What do you and the sea have in common?

Every single day, I open my Word file, waiting for the words to come. A poem is burning to be born, but I cannot begin to tell my fingers to type.

I used to swim in oceans so deep, so full of stories about love. That was, until, I screamed. To you. For help. The water filled my lungs and the very water that I created choked me and cut the very air I breathed and you? You did nothing to save me. I came up to the surface instead, got drunk in a liquor called music, and laid wasted in a beach full of art until the sun came up. That first night, I tried to wipe myself dry by jumping around the island, shaking every droplet of you into every leaf that needed you more than I did.

The next few days were peaceful. I simply stared into the sea that used to be me. Sometimes I would come up to the shore and feel the shallow water wash my feet, reminding me of how much I used to love you.

Ah, but did I love you? When the waves left and the water crept into my ankles, was it you whom I missed? Or was it the poems I’ve written? The words I can’t seem to find now?

I am afraid of drowning into another sea of poems, because as I forget how to breathe, as my hearts unevenly, I see nothing but your face – the inspiration to every letter I have ever written, to every sonnet, every paragraph.

I dig my feet hard into the sand, gritting as I force myself to forget the feel of the cool water on my soles. Being stuck on land, surrounded by you – or, remnants of you – I curse myself. Why can’t I have thrown the poems to the sky and turned them into stars? It would have been easier to avoid. I can always live looking down. Why must I have condensed my words into water? Being in an island surrounded by you, too afraid to swim in you, too afraid to drink you in.

It wasn’t always like this. I used to relish in how my every word of you bathed me, embraced me, nourished me, like an infant in a mother’s womb. I swam deep into the idea of your existence. I lived to see every flawed coral living inside you, every living school of fish spinning around you. I loved it. I loved you – or, the idea of you.

Here I am now, alone in this island. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. The worst part is that you are all I see – just a vast stretch of ocean full of what we were, and what we could have been.

I am 70 percent filled of you, and the 30 percent in me hates it. It tries to pull out every ounce of you through the tears ducts in my eyes, one drop at a time. Yet, no matter how much I cry, you are a part of my survival, and I have no choice but to let you back in. I drink you in tentatively, afraid that the way my breath stutters at the thought of you will make the water travel in the wrong pipe.

Here I am now, alone in this planet. Nowhere to go, no one to go to. And I’m writing this poem, taking a sip of you once again. I am 70 percent filled of you, and I cry you out, but drink you in again. Maybe I was never made to live in an ocean full of you. Maybe . You were made to pour yourself into the world, and I was made to beg for the little that you could give.

But every day, I open my Word file, waiting for the words to come. And it comes in tiny droplets.



What do you and the sea have in common?

To the Tissue Papers in this Watercolor World


We each have our own roles. The palettes provide color. The paintbrushes create the image. The hand guides the paintbrush. The water aids the process.

But we? We are the tissue paper in this watercolor world. The ones that that clean the mess created by the paintbrushes. The ones who gulp in the excess water. The backstage crew, the janitors, the underrated member.

A painting can survive without tissue paper. Tissue paper is just needed for one specific technique, anyway. But a painting cannot survive without the palettes, the paintbrushes, the water.

We are the tissue paper in this watercolor world, and with every droplet that we absorb, we become one step closer to breaking.

We are the tissue paper in this watercolor world. Not always important, not always needed. The second-class canvass, that at the end of the day, will be thrown away.

But no matter what is said about us, we enjoy each mistake we absorb. The clash of vibrant colors on my skin go unnoticed by the hand too focused on the masterpiece.

However, unlike the painting, my existence does not exist solely on the artist’s image. I am free from scrutiny, free to embrace every hue that comes my away, and free to never let go of any one of them.

We may be trash in your eyes, but art is art, and




To the Tissue Papers in this Watercolor World

Project Occupation

This Summer 2015, I’m going to start “Project Occupation”, a writing project that I thought of on my own.

Many have walked past these people without a second glance. This writing project will help me as a writer and you as a reader experience any and every thing these people might have experienced in their occupation. Let me put us all into their shoes.

I have always been curious about different people walking through their separate paths of life. I have always wondered what they were thinking, what their dreams were, what their motivation was, their drive. I wondered if they were really as happy as the media showed they were, if they were really envious of others.

Maybe by hitting them with assumptions, one day, someone would point out my wrongs, and we could all learn together, be it an “Oh, this was how it was” or an “Oh, so this was what they thought of me”.

Suggestions for Project Occupation are welcome.

Criticism are even more so.

For the main purpose of this project is for both parties to learn and become more open-minded.


Project Occupation

Tonight was just perfect

Let me tell you what my perfect night feels like.

It’s one of those nights when you’re playing your favorite song (in my case, it was Wait by M83. A perfect song for when the sun is gone and solitude is your best friend) while strolling under the dark sky. It’s when the air is chilly, and it cools your damp hair. You feel fresh, and although your arms are a bit cold, your insides are warm and you feel content.

It’s one of those nights where you’re in the car and the temperature is cool, and the lights just pass by you in a blur, and you’re dreaming of dancing with him, of holding him, of simply being with him. You don’t think of shouts and arguments made out of misunderstanding and misplaced rage, like you usually do.

It’s one of those nights when you’re complete as a family. And everything is just… perfect. From every single food you’re blessed to eat, to every chime of laughter you’re lucky enough to even hear from the people you love the most. Everyone is in a good mood, for once. Your brother’s not pouting, your sister’s not complaining, your parents aren’t chastising. Your father’s not on the phone, your mother doesn’t look sad, and the best part? Everyone’s actually talking to each other.

To top it all of, tonight is special. Tonight is your parents’ 18th anniversary. Everyone’s smiling, teasing, joking, laughing. For once, every single part of you is content.

And when you walk, there’s a skip in your step. Your spine is straight, your eyes are facing forward. You feel confident. For once, you are not looking down. You are not wearing headphones. You are not slouching. For once, you actually feel pretty. You actually feel like you’re a beautifully grown teenage lady with such a carefree heart, mind and soul.

These nights are rare. So rare, I doubt most who would read this has actually experienced it – and I know that only a few do. And I am just thankful. So thankful for everything perfect that has happened tonight. I know it only lasted for a few hours, and I know it won’t last for long.

This perfection will end.

Perhaps tomorrow, your sister will start complaining again, your father will be on the phone again, your brother will be glued to his gadgets, and your mother will be away for work. Perhaps tomorrow, you might feel  like total crap, or you won’t feel as content with the world as you do right now.

But you are content right now. The night is perfect. You feel perfect. Sleep, and remember. This night was not a dream. This actually happened. This miracle is not a dream. Rather, it is a memory, but hey. It happened. The perfect night happened… Is that not what matters most?

Tonight was just perfect

When it rains, I subconsciously look outside my window, and stare for a long time. No one does that when it’s sunny. Perhaps it is because I love the inconsistent drops of rain, the wild way each drop of water flows whenever the wind howls. Maybe it’s because I love how it always pours in a different direction every time. Maybe it’s because, when I look up, I don’t see that thin line between air and water, and it makes me ponder on how it is possible for liquid to form a teardrop shape, and why it can’t be the shape of a perfect circle, or oval. Or maybe, it is, and I don’t see it.

With rain comes the endless possibilities – of just how cold, of how heavy, of the presence of thunder and lightning, of what sound it will make when it reaches the ground. With rain comes inconsistency, and the hope that, if something as imperfect as rain can look beautiful, then perhaps, one day, so can I.


Writing Challenge

So I gave myself a Writing Challenge today:

Writing Challenge: Give me a word. Within the day, I will make a story using all the random words given to me. If I fail to do include your word, or failed to do the whole thing entirely, I owe you a dare. Only valid until 1:16pm. One person = One word.

End time: 2.30pm.
Words: Banana, Coitus, Giraffe, Tilapia and Erinaceous
A/N: In just an hour, I have written a half-assed tragic love story about a giraffe and a fish. Ok, please don’t hit me if it’s bad. Not physically, anyway. Enjoy!

Continue reading “Writing Challenge”

Writing Challenge