26th September. 

It’s been a while now, working and studying at the same time. Most nights I stay up to work on something – art commissions, tuition or transcription. Even though I never saw me doing these things ever, I enjoy working actually. 

It’s never been mundane, perhaps the variety and the difference everyday helps. It is also helpful that I focus well and do my work fast. I am also learning random bits of knowledge and gaining inspiration in unexpected places. 

And of course, working means I am a step closer to gaining financial independence and I am not going to fall flat on my face once school’s out. 

But last night, while transcribing a video, perhaps 10 minutes in, I started having the impulse to cry. My eyes were filling up and my throat was drying up. 

I wasn’t sure what came over me then. But now, half a day after with a sleepless night behind me, I know clearly. 

How is it possible I feel more fulfilled working and doing jobs outside of my ideal field, rather than school? Pursuing an education I worked hard for hasn’t given me any sort of fulfillment recently, or any sense of worth. I have been miserable. Things don’t add up – what’s said and what’s given, and here I am not sure what I am doing anymore. 

Can I really hang on for another three months? 

It’s short literally. If you count the days and live hour by hour. But when emotions overwhelm you and this overpowering sense of dread swallows your entire heart, your mind numbing itself and eyes seeing but trying hard not to let everything define who I am in this phase of my life, it is close to impossible.

Maybe I have always been wrong. And nothing is worth this. 

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Sitting on a Bench. 

(4th August 2017. I am early for tuition, so taking my time, I walked to my tutee’s place. Still with half an hour to go and not wanting to intrude on his own time, I find an empty bench. In a little corner by the road. Nobody’s here. I sit.) 

A bird is chirping. The same tune over and over again. Not tired of its own voice. Convinced of its purpose, maybe. One day, a response will come. It will. 

Macdonald’s delivery driving through the gantry. I haven’t had dinner but I am not hungry. Food doesn’t tempt me as much as it should, though I am not losing weight either. A pity. 

People walk pass. Some avoiding my gaze and choosing to look at the pavement. Others, staring at my lack of hair blatantly and questioningly. Almost with a judgment. But I don’t feel affected, just curious. 

A boy is walking away from me. Also on the pavement. Just clapping. He’s alone. Clapping softly then louder and louder. But he is too far now. I can’t hear him anymore. He’s disappeared. 

The bird’s still going. Perseverance is key. 

I have twenty minutes to go. 

Text messages and emails are coming in. It feels good that people remember me and swamp me with work, plans. Sometimes. But I wonder what my self-worth is if I get these calls less. Maybe I will just answer them later. 

I listen to the little bird. Nowhere in sight but such a loud voice. Always so cheerful. Happiness is such a questionable thing. 

A lonely national day flag sways in the soft wind. Tilted just slightly towards the ground. What is the flag about, and what does it represent? Do I feel it in any part of my being? If I don’t, does that make me unpatriotic? 

Water runs through the sewers. White tube-shaped pipes snaking about the ceiling of where I am seated. How do they know where to twist and turn, to be right? These mechanics fascinate me, but nobody really talks about them until they dysfunction. 

The bird is quiet now. Flown away, maybe? 

There is a man in a white shirt, standing by the road now. His arms on his hips. He is just watching the children of other families run around and cars passing. Waiting. Just watching. Listening to languages of a different skin. A neutral face. No comments. 

And here I am. Removed and part of this environment at the same time. Sitting on a green bench. By myself. Leaving now. 

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. 

C&P: One. 

Living in the mind 

Living in my mind – the only mind I know of 

Real life is not a body but a thought 

The thought lives and breathes through 

Me – the vessel of philosophy and 

Psychology 

Analyse me and you shall receive 

Unless you miss because I am

Always a step ahead 

Perhaps you would like to try again 

A tango is made for two and this 

Game is played by two 

The words take shape in my arms 

My legs walk through streets 

A blurry mess before my reddened eyes

Seeing nothing but only the necessary 

Thoughts seep through my skin and lead

Never doubt the body’s memory 

Here I go – is it still I? Us? 

Can I be in a body that is not mine? All

The words repeat overlap shout and shapeshift into 

New text each night 

Looking at the Little Neva so

Bloody quiet 

My heart is still beating in mute and my

Lips dried in a fixed smile 

Of confusion and self-loathing

Where are you

Wake up curl in a ball laugh at me 

Come back

Too Familiar. 

This is too familiar a narrative to the point of choked up tears and a sense of shame. Perhaps we are bent on reliving the phrase that we always tend to hurt the ones we love, simply because the phrase has to exist for a reason. Perhaps we are all just cruel. 

Maybe it is how love is really just about choice, that makes everything sharper at the edges and scarier. 

Because we all know that years of relationships mean nothing in the end. The moment you choose to have out and to search for the greener grass on sides you have yet to visit, the love evaporates and ceases to exist. 

(Of course it depends on the intentions of the relationship in the first place, the reasons for leaving, the level of honesty and how the hurt is being discovered. Every relationship is different, and that’s why we may fail in so many ways with no one with a clear answer to share with.)

Suddenly you are free and the other person is free falling. You look at this face of years loved and feel nothing. To go from sparks to nothingness is a darkness in itself; never to realise how you found yourself in this place. The hands you yearned for are now let go off, with your own arms hugging another body, another soul so similarly but different enough for excitement. The crying face that used to break your heart and keep you up for days, now merely stains you with guilt that you can shrug off. Not think about. Not care about. 

After all, that love is no longer your burden to bear. Yes, it has become a burden, a bane and a burnt out flame of used to bes. 

And the entire process starts again. Never-ending. (Marriage is not a destination nor a remedy. Just a hope for stronger commitment and a legal bond that will hopefully strengthen resolve.) 

How do you say you love, only to turn your back on them when someone comes along? When you choose to hurt them deliberately? 

This has always puzzled me, though this narrative is too familiar for comfort. 

At this point in my life, I have found an answer that will keep morphing as I live but I hold on to for comfort now. 

I think this happens, because the choice of love was simply not strong enough for you to resist fulfilling your own desires (that probably weren’t communicated or swept under the carpet). Because your fear of disappointment, your being afraid of the consequences, laziness in not saying that you didn’t want to work on this anymore, was greater than “us”. 

You felt you were more important, than the other person you fawned over and wanted to protect with your life. But really, you wanted to protect yourself first and only when that was fulfilled did you open up your arms for someone else. 

Is that love though? No one knows the answer, but this question is worth thinking over. 

And would the problem be solved, if it was ever that simple, if two people came together only to love the other person more. 

Has that always been what we are all searching for? 

On a separate note, have we all thought about and are aware that love changes the way a person grows and someone being in a relationship, you might have contributed to the change that started to drive you away? 

How do you love a changing person? How does anybody love you? 

How do you love yourself? 

My heart is tired of hurting for other people, and I am tired of all this unanswerable questions. 

Last Semester. 


It was change after change after change. Be it within my myself, or my situations and surroundings, everything kept evolving and I was holding on to nothing but air. 

It was an experience. I would like to think that I grew up a lot – for better or for worse. 

There were days when the decisions I made months ago came back to lift me off the ground when I fell. Other days, it all just felt like a conspiracy to get me to give up on whatever I wanted. Either way, it is just a reminder that nothing that is ever worth it is easy, and maybe whatever that is easy will not be staying for the long run. 

I remain quiet and speak only when the conviction comes. I choose stillness and pray my heart will pick the same. I moved on from some friendships and stayed with loves I committed to. 

Leaving, moving on and forgetting are all different but can lead to the same beginning. 

Some disappointments cannot be bettered. Maybe they are meant to happen, or just a lesson to be learnt. 

Optimism and pessimism are just ways to look at things. And through tiredness, realism and pessimism have become the easier ways for me to view life at this point in time.

But I remain hopeful. 

After all, you can cloud the Rays of the sun and all the light may disappear. But the sun will still be the sun – the biggest burning star that never dies. 

When.

(When do we ever truly to ourselves, or do we always belong to someone else – the land, the lover and the longing?)

When the blood of family becomes suffocation 
When the ties of friendship become obligation 
When the love of relationship become convenience 
When the life of self become a brainless product of the system

– 

I look at the lines of my palm 

And turn my back to the unhappy life 

I have learnt to want ;

Journeying back to my roots and my heart’s calling 

The song my entire being has always wanted to sing