It is a miracle for people to love each other, in spite of the fact that people are people. We are so minute and small in this ocean of want. How we part like clouds nobody watches. Is there beauty in what’s unknown? I’m sitting at a cafe, alone, watching filled-out city buses run to death. Heads like mason jars filled with thoughts nobody will remember. I can’t help but relate everything to you at some point. It’s an instinct to bury myself in memory. Come on. Think of simpler times, think of the time we were bent sweaty making guacamole in the kitchen when you stabbed yourself with the knife, the seed a spared child. We had to call an ambulance and you were so afraid that you would never write again. The gap in your palm, first a fleshy blue, then purple, like an evening sky after a fisherman’s day. The shape of that wound is carved still on the walls of my mind. I trace it from time to time to remind me how delicate life is. How it all hangs on silken thread and frayed knots, a fire threatening to devour it all. The power of a few centimetres, the fear of the hit and miss. The scars that have yet to form, to heal.
It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything (for this website, anyway), so I figured I might as well switch it up a little with some blogging.
Finally got something accepted somewhere! I’ve gotten a piece in Food Republic, the first (to my knowledge, anyway) food-themed anthology in Singapore, as well as two fun little experiments into Caveat Lector, UCD’s lit mag. Somewhere along the process I started to realise how little I was submitting outside as opposed to how much I thought I was doing. Making a spreadsheet really reveals how much you’re actually doing with your work – I guess I’m now in the “100 rejections per year” gang.
Also! Finished and submitted for Manuscript Bootcamp. While I have little confidence about making it to the end, I do hope that the judges enjoy the work. Working on it was really exhausting and made me hate my own work for a while.
Speaking of hating myself – SingPoWriMo has officially descended! Essentially Singapore’s National Poetry Writing Month, we have to write a poem each day for a month. The pressure so far has been pretty high – I’ve had a good thing going the past few days but the Day 5 prompt threatens to ruin that streak.
Fingers crossed! I’m full of hope and optimism and back pain right now.
If two sameselves make a paradox, then so is my birth; one roll of the die with infinite sides. I oscillate between possibilities like a speck of dust caught in vision. A child of coincidence, one branch of Yggdrasil, born to yearn for fruit. I’d like to reconfirm my own existence, ensure that I was some other unknown in an equation. I need to verify that there is a purpose to this permanence. I’d like to see the snip of the tether between this poem and the next. To be free under a maiden blade. To be named again and again.
Time lies, useless as a sword in the lake. For one, there’s time, and then, there is passage, as in come, squeeze the cheeks of this little tragedy. Who will offer the world their breast? I’m sat, couched deep in tomorrow, hands on the pulse. Tomorrow I will flip onto the pavement and pound it Into confession. Tomorrow I will flip on the tele and watch nothing, I will ride down to a cliff and say nothing. Time waits there, watching over us all like an empty house.
Truth be told, I still find most of my writing to be horrid or gross somehow. Posting them online is one way for me to try and curb this mentality. I need to be comfortable with the things I write.
The taste of dish soap lingers on the rim of the teacup. You and I sit at crossroads, legs dangling over cliffs. This is an exercise in communication by proxy, messages hidden in the fold of an arm.Coltrane murmurs in the background like a roommate, and the television is switched off. This is timeless, this is the way we freeze-frame our lives, this is how it’s always been. Quiet slips into the tea. Outside, the world loiters on to the beat of its own heart, clouds passing strangers, averting gazes onto the street. Your irises cross the street too, leaving without goodbyes. I get up and walk into another room, empty, but I don’t come back. The teacups are left in the sink, soaking everything in.
Written for UCD LitSoc’s Writer’s Bloc! It’s a fun workshop where we get to do short writing prompts within a limited time span. Really encourages stream of consciousness-based writing as well! Also, I realise the tea cup in the featured image isn’t exactly the type of tea cup that would fit here but I couldn’t find an image I wanted. Sorry!