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.