Casual Conversation. 

I think my own mortality no longer frightens me. In some moments, it even brings me comfort that I might die some day. However form it may take. 

I find myself staring at windows more often now. And wondering how the fall would be like. 

I stand by the roadside waiting to be picked up by my Uber car as my mind drifts to how easy it is to just take five steps into heavy traffic. 

I hold my breath and feel my chest contract to the point of it hurting my ribs, just to test how far I can go before I give in to breathing again. 

Death. 

It can be so foreign, and fearful. At least it used to be. Now, it is something that calls out to me and I have never yearned for it so much in my life. 

Extinguish the sun and fill my lungs with smoke. Life is lost. 

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Weight. 

Soft sighs. 

Fingers on ink pads. 

Silence. 

Drunk body. 

Eye bags after sleepless nights. 

Stubborn fats. 

Cremation. 

A heavy heart. 

Sand bags. 

Imaginary gold bars. 

A single black mark. 

Fruit of labour. 

Dust. 

Groceries for a family. 

Box of old letters. 

Bags of sealed stuffed toys. 

Family albums. 

High heels. 

Diving into the ocean. 

Wisps of smoke. 

Celebratory cakes. 

Tattoos on seen skin. 

A political opinion. 

Piercing glare. 

Standing on stage. 

Mere numbers. 

On the periphery. 

Unlabelled. 

X marking an unfounded treasure. 

Bomb. 

You. 

3.38am.

I am probably the worst sort of person there is on this planet. 

I cannot switch my brain off. Overanalyse, never bite my tongue and always thinking a tad too much. Never falling asleep, I am wide awake at the most ungodly of hours and dead at dawn. Somehow, I always seem to lack rest with nothing on my hands or do too many things at once that keep me awake. Never in between. Always running from one end to the other. Not stopping. 

The only difference is when I am running in an organised chaos – piling deadlines but able to have them all clear in my head, completing them one at a time and crushing up to-do lists as I go by. Or, I am running in circles, in a complete state of confusion and spend more time contemplating jumping off my room’s window than typing that extra paragraph of text for passion commitments that do not pay yet. 

So here I am, finding myself awake after doing up work until past 3 in the morning on a school night. No motivation, contemplating quitting school because I am horrible at basic student expectations and i am just so sick is struggling financially. 

Why didn’t I develop habits of saving money and aspirations of being a 7-11 cashier girl? 

It is just difficult trying to pursue an education that barely wants you, and that you cannot afford at all. 

And when work projects are dull, unreasonable and well, inconsiderate, I just feel like throwing my hands up in the air and surrender to imaginary police men that will take me away and teleport me to the finish line of life. Where I can end this subscription of an after life and more life. 

Yes, I am probably privileged in some ways but really, not in ways that I am expected to be. Like race or money or gender or looks or even my educational qualifications. 

Please don’t get me started. 

Anyway, this cycle is never-ending but at least talking to this endless void helped a bit. Though I am still wide awake and it is only 3.48am. 

It is still a school night. 

I am still a horrible person. 

What’s new? Nothing. 

Sigh. 

Maybe I will close my eyes and not wake up. Who knows. Bye.

430 days. 

I kept counting. 

My fingers flicking open in order and hands always switching. Bent, crooked and flexed. New lines have formed on my palms. My fingers are no exception. I am slowly ageing without careful observation. My hands are still soft. 

My hands have always been one of the parts of my body I love. Very dainty, with clear lines and structure. Soft in texture but tough enough to fight. 

Anyway, I kept counting. 

I would deduct the dates and add the hours. Announcing it to him before smiling to myself. Encouragement is essential, and it would show him that I appreciate his effort. I really do. 

Going clean is just so difficult when it is a habit lasting for years. 

Any habit is hard to break. Even a person’s will might be weaker than the reliance on habit. 

430 days. 

The last number counted to, on 25th August 2016. And somehow I just stopped. The number still lying somewhere among the rest of my disorganised notes. Funny how I stopped then. 

I remember planning something. When it hits a bigger number. Maybe 500? But when is someone ever truly clean though? 

So naïve, I am. So misunderstood about cructhes, vices and addiction. 

Now I know that too much faith can break you. Especially when it is outside of your control. Especially when your own hands cannot tell the future that is someone else. 

But I knew. I remember asking questions every time I saw a cigarette in photographs, moments digitally recorded or a pack lying on the table. 

Perhaps my gut knew, and I chose to turn my observations to something else. Like the new scars on my right hand, from the dog bites. 

430 days of being in a grey area unknowingly. Neither here nor there. A space of unknowing and false comfort. 

How strange to look back at this now. Am I really out of this space now, even in my head? Or do I never really get to leave? 

Relative blindness. 

Untitled #47. 

I scare myself when I am reminded of how human I am. 

In the ways of piercing words and the urge to cut open to this skin. 

To bleed in more ways than one. 

How my mood can be ruined when one thing goes wrong. When a disturbance happens, and the undercurrents come rushing to the surface. 

Flushed skin and crazed eyes. 

Never calm inside. Never. 

How does it feel to be a genuinely happy person? 

Change. 


Shaved on 2nd August, then again (self-done with my mother’s help) on 3rd August 2017. 

I didn’t have to shave off all my hair so quick, so soon. I had a couple of weeks to go and considering I have never ever shaved my head before (besides as a baby), it isn’t a decision I should rashly make. 

But I felt like if I delayed it any further, I might hurt myself. The impulse to do something is so strong. There are days I go avoiding the mirrors, windows and going into the kitchen. 

I’d lay in bed and try my hardest to just sleep. 

So I did it. 

I shaved all my hair off. 

An aspect so familiar to me, for all of my growing life. An aspect I manipulate and use however I like. An aspect I let loose when I want to hide or pretend to be someone else. 

And I have never felt so free. 

I am happy I did it. x