One day I will wake up without a headache and heartache, and finally see that when sober, the world is a place worth living in. And one day I will wake up without an image of you, or you, or you, seared into the back of my lids.


4:00 PM
(you never sleep regularly anymore.)


4:00 PM

(you never sleep regularly anymore.)

(via gilbertnorrell)

We were supposed to take a long walk but it started to rain. I instinctively started the run back to the car but you grabbed my arm to hold me back. “What’s the rush?” you say.

(In the end we ended up running back for the rain grew too much. Sometimes you just don’t want to challenge God.)

It was a cold night, and it had been the first cold night in many days. I am convinced that the warm summertime clouds my memories and eyes, but I’m sure it’s part delusion and part wishful thinking that colder evenings change anything.

We dried off in the backseat of the car and as you toweled my damaged hair that would never dry, I briefly mentioned that I would do something about the horrible roots. You scoffed and said that’s none of your business.

I’m always with cruel men who never know what to say or do especially when I’m looking for approval but at the same time, I know it’s unfair to want for something you never really asked for in the first place. So I said, “none of your business as in you don’t care, or what?”

"None of my business as in, I don’t care what you do to your hair, but I care about your feelings that you have for your hair."

That’s when I laughed, and I laughed really hard. I laughed so hard that I had trouble breathing for a while. Yes, I have a lot of feelings about a lot of things.

"You could be dropping hair from multiple dye jobs and I wouldn’t care. But I would care enough only if you were upset that you were dropping hair. Then I would tell you to stop that shit and come back to bed."

I smiled. “You’re unreal, you know?” I wanted to tell you that, but I never did. Instead you reached over to close the distance between us and sucked out the words from the tip of my tongue.

Original concept art for Star Wars by Ralph McQuarrie.

(Source:, via throux)

On the way home this morning, I suddenly remembered why I stopped walking home. The journey felt seemingly far too long alone and I can’t bear to be in the company of just myself. And I called to talk to you along the way home.

We didn’t talk much, all I heard were words and the sounds of you breathing. “Are you drinking?” I asked. 

"Yes. It’s empty in the house without you."

"I try not to drink now."

"That’s what you always say. I bet you were shit-faced at least once early this week."

I laughed. It was thrice. But it’s getting better. At least my hands don’t shake at work now.

"Why are you calling me?"

I contemplated telling the truth, but I figured you didn’t need to know all of it. “Just felt like it.” Just a little bit will do.


It was really cool that night, and even though it felt like my limbs were made of water and my lids were heavy after a really long week, my mind was sober for what felt like a long while. And I know what I was feeling and thinking. And the cool night made me realise that I hadn’t been out at night in a while. It seems like summer is waning, and so have all my loves.

"I like you enough, you know? And you should too."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. You always call when you feel a certain way about yourself."

That night, I drank myself to sleep and dreamt that my family had died in the waters. When I woke up, I half-expected you to hold me and tell me it’s okay. But I realised I was back in my bed alone. For a long while, I stopped crying in my hands, but waking up often feels like death recently and that’s the only thing that I can do to start the day right. I take the tears to be the restlessness and helplessness being squeezed out of every cell. If I can’t change anything, then I sure as fuck better make sure feelings don’t manifest.

I forgot why we stopped loving each other — something along the lines of not wanting the same things or going down the same path or you deserving better. I imagined you last night on your couch with a beer. If life went our way, I would be reading next to you on our couch and you would be working on your sums. None of us would be drinking heavily. None of us would be on the other side of the phone.

For a thousand what-ifs that hang in the air, there is a definitive reality. I opened my eyes and I see you seated across me having breakfast at the table. You smiled. And that’s the last I remember.


"Have you ever seen a picture of yourself, taken when you didn’t know you were being photographed, from an angle that you don’t usually see when you look in a mirror, and you think: "That’s me… that’s also me”
Stoker (2013)Chan-wook Park


"Have you ever seen a picture of yourself, taken when you didn’t know you were being photographed, from an angle that you don’t usually see when you look in a mirror, and you think: "That’s me… that’s also me”

Stoker (2013)
Chan-wook Park

(via wednesdaydreams)

On a good day, especially when the weather permutations are right — when the air is cool, the wind is blowing and the sun shines right into my eye — I often see a future that I daren’t hold too close in my heart for fear the devil might see through the deepest desires in my wicked heart and take in away. And at that specific time, it’s a fleeting image right at the back of my eyelids - a quick glimpse in a blink - before reality snaps back and I sit back slightly pleased that no one probably saw that. On a really good day.

(On a bad day, the devil covers my eyes.)

That early morning, I woke up in a fit and you were still sleeping. And while trying to wrestle out of our tangled bodies, I decided that if I left that secret in an unsuspecting heart, the devil could never take it away. Because how can the devil take away something that you never knew was there? So in between gulps of whiskey, I managed to whisper something — softly, quietly, so neither of you would hear it.

And when I woke up, there was a sinking feeling and I knew for sure that I had left that secret in the wrong heart. For suddenly the future seemed too close to disintegrating on itself and I had been too stupid to know that the devil himself came to collect it personally.

Some nights, I really want to scream. And it’s mostly about the things I cannot change. Those that I can, I have. Those that I haven’t, I will. But those that I can’t, I haven’t accepted. It’s this dissatisfaction that causes this dull ache and these phantom tears and I will never understand why it’s hard to be.

Yet it’s this dissatisfaction which taunts me from behind that makes me want to look back and spit in its face. That does nothing to push me forward in life, but all I want to do is to finally embrace it so I may roll off a cliff with it. 


I think of all my lovers — past, present and potential — and I wonder if the threads of fate are real, and if reality is could be a figment of my imagination. Or if I’m still sleeping in a drunken stupor, or if I’m a life-sized digital render of a another lifeform that couldn’t move in their universe?

I have watched multiple lifetimes and outcomes go by in a dream, only to wake up disappointed that I haven’t died yet.

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