The “yes but…”s and “maybe”s, the sputter of weak, half-assed agreement that rolls off your tongue, obscuring your genuine thoughts.
The sorries that stumble out from muscle memory, by sheer exasperation, too weak to leave.
Petty words by a petty thing.
Perhaps it is from fast-paced conversations, your replies washed away by the natters and laughter from quick-witted one-liners you wish you’d have thought up.
Or perhaps it’s merely from the lack of interest – Whatever you say.
Or. Perhaps you don’t know yet. Perhaps the extra five minutes you spend trying to construct the perfect joint makes your mind wander – idly twining words past spoken to people. Fragments of conversations stick, bits and pieces of keywords failing to form coherent sentences.
“Yes, no…. maybe. I don’t know.”
The goal was to write a blog post once a week and I failed.
No lives were taken, no money lost. Just a mental game I played with myself that didn’t work out.
Oh well, there’s always next week to get it right.
My daughter turns twenty-four on Saturday. She’s at that age where she’s honing her life skills and setting copious goals. Real ones, not just blog posts.
She’s trying and succeeding and then failing. She’s often disappointed or pissed. It’s called being in your twenties, I try to tell her.
My comments and advice are often entertained, but I fear the older my children get, there will be less entertaining. I’m guessing by thirty, they will no longer bother hiding the eye-rolls.
So, if I had my oldest’s undivided attention. If her siblings weren’t interrupting or she wasn’t texting or taking a picture, this is what I would…
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Messy lines, awkward strokes. Here’s a WIP because I am frustrated and my patience is wearing thin.
She drags her cigarette and puffs out the clouds of aesthetics she desperately tries to cling onto, like how it does on her clothes, nails and hair. But she doesn’t mind it so much anymore. She lets herself sink into the acrid smell, revelling in the two-minute caresses of comfort.
Good night strange world.
You want the photos but not the smell
of petrichor and saccharine garbage water
permeating the humid city of Kuala Lumpur,
You want KLCC but not the streets of Chow Kit
Dimly lit in nightfall with leathery-skinned uncles on basikal buruks
Pedalling hefty folded cardboard boxes bound by fraying tali rafias.
Not the pitter patter of footsteps crossing from one road to another,
tiny children laughing on their makeshift playground.
You want the #nofilter on your face –
strike a pose between undulating hills, exuding the all too common image of ‘wanderlust’
but not the back alleys scattered with cockroaches and
pudgy rats satiated by the abundance of waste to devour
where the mamak stalls set base
but that’s where the good nasi lemak is.
You want the glitter that comes with living but not the dust
that trails after.
You want the easy
– but who doesn’t?
A two-minute, half-baked ramble about things I’ve noticed recently with people – myself included. We all need a good slap of reality – because asking why can’t everything be easy is like screaming into the void and waiting for your echo to bounce back. What good will that do?
So. What part of our privilege are we abusing today?
8.00 a.m: belacan
It’s 4 a.m, I don’t know what to think about. Bedroom dimly lit, my eyes drooping bit by bit.
It’s 4 a.m, maybe I should start drawing again – or I could finish my work, clean my room, maybe ponder on the inevitable fact that I’m not socially woke enough.
Or I could drunk text people.
It’s 4 a.m, what are inhibitions?
It’s 4 a.m on a Saturday.
What do we do at 4 a.m?