I wish life was more like fiction. When people get me down I find my solace in writing and music.
Here is where I stash all my unwanted thoughts.
Here’s to the broken hearts army
Marching seven billion strong
If this sounds all to familiar
Perhaps this is your song:
Here’s to the front-liners: party of the generalised
The single parent, the bullied, those waiting to die
The drunk, the struggling artist, the disaffected youth
Those who thought voices spoke to them
And that the world burst into flames in a million colours
Whose pain has been so much described
We think we know enough to sympathise
And yet whenever they break down
Our numbness at the lack of surprise
Then here’s to those living on the margins
Who cries into their pillow at night
When all they had done was to love
Who gets lower pay and longer hours
By their employer whose skin is a shade lighter
Who everyone avoids like a plague
The legacy of a wild night when 18
But most of all here’s to you
You who spent hours making the dinner your husband doesn’t touch
You who had looked forward to that Disneyland birthday trip for months
You who stayed up till morning going through your notes
Just to watch the college offer land
At the feet of the girl born with the silver spoon
You who handmade a card for your crush
Which he forgot about and never read
You who slept in the office to finish up work
But never got the pay rise you deserve
Here’s to all of you who sought for reciprocation
Here’s to the broken hearts army.
I used to always wonder what it was like for people living ages ago, isolated from the world - what do they do with their lives? How is it that they can accept the things that they do, not knowing about the multitudes of things around them, the limits of the sky?
“Of course it is … “Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth should that mean that it is not real?”
We’re all in the blind spot until someone plants an idea in our head. You want to go on road trips because you’ve read On the Road. You want to travel because you’ve seen millions of pictures of different places. You want to be in certain relationships because of years being finely bred by soap opera. You want to start a family in a nice suburban area in the States even though you’ve never been there and live halfway across the world, just because you’ve heard so much about how it’s like. You even want to experience the bad things, so long as you have an expectation of how it’ll turn out. You’re rarely interested in anything you’ve absolutely never approached. Things are seldom good or bad. They’re good because they match or went beyond the expectations. They’re bad because they didn’t live up to what we pictured. It is very, very difficult to feel anything towards something you have absolutely never come across. Our lives are not so much what we do but what goes on in our head.
In this world of growing connections and information explosion, it’s no wonder people never feel happy anymore.
My tea’s gone cold I’m wondering why I..
got out of bed at all
The morning rain clouds up my window..
and I can’t see at all
And even if I could it’ll all be gray,
but your picture on my wall
It reminds me, that it’s not so bad,
it’s not so bad..
I don’t know who else to write to, because Nobody cares and Nobody would listen.
Why do I feel so sad all the time? How do you tell people about that? The world demands of you a reason to be sad. When you tell them you’re sad the first thing the asks is why. Why do they do that? Everyone knows feelings are irrational. And yet, there has to be a reason for your irrationality. I’m on my period, you tell them, even if you aren’t. You’re on a lot of pressure from your schoolwork lately, you say. Yet you know that’s not the truth, the truth, the truth is something you can’t tell anyone, because they won’t understand. I remember when I was in Year 8 there was this girl who was depressed, really depressed, so depressed was on meds, but it was alright for her, because she had an excuse, her mom had cancer. She’s okay now. But I remember how it was like then, when she was sensitive and touchy over everything and she would interpret everything to be an attack against her and she would believe that the whole world hates her and eventually the whole world did, save one friend. That wasn’t me, I wasn’t so understanding back then. Nor now, I suppose. The ironic thing was, she was very aware of her behaviour, and she knew that if she kept being sad eventually every would disappear, which was what she was most afraid of, but she did it anyway, because obviously she couldn’t control her sadness. It was like an experiment, and a self-fulfilling prophecy.
That’s how I feel now. I come from a family of people who are known to have depression. Maybe that’s a reason there.
When you feel suffocated by emptiness what you’re really doing is screaming and waiting for someone to hear you, but they almost never do. How do you tell anyone the feeling that there’s not a soul in this world that can understand you, how do you come to terms with the feeling that you don’t even want to try because you’re worried that the few people you have left in your life would think you’re weird and leave you. I tried pouring my heart out once, this year, to a guy who wasn’t worth it at all. After a thousand word long text message he replied me with three words and then next day in the corridor he looked at me awkwardly as if he or I had done something wrong.
My brother said I fantasized about killing myself, and I brushed it off an overexaggeration, but recently I’ve had very funny ideas in my brain, conversations I would have with people as I’m about to throw myself off the building. I was listening to Stan by Eminem yesterday, and I almost started crying, because Stan was me, this was how angry I usually was at the world, so angry I want to kill myself so that everyone would remember me forever.
Right now, the song Franky played when we were guitar-shopping is playing on my spotify, and somehow this is keeping me alive.
I so very much hope someone would read this, and at the same time I’m so scared someone actually would and leave me forever.
wouldn’t it be funny if i disappeared forever
“When’s The Great Gatsby coming out? Next week?”
“Yeah I think so.”
“God I hope they don’t make the movie crap. I don’t care much for the plot but I feel for the characters. Jay Gatsby. He was so obsessed. I watched the 1980s version of the movie after reading the book. It was horrid. The script was basically just the original dialogue of the book. Do you know about the director?”
“No, who is he?”
“The guy who directed Romeo+Juliet.”
“The Claire Danes movie?”
“Yeah, and DiCaprio. It was a modern-day Romeo and Juliet, they came from family of gangsters or something. But it was really weird, it was set in modern day and they were wearing modern day quotes but they talked like they were reciting poetry. (laughs) He also directed that…what did you say was the movie that had Smells like Teen Spirit again?”
“Yes, Moulin Rogue. I fell asleep in 10 minutes.”
“I like Moulin Rogue!”
“He also directed Australia. The one with Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman.”
“Ick. That was a horrible movie.”
“So, yeah. Those are his credentials. (laughs) Who do you think would make a good director for The Great Gatsby? Obviously you can’t have someone like Tarantino direct the movie, Gatsby will turn out to be like a ninja and shit. (laughs) If it’s Nolan Gatsby will be trying to implant an idea into Daisy’s mind.”
“No, maybe he’ll find out Daisy wasn’t in fact, actually Daisy. (laughs) Who can do that kind of detachment and loss?”
“He’d be good for the sentimentality, but he can’t show the extravagance of the imagery. All his movies have these dark, slow shots that just wouldn’t work here.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Who is a good romance director?”
“Have you watched Blue Valentine? Before Sunrise?”
“Before Sunrise is really funny, it’s just two people doing absolutely but talking. It’s one of my favourites.”
“The dialogue would have to be fantastic then.”
“Seriously though, I hope they don’t screw it up. I like Gatsby. Such a tragic character. He had everything in the world except the one thing he wanted. He was so obsessed. Daisy probably never loved him.”
“It’s hard to say, don’t you think? She’s hard to figure out as well. Honestly, I think she’s just a pussy. And honestly, I’m not sure if Gatsby really even loved her too. All that’s happened all those years ago - for Christ’s sake, they were so young. Of course there’s going to be all that romance. Did he ever think what would happen if they actually get together? I think she’s just an obsession - the manifestation of what he could never have.”
“Maybe, maybe. Maybe an object to him. How much did he spend on her? Throwing those parties every night? Millions? And it wasn’t even directly on her, it was just to catch her attention. God. What do you think is the key takeaway of the book? I’d say it’s better to have one friend than a whole shit load of people who don’t care about you. Nick was probably the only one who did. Did Meyer, the one who was helping with the bootlegging? I can’t remember. The second one is ‘Never try to relive the past.’”
“I’d say it is ‘Be careful what you wish for cause you just might get it.’”
“That’s a good one.”
There’s something oddly comforting about being trapped -
Summer typhoon. It’s pouring and school is cancelled. Can’t get out onto the streets without fear of being blown away. Supplies are limited but sufficient. We turn on the television and pick a random movie. It’s 1408 based on the Stephen King story; I pick up my Law and Society notes and started reading to distract myself from the screen. I have a love-hate relationship with Horror, because I could never reconcile my curiosity and my fear. All of us crowd round the couch, our legs all tangled up together, slurping cup noodles, watching the rain fall.
Snowstorm. All land routes cut, communication with the outside world is nil. Trapped at school for a week, unable to go home for the holidays. Must be the worst Christmas ever. Wanders aimlessly in the hallways. Then, the by accident, a long and winding pathway, murky and wet, the scent of the corsets and chandeliers; out of the darkness, a fireplace, a grand piano, the principal’s son. Two weeks of pizza sandwiches, writing by the window, kitten purring on your lap, nights worthy of Baby and Johnny. Then you realise the snow has long gone, and by now, it’s Hotel California, you are Persephone to his Hades.
Cathy and Mary, half a decade apart, nothing out there but the moor, the endless moor, a vast nothingness of beauty and decay, romantic with a capital R, sealed off from the rest of the world, where time has no meaning. Don’t ask for more, because all you’ve got is what is here, and scream, scream, scream, but no one will hear -
One solitary mansion, miles away from home, a group of disaffected youth; one stands alone, amending all these broken toys, rewinding so that they can march again. And they say, they say, rehabilitate for the while, the cuckoo’s nest is perfect, pristine pool, feast fit for a king, library with a view. Late night guitar strumming, sleepovers, stargazing; and yet, we must fly over it, for there are demons to be conquered.
Beautiful, beautiful days with nothing to worry about except the changes we bring about ourselves. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Human beings are too irrational, they say, and this is how wars begin. Human beings are emotional, they say, and this is what makes us better than other animals. Women are too sentimental, they say, and this is why they aren’t meant for great things.
I wish I had a button to turn off all my feelings.
We all push people away.
I know you do, because everything is all too familiar. Despite everything that we shared for the past two years you could push me away just like that, and act like it has no impact on your life at all. And I’ve become more thick-skinned than I ever thought I could be, telling you that I was angry, but I missed you; and still you remain unperturbed.
We never fight for what we cherish. Instead, we become destructive, towards others and ourselves, and establish a perimeter around us. We tell ourselves that relationships aren’t meant to last anyway, and that it’s always stupid to put too much trust in other people. So, at the first sign, however minute, we give ourselves excuses to back off. Those who don’t understand stop trying and leave. You don’t help those who want to understand; you make yourself more and more intolerable, and eventually, they leave too. Then it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, a vicious cycle in which your trust in others corrode with different relationships you cruise through, and each time you refuse to anchor, but instead go along with the tide.
I know you do, and that’s why I stay. Because I think we both need to believe.
I learnt a lot (of shit) from them.
Among those worth mentioning, Tom taught me the difference between actually loving someone and how your mind can trick you into thinking you do when you actually really only just want to be in a relationship. And how even though you can know absolutely nothing about the person to begin with and how your reasons for beginning this aren’t even legitimate, you guys can still last being together in a loveless relationship for such a long period of time that amazes even yourself. It made me realise what it meant to be merely loving a projection.
Steven disillusioned my fairy-tale relationship ideas. I learnt that no matter how romantic it was, the way you met each other and eventually starting dating, again, it really didn’t mean anything. In this case, he and I basically stared at each other for 3 months until one day when we both decided to make the first move. We spent a lot of time with each other after that but our actual relationship only lasted a month. Why? Because I found that despite his frequent mooning over me and serenading me with love poems and chocolates, I didn’t connect with him. He could barely understand English, and knew nothing about the books and movies and music that made up a huge part of my life. Within a week or two, I knew that there was nothing we shared in common and that I could never really talk to him.
It was the hardest with Michael. If he had told me he loved me back anytime during those four years I spent pining for him, we may have grown old together (and then at the age of fifty, I would probably accept the fact that he could never understand me but by then we would have gone too far to back out). By the time I entered university it was too late. I was opened to a whole new world, and I found out too much about myself to know what I was looking for. When he left Hong Kong for England, he left the rest of us behind but let me stay in his life. When I left high school for uni, I left everything behind, including him; I moved on. I didn’t love him anymore.
But none of this really prepared me for this: loving someone and realising there were too many things about ourselves that if we didn’t overcome, it would never work out. All this, though, left me with no courage to start trying. It was tiring, putting so much of yourself into anything.