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.
I’m sitting on black wisps of smoke with my eyes closed.
I smell the singe of thick, burning locks permeating the air; whispering their silly mantras like saccharine hisses caressing my ear.
My body sways gently to the crackled melody humming from underneath my bottom, lilting experimental choruses; thick with distortion. Soothing.
A smile creeps. Not from the smoke, not from the music – but this roller coaster jerking up and down on weathered tracks, it keeps me alive.
Because who knew one could find a fucking pinprick of light inside this void? Even with her eyes closed.
I’m overwhelmed by the mess in my life but underneath all this disgusting clusterfuck, I’m happy. That’s it.
Find your niche.
Stick with it and begin your journey. Create.
Mould it into art and nurture it with your mind, body and soul.
One day, when you have polished away the last remnant of its flaw with your bare, calloused hand, it will be ready.
The world will marvel at its beauty, its complexity, because this is where your heart is. You live in this creation. Only you.
Only you will be able to tell the stories that come with the scars, the little imperfections, the quirks of this masterpiece.
Only you will appreciate the entirety of this creation.
Only you will be able to see it as it should be. The vision that comes with, while some may empathise, can only conjure their version of your reality.
Only you can create this.
So savour it and take it all in.
Find a niche and begin creating. Every day.
Sprinkles of dew tickle my face.
Pleasant petrichor wafts through feathery palm leaves, and I breathe. Deep.
A gentle breeze brings about tiny whispers, sweet flowers kiss my skin.
Sunlight peeks through a curtain of misty weather,
a promise of never-ending summery sights
and I tremble with unquestionable excitement.
Hello, mornings. How I’ve missed you.
Play on, Mr. Piper,
play the songs of your calling,
the tempting lure, ensnaring from the most wicked
to the innocent.
Casualties mean nothing to the Piper,
when his music buries the unfortunate,
leaves them to rot, swimming with the earth dwellers that have long been abandoned,
as he prances with his instrument to a wider audience.
He dances, with enough grace and masculinity
to mask the deceit, he reeks of it.
His feet move to the hymns of solid promises, and trails of sugar sprinkle his steps.
Our knees buckle as we lick, tasting the sweetness he so graciously bestows upon,
in hopes of not being forgotten.
His horse neighs from the high heavens, where his throne sits.
As the sky above us remain murky, bearing pregnant clouds
with hot, humid rain escaping to singe our skin every sunrise to sunset.
But where he sits, lightning never strikes.
Or so he thinks.
His contentment leaves us unruffled,
despite the stacks of paper thin ego littering him.
“Let him play on”, Mother says.
For if he stops, the rain will follow,
And flowers will wither.
Nothing will grow.
So play on, Mr. Piper.