“I cry your mercy-pity-love! -aye, love!
Our two souls therefore, which are one,
The train winds to a stop like a cog turning,
Broken air-con suppressing us like tissue-paper,
like a rubber band stretched – suddenly melting,
Hydraulics, simple force of will,
freedom within others confinement,
I’d smash through a window, escape through the tunnels, for a breath of stale-fresh air,
steal a boat, no waves or unfair wind to stop me from reaching you
-or perhaps simply walk on water, water molecules inert, fixed in place-
I’m longing to put a stop to time,
drop ‘who I am’ like a heavy suitcase
Response to the Daily Post prompt:
Part of a-to-z challenge
I stand before the inanimates,
Ankles soaked, standing by that painting of a lake…
Does anyone else feel this way sometimes? I want to live but, I don’t feel happy.
I’ve always been a bit of a unhappy person, but even more so recently. I enjoy talking to my friends, and I’m numbed by endorphins during exercise, the grunt of and sweet friction of muscles, and also by study; I can satisfied by a sandwich; but sometimes it just feel like life’s a little too empty?
I’m not in one of these moods right now, hence I’m able to write this. I’m quite unsure of a number of things right now…
I’ve been thinking about talking to my school counsellor, but have been constantly flip-flopping on this decision. I’m not sure if my problem is serious enough, since I have gotten these moods in the past too. However, this time, there has also been another event regarding a friend which happened a month ago, which I haven’t gotten over that I’ve been quite upset about. Only a few of my friends know about. I want to get advice on how to get past the incident, but…
I’m unsure about the level of confidentiality my school’s counsellors would keep if I told them everything. They’ve previously said that they would contact the student’s parents if the situation required. What the hell is this benchmark exactly?
I could use aliases for the people involved/ keep the situation as vague as possible of course, but I’m afraid something may slip out if I’m too emotional. The circumstances are also such that it would be quite obvious who the friend is if they ran a background check on the students in my school or simply spoke to my teacher. Both me and my friend would be in quite a bad situation if her identity was found out/ our parents learnt of our situation.
Ever had that feeling that your friends are just day-to-day acquaintances, and not people you can connect to on a deeper level? Should I try talking to my friends about my feelings right now? I feel like I can’t though they’ve been really caring and supportive when I’ve gone through troubles/ had my lows in the past. But this time there’s no clear reason to my discontent/ I’ve been acting as though the event has not affected me at all?
My friends probably don’t even know I’m feeling quite low right now, except one to whom I have mentioned my intention to speak to a counsellor. I can’t open up to my family entirely, though I’ve told my sister quite a bit. Maybe also because I live in an Asian society where we aren’t encouraged to speak much about our feelings? But mainly because of a certain aspect to my troubles I can’t tell them about.
Not that I really understand myself also, which is why my words come out in a mess when I try to explain it. I should probably
But certainly, ranting here has given me greater peace of mind…
I’ll get through this, just that my feelings are a bit more irrational and directionless this time.
Is my truth untrue, or is human communication an illusion?
Just when I thought I’ve started to forget,
crystallized inside me like a peach stone
my longing to hold the dial tone to my ear, vein pulsating
endlessly; though nothing waits for me on the other end,
the familiar ring of your old number, dead now;
the intensity of petals stroked by the wind,
like how old people listen to rain;
hear the falling of water drops
If you happen to cross a black sidewalk
in the evening,
Those songs in alien tongue, my soul they sooth;
That foreign ballad surely sings of your
intent; intensity of your feelings.
Illiterate emotion and guesswork
But ignorance is bliss in prison walls
Talking to old folks is fun. Seriously.
Sure they yak your ear off half the time and exclaim that you’re too skinny, but you get to hear about the lives of the Cold-War/ baby-boomer generation. I write this sandwiched between two antiques (my grandparents):
My grandfather: Hard of hearing. Greying head, yet he doesn’t seem much grayer than my father. Paints, now that’s he’s retired. Threw rocks at policemen in his youth, alongside those later arrested as Communists (my grandfather disagrees, why should they have had to die for the British imperialists in the jungles of Malaya?) Dad said he played Beethoven and Tchaikovsky around the house on the brass gramophone when he and aunt were kids, like a proper pauper of bourgesie background. His family was rich but his mother was the second wife.
My grandmother left a life of parties 200 guests and spacious courtyards for a tiny flat to cook and clean and make kueh for three children. Her brothers talk to her now, not back when she first eloped. Used to play the piano; her joints hurt now.
The other granddad: Left his country with a relative to escape an abusive stepfather. Reads a bit; he didn’t finish school.
My grandmother. Oddly liberal; of course my cousin doesn’t need him, women can work now. I asked her of her views on something my parents refused to speak of – she shook her head but smiles a bit as if to say ‘the times are a-changing’.
I would love to see a bit of them in myself.
H is for their stories,
Conventional wisdom about writing is conventionally wrong.
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