Oh ain’t I soppy? I was looking through my older posts on this blog and it basically just felt like an emotional rollercoaster; even when I was the person who wrote all of those posts. I think I am trying to become a different person – not exactly sure whether I will like this new person but for some reason, I this change (or rather, growth) felt somewhat necessary. Deep down somewhere, I know I am still that hopeless, dependent as fuck, soppy, jealous, overly-sensitive and emotional psycho. But yes, I am currently working on subduing those undesirable traits. I am learning to embrace the change. It almost feels like a coming-of-age story, except I’m already starting on the third decade of my life. But we never stop learning more about ourselves, do we?
I used to write shitload about how I feel, what I did, who I saw, where I went. But these days, things seems and feels the same day in day out. Not much ups and downs. A lot of things either felt like they weren’t even worth a mention, or, on the other end of the spectrum – too surreal and valuable that putting them into words would not do justice to the magnitude of the effect they had on me. I have also learnt how not to put too much or all of me out there for anybody. But that ain’t me though; I do things “out loud”. If I love someone or something, you wouldn’t even need to guess or doubt my affections, it would be hard to miss. But that is also scary, isn’t it? Especially when tables are turned one day, then it’s not going to be fun being left hanging out to dry.
See, why am I starting to be soppy again.
The self is like the shifting sand: at times it feels firm and solid under foot as when the tide recedes; at others, it shifts and separates like sun-dried granules, resisting definition and certain foothold.
Keep strong, and see you on the other side 🙂
Beginning, Middle & End by Phil Kaye
“Every great story has a beginning middle and end. Not necessarily in that order. We are all great stories.
Chapter 389, the boy ,still hair long and fingers too short. is 98 years old. Sits at the restaurant alone.
The stranger next to him is eating something that looks vaguely delicious.
The boy takes his fork, sticks it in his meal and takes a bite.
He says “I’m 98 years old, go ahead say something… asshole.”
Chapter 14, the boy is eight years old, he and his best friend come up with a great idea for a prank.
They are sure they will not get caught.
The next morning, every house on his street except his own has toilet paper on their front lawn.
They get caught.
Chapter 146, the boy and the girl live happily ever after
Chapter 231, the boy and the girl vow to never speak to each again
Every great story has a beginning middle and end. Not necessarily in that order.
We are all great stories, but not all written as chapter books.
I know, there are moments not meant to be bound.
That we scribble too much in the margins to read our own page numbers.
Like the nights you thought we were invincible.
Ran out into the lightening storm with a million keys
Tied to a million kites with a clench in your jaw that said “take me with you god damn it. I dare you”
In the weeks, when you finally reached out to feel your father’s cheeks and just found paper cuts.
I know the nights we shatter hourglasses to fall asleep.
In the afternoons, we take photographs of our own shadows just to prove that we left a mark.
I know the wetness of your lips.
Know that you are a leaf off the tree of your parents’ first kiss.
As you hold your shrubs to the sky you can see their veins there.
Know that in later chapters you will complain about how things were better back in your day
– give yourself lots to complain about.
Know; that your legs were made to run, your bones were made to heal, so let yourself
fall so deeply into somebody else you do not know which way is up
– knowing, that one day you may fall out, know exactly which way is down, call your mother, crying
like the first day you were born.
“Baby,” she will call you.
“Baby, it is okay. Every great story has a beginning, middle, and ending. Not necessarily in that order.”
Chapter 189, the boy too old now to celebrate his birthdays and too young to treasure them uses his fist to punch his own reflection to see if it’s real.
Breaks his hand into back into the opposite of a fist.
A conch shell city.
He holds it into his ear and can hears the ocean of his own bloodline.
“Stand up boy and not just with your legs”
You, be your own story. 600 words per minute.
You, glasses by age seven
You, never stop to read the back cover even if you know what happens in the end.
Chapter 431, once upon a time there was a boy, he’s not here any more.
But the branches that he left all holds the leaves to the sky
You can see the outlines of his shadow on the side walk
Chapter one, once upon a time there was a woman and a man.
The first night they kissed, a seedling blossomed on the back of her neck.
I feel exactly the same way you have written out. time is flowing anyway, let’s do life however best we can. I hope to catch you for a chat at tiramisu hero soon, take care in the meantime Peggy.
p.s there is nothing wrong with being soppy, I can attest to that
i have been following you since I was a little girl, and I am so happy that you are writing again. You words speak right into my heart. You have a gift of writing – happy and sad moments. If one don’t write, one dies. And if you one day stop writing about A or about your heartaches, A dies. Writing helps, and writing keeps you alive, and maybe keeps A’s memories and existence in your soul and life, alive. What is wrong with trying to stay alive anyway? So keep going. You continue to impress me with your writing. Truly.