Sunday, February 16

Dining in the Dark

I miss writing. 

I write emails, proposals, terms and conditions everyday on the job but... I miss writing

So here goes nothing.

Valentine's (belated) dinner was a themed restaurant that the whole city was raving about -- Dining in the Dark. Literally. I couldn't see my fingers, I couldn't see my food, I couldn't see him. 

The optic nerve is overridden - your other senses take over. Every sound, every movement, every taste, every breath is an adventure!

The books say that your body automatically heightens up the sensitivity of your remaining senses should any one of the five fail to function. This could be an adventure for the blessed; this could be an empathetic experience for the blessed.

I pride myself for being able to adjust to a new environment quite quickly. One of the very few useful life lessons that Ogilvy & Mather taught me: survive, or at least try to survive. My hands explored the table as if it were my lover's body.

Lacquered smooth. 

Cold, except for the places where my hands once were. 

Rock solid. 

"On your right are your cutlery. In front of them is your coaster, your white wine will be served shortly. Now, on your twelve o'clock are your dessert fork and spoon, can you find them?"

Metal cold. Four sharp points joined on a long thin metal was my fork. The familiar curve of metal was my spoon. 

But where's the knife?

"Have you found your dessert cutlery... ah good." A hint of a smile. "Can you find each other?"

This must be how being in outer space feels like. Cold, stagnant air on my fingers. This must be how hell feels like. 

Coarse, warm and thick fingers touched mine and instantly grabbed my full hand. I recognise the grip, I know that temperature so well. I found him. 

I wouldn't call it darkness; just the absence of light. The absence of light is fiercely piercing and bright. So bright I felt my eyes tearing and I had to close them for a while. The absence of light is disconcerting. I was in limbo and felt that I could easily stop believing in existence if it weren't for the synthetic woolen cushion I was sitting on, the carpeted solid floor, the lacquered table top and the dull red lights of the CCTV. So dull that after a while, you don't notice them anymore. 

This must be how hell feels like. Am I ready for this? Is life the light and death the absence of it? 


His voice is the crisp of dried, brown leaves as they fall on the pavements. Silky like the first drop of milk, gurgling as it's being poured into hot tea in the coffee shop. I will always remember how I turned my head in the direction of this baritone in my Public Relations lecture. How I fell, oh how I fell in love. 

Appetisers were served: four cold dishes of which three were salads. Two hot soups quickly followed. It perplexes me constantly how chefs and waiters in classy restaurants manage to get the temperature of hot food just right. It was searing but not hot enough to burn the tongue. Like holding hands, the sincere kind, the kind that you know your feelings are reciprocated. He was in a black shirt and stonewashed blue jeans and when he held my hand for the first time it was almost burning. It left a mark. I can still see it today.

I know my meat well. Very well, in fact. Then again, how could you not know chicken when you eat it? How could you not know mutton with the first bite? I've always hated mutton. The smell drives me to the point of revulsion not just gastronomically but emotionally too. He smells of mutton sometimes. It infuriates me. I skipped the mutton and was pleased to find farfelle in a tomato-based pasta sauce, familiar and welcoming. With a swig of red wine, the pasta helped clear the nauseating mutton after taste.

Yet I stabbed my fork on the mutton again. I guess I'm truly a glutton for punishment. His mother once said that I'm actually fine with mutton, since there were a few times I've unknowingly eaten her mutton dishes. That it's maybe me consciously telling myself that I dislike it, I abhor it, but I am actually fine with it. Because I always come back to it. 

And I've never really vomited after eating mutton, anyway.

Desserts are meant to be cold and refreshing, I believe. There should be ice, there should be citrus, at least a tinge of it. Why do they call it passion fruit? Did the ancients intend for the fruit to be a metaphor? Is passion like citrus? I fancy passion to be chocolate, because it can be cloying. Mayhaps this is how true passion should be like, refreshing and heart-wrenching. This is how we are.

It hardly hurt, when we were out of the dark room and met with light again.

"I miss you, baby. Thank you for the dinner, I really love it."

I wish I never need to dine in the dark with him again. I'll miss him too much.  

Tuesday, October 1

Pressyna, Melusina: Redux

Our kind, we're water, elemental, part of nature. 

We're inconstant, we adapt, we change
But we hold on to your word. Words. 

What happened to Pressyne when he reneged on his promise?
She took their love and she left.

What happened to Melusine when he reneged on his promise?
She forgave him because she loves. Loves. 
What happened to Melusine when he insulted her by virtue of her nature, her element?
She left her love.

She left. 
She loves.
She still loves.

Chance upon a full moon you see her scales illuminated by the moonlight. But always fleeting, never staying. Perchance a single glitter, perchance a shadow of a shine. 

Because she loves. 
She still loves.

When he fell the county rained for days and weeks and months, the trees were always autumn in the north wind. 

Because she loves.
She still loves.

Monday, September 23

What Now?

'tis rare to actually have nothing to do on a Week 9 of your final semester. Not because you have nothing on your plate, but just that the sides are arranged neatly on the plate but the steak is still grilling on the pan.

I excelled, I failed
I chilled, I stressed
I enjoyed, I suffered
I dated, I broke a heart
I fell in love, I got hurt
I laughed, I cried
I smoked, I drank
I partied, I crashed
I was honest, I lied
I exaggerate, I played-down

What's after a degree? 

Postgraduate studies. 
Working life.
Stay single. Cohabit. Get married.

I wish grandpa were here. What would he say about me, to me?

I love to entertain a romanticised thought of my grandpa, whom I never knew. I'd like to think he's more forward thinking than those of his generation, partly because of how he was accepted my aunt's circumstances. He might actually encourage me to start drinking -- and maybe, drink more -- hard liquor. I fancy thinking myself as his only descendant who is like him: we don't have the Asian flush.

But it's true, I am the only one. Thus far. I think.

Prague and Istanbul are such faraway places that are so near in my daylight dreams. I'd like to go back to Bali, Siem Reap and Bangkok again. Alone. With friends. With a boyfriend, a fiance, a husband. 

What am I going to do now?

Of staying put and moving forward
Of standing idle and running away
Of loving deeper and breaking up
Of living sober and drinking harder
Of breath and breathless

Saturday, July 27

# now playing

With Arms Wide Open - Creed

I really want to be a good daughter. 

I am blinded by youth, my judgment blurred by infatuation. My mind fails to make a rational and wise decision to choose religion and family over a boy. 

My priorities are based on fleeting emotions. 

Gimme Twice - The Royal Concept

Wasn't it just a problem between the three of us? That it was just he, she and I. 

So much dissatisfaction - they are like dust mites in the air. You wouldn't notice them when you go about your business, your daily routines. But, the times when you have nothing to do, when you just drop your body on the sofa and stare into nothingness, then you'll see them dancing languidly in rays of sunshine. 

No, the picture isn't as pretty and carefree as described. 

What the Water Gave Me - Florence + the Machine

Like a fresh murder case, the tension is like a long-forgotten corpse discovered by unsuspecting individuals. 

But the body is no longer fresh; it is infested with maggots and other organisms that feed on the dead and rotten. Our unhappiness was not gone, but only left aside and turned putrid without us knowing. 

We have always been like that. 

Shelter - The XX

Now, I realise that the damage wasn't just between us. Call it collateral damage, that others will be pulled into this mess as well. 

I guess I bluffed myself into believing that the fault was on her, or on the 'innocent' bystanders themselves. 

I was blind, but now I see. It was me all along. 

I am not the good daughter I thought I am, that I told myself I was. I am terrible. I am so sorry that you couldn't get a better one. 

He and she really deserved better. 

And it may be better that I never existed at all. 

Friday, June 7

Nowadays, nobody dies from a broken heart anymore.

it no longer is a 'loss' to lose someone. 

we have much important things to consider about. 

so many trees in the forest, so many fishes in the water

Your absence does not pain me,

because there are things that I won't spend my time crying over

pining over

because it's not My loss.

nowadays, nobody dies from a broken heart anymore,