a mini journal series: 2. GIVE ME MY BOOKS

10 days.

I want my books NOW.

Went on book depository a plethoric amount of times just to “double check” (currently: quadruple x10 check) my order status. 10 days.

I want my books.

 

At 12.38 pm, watching the vendor aunty char (炒: fry) my hokkien noodles, my hair partially fried under the parched noon air, I was choked by a doom that swept my last strands of forbearance tgtr with the rushing cars. Cry. You’ve never seen it…it won’t come.

Two men walk across the street from an office complex, sweat the adhesive to their long sleeve dress shirts sticking uncomfortably to their skin. They made definite, concrete steps with the clucking of their heels. They knew where this road would lead to. One lifts his wrist lightly, revealing his silver rolex, hastens toward the road bend.

How do you make the suit fit?

When do I wake up with mine?

This is when you stop crying. Education might as well be your route out of this rut, out of this ambiguity, out of this shivering fear that you’ll amount to nothing without it. That you will only be viewed with honor and decorum when you have its name to uphold you in the platforms of society.

When do I wake up with mine?

No.

Question is: when are you ready to quit messing around and make yours?

 

I’m sorry I’ve turned up like them.
Jesus,

I’m scared.

 

Beth
rest.

You are on top of the
world.

But. You disagree.

And it’s too long,
longing for something to give
When
the taking is free.

 

 

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i cried bc i thought i’d loss everything that made me beautiful

something i wrote at 2 am last night on ig:

i cried bc i thought i’d loss everything that made me beautiful.

it’s inevitable, as children, that we make some stupid and not too stupid choices, be it in fashion or beauty or lingo or even trivial things such as filters and captions on your internet posts, that might border the gates of what trends of this era reckon cool or not cool. and i conjecture, to a decent degree, everybody wants to be on the cool side of the gate. but bc cool is sooooo subjective, we’re constantly on the look out for epitomes to gratify our perceptions of “cool” for us to follow suit. we need someone (most probs the prominent guys topping billboards and uploading the perfect effortless ootds) to define the word in this time and space we’re heading towards. kay funny story when i first started ig back in 2013 my username was musicismyfreakinrockinlife. at that moment, based on all the disney rockstar movies i was watching from 2010, i was 100% sure i was the coolest kid around like i got my word game going and all. then when friends started pointing out that there were an excessive amount of adjectives and jargons all in one username, i was suddenly teleported to the insecure teenage consciousness that perhaps i was emitting too much passion, im coming off too strong. that’s when figures and algorithms in my head started to alter, thus i was thrusted to 2013 media (of much i can’t quite distinctify among the other 2000-smth years) as my reference to cool, reluctantly forced to leave hannah montana + country taylor swift world into more updated content. there was also an occurence that made me believe knowing every pop singer’s latest songs was a must if you wanna be cool. then in fashion and beauty, i kind of subconsciously felt that if im not dressing like how everyone else would dress i must either be stunningly good at being different to be labeled hippie or indie, or i’ll be classified as aunty or ah ma. and when you start to probe around new opinions on these surficial aspects and you decide you’ve mustered up enough gallantry to run the risk on being perceived differently than before, you get reactions out of ppl. and no matter how many times you’ve told yourself this is part of the growing process, this is what you’ve signed up for, you know this was coming on you, blah blah…you know that if your pride would allow it, you’d admit your scared of falling short of the “pretty girl” you were before you decided to go for the fringe cut and that short hair that brought out the extra chub in your cheeks and long flower skirts and that baggy faded tee your mum got as a souvenir back in the 90s. you’re afraid ppl will begin slipping snide remarks about you trying too hard to be someone else when all you’re trying to do is figure out yourself or aunties telling you “girl, you are so guapa (tagalog for pretty) but what happened to you? you were so slim just a few years ago” you’re afraid you’ve got really nothing about you now that’s pretty or cool.

i find it a little ironic(e) how in the midst of all the tension simmering inside me, i can still talk about Jesus and what He says about me and everybody else on the matter. one morning this year, in school when i was leading out worship i shared with other students about what God thinks about the entirety of us (psalm 139:14) i rmbr saying “it’s okay to not feel pretty some days, but it’s NOT okay to NOT feel beautiful” and bc being beautiful is an identity, it’s got roots tracing all the way down to your very breath that He lent you, it’s got roots tracing all the way down to the heart He fashioned individually for you, to your inherent gifts, to the way you can say “You are good” even when adversity is pushing on you and your nasty neighbor is spitting saliva on your face as he reprimands you tirelessly, to the various forms in which you worship and love and tell a story. beautiful is a living word that has depths fathometers cannot gauge and so forget pretty. rip it off like that glossy magazine page about proportionate, no stretch mark, skinny bodies and know that wanting to look good on the outside is not bad per se, but getting your perspective straight is vital when treading the fragile floors of beauty controversy. you are so beautiful !! don’t you ever let that front cover or this or that aunty tell you otherwise. respond instead with the immense love that He gives.

this is so overdue and i’ve been having a lot of dialogues and monologues and prayers about this. i just want to introduce just a tiny fraction of the enormous vast glory of Jesus. i just want to say Jesus (and not as a cuss word 😂) i pray for everyone out there in all those social media platforms tonight, i pray that you continue to live out the beauty He has already placed inside you. good good good night i love you all ❤❤❤

can i write about you like the way you turn your head in slow-mo like in the movies?

unrelated:

if there’s someone who’ll sit hushed in a corner
just immersing oneself in your
(coffee) sweet lilts

can that please be me?

i want to write like 5 compendiums on love and that airy lightheaded ness, so prevalent among lovesick children (the one that is a byproduct of stupid, awry grins after your first smooch on the cheek). but ik so little about it. i’ll most likely get started on that project when im 65 or smth, perhaps by then vintage films and spongy poems would move behind my repertoire of case study materials and i’ll be able to deliver a more coherent thesis on the phenomenon (/paradox). but for now i can stick with cotton candy against saliva tongues as the best analogy for the sensation okay ew no it does sound wrong.

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oh what a pity

 

oh what a pity,
if our talents were use for vapor

if the songs we sing,
as thick as may seem
deems to weigh nothing more than a feather

oh what a pity,
the juveniles pealing with foolish ambition
will awaken to find the void of their vision

oh what a pity,
to drizzle our tongues with the ganache of eloquence
and later be bitten by the bitter of their decaying resonance

oh what a pity,
the child fists disillusions of rhyme and metre
how could he ever be replenished by its salty river

oh what a pity,
the rusted pen that rolls forlorn characters on your wrinkled paper
does she not know she write for nothing
but
vapor?

last night my cousins and sisters and i watched the dead poets society 1989. i have to admit what compelled me to suggesting it as a viable movie night option was its theme of poetry. i thought that as someone who writes, the film might serve as some introspective insight on the mechanics and heart of the craft. so we gave it a go. i have to give the movie justice for its realistic character development and the little gestures and responses from them towards mr keating’s classes, pulled some kind of warmth inside. the way such eager young lads had an ear for eloquent words and whenever mr keating quoth or acted out in his quirky methods, their glistening eyes would follow his as he paced through the classroom and i was amazed by their reverent awe of “carpe diem” and this new world mr keating provided them a peak through. but in conclusion, i have to say i did not receive the closure the idealistic side of me wanted and i went to sleep with some kind of empty churn in the bottom of my stomach. i talked to ning er after the film a little bit about our opinions and reviews on it and together we had some kind of a critical discussion on the mechanical construction of its rise and fall and the greater implications behind each scene. i enjoy the rawness of the boys and their emotions and their newly aroused passions and “the barbaric” and “poetic” in them. very whimsical and evocative altogether. but it is a film i would not recommend the younger, emotionally unstable and mentally unfettered me to entertain my impressionable mind with. from my personal point of view, the story is off-center. and i believe a strong foundation in your identity is crucial when watching this film or any similar kinds because it’s so easy to be manipulated by the seemingly good.

i woke up this morning, my dream completely vanished from my memory and leaving only the hangover of last night’s unnerving ending. and so i got to the table, pulled out a stray sheet and my trusty gel pen and begin writing the poem above.

hi, im writing at night again bc it’s safer for secrets to be written -will

and when i stare into all that i am,
i fear for not wanting to be the best of me

when i climb into the boxes that hold the structure of my existence
i wonder if i can keep inside forever
if i can hide behind Your cloak forever
if i would always be able to hear Your song

i don’t want to break out of this reverie
i don’t want to detach from this reality

 

someone asked me today of my greatest fear,
“it’s this state of mind where my realities switch.
when the white noises become the loud noises,
the loud noises become the white noises.

and sometimes–
if i stare long enough at a single object,
i see nothing.”

he nodded his 38 year old head
in his 13 year old body
he said he hated that one, “it’s like
the world’s slowly melting away around you.
and it’s just
you.”

and my heart cried a little
because a seemingly blithe child knew how
a nightmare of mine felt like,
when he’s not supposed to

what have been done
to make a small body feel so much–
i can’t really decipher.

but he said he was just like me.
that we were of same breed
and just as how i couldn’t figure
my head out
he couldn’t his as well

so all we could do is cling onto
a word, a word to define just a scarce of our enigmas.
and because we were good in pretending
to be coherent individuals,
theater was our favorite game

so we explained even the
tiniest of trivialities to each other
like the hands of our mind
could fit the most overwhelming ideas
and still be able to accommodate more.

moments i spend
musing on our prospects,
i wonder if he could keep the light in his body
because tonight, im begging the light will be retained
in mine for as long as light Himself, graces me with
His physical presence

 

 

 

hear this heart as it counts to you

 

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#1 creative writing prompt //  10.14.17 (sat night)

1. tofu 2. sweet pea 3. freckles 4. dapples 5. cobbled
6. curtain 7. kimchi 8. wind 9. music 10. sunshine
11. glass 12. bowl 13. table 14. pen 15. phone

 

i dance on a time far away from the sane,
beyond the stir of the east winds,
beyond the old music that reverberates out of gran’s vinyl record player,
beyond the glass that spins right out of your hold.

“can i follow?” she prompted.

“i don’t know, sweet pea.

could you follow where sunshine is not spare,
where cobbled streets are never muddled in bitter rains,
and the table never bear?”

her eyes glistened in the gleam of the morning light,
as she scooched nearer with jittery knees.
the faded lemon curtains drawn a quarter from the tainted windows,
letting in shards of refracted rays.

“where every phone ring is a sure promise of bowls of silk tofu
swimming in broths of kimchi juice,
and every running of the rusted pen
only rolls dapples of gold dust
on your magic paper?”

when i broke out of my reverie,
we were clad in eye smiles,
our freckles bathing in the folds of sun.

“if only i could,”
she mused.

“if only we could.”