Text to friends with broken legs.

I exist in the in betweens of awake and asleep
In the sound of children's laughters
In a parent's tears of joy
In the blowing breeze of a spring morning.
I exist in the dead of night.
I dwell in your broken dreams.
In all your sadness and regret.
I am with you every moment of every day.
Watching. Waiting. Happy or sad. For better or worse.
I am your sickness and your cure.
I am your mind.
Consuming you alive.

'I love you'

'I love you' is not something that I find easy to express to people I have definite love for.
People I love deeply can attest to how rare it is that I vocalise my love for them.

But in the face of new life and probable death,
Upon hearing your loved one, on the phone, holding their breaths in an attempt to will the pain away,
My brain and my heart came together,
And my tongue slipped the 3 words as easily as a skier cruising down a steep slope of snow,
Sliding on my tongue and out my lips,
Conveying my love,
Moving beyond the telephone wires that kept us apart,
Reaching the heart of my loved one at the other end of the line.

"I love you, I love you, I love you"

I cannot seem to say it enough.

I love you.
Be safe.

I love you.
I'll see you soon.

I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

oxymoronous git.

Constantly in awe at how different a person seem when you don't know them.
How people you cherish now were once strangers.
Strange strangers.

How perception dictates the way you feel
About a person
About love
About life.
Getting to know something deeply will alter the reality of it.
Not one person perceives another in exactly the same way.
How I see things are not how anyone else would.
How you see life will never be precisely how I see it.
I guess
I guess
Reality is merely fiction.
Because you cannot trust how your mind, your heart choose to see things.

Reality is fiction.
Not that it matters.

My darlings,

Killing my darlings.
Writing new darlings.
Here's a snippet.
Snip. Snip.

"That's when I knew I loved her, when I realised we were sharing the same reality. People called us delusional, they told us we were hallucinating; a serious case of folie à deux. But we don't care what people think, they are the crazy ones. Not us."

Q.

Greedy and tiny.

Mosquitos. I hate mosquitos.
Blood bandits that leave you itchy and red.
Mosquitos, you are not welcomed to harvest my blood.
I have spilled too much in my lifetime to spare some for you.

I once had a greedy mosquito suck my blood.
Once it started, it didn't stop.
The little fucker ended up bloated with my blood.
It's abdomen see-through from accommodating the amount of blood it's ingested.
I blew on it.
It stopped sucking.
I blew on it some more. A little harder this time.
It rolled down from my leg and fell to the floor.
It exploded.

Mosquito carcass and a tiny splatter of my blood.
It was quite an exquisite sight.

Art can be found in the weirdest places.
Art can be found in the tiny explosion of a greedy insect.

Anderson part 1.

Anderson hates apples and school work and being in public.
Anderson finds comfort in being alone.
Anderson is always alone.
Anderson is not lonely.
Anderson is not lonely.
Anderson is not lonely.
Anderson doesn't know what loneliness is anymore.
Anderson is always alone.
Anderson hates apples.

Had good coffee today.

My friend brought me to lunch at her friend's house today. It was nice. Her friend cooked a feast. Halfway through the meal her husband asked to be excused. When he left, the wife (my friend's friend) started crying.

It was that special kind of crying, where your tears just flow silently in a steady stream. I didn't understand.

Their baby started crying in the room above, but no one seemed to notice. We ate our food and my friend continued to chatter cheerfully. It was a bizarre scene. I finished my food just as the baby stopped crying.

After lunch she served us coffee. I had two cups. The coffee was divine but the conversations were awkward. No one seemed to pay attention to what they or anyone else was saying. I sat quietly savoring my coffee. We left not long after that, her husband never returned.

On our way back my friend told me he was in the back shooting up.

I had no idea heroine addicts could look so well put together.

Good things after midnight.

Still air of midnight comes alive with laughters of friends
Old memories and past mistakes
Shared deep in the dead of night
None to be heard but the echoes of voices
Reminiscing the have beens and have nots

A flurry of thoughts rushing out through fast tongues
My foggy mind recalling moments past once forgotten
Simple pleasures.
Ah, simple pleasures.

Blow me a bubble or two.

I don't want to die. At least not now.

But there are days when you just need everything to slow down.
Some days you just want life to stop.
But not to die. Never to die.
You just want to stop being.

Existing is such a burden.

What would it feel like to vanish into thin air like a bubble? (Must be nice).

Sometimes when I heave and cry,
And the crushing pain weighs heavy in the hollow of my soul,
The kind of pain that is unlike any physical pain I am accustomed to,
When I am curled up in a fetal position like an unborn child not ready to face the world,
I would hear the sound of my mother's voice shouting at a 4 year old me, telling me to stop or she would hit me again and again and again.

Sometimes I would swallow my tears and will myself to stop reacting to the crushing pain I feel bringing me down inside.

And I would tell her, in the voice of the 4 year old me "no more. No more. No more."

It is so hard living in fear that you are not enough.
Especially when your days are constant reminders of how inadequate you are.
I dont need much but I want everything.
I want everything for everyone but none for myself.
I want to be everything for everyone.

I want to please. I want to be enough.

But I am flawed.
I am never going to be enough. Not for myself, not for anyone.

Sometimes.

Some nights I just want to go to sleep forever.
Dying seems easy until you realise it is not the end.

I just want it to end. Sometimes.