September's slut

We sit through days willing the Earth to rotate faster, wishing Mondays turn to Fridays, to skip the tawdry parts that have become essential in our lives. Still, we look back and realize how fast time flies. Days that dragged on now seemed weightless.

I barely had enough time to cozy up with September when it's about to fold into itself again until next year. My relationship with September is more than a dodgy one night stand - though it was great. We went on a date at The Night Circus, gave me a bouquet of orange Hemingways, had a bottle of Bradbury talking about What happened to Anna K. all night. As we lay side by side, Maugham playing softly on the background, I felt The Unbearable Lightness of Being. ;)

September books from MIBF, Booksale & J. <3

Lust

Having a day at your own pace. Being able to read at breakfast, a book on your left hand, the fork on the other, and taking little sips of coffee in between. I live for these things. When I finally get out of bed after hitting snooze three times on a Monday morning, it's what I look forward to. We can't help but live for the weekends. We drift through days.

I love my work - don't get me wrong - even if sometimes I feel like I'm being thrown at the open sea, leaving me to swim my way back to shore. I can barely keep my head above the water, but I keep on treading. At the end of the day, when my toes finally feel the smooth sand, there's nothing left to do but wade to dry land. And it's fulfilling, to save yourself.

Then I'm left alone with my mind for one and a half hour ride home. I look forward to those times, when I can watch the streetlights moving in a constant stream of light. Look at people's shadowed faces, bowed heads swaying almost rhythmically to the moving car. Once, I buried my nose up a book, only stopping on the short distance between streetlamps, enveloping the car in darkness. Most times, thoughts pour in. Memories. Dreams. Life. It becomes the air I breathe, filling me up before I breathe them back to the world in quiet whispers.

The thing is, I don't know what I'm talking about. When I wrote (typed) the first sentences, I don't know where I'm headed. I weaved words one after the other and it's such a delicious feeling to be doing so. Not constructing sentences, but writing them, flowing from my fingertips. Exhaling words into the world.

I'm not sure if I made any sense. I just wanted to write, to create, to appreciate words. I find I want a lot of things, turning me into a million pieces. I want to move, want to be here and a hundred places all out once. To see the fiery colors of autumn. To fold in to myself. To feel lost then found. I want to bite into the world. I want the imprints of the world on my skin. To not feel limited but infinite.

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited." - Slyvia Plath

Stuck

When writers can't write it's called writer's block. But when a reader just can't turn the page..

I've been putting off reading for weeks. I have excuses: work, sleep, things. There so much going on in my mind that I'm living in it - I'm putting everything real on hold. You know that feeling of not wanting to read on just because you don't have the energy to let it sink in? The book is a world of its own but whenever I open it I absorb it, instead of the other way around. Isn't it supposed to be an escape? You get sucked in, free falling. I don't want to put the blame on the book, it's not fair. I want to read. I need to read. Reading is a part of me, creeping into my fingertips until the words blink up at me. I breathe in words so I can breathe them back to the world.

Where's my lust for reading?

Can't help but wonder whether this has something to do with my tensed neck/shoulder/back muscles - not knowing why I don't read is so bothersome it's taking a toll on my body.

PS. I'm currently "reading" 22 Britannia Road by Amanda Hodgkinson

Writing & work

The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow, I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of being pulled by them. - Raymond Chandler

When we read we start at the beginning and continue until we reach the end. When we write, we start in the middle and fight our way out. - Vickie Karp

Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes, you're doing good work when it fells like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position. - Stephen King

All the words I use in my stories can be found in the dictionary - it's just a matter of arranging them into the right sentences. - Somerset Maugham

The secret of becoming a writer is to write, write and keep on writing. - Ken MacLeod

One hasn't become a writer until one has distilled writing into a habit, and that habit has been forced into an obsession. Writing has to be an obsession. It has to be something as organic, physiological and psychological as speaking or sleeping or eating. - Niyi Osundare

I never want to see anyone, and I never want to go anywhere or do anything. I just want to write. - P.G. Wodehouse

Being a good writer is 3% talent, 97% not being distracted by the Internet. - Anonymous

If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write. - Stephen King

If you read good books, when you write, good books will come out of you. - Natalie Goldberg

You are what you read. - Esko Valtaoja

PS. Having too much fun on Tumblr lately but I promise not to abandon Blogger!

Crave

Letting you slip away is such a terrible waste, it’s consuming me.
I could’ve had you for a couple of touches and it will be the world for me.

They stare at me while I crave you.

A reminder

For several weeks I felt like a speeding train with no brakes - a machine, nothing more. Something stopped me in my tracks just when I thought I was going straight for the cliffs. And I breathed, I was human after all with dreams as scary as this. Thank you Anon, for pulling me back a step just so I could see how far I've come - not that far yet. It was the best prologue for my birthday month!

"Sometimes, you need to step outside, get some air, and remind yourself of who you are and who you want to be."


Why hello, August!

And then I saw this..

Lucas Scott's reading list, I literally squealed!

The Winter Of Our Discontent by John Steinbeck
Of Mice and Men by John Steinbeck
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Call of the Wild by Jack London
Sherlock Holmes: The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

PS. I first knew about Great Gatsby from him years ago!

Find out other fictional characters' reading list on Flavorwire.

Ramblings

My mind is a clutter right now - overlapping thoughts and daydreams and words - stumbling to get out. Every time I stop to sort things out with myself, I hit a writer's block. I feel detached, floating aimlessly in a sea of words. I feel restless and anxious, wanting to say everything but not knowing how to say it. Words are not enough but they're everything.

Spending too much time in one's head is dangerous. But when you bow your head in front of a paperback, you escape, you stop the tide from pulling you into monotony and routine. Books are like anchors, they hold you down, and lift you above the choking water when you need to breathe. 

I felt how strong the tide was and I refuse to go with the flow.

Listening to: 1901 - Birdy & Little bit - Drake ft. Lykke Li

Stealing away

A quick segue from work. Been feeling down lately, like I carry the weight of the world. Cliche, yes. But it drives me to sudden burst of tears sometimes. It's the worst feeling ever, to not know, to be helpless, but at the back of your mind you know you brought this upon yourself.

Do you know what makes me happy? Books.

Seeing books. Holding books. The smell of books. The smell of paper. Reading books. Reading words. Drinking prose. The elation of discovering a book, a different world,  beautiful characters. The fulfillment of finding a great read with just intuition. The feeling when you reach the epilogue, like jumping off a cliff. Closing your eyes when the words are so beautiful. Closing your eyes so you can imagine.

Then I remember, that's all I need. My family, my friends, my love, my books.

Bad days

There are bad days and there are great ones. Good days are always short lived, bad days are tougher on us. We obsess over it, painstakingly analyze what went wrong, wish and pray that we could undo it. It's a hopeless case and it crushes us, deep in our bones. Well, for me.

Others can take on that bull with both hands on its horn, I scream and run away. I internally scream, and internally curse myself, and internally run away. I had a bad day. It's not about luck, fate, the cosmos, or anything. It was words, words that hit me like sticks and stones.

Here's my solution to a bad day (if not effective, seek professional help):

Book intuition

I miss walking on aisles lined with bookshelves, spending hours - but it never feels that way - reading title after title, going nowhere exactly but every step has a purpose that leads me to that one book. Then I just know. Magical.

I dream of entering a bookstore, covered with spines from ceiling to floor, light seeping through cracks on the spaces between books. It's the only maze I'd never wanna get out of.

The feeling of letting time slip away, no worries, because time seem to slow when I'm surrounded with books.

Hello, May!

A lot of things to look forward to in May!

- I turned my shoe shelf into a bookshelf because my desk can't hold everything any longer. Loved the result. Though I still need to find more space for new books.

- Work! Words, words, words, because I'll be writing for a living! And a notebook so I can write random or work related stuff.

- Dad's arriving from London via HK tonight.

- More books! First up in my list: George Martin or John Greene

- A cup of coffee every morning to wake me up for work :)

- Summer rain, I hope! The heat's becoming unbearable. It rained a while ago, though it only lasted 5 minutes.

- To write more.

- An adventure!

OD on metaphors

Have you ever looked up at the sky long enough, your stomach dips like it does before falling? You suddenly feel the earth has shifted and you're falling, falling up into the clouds, its side tinged with light like its dipped in the melting sun.

It's the same feeling at night, when you look up, the sky has transformed into a big black veil, a streak of purple vanishing in the horizon. The stars look back at you, winking, blinking, waiting. Then you have the urge to fall up into the sky. It feels like falling. Like running instead of walking. You're falling instead of flying.

When you look up at the sky, it doesn't matter which way is up or down, you want to fall up into the clouds and the stars. You want to jump from the earth up into the sky, not fly, like a big blanket to save your fall.

I'm not good with titles

They lay tangled with the covers. She watched him sleeping, yellow light seeping through the windows. She watched as shadows danced on his bare chest, rising and falling to the rhythm of his soft breath. His eyelashes touched the top of his cheeks. His mouth slightly parted. She couldn’t bear not to reach out, to feel him beneath her fingertips. She traced his lips, touched his ear, lay her palm flatly on his heart. He smiled with eyes closed, holding her hand with his, and pulling her in with the other. She kissed his neck, her lips unmoving, and breathed in his scent. His skin was dark, golden where the sun touched it. And when he looked at her, his eyes gave everything he saw, the lost innocence of a boy only war could take.

The sun rose higher and he made her breakfast. She sat at the counter with his shirt on and watched him, the muscles on his back, the broad shoulders that led to his thin waist. He would catch her looking and winked, a devilish smile on his lips. He is the most beautiful creature she ever saw. She couldn’t stop marveling that he was hers. That every stolen glance, every hidden spot, every morning like this was her possession. She loved him with every imperfection that made him beautiful. She adored every battle scar that kept him alive and brought him home to her.

He was watching her against the diamonds above, her hair shining from the moonlight, dancing around her face. She was looking up at the star-drunk sky. He passed the last bottle left, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. From where they lay, on the hood of his hand-me-down car, they just might fall over the edge skyward into the black ocean that seemed everywhere. He felt inconsequential, and somehow he knew she felt it too.

But she felt anxious instead of that. She saw nothing but the sky, the stars that seem to invite her, the wind that blew the grass and carried the minty scent of his smoke after the cigarette was long gone. She stared up at the sky too long, she felt like falling in it. She almost felt it, when the wind blew and she shivered. It was like standing on the edge just before a fall. She wanted that feeling forever, brought the bottle to her wet lips, her eyes bright.

She was everywhere, his sky, and he loved her.

Beneath the stars, pleasantly drunk, their features softened by the moonlight, they were infinite in each other. It was more than love could offer.

08-08-11

Sorry means nothing

And it breaks my heart what love has turned us into.

Longing turning into anger,

fists pounding instead of arms holding,

words into thorns,

fingertips slicing,

fingerprints bruising,

chasing me away,

pushing me off the edge.

Yesterday we felt like forever,

today, tomorrow is not ours.

I don’t want to sleep if it means I’ll dream of you.

I don’t want to stay awake if it means I’ll think of you.

Where do I go?

Sober

You smell like cigarettes,

like hazy nights,

like starless skies.

Your face reminds me of a kiss,

soft and smooth,

yet wild with desire.

Your touch is my heroine,

my longing,

lust, my only sin.

Your breath in my ear,

intoxicating,

perforating through me.

I shiver inside,

gripping that moment,

slipping,

like sand between my fingers.

When the liquor wears off,

every beautiful second,

every teasing smile,

every half-lidded glance,

is soon gone.

Runaway

The trees seemed to move past behind us, pushing us closer to where the starless sky meets the sea. Her eyes were closed, but she was smiling. Her hair was caught up in the wind, sending the intoxicating scent to me. I inhaled deeply, half dreaming, half contented. I shifted gear to third and the world outside moved faster. I looked at you from the corner of my eyes, your head leaning on your folded arms on the door frame. The windows were down, the midnight air crisp and cold, but I was warm. Mountains appeared on either side of the tranquil road as the sky turned purple with streaks of fire. I turned off the radio. I can hear you breathe. I can hear my heartbeat. You lift your head up and inhaled. You turned to look at me, “I can smell the sea!”

I smiled to myself, thinking this was the right thing to do.

I could almost hear the waves crashing.

You climbed out before I stopped the engine, running out to the seawall. I watched you remove your high heeled shoes, your shoulders dipping one after the other. Then you ran down the steps to the sand, stopping only once just to turn around and smile up at me, “Are you coming or not?”

As if I could stand still when your hair’s a mess, your dress strikingly out of place. It was made for your wedding.

The memory of that afternoon came back. I went down the seawall and ran to you. If I was even a second too late, I could’ve lost you forever.

I held your face in both my hands, lifting your eyes to mine. “I’ll take you back to him. I can wait for you.” I could feel the emptiness spread through my chest as I said the words, wanting to believe myself. Waiting - hoping - to hear her say...

“No,” your hand travelled to my neck, clutching my hair. “I’m staying with you.”

The waves invited us, reaching our feet and ruined your wedding dress.

Prologue

Time, they make past lovers to strangers.

The ballroom was filled, voices floating trying to be heard over the other but all Georgiana Aberdeen could hear were mere whispers, her own thoughts drowned everything else. Her heart leaped when she thought she heard his name. She stood still, refusing to follow the turn of the heads to the opposite direction in acknowledgement to the gentleman who just came in. She began to lift her foot in an attempt to walk away but failed. He was but a step, a heartbeat away. His countenance soon change into familiarity, of reserved affection, but the warmth of his smile showed nothing more, then a straight line of his lips came when he realized it was not the right emotion in seeing her thus. She turned around...

A day

The morning light spilled across the floor, reaching the tips of his eyelashes. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, his face still resembling a smile. I longed to touch his hair, it was just hours ago that I ran my fingers through them, a memory that warmed my heart and lit a smile on my face. I hurried from where I sat watching him near the window to his side, tracing his body with mine. My hand rested on his bare chest, and he turned to pull me in. His arms tightened around me sending shivers up my spine. He kissed the top of my head, his lips unmoving. I closed my eyes, hearing his every heartbeat answer to my own.

The words floated in the air, unspoken yet understood. Stay. Forget everything, just for today.

The world fell away beyond the white covers. We were high above tucked away in a cloud. Maybe sometime we’ll remember to go back, but this moment is ours.