Untitled #35. 

If we share so much happiness,

Why do we keep our unhappiness to ourselves 

In secret passageways of the soul 

And pretend that it’s not there? 

Advertisements

Feed. 

(Rhyme scheme and just something with gaps to fill.) 

Hanging from the guts 

Bleeding through a body that refuses to give up 
Struggling for air that burns choked lungs

Silent screams hanging from the tongue 
Eyes blinking sight into blindness 

The unresting heart unwillingly witness 
Forever encompassed in a tightrope fall 

Acrobat of midair and dinner halls 
Porcelain graves and embalmed in herbs 

Eulogy served to diners unperturbed 
Remembered by luxurious hunger and typewritten menus 

‘Herb crusted pork tenderloin brew’
Death in Helvetica and gold trims 

And dying again when digestion begins
Wringing from the guts 

Slaving through a body that refuses to wake up 

 

Notes In Fragments. 

(I haven’t been writing. Words swim around in my mind and drown me sometimes, but I can’t get them out. Maybe I just lost the spirit to keep trying. The language now comes to me in fragments. This is just a silly blog. Who the hell takes WordPress seriously anymore? But I guess, in some ways, this is a reflection of my life. How sparse it is. How boring it is. How lost it is. Everything is a small bit of who I am.)

Dreams parade 

Nightmares haunt 

What happens when I don’t even know what I want
Cookie cutter of the unconventional 
Birth by fire 

Fuelled by desire 
Making love 

Fucking 

Are they not the same 

So why two different names
Fleet flicker flight 

Cut my wings and ask me to survive 

This is a reality, dream divide 
Depression

Killing yourself with empathy

Daughter.

Daughter 

Is not lack of promise 

But undiscovered gems hidden

Until 
Disability 

Is not sign of weakness 

But difference beyond surface alone 

Until eventual 
Dawn 

Is not void of shadows

But embracing darkness so tight 

Until inevitable combustion 
Death 

Is not the world’s end 

But unknown journeys beyond satellites 

Until soaring souls speak

Turning 22. 


This is a quiet birthday. 

Plenty of close friends are scattered all over the world pursuing dreams, expanding their horizons and living lives that they have always wanted. Maybe it is also about me growing older, and realising that I am just turning a year older – closer to fulfilment or depression, closer to adult expectations, closer to death. 

It is getting harder and harder each day to rejoice, for the world is in chaos. My people have lost the ability to love, respect and embrace differences. (How different is different when our skin feels the same and the blood’s all red?) We kill, smother and leave people behind based on their identities and things that they cannot change. 

My heart breaks day after day for lives lost in sacrifices to no God, but only to fuel the human ego. 

A blind ambition. 

But I am blessed to still be alive. Yes. To still have the luxury of dreaming in this cold concrete world of pure practicality and factory mentality. To be able to save up pennies, travel the seas and learn to love the earth, the people and the history we own. To have my basic necessities for me to survive and strive for something better. 

The list goes on, for blessings are all in the small things that give me something to hold on to, and wake up the next day. 

I might always be tired, busy and feeling my downfalls pile up on my body. But, I am still young and I can work. I can still believe that it will all be worth it in the end. 

Thank you to all my family, friends, theatre makers and fellow dreamers for making my life so full of potential. Thank you for the enlightenments, the lessons, the memories and the journey that is to follow in the near future. 

I love, because I have you all and I believe in the world. x

15th July. 

My heart is heavy and in melancholic drowning. Maybe life has just been giving me all the bad vibes lately. There has been no peace over the news  – terrorist attacks, claimed terrorism, unkindness and blind cruelty blankets the world. We call ourselves global citizens with such convenience of our own intelligence, yet we kill off the differences we choose to visit for leisure. Children love, and as adults, we unlearn this very fact. I feel sadness and my heart aches, yet maybe my ignorance that I am not aware of contributed to this awful catastrophe overwhelming our species. We are animals, but worse then the creatures we call beasts or lower than us. 

Same anatomy. Same faces. Same world. Same blood. Same global history. Same emotions. 

Yet we betray each other, and this is our downfall. 

The Prayer Poem. 

“Acting is not about being someone different. It’s finding the similarity in what is apparently different, then finding myself in there.” – Meryl Streep.
Nerves. I can no longer 

hear my heart 

beating and feel cold sweat 

seeping through my porous palms. It is emptiness, complacency 

or just quiet confidence? 

Or am I successfully no longer myself; surrendering fully to the fictional life I have to play?

Slipping in and out 

at the comfort of disappearing 

backstage; shedding performative facial expressiveness once 

away from stage lights. Sometimes so bright, they burn you and expose 

your whole heart bare. 

Stripped stark naked. 

If that is to happen, I wonder if the audiences’ are able to see 

my heart beating or just a 

bloody muscle being puppeted 

by the habitual body. 

Or even worse, just a ghost of an undying soul with no purpose or clarity.

Saying lines without meaning them. 

Travelling in a direction with no intention.

Giving love that was borrowed from someone else. 

But it was funny when the physical contact broke me, 

and woke me up. 

Direct gazing into the eyes and whispered breath of 

genuinity. Then were the hugging; 

goodbyes are simply better felt than said. At least 

the warmth of skin lingers in body memory longer than 

drowned out words. 

He walked towards me and there was a slight pause in the air. 

Our eyes were open but they were better closed. As our lips left each other, we became 

strangers again. 

After all, we belonged to different people and this was our 

secret. 

Was that us, or were we still playing 

our roles in dressing rooms and along the 

narrow 

corridors?