Hands down the BEST ANSWER to “how do you like to spend your Friday nights?”
“I’d watch a funny movie with a friend. Lying down, with our heads hanging off the bed, throwing popcorn into each other’s mouths.
… Actually, it’d be driving and stealing cones. I have so many”.
Best answers to “what fruit would you be?”
“A banana so my best friend could be a monkey”.
“A grape so I wouldn’t be alone”.
Ya goof. You’ve managed to accurately capture yourself in a sentence and that is a talent.
“The moon is like a lemon wedge”, she said.
And I told myself it was beautiful and that I was going to write it down.
We ran with the lemon-wedged moon.
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What if she never saw herself as an artist?
Would I be the artist for recognizing her art? I’m taking the truth and I am framing it.
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We don’t create, we translate. We just don’t remember when or where we had once felt the same way. All of you poets and creators! We are the same! You describe what is in me.
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My story is the most outrageous. Until I hear yours.
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We are moments colliding. You remind me of all these other good things.
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The music is an animal. A moving mass that has possessed me.
A language. We have diffused into each other.
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Thought is a polluter. Please, can you get out of my head.
There are things that I’ve written about you that I will one day look back on and chuckle at. It’s always funny to see how much something once meant, how deeply something was once felt. Nothing can take away how my heart lifts when I remember, though. Happiness is a moment.
I can only hope I made you feel the way you made me feel. Thank you. Thank you.
I had to scrap this post. I don’t know why I even care. If I post something I later deem unsatisfactory, I will put it away and try again. The problem is, it’s hard for me to decide when things are good enough. I will not toss words together and leave it at that, or repeat the base-line for a song when I haven’t got a clue what to do next. I have to make sure that the song progresses, that the thought is well-rounded and executed. Oftentimes I will ‘draft’ these, save the songs or film projects for a later time- when my head is clear-, but after each alteration, the due date is postponed. I am trying my hardest to just write, because my older posts have a refreshing quality to them that I seem to have lost. Maybe that’s the price paid for practice?
Anyway, here is my fear: I cannot bear to be uninteresting. As egotistical as that sounds, I am a human person (Biomedical Ethics has me saying things like ‘human person’) in college, surrounded by brilliant minds competing for the attention of a few professors. Get recommendations, get opportunities. Not only that, I am inspired by people all the time. Questions in lecture, unabashed students in discussion. These people have a lot to offer. These people will make changes in the world, for they have already stirred something within me. I admire people who are engaged, passionate, and curious. I say this all the time. If I seek these qualities in people, shouldn’t I strive to possess them too? I realize that you can not acquire knowledge and formulate intelligent, insightful thoughts without engaging. Every person can contribute something- it’s just a matter of whether or not they are attuned to their surroundings/ themselves. Passionate people observe, question, and piece things together, building upon a personal understanding they have of their own lives. What they take in, they absorb and then spit out, leaving a unique, self-saturated idea. There is hope for me! I say to myself: go, learn and receive.
You say you’re a story teller and I believe you. You’re obsessed with stories- an artist of sorts- and I both admire and pity you for it. Why can’t you just let things be? Why must life be embellished through the retellings so that it is nothing short of raw and tragic? Why must you live as though nothing is real? As if life is but a stage and you a performer, with every interaction a calculated exchange? Why must you look to the stars in contemplation just because your jaw has found appropriate lighting? Why must you woo the college girl in the garden just because the scene allows it? All that is missing is a cameraman.
You talk to me but you listen to yourself. You read off a script that must sound impressive, inspiring. You patent every thought and claim their originality. Yes, mortality is scary, our insignificance is scary, but much more so to you, it seems. Why must you equate your value with fame and immortality? Are we not equal in death? “No”, you say. “Some people are more important than others”. And so I applaud you for earnestly looking for meaning, even if it is to be created. All the lunatics believe in something. They’re not insane, they’re just trying to find god, faith, something to believe in. Maybe a little faith keeps us sane because life is hopeless otherwise.
I let you hold my hand but it is meaningless. I am so tired of small chat. I’m tired of pretending for a shallow connection, but I will pretend and I will be someone else for the moment so I don’t have to run away. For now, the laughter is real. I’ve let myself go in this character and it makes me sad.
It’s not that you’re ever any less wonderful. I just keep forgetting.
If a girl withholds from kissing you, don’t persuade her with looks and sighs and rebuttals. That is coercion.
Do I idealise you, ignore your flaws and diminish their prominence in my mind or do I acknowledge them and forgive you for them? I choose to see you the way I do. If we were perfect, we wouldn’t require forgiveness; we wouldn’t need love. How fortuitous it is that we are all imperfect and in need of love to know that we are lovable still. Conjoined in this.
Make me whole by forgiving me for not being whole at all.
She spoke words of encouragement as she walked me through the door. “You cry so cute-ly”, she said. And still I couldn’t shake the embarrassment of being so blissfully happy, because it is absurd to the world. Somehow, she understood and I thought: I’m meant to be here with this person, this stranger who understands. Her every word was an echo of love and truth; what a beautiful person! And when I turned to close the door and finally looked at her in the light, she wasn’t as attractive as I had imagined or remembered her to be. But why should it matter? It’s like, when you’re drunk and people look nicer. It’s almost a test of acceptance. Why can’t they be just as beautiful just by being who they are? I might not remember her face, but I will remember her kindness. She is beautiful.
I am in love with you as my fingers and muscles pulse. As things slow down and time moves in frames. And I don’t know if I’m slow or if the world is fast. Are you with me? It seems like you are with me. You are genuine, you care, and I am happy. I am so happy. I am touched, I am thankful and I am astounded.
I wish I can remember what exactly we talked about.
That’s why we are astounded by kindness. Because against all odds, they were gentle spirits. There is hope in the world, no matter how small, no matter how few. I almost cannot believe it.
I hope to God you are God.
I’m living in a little room in a country over 7000 miles away from home, without my art supplies and too little space for the guitar and a piano. The walls are chalky and I can’t seem to get the tapestry to stay in place. It chokes people in their sleep and is prone to being ripped down by a careless jerk of the arm.
Sometimes I can’t stand being in there. I sit on the floor to read. But it’s weird to think that I have already made memories in that space- I can see myself stumbling over my suitcase to pass out on the bed, trying to be discreet so as not to wake the roomie. Or that time I lay down and rested my eyes whilst he told me stories and was subsequently exiled from the room (polite roommate request). I have confirmed my suspicion that I don’t like sharing rooms.
Being back in Hong Kong for Christmas, it’s tempting to feel like this is where nothing has changed, where our new lives are on hold. We’ve all had multiple New Beginnings but here is the place where we go back. I can ring my friends with the certainty that they will pick up with their Hong Kong numbers and be able to jump on my sister if I should feel like it. Even though I’m sat by the dining table where I’ve sat a thousand times and the sun is falling on the cashews and the plants lined by the windows in that way that makes me think this could be any other Wednesday, I am so far removed from where I was even six months ago. Pre-university and post-graduation was a rounded event in itself; a small year. And my heart drops to think that I will be turning nineteen soon. Too soon.
I have been displaced and renewed, forced to care about some things and ignore others- I don’t have time to separate my laundry and read every passage assigned. I have learned to make sacrifices because there aren’t enough hours in the day to live a balanced life. I have learned to be more forgiving towards myself, to give myself time, to let myself be challenged. My best is enough.