Realisation. 

(I have decided that I can’t cope with wanting to do many things, and still have the energy for the commitments I cannot let go of now. Then today, I decided to look through the dates of posts I have queued onto this blog. I realised that the queue is ending soon, and I need to do something about it. An audible sigh escaped my lips, then I realised that if I chose to just let go of this moment. 

I can. And I will. 

And I will never come back to this space of writing, nonsense, random thoughts and ideas I have.) 

It is so easy to give up on something sometimes. 

And when you discover the ways in which you give things up, 

It is always during moments of weakness. 

And in that moment, you lose everything. 

It has always been will power that keeps you living. Not your breath, or your passions, or your youth. It has always been will power. 

And when you lose will power, you stop living. Because nothing has a purpose any longer, and you can just stay in a spot. Never moving. Waiting for age to catch up or your body to fail, because your will power has left you. 

It has always been this easy to give up. At least for me. 

And I realise that all these things I make myself do – school, writing, maintaining friendships, planning for a future, juggling a job – are not compulsory. I do that because I fear losing my sense of purpose, of self and my will power. 

– 

But the higher you climb, 

The harder you fall. 

And you will always fall. 

It’s about picking yourself back up and going 

Again. 

And I am scared I will one day choose 

To lay at the bottom 

Staring ahead and limbs dead. 

Alpha Beta Love. 

(SingPoWriMo. Last month.)


Adversity is merely 

Bruises that will 

Cure themselves fully, once

Days get better. 

Expiry can just mean numbers, 

Forever; a nuanced concept of

Going nowhere. 

He made promises to have them broken. 

I, still trying to search for reasons

Just to bridge lessons never taught. 

Kiss the undeserving goodbye, let 

Loneliness keep me company. 

Man is not an island, but I am born in a

Nation only as big as its mind – 

One is a crowd.

Pride is where I lost him, ego just the

Question he can never answer. 

Return home to recover – where is my heart anymore?

Surrender to feelings and rub out 

Tyrian purple bruises; pain just an 

Undercurrent for healing. 

Violence is a language 

Where he still lives; he is a

Xerarched soul and my dried lips a reminder. 

Yearning, still, for the twilight 

Zone – after all, bruises heal. 

Justification. 

Do numbers really justify everything? Number of likes, number of followers, number of friends, number of As, number of credit cards, number of our waits and thighs. Must we really count everything? Do the digits have to mean something, for everything that we do? 

Majority, minority. 

Pie charts. Graphs. Polls. 

Weighing scale and height measurement. 

In the end, almost everything is a business. Or is it? Even when money is not involved? How is that justifiable? 

And can’t we just keep believing that there’s a greater good in what we do? Some day, all this effort will pay off and we will be able to proudly say we have built a vision with our two bare hands. 

Even when numbers were not keeping up, and numbers are smaller than our purpose. 

Can hardwork, heart and belief be counted? 

Train Ride, 29th March 2017. 

I was standing a carriage away, listening to the songs I’d like to accompany me for the ride home and spacing out. 

For some reason or other, I turned to face my left and there she was. 

Sitting in between other riders on the red seat in her red dress. Black heels crooked to the side and her black laptop bag crumpling the skirt on her lap. Her posture broken as her spine leans forward and face hidden in her arms. Her face has gone pink with uncontrollable sobbing. Eyes just lines and lips in a painful frown. Her curled hair flowing down her curved shoulders and tears running down her face. 

I look away but my sight kept going back to her. Most times, the crying woman would’ve me but this time I am on the other side of the frame. 

What should I do? What would I want someone to do if I cry? Ignore or approach? Will she take it wrongly if I walked over and tried to hand her a tissue? 

If I don’t try, I will never know. 

I picked up my bag and went searching for my tissue packets. Trying to calm myself and go over with the white sheets ready. 

But at the same time, the train stopped and somehow she picked herself up and got off the train. Her face still pink and skirt still crumpled. 

I paused for a while and kept my tissue packet back in my bag. 

Bare arms. 

(End of March. April is beckoning and the insomnia is back, so is school. Plenty of things have happened. Many reactions I have or had, but now I am still processing and wondering about the side of events I am unsure about. Hazy and all grey in view. Some quiet will help but when the silence is plagued by endless questions, my overthinking will swallow me alive.) 

Left the house with 

No rings or bracelets 

No sleeves to hide my ink

No hand to hold

No baggage to strain my fingers 

Left the house with 

Bare arms 

And a face bare to share 

Sleepless nights without words said 

Left the house with 

Freedom in no pretence 

– 

Bare arms to gesture my thoughts 

Shape the air when I speak 

Hold onto the thoughts I take back 

And wave away