Yesterday I spaced out. And before I knew it, it was lunchtime. Where did time go?
There are pockets of time I don’t remember, yet moments that loop for eternity at the back of my lids. And even when I open them again, I find myself retracing the steps, only this time, it’s with other people. They say history repeats itself, but only because it’s impossible to let go.
There are days where I’m wake up and think it will be a good day. And it melts away two hours later. And on some not so good days, I wake up already a molten mess, hoping God would scoop me up and tell me it’s okay to have days like this. Sometimes people see the mess and would rather not touch it. And I get it.
There are people I love but would rather have them stay out of my life. But only because they don’t love me back the way I want them to. And if I can’t have all of you, then maybe I’ll take none. But I’ll save that speech for when I feel the bravery travel up to my knees and stomach. But today, they’re still residing at the back of my heels and I’m afraid I will collapse if I say it.
There are historical spaces I forgot existed, but are unearthed as time goes by. And the shared history is a little painful to re-visit - mostly because some are hazy, yet some replay on loop. And if time and space were jumbled up, then maybe the truth is, it never really existed.
I wanted life to a be movie — like a fast paced Chungking express with but that slow-mo shot of Cop 663 drinking the coffee — but my director’s cut is shitty.
There are very hot days (like today) when you wake up from a nap on the couch, alone and sweaty. Alone because everyone left the house, and sweaty because the heat has been so fuckingly unbearable and the still, warm air transforms and coalesces into a pool of sweat in clavicles.
And in the moment of frustration, thanks to the loneliness and the eternal stickiness on your skin, you eat the cold, leftover noodles from this morning wondering why you gave up the chance to be asleep in an air-conditioned room in someone’s arms.
Hot days give me a headache that blitzes through my skull each time I try to move, and the warmness sets off my restlessness and unhappiness like nothing else other. But I figure summertime is my personal hell, and I wish it would rain all the time. All the bloody time.
There’s a fine line between loneliness and solitude as I’ve figured out painfully over wasted years. And I wish I didn’t delude myself into insisting that amidst the slow crawl of a Sunday afternoon, that what I was feeling was indeed solitude. Because solitude meant productivity, and I haven’t done anything productive in years. But why is it like this? Why?
As I sat staring into an empty pot that was once filled with soggy noodles and limp vegetables, I realise how I lost control of time and discipline. The heat always makes me lose control and ups my irritation. Before I knew it, I finished old noodles that were meant for two and I had all the evidence on my shirt. I wish I gave a fuck about what I eat and my wrecked relationship with food. But as with life, I have better things to give a fuck about (i.e. nothing).
I also realise that the side of my lips were now bleeding because I keep biting into the same wounded spot as I eat too quickly. Yes, the wound is my fault, but it really can’t be helped - that area always gets in the way. After a while, it’s just become an annoyance. I’m okay. It’s okay. I even throw the pot and cutlery into the sink so I can wash it later.
It was a tearful, useless weekend, and I had done zero work even though I willed myself too. But like the cyclical nature of weather, the hot, frustrating days will pass. Right? Right?
Occasionally, I am frozen in my seat when I watch an Edward Yang film. Stricken by a past life that vividly plays at the back of my eyelids, I am thinking, is my present now then someone’s past memories?
There’s a silent suffocation that goes on in my home that makes it difficult to breathe. I’m not sure if it’s the warm air, or the ever-increasing presence of my mother. But in the summer, particularly this month, I feel like dying more often than usual. It’s the sweaty, wet nights by the window, the listless mornings where the sun rises too early to warm up the room, and the still, sticky air which sets off the boredom. There are only so many nights where I can work late, and so many people I can afford to meet.
This morning, I really hated you. And I felt like I couldn’t possibly like you anymore. I thought the feeling would abate by night, but going outside to smoke, I came face to face with the warm air again and I knew it was a week meant for boredom and burns on my thighs.
- Where do you want to go?
- Wherever you want to take me.
1. Often I am restless and bored, but I try to kill that boredom with other things. It’s like painting a fresh colour over a layer that I grew bored off - just that I realise that the need for new coats have increased over time. Sometimes, I’m surprised at how wet the paint is when I swipe the new coat across. And I’m not prepared for it when the colours mix. But it dries up and all I end up with is a really thick layer of paint and I forgot what it was I painted over. Is it a wooden block or a piece of canvas?
2. The other day, I removed my makeup and I found myself very unsatisfied with the spots on my face and how used I’ve gotten to looking at a made up face. My face is too sallow, rings too dark, lashes not thick enough, blah blah. I knew this day would come.
3. It’s April and my resolutions for the year have crumbled. I’ll try to pick them up, but I don’t have much hope for myself.
4. The other day in Seoul, I spent an evening in a cafe beside a stranger. We were outdoors, it was cold, I was smoking and drinking iced coffee, he was smoking and drinking something else. I was watching Pushing Daisies, and I’m sure he was watching me more than his own iPad. And I wonder what happens to the lives of others constantly - not in a jealous, covetous way. More so, I just want to know what’s happening in everyone’s lives. He would ask me for a cigarette later, and I even lit one up for him. Life is funny that way.
5. I want to try and make you happy, but I don’t know what to do. I stare at your face, often at your lashes and I get a funny feeling in my stomach. I haven’t determined what that feeling is. Sometimes I’m in the car and all I want to do is reach over and touch you, but then I wake up and realise I’m a fool.
6. Today I dreamt that I was getting married to a boy I never knew. It was going nightmareishly well and I was the best version of myself. Everyone was happy but most importantly, I felt like this was real. But I turn around to see R as a best man and I immediately felt my face melting and the ground give way - this had to be a dream. I woke up on the floor and I had missed the alarm.