To begin. A list. Not a poem.
Offered with a fist of salt and a pinch of humour, with just a dash of bitterness combined with the slimmest hope of empathy.
Built from experiences gathered over the lSt few years.
To remember and remind of a hierarchy of suffering.
A pyramid of people one can complain to.
Who will care and who is mentally cursing you for complaining while having it "so good."
Here's the advice: If you are looking for a sympathetic ear, stick to your level.
Intercontinental or time difference LDRs - The top. No one gets to complain to us except for others in the same situation. No one else gets it. No one else has it as hard. We barely ever meet and they go sleep when I wake up and have you even checked the prices of flight tickets nowadays?
Intra-continental or accessible or less time difference LDRs - None of the benefits of being single. None of the benefits of being in a same place relationship. All the problems of both. Sure we get to meet once in three months, but do you know how horrible it is to fall asleep alone everyday?
Live-in or married relationships - Yeah we live together, but damn I miss having my own space sometimes. Do you know how annoying it is to clean up after two people and have to do the dishes and have to remind them of the bills all the time? Also, know how annoying the have a kid questions are?
Dating but not living together - Sure we live in the same city, but with our schedules it gets so difficult to meet what with traffic and all. And god, all the when are you getting married questions every time anyone sees us together!
Single, all kinds - Everyone and everything sucks. No one gets to complain to us. At least you have someone. You've escaped the drudgery of dating and the nonsense that comes with trying to find a good person. And the jumping through hoops and the emotional highs and lows. Know how annoying Tinder can be? And those unsolicited dick pics!
I know I'm missing layers and tiers.
And I know the list will grow.
People with babies will get in there as more of my friends circle starts having them.
For now, stick to your level.
#NaPoWriMo2017
Saturday, April 1, 2017
National Poetry Month 2017
I have been pretty horrible over the last year or so at maintaining this lovely repository of thought and writing. I've stopped calling myself a writer because I don't deserve it, since I've been so bad even at keeping up my two blog posts per month minimum. Anyway, enough self bashing. It's a month of poetry and while I have never actually considered myself a poet, it's an excuse to try writing something every single day. Whether with a prompt or just building out the countless notes and drafts I keep abandoning, I'll try to make this a month where you, dear blog, will get updated every day. I might delay the posts. And I might upload many together. But I promise to try and have thirty pieces of writing on here at the end of this month.
Here's to an attempt at reclaiming something I allowed myself to lose.
#NaPoWriMo2017
Wednesday, November 2, 2016
Yes, it's another friendship post
I've written before (here and here) about friendships, in an attempt to work through changes. Those words were effective and honest. They still ring true, more than I would like to admit.
But this is different.
This time it isn't just about long distance friendships.
And it isn't just about long gaps between conversations so that it's difficult to figure out if there is common ground.
This time, it is the slow knife-twist of seeing actual events prove one of your worst fears - the best friendships can die. It is the knowledge that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to understand or be happy for the people you claim to love.
It is the guilt that comes with that knowledge and inability.
It is the imagined feelings of being left out that you struggled with as a child and worked hard at leaving behind, turning into the reality of actually being left behind.
It is being on a road you thought you had company on and then looking around to see that you are on a different road altogether.
It is believing a friendship would last a lifetime only to realise it lasted just a season.
It is trying to reach out across the chasm only you seem to see and finding that there is no one on the other side.
It is wanting to tell your stories to the important people to then understand that they do not care to hear.
It is the excitement of discovery dissipating into the ether because those you thought would feel joy, don't even want to know.
It is parallel lines that will never meet.
Or even worse, lines that intersected once, never to meet again.
But this is different.
This time it isn't just about long distance friendships.
And it isn't just about long gaps between conversations so that it's difficult to figure out if there is common ground.
This time, it is the slow knife-twist of seeing actual events prove one of your worst fears - the best friendships can die. It is the knowledge that sometimes, no matter how hard you try, you will not be able to understand or be happy for the people you claim to love.
It is the guilt that comes with that knowledge and inability.
It is the imagined feelings of being left out that you struggled with as a child and worked hard at leaving behind, turning into the reality of actually being left behind.
It is being on a road you thought you had company on and then looking around to see that you are on a different road altogether.
It is believing a friendship would last a lifetime only to realise it lasted just a season.
It is trying to reach out across the chasm only you seem to see and finding that there is no one on the other side.
It is wanting to tell your stories to the important people to then understand that they do not care to hear.
It is the excitement of discovery dissipating into the ether because those you thought would feel joy, don't even want to know.
It is parallel lines that will never meet.
Or even worse, lines that intersected once, never to meet again.
Wednesday, August 24, 2016
Some posts need updating
I wrote this post four years ago. I think it's time it was updated.
The spaces between my fingers still remind me of my loneliness, but also of long walks in new cities where two bodies moved not as one, but together. They remind me of messages I type and letters I write; gifts I create and photographs I collect to nurture something that is beautiful, even if I might have to let it go one day.
When I look at my hands now, I see growth and strength. An independence tinged with loss, but fortified with acceptance.
The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because I don't have to hold on to something that was always running away from me.
I can look at my hands again. Now, when I see them, I don't think of broken dreams and ruined sandcastles. I don't think of the things I let go.
Now, I see how I built myself a life far away from everything familiar. The opportunities I have grasped even though things were difficult. The home I set up and maintain, a space all mine. The new things I learn every day, the job I am learning to become better at. The meals I make for myself both simple and fancy. The support I offer to those most important to me. The freedom to sometimes indulge in the luxuries I always denied myself.
My hands remind me of how I still build sandcastles, but that they are meant to be washed away for bigger ones. That dreams are always changing and expanding, that they NEED to be destroyed sometimes when they turn into nightmares.
Now, I see how I built myself a life far away from everything familiar. The opportunities I have grasped even though things were difficult. The home I set up and maintain, a space all mine. The new things I learn every day, the job I am learning to become better at. The meals I make for myself both simple and fancy. The support I offer to those most important to me. The freedom to sometimes indulge in the luxuries I always denied myself.
My hands remind me of how I still build sandcastles, but that they are meant to be washed away for bigger ones. That dreams are always changing and expanding, that they NEED to be destroyed sometimes when they turn into nightmares.
The spaces between my fingers still remind me of my loneliness, but also of long walks in new cities where two bodies moved not as one, but together. They remind me of messages I type and letters I write; gifts I create and photographs I collect to nurture something that is beautiful, even if I might have to let it go one day.
When I look at my hands now, I see growth and strength. An independence tinged with loss, but fortified with acceptance.
The veins on the back of my hand don't stick out any more because I don't have to hold on to something that was always running away from me.
I look at my hands everyday and love what they signify. They remind me that I am enough.
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
It's Birthday Time!
Of course I didn't forget. I am just a little late with sending it across is all.
Happy birthday, my love.
Looks like this post breaks the incredible dry spell this poor blog has seen lately. An eight month dry spell. Which is an abysmal record even for me.
But this post isn't about me.
It's about a perfect collection of moments and events that ended with you and me becoming friends. An unlikely partnership to someone on the outside looking in. But we make it work.
You are one of the few people I know I can come to with the small things and the big things. And you will be around to listen to both. Whether you agree or disagree or even understand, you listen and you care. To me, that matters more than anything else.
Whether we ever have our long walks again or I ever get to make you special coffee, you and I will still have the conversations and the connection. The words and the memories. Our relationship has changed as we have.
From our conversation on my birthday sitting outside college with me in a black dress you didn't believe I owned, to sending each other infrequent mails and frequent messages, we have come a long way.
I do love you even though I don't say it as often as I should. And I am thankful you are part of my life in whatever way.
Happy birthday again, my love.
Sending love and hugs your way always.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Life lessons
Misery is a continuous cycle. Happiness ends in the moment.
When something horrible happens, our hearts and minds expand to find people to pass it on to. Or maybe not pass it on, but to share. When we feel sad, we want to find people who will make us feel better. We seek out comfort. We tell others our sorry tales and seek empathy, a shared experience. We expect our friends to offer their shoulders, our family to offer their laps to rest our heads in, our lovers to offer their arms to envelop us. We publicize our grief, our sorrow, calls of help hoping someone is listening. We turn it into anger and lash out.
It's a cycle that gets passed on from one person to another. Sure, spreading it around reduces its intensity, but in some way or the other, it gets passed on.
When something good happens, we hoard it. We keep those cards close to our chests and guard them intensely. We announce the events to everyone to make people jealous, but the true happiness is something we keep to ourselves. We are fierce of keeping that headiness close to us, because why would we want to dilute that. When moments of joy are so fleeting, we prefer saving them, savouring them. We don't "lash out" in happiness.
Misery is continuous. Happiness is fleeting.
We spread misery. We hoard happiness.
When something horrible happens, our hearts and minds expand to find people to pass it on to. Or maybe not pass it on, but to share. When we feel sad, we want to find people who will make us feel better. We seek out comfort. We tell others our sorry tales and seek empathy, a shared experience. We expect our friends to offer their shoulders, our family to offer their laps to rest our heads in, our lovers to offer their arms to envelop us. We publicize our grief, our sorrow, calls of help hoping someone is listening. We turn it into anger and lash out.
It's a cycle that gets passed on from one person to another. Sure, spreading it around reduces its intensity, but in some way or the other, it gets passed on.
When something good happens, we hoard it. We keep those cards close to our chests and guard them intensely. We announce the events to everyone to make people jealous, but the true happiness is something we keep to ourselves. We are fierce of keeping that headiness close to us, because why would we want to dilute that. When moments of joy are so fleeting, we prefer saving them, savouring them. We don't "lash out" in happiness.
Misery is continuous. Happiness is fleeting.
We spread misery. We hoard happiness.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
The Gingerbread Man
"Run run as fast as you can, you can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!"
My mother tells me that this used to be my favourite story when I was little kid, with "The Three Little Pigs" coming a close second. She would read "The Gingerbread Man" to me every day and it got to a point where I could recite the whole thing with her, right down to the periods and the page turns. She says when it was time for me to join preschool, when the principal met me, he thought I could read, because I recited the story, with the page turns, at the age of three. I don't remember any of this, of course, but it's good to know I was a smart kid :p
Anyway, it's funny how some things come back to you and I think it's a sign of growing up and growing old when a childhood story can be twisted into an adult allegory. I say this because I realised the other day, that I am the gingerbread man. Running as fast and far as I can to try and escape the realities of my life I don't like.
I ran away the moment I found an escape, leaving home and family to go to college in another city. I rarely ever felt homesick. I looked for internships in places far from home. When I graduated, I never even considered moving back home. I continued running, staying as far away as possible, a visitor once in three months for a weekend at a time.
I ran away from the memories my house held, the loneliness of the city, the friends I never had. I found a way to leave and I never looked back. I made other friends and found a new city that I adopted as home, telling myself this is what people do and what I was doing was just normal.
With all the running away I never stopped to think about the people I was leaving behind to handle what I was running away from. I was too weak and I left the heavy lifting to everyone else.
But that's the thing about running away. Once you start, you never stop.
Because no matter how fast or far you run, the people and the reality you leave behind will always catch up. While this would all sound so much cooler as a spy detective thriller, having your reality catch up to you isn't nearly as thrilling.
The people you left behind to deal with the messes you made, the memories that trip you up when you least expect them, and the realization of how much of a coward you are for running away - they will catch up. And then there are no excuses you can make to yourself, nothing you can say to make yourself feel better.
That's how you are reminded of how weak you truly are. How you know you do not have it in you to go back.
How you are just a coward.
How do I know this? Because I thought I was done and then I had my realization too - the epiphany that I am still running. Only this time, I found YOU to run to. Kind, warm, strong you who believes in my lies, my masks. Who doesn't see the stupid crying child I hide behind big words and bigger speeches. I am still the gingerbread man, running away from my past and my present, only now I conveniently cry into your arms. Stupid scared cowardly little me.
The gingerbread man eventually got caught and eaten by those who were chasing him.
I wonder when my time will come.
My mother tells me that this used to be my favourite story when I was little kid, with "The Three Little Pigs" coming a close second. She would read "The Gingerbread Man" to me every day and it got to a point where I could recite the whole thing with her, right down to the periods and the page turns. She says when it was time for me to join preschool, when the principal met me, he thought I could read, because I recited the story, with the page turns, at the age of three. I don't remember any of this, of course, but it's good to know I was a smart kid :p
Anyway, it's funny how some things come back to you and I think it's a sign of growing up and growing old when a childhood story can be twisted into an adult allegory. I say this because I realised the other day, that I am the gingerbread man. Running as fast and far as I can to try and escape the realities of my life I don't like.
I ran away the moment I found an escape, leaving home and family to go to college in another city. I rarely ever felt homesick. I looked for internships in places far from home. When I graduated, I never even considered moving back home. I continued running, staying as far away as possible, a visitor once in three months for a weekend at a time.
I ran away from the memories my house held, the loneliness of the city, the friends I never had. I found a way to leave and I never looked back. I made other friends and found a new city that I adopted as home, telling myself this is what people do and what I was doing was just normal.
With all the running away I never stopped to think about the people I was leaving behind to handle what I was running away from. I was too weak and I left the heavy lifting to everyone else.
But that's the thing about running away. Once you start, you never stop.
Because no matter how fast or far you run, the people and the reality you leave behind will always catch up. While this would all sound so much cooler as a spy detective thriller, having your reality catch up to you isn't nearly as thrilling.
The people you left behind to deal with the messes you made, the memories that trip you up when you least expect them, and the realization of how much of a coward you are for running away - they will catch up. And then there are no excuses you can make to yourself, nothing you can say to make yourself feel better.
That's how you are reminded of how weak you truly are. How you know you do not have it in you to go back.
How you are just a coward.
How do I know this? Because I thought I was done and then I had my realization too - the epiphany that I am still running. Only this time, I found YOU to run to. Kind, warm, strong you who believes in my lies, my masks. Who doesn't see the stupid crying child I hide behind big words and bigger speeches. I am still the gingerbread man, running away from my past and my present, only now I conveniently cry into your arms. Stupid scared cowardly little me.
The gingerbread man eventually got caught and eaten by those who were chasing him.
I wonder when my time will come.
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