l o o p .

you fall. you scratch your arm. at first, it is a little bloody but the skin tore at surface-level only. then the wound festers. pus and blood oozes out and your skin rots and rots away and your bone can be seen. when it pierces right in your bone, you could not feel anything, for your nerves are already gone. somewhere far away, a heavy load is cut by the rope and gravity stretches out its arms and pulls and pulls the load closer and closer until it slams into your heart like a freight train.

oh, that hurt.

it is a shocking realisation: climbing up the tower, reassuring yourself that the final boss will come soon and it will all be over – it will all be worth it – only to find out that

there was no final boss.

there was never a final boss.

how can you win against creatures that don’t die?

you still fought valiantly, though. with every stroke you write and every key you typed, you felt like you managed to severe a limb. but there are two problems: first, each mutilated limb regenerates into two and second, you are battling against an army.

you had comrades with you. one left because it was too straining; the other faded away like something one would call a “force of nature”. one joined but then realised they, too, had creatures of their own to fight, and soon deserted.

you have two left and you turn around but wait a minute, why are they gone?

for every level you conquer, for every creature you subdue, you are sure you would reach the top one day. and you are getting more efficient and intelligent and you thought you would make it! but as you battle with the intent of defeating the final boss, without there being being a final boss, you realise you are still trapped in that dungeon, just sluggishly pulling yourself forward, pushing yourself higher; just s u r v i v i n g.

when will this all end? 

it’s an endless tower, and the only way to go it up.

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alucinari.

alucinari
[Latin] to wander the mind
(a common derivative of it is hallucination.)


Green? Like the colour of your eyes and how I imagine they would sparkle.

Red? Your hair for six months — the hair colour which lasted the longest — that tempted me to run my fingers through those fiery locks, knowing they would soothe instead of burn.

Yellow? The colour that most associate with sunshine and warmth; the colour that you glow every time I see you smile; the colour that radiates from you whenever you are near me.

Blue? The sense of serenity and security you provide me, making me convinced that you’re the only reality I would willingly get lost in; the only adventure I would join in; the only enigma I would willingly deconstruct.

Purple? Hmm… I can only associate that with the stage lights that shine down upon you every night your take the stage by storm and conquer each city by leaving a sense of euphoria only you (and uniquely you) could in the hearts of the passionate.

Grey? I would say that’s the colour of the place where we can only meet — away from the light, hidden from sight. Because it is neither black nor white, we would not be bound by premises. We would be free from the shackles of reality that this society confines us to. We could break down each wall that keeps us apart. We should be able to see and touch and listen to each other face to face, not just made up scenarios and memories of who were.

That, is the grey area. The only place where we belong. The only place where black and white can coexist, without the interference of light and night.

Fortunately, we both have the grey area within us. Unfortunately, the grey area can never be materialised and will stay that way within us.

Grey describes us, not you alone.

So, you see? I can never find the perfect colour to describe you. The rainbow, containing the whole spectrum of white light lack the grey which you possess; the aurora borealis only shows the green and blue, sometimes purple, sides of you. You’re anything but an ominous stormy grey cloud that looms with a storm of fear.

No, you’re a soft grey that glows with wisdom, but with a tint of melancholy.

And I intend to sketch you over and over again until you materialise from my sketchbook. No, I won’t paint you, because my palette of colours will never fit you. I would outline you but you’re already bold enough to stand out against the pristine paper.

I’ll draw another angle of your life, just like you gave perspective in mine.

the world is no longer liveable

and i intend to pull myself out of it. 

by the time you are reading this, it is highly likely that i am still alive. there’s isn’t a single shred of chance that i am lifelessly lying in a puddle of blood. (although i wish i were.)

not having the courage to off myself takes top spot in my depressing things that make me want to die list because seriously, not even the intense pain i can’t even begin to describe that i felt for a consecutive 72 hours that consisted of me convincing myself to die gets the champion title. not even the pain i feel on a usual basis (read: imagine your heart getting pricked by needles all over, yet it continues beating, and your mind is in a vice-like clamp and thoughts are running in your mind at the speed of light and you’re pretty sure it’s impossible so you want to pull them out, but you’re physically unable to, so you settle for scratching your chest, scratching your limbs, scratching your hair…) gets a close second.

picture yourself in utter, and i really mean utter, despair. you’re despondent, despairing and depressed. 3Ds. and even though they (who’s they, really?) say every will has a way and 世上无难事,只怕有心人 (translated: no hardship is too difficult for a determined person), what if the only D i’m not is “determined”? how do you expect me to fly out of the not-really-hardship-it’s-just-a-teenage-phase rut i’m stuck in right now? (have been stuck in, for the past three years.)

okay, back to the picture of despair. what’s worse than that despair is not being able to escape it. let’s be real, no one likes pain, no one likes suffering. but maybe i do, since i willingly and consciously put myself through such pain, not once having the courage to escape it.

apparently a person trapped in a burning building is used as a common analogy for a suicidal person. i never knew about such an existence until i stumbled upon it.

you’re in a burning building, on the 30th storey. you have two choices: either let the merciless tongues of fire greedily but gradually consume you, or take control of your own life (or death) by jumping out the only window that has not been obscured by flames yet.

some prefer fire. they let the situation take control of them. they’re more afraid of the unknown territory beyond the fire, choosing to settle for this method of death. some prefer jumping. they take control of the situation. they’re more afraid of helplessly watching their own skin burn off than leaping out and dying by height.

see, even though both know they are dying, the latter prefer to die by their own hands than let a non-matter cause their death.

that’s what suicide is all about.

there’s no escape from the flames, it’s a dead fucking end; there’s no escape from the hungry demons that terrorise you not only in your dreams but in reality too, it’s a dead fucking end. worse, they can creep into your mind when you think they finally took a vacation, and even when you build up fortresses and watch towers, they seem to escape surveillance and before you know it, you’re surrounded in an all-out attack. they. have. no. mercy.

i want to escape but i am unable to because it would consist of me escaping my own mind but it’s impenetrable, not locked, and forcefully drilling a hole would shatter my soul further and i’m holding onto a fraying thread that’s keeping me from totally falling apart.

well, at least i still have some sort of morbid hope. maybe i just enjoy putting myself through torture. through this life that isn’t much of being or feeling alive but numbly letting my feet move me forward alongside time.

who knows? i might be a masochist. after all, i’m a fan of tokyo ghoul.

[enter role to be played.]

A travesty of herself was made –
Her true self hidden behind a white blank mask.
Her life was simply a masquerade.

Questions she skilfully evades
To prevent slip-ups and make the façade last.
A travesty of herself was made.

Sharp words sprang out like switchblades,
Causing a hairline fracture that seemed to scar.
Her life was simply a masquerade.

With a bright smile, along she sashayed.
In a movie, all she did was star.
A travesty of herself was made.

Her eyes glistened as her head touched the bed,
Only occurring when the door is barred.
Her life was simply a masquerade.

So what role should now be played?
Of shyness or confidence or is this too much to ask?
A travesty of herself was made.
Her life was simply a masquerade.

this was written two years ago. throwback to when i didn’t know how i felt and writing was my catharsis. (it still is.)

decided to post bc of my lack of material and current months-long writer’s block. also for myself to see my previous crappy writing and compare it with now.

can i let go now?

dear pierce the veil,

i held on ’til may like you sang. i held on to the end of may. i held on even after you released your album. i held on until mid-june!

can i let go now? can i die now? it will be 11 more months to the next may. do i have to hold on for another time? when will be the last time? my heart is hurting even when it’s not supposed to hurt because my circulatory system works fine and blood is flowing to my brain and i can think.

but my heart still hurts because of my mind. why isn’t my head hurting then? where does our consciousness come from?

in japanese, we call it 心 (kokoro). it translates to “mind”, something intangible, but people often mix it up with 心臓 (shinzō), the physical heart.

in chinese, we use 心 (xīn) to describe both the physical heart and the basis of humanity. maybe it got lost in translation there.

so can i let go now? how many more hours do i have to hold on to a fraying rope that would be better off severed instead of saved?

what must i do?

is it alright to be alive?

生きていいですか?

 

cheers (not so cheerfully!),
me.

P.S. i categorised this under a lyric after your song.

what is happiness?

transparent soramafu chibi

Happiness is not knowing what to write for this post because all you have ever written about is pain.

Happiness is putting in effort to recount a day because you would like to replay it in your brain.

Happiness is getting a sudden call from your friend to go out for a drink when you thought you would go home alone.

Happiness is taking advantage of Starbucks 1-for-1 and to buy a fancy mocha ribbon chip just because there was a combination of mocha, espresso and chocolate. (The holy TREEnity.)

Happiness getting stuck in a long queue and wondering if there will be any whipped cream left for you.

Happiness is walking around with a heavy bag and feeling the ache in the soles of your feet because you slurped your Frappe too slowly.

Happiness is nearly breaking into tears on a random bench outside a shop with shoppers strolling back and forth and back and forth.

Happiness is feeling your eyes sting with tears but knowing there was a silent human being next to you.

Happiness is going into a cheesy weeb shop just to charge up your HP by looking at fictional characters.

Happiness is finding a cheap file with your fictional husband’s face on it and his very much canon husband at the back.

Happiness is doing something and not feeling sad at all.