinted it. Life is layers, fluid, unfixed, fragments." J.W 

I've not forgotten. This is where I started; creating stories out of moments and scripts out of memories. That is how we move on. You stop. Write. And go. 

When you decided on something, it takes you to places that you were not prepared for. You adapt and make required changes to be and live. Conditions are less backwards now. Despite the increasingly intricate compulsion to sustain this frontage. 

Candidness will not prevail this time. 

Unspoken friction for each new conquest.. A touch of seriousness, a chemical magnetism, the way two pieces of a child's puzzle fit together. The normal prelude. 

We started as pixies and in time we become human. Within a small space seated in shadows who would have thought it could change the present windows. If we hadn't allowed our feet to take us to places. Fingers with their whimsical fancy. Which doors would you had missed and entered, wide eyed and waiting.      

You

In the break of dawn, i watch the bus give chase to an empty train.

You learn to look at signboards as places where people come together.

There shouldn't be casualties in the pursuit of space.

It all boils down to gestures. A slide and hit regime. And that is how we end each day by sending it across time, erasing it from the present, double checking that no ghost remains. With the final touch of placing it in invisible folders that is not threatened by moth or dust. It is an act to be less because you are nothing but helpless.

When you start making every scene yours by conceptualizing it into words, you are made vulnerable. Because you are well aware of the blurring lines of your emotions and the character of each sentences are the source of your pain. You find yourself lingering on the same page and song, it is hard to let it pass. Not today at least.

For to write, it is to hurt tragically.

Could a crack be so silent
Those notes are all I gave to you for company
I watch my shadows chasing shadows
As I finally broke down at the top of an empty hill with no soul
Alone I sit unable to let this song pass
Like a mantra trying to convince yourself that this is the last time and you will quit this
Concern became suffocating and breathing impatient
How did you get here under this starry sky
Knees to the ground
Hands on wood

Delicate thread that holds these cards
Tighter they stand with each knot and pull
So we threw darts at walls to watch them fall
Credulously you thought this game would be your call
Funny how those wicked intentions found its own replay when you shut your eyes wanting more
Intentionally you let it run in loops unable to let it resume
You knew it was not enough for you to be on your way

She said you became a drug at my expense. So I thought the day would end without a chance of that occurrence at the abyss. It was like today, as I waited for the morning storm to come, the leaf twirling its last dance to the ground and all I wanted was a fraction of a second to what that sparrow felt as it halt in mid air. I forced my lungs to take in air and my legs to synchronize, even if it hurts I won't allow myself to remain at this same spot. Like how you beat at your chest to spread the pain and clutch your fist waiting for this episode to subside.

Do we all look at her the same way? With questioning eyes and unkind thoughts? So fragile and thin with only enough skin to cover bones, neither elegant or graceful, just awkward and peculiar. It was the same path to everyone but eminently laborious for her. Bravely she runs on and I solemnly watch her silhouette.

"Every second the city gets smaller and smaller, only you feel it's really you getting smaller and smaller and lonelier and lonelier, rushing away from all those lights and that excitement at about a million miles an hour."

"I can’t live here
In my body, I mean
I can’t live in my body all the time it feels too much
So if I ever feel far away know I am not gone
I am just underneath my grief
Adjusting the dial on my radio face so I can take this life with all of it’s love and all of it’s loss"

Silently you carved a box out of the remaining block of wood you have. Making sure the edges are even out you measured the depth again just to be sure that it will hold all your contents. Yes, a time capsule it will be, to be buried in the earth, away from the sun till it is time to be uncovered. Fondly you stroke each artifacts and said your goodbye. "I can't look at you now. Not now. So I will see you then." Driving this distance it only had been hours, passing this location it only had been weeks. All this too shall pass.

So I picture it to be this way. Subtle and clean as I start with the first brush on this portrait, a bold strong stroke is the first release. These lines are so fine, so much so that I catch my myself holding my breath, gently, not to shake or shiver so they wouldn't know the intensity of all that was held back to produce this piece you tenderly call art.

"Dance my pain away."

I like how the bus water the plants along the sidewalks especially when it rains. Intentionally accidental. I smell the rain and watch as they take cover, yes, today is Wednesday. It has been days and you wonder has anything changed with absence. The graves points in my direction and I feel death for a brief moment. Pranks; surprises and revelations of many layers, a twisted mash up of seriousness and anticipation disguised in fits of laughter. That is what we do best.

Will they call you mechanistic or organismic? Which is it that makes up your structure? What if we are designed like that.

We find ourselves stuck at this round about. Waiting. This moment. Right here and now... It is familiar. That's how everything started. With words. And ended with words.

I should do the same.

You recognized this fear. The glass walls are temporary, you know what they were built for. The first shatter is the loudest and the rest is just noise. We struggle with humanity and religion, always second guessing. In a perfect world, all of us would not be here and memories would not hurt. It has been awhile since your honesty is questioned.

Necessary interests in the common good. She said.

It felt effortless. The anticipation of watching if it can commend. How much strain to exert and draw. Vaguely those familiar moments before the kill as the adrenaline tugs at your heart strings telling you that it is the causation of this direction and theory. Yes, now it did sting. Who could know what time could show.   

And I was trying to disappear... 

But.  

You are still the song on my breath...

You are not easy to forget. 

Things happened, leading to precautions, hence, the inconveniences. It takes an accident to evoke a change striking everyone in its path.

Three minutes before time shaken awake... The present eagerly pushes ahead with no signs of slowing down. Thoughts of yesterday still lingers as one self gradually ends.

Her last words etched in memory; Necessity is the mother of change.

It is no longer the same. Something just clicks from within and you could match the similarities in frames. It did not go well with your fantasy. Maybe I am the ghost that lingers on your page, but what difference will it make in knowing? I have nothing for you to take nor give.

How long can I travel like this? Empty trains on cold mornings, faces plastered on with little warmth.

That great urge to embrace you, the compassion to reach out to you to tell you... You are not permanent.

You laid your traps around, waiting with sweet anticipation for me to taste and see each possibility. Gently stroking my fire, drawing me into your flame. When the walls finally gave in, you took a step back and watch as I free fall for you. Turning your back, you threw the keys into the crypt and never came back.

You will make a way. Through the tears and joy, I will trust in you. Even without forming sentences you already know. Somehow everything will lead me back, I could wander the world and yet be back to where I started that is to be here with you. Even on this bus ride you could bring me to tears.. So hold onto my heart and don't let me go. Love me for the imperfect soul that I am.

Guilty. Of over thinking. It is not all about you and what you do not have. Even with a piece of cloth we can go on living. By believing in truth and love, that took the world so far. In order to save a stubborn men, with that reason alone could stir this mad mad world to stop and lay down. In just three hours... Everything changed.

The most damaged people are the wisest. After discovering the threshold of our souls, there is really nothing more to surprise. We measured the furthest distance in life and it was death. Initially we thought it was marriage but reality speaks volumes of separation. So you never really loose someone as long as you don't forget them... If you wanted in, there will always be an invisible thread leading back. I'm glad your reading.

I hope to read about you to the extend that when this page refreshes your words will magically appear. But you stopped. It feels like it has become a one sided routine. This ride is long and dark... I stare out into the sleeping world.. I am still here.

A strange impending feeling of a change that could cause a tremendous rippling effect again. Like you know... You are going to hurt someone and yourself again.

When the books leave me, will I leave with them too?

To be unhearted all over again. I fear.

I've strayed too far away from your light. Not by my strength.

Your first sentences were never about me, just you and your demands. Funny... I always knew that death was a bonus. The exhaustion is seeping into the bones and breaking out onto the flesh.

These lines... I wonder.

How do you give up something that is good for you? Just for the norm or to please someone else's idea of a life? You can't just quit and start over in a snap. There is no witch hunt to find the cause but how it was allowed to happen in the eyes of the maker. If it was bound to fail it would had. If you were meant to crash and burn you already would. Keep walking. One day. It will all make sense.