Things you think about when you're a writer //365
There are 5 vowels, 26 letters, and 1,025,109 words in the English language.
When you've been writing articles as much as i have, you start to appreciate how the most potent of thoughts don't need to be a minimum of 400 words long. And how, sometimes, it is the resulting silence after a conversation of heated words that say the most.
As a writer i've learnt how much discipline it takes to sit down and type on Microsoft word for 3 hours straight, sometimes daily. I've learnt that writing and reading goes hand in hand; empowering each other like fuel is to a flame. Being a travel writer means sounding like you're on a high, constantly. And hey, sometimes you are.
I've learnt that words are simple. The same words are used over and over again everyday: I had pancakes for breakfast. I love you. You suck. I missed the bus. Are you free to talk? And yet, they do carry within themselves a multitude of emotions.
A "mhmm" just before a "go ahead then" could mean a red light: "no, don't leave".
The word "definitely" before a promise brings infinitely more conviction than in its absence.
And how the words "i'm sorry" could, possibly, be the most powerful duo of them all.
Perhaps the inspiration behind this post lies in how sad i felt after stumbling on this writer's blogpost. When in love, they say. Oh how it tugs at your tender heart. X
//
[365]
It is June and I close the door after you. My heart is aching so hard I feel like I'd vanish into thin air anytime if I don't hold onto something quickly. That night you put your clothes and hair products into a backpack as I watched, thinking no one has ever packed this decisively before. I tell you I hope you find whatever it is you are looking for. You tell me not to watch as you leave.
It is July and I'm busy rearranging my reality. I buy new fixtures and paintings for my room, and spend a weekend in Penang with my best friend. In a dark alley where cars nearly got disfigured, Christian taught me how to ride a scooter without dying. That went quite poorly, but I laughed and I screamed. I hadn't done that for a while now.
It is August and the Bidadari BTO results are out. What was once a potential life event now has absolutely nothing to do with me. In a parallel universe, we would've gotten the flat and spent a celebratory night out chugging beer. In this one, I sit in the auditorium in my graduation robes, contemplating all the things that transpired between "I'll be there at your convocation" and "I never promised you anything."
It is September and I find out that your grandmother had passed away. I excuse myself from my desk and cry in the office bathroom. I was in no position to be a wreck, but I just was, and I hated myself so much for that.
It is October, our birthday month, and I am waiting for a taxi at Newton MRT. Your friend asks me out and I should've figured why, if not for all the wine swirling in my bloodstream. He sits me down and buys me a bowl of fishball soup. He tells me you're attached. The world stops moving and I sober up all at once. I look down in silence and continue to play with my food. He gives me a ride home, and I thank him for the truth.
I remember every sensation that night. I spent a long time in the shower and an even longer time staring at the ceiling, aching to hear the ticking of my noisy Swatch or my own heartbeat; anything to know that time had started moving again. I hear nothing. Where I was, and where I sometimes still find myself - it is stone cold and pitch dark and scary. All these months I had hoped with all my heart to be wrong, but I was perfectly right.
It is December and I inhale the smell of foreign sheets on my last night in NZ. My body is heavy with fatigue but my mind wandered with a passion, and without warning I find myself exactly where I was that terrible, terrible night in June. I have my first panic attack and I don't know what to do, how long it'd last, and how to make it stop. The sun rises and my suitcase is packed. I am dying to go home.
It is February and I am aggressively spring-cleaning. Again. With one long continuous breath I turn all the corners I've avoided and purge every last one of them. You are truly gone now. I sit in my empty room and feel a damning hollowness brewing inside me furiously. This emptiness does not care if it's anger, guilt or pain - it demands to be filled. I say no.
It is April and I am in China, sprinting against the wind's direction with a kite's tail in my hand. "I am the Kite Runner!", I think to myself. I make a mental note to read that book. The camera stops rolling and I watch my breath become one with the wind as I return to my collegaues on the other end of the harbor. I think about how free and alive and invincible I am, even if this state of mind is turbulent.
It is June again, and today I passed a construction site in Woodleigh. They have begun building what could have been our home if everything went according to plan. By a stroke of luck we might have just gotten a unit on the 5th floor, again, where we would raise a boy and a girl. I would have talked you into letting her learn Taekwondo because martial arts is more useful than ballet and piano. That would be the bus stop where we'd part every morning. This would be the address we'll start putting on important paperwork. We would have little but it would be enough. It was never our plan to live anything more than simply. It is a beautiful plan, it just wasn't ours to make happen. All the hard work in the world wouldn't have changed anything.
What was the outcome of our hopeful application? What had you meant to tell me on the night you said "hey"? How would things be like if you never landed the new job? How could you bring yourself to do that?
The truth has set me free but my untame mind will always be clueless, and my heart fearful. I've done many things with the days that have gone by, but on some nights I still spend an unreasonable amount of time staring expectantly at the ceiling, into the same familiar darkness. Something inside me still holds out for the sounds that'll tell me this much time has passed.
It is June and I have learnt to become calm like water on the outside. But deep down I am painfully, irrevocably, and hopelessly lost.
It is July and I'm busy rearranging my reality. I buy new fixtures and paintings for my room, and spend a weekend in Penang with my best friend. In a dark alley where cars nearly got disfigured, Christian taught me how to ride a scooter without dying. That went quite poorly, but I laughed and I screamed. I hadn't done that for a while now.
It is August and the Bidadari BTO results are out. What was once a potential life event now has absolutely nothing to do with me. In a parallel universe, we would've gotten the flat and spent a celebratory night out chugging beer. In this one, I sit in the auditorium in my graduation robes, contemplating all the things that transpired between "I'll be there at your convocation" and "I never promised you anything."
It is September and I find out that your grandmother had passed away. I excuse myself from my desk and cry in the office bathroom. I was in no position to be a wreck, but I just was, and I hated myself so much for that.
It is October, our birthday month, and I am waiting for a taxi at Newton MRT. Your friend asks me out and I should've figured why, if not for all the wine swirling in my bloodstream. He sits me down and buys me a bowl of fishball soup. He tells me you're attached. The world stops moving and I sober up all at once. I look down in silence and continue to play with my food. He gives me a ride home, and I thank him for the truth.
I remember every sensation that night. I spent a long time in the shower and an even longer time staring at the ceiling, aching to hear the ticking of my noisy Swatch or my own heartbeat; anything to know that time had started moving again. I hear nothing. Where I was, and where I sometimes still find myself - it is stone cold and pitch dark and scary. All these months I had hoped with all my heart to be wrong, but I was perfectly right.
It is December and I inhale the smell of foreign sheets on my last night in NZ. My body is heavy with fatigue but my mind wandered with a passion, and without warning I find myself exactly where I was that terrible, terrible night in June. I have my first panic attack and I don't know what to do, how long it'd last, and how to make it stop. The sun rises and my suitcase is packed. I am dying to go home.
It is February and I am aggressively spring-cleaning. Again. With one long continuous breath I turn all the corners I've avoided and purge every last one of them. You are truly gone now. I sit in my empty room and feel a damning hollowness brewing inside me furiously. This emptiness does not care if it's anger, guilt or pain - it demands to be filled. I say no.
It is April and I am in China, sprinting against the wind's direction with a kite's tail in my hand. "I am the Kite Runner!", I think to myself. I make a mental note to read that book. The camera stops rolling and I watch my breath become one with the wind as I return to my collegaues on the other end of the harbor. I think about how free and alive and invincible I am, even if this state of mind is turbulent.
It is June again, and today I passed a construction site in Woodleigh. They have begun building what could have been our home if everything went according to plan. By a stroke of luck we might have just gotten a unit on the 5th floor, again, where we would raise a boy and a girl. I would have talked you into letting her learn Taekwondo because martial arts is more useful than ballet and piano. That would be the bus stop where we'd part every morning. This would be the address we'll start putting on important paperwork. We would have little but it would be enough. It was never our plan to live anything more than simply. It is a beautiful plan, it just wasn't ours to make happen. All the hard work in the world wouldn't have changed anything.
What was the outcome of our hopeful application? What had you meant to tell me on the night you said "hey"? How would things be like if you never landed the new job? How could you bring yourself to do that?
The truth has set me free but my untame mind will always be clueless, and my heart fearful. I've done many things with the days that have gone by, but on some nights I still spend an unreasonable amount of time staring expectantly at the ceiling, into the same familiar darkness. Something inside me still holds out for the sounds that'll tell me this much time has passed.
It is June and I have learnt to become calm like water on the outside. But deep down I am painfully, irrevocably, and hopelessly lost.
written by Joyce
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