Sweet child o' mine.

I had a dream about mother last night. I was so angry. I woke up crying.

I always wake up crying in anger when I dream about her.

Biggest lesson I learned from her: never have kids.

I will make for a shit parent.

Q.

This was how I spent Saturday. It was a lovely day.

Staying at the parents' place for a week... CHRISTMAS.

My late-night reads/re-reads this week. such diversity. So eager to bury my nose in books (figuratively speaking).
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Or maybe just greed.

I am too greedy with books.

I always want to read them all and when I'm done, I read them again and again. I never tire of reading good books.

I probably should get a kindle.

But I buy physical books of all my e-books too.

I am greedy.

Keeping my hands busy and away from my skin.

When I was a kid, I used to be afraid of the dark. I slept with the lights on until I was 11 and then I moved on to night lights. I felt like such a grown up the first night I slept with the night light on. I guess that was one of the first times I felt like I wasnt a kid anymore. I guess that's stupid, sleeping with a night light doesn't make me an adult, really, it's no different than sleeping with all the lights on.

I started sleeping with the lights off the first night I moved into my sister's house and out of my parents'.

The truth is, it wasn't darkness I feared. It was more than that.

Hushed arguments whispered in the dead of night, being shoved into my sister's bedroom when the whispers gradually became louder. Muffled yellings penetrating through all the barriers in between. Shouts travelling beyond bedroom doors, walls, comforters and palms covering my ears. The hate resonating through my eardrums and goes to places deep in my mind making me feel emotions I didn't understand, not at the time at least. Somewhere in what felt like the distance was ny sister's slow voice, telling me to sleep. My solace then. Still my solace now. 

It was always in the darkness when things get ugly.

It was never the darkness I feared, it's what it reminded me of that terrifies me.

I am not scared of the darkness, I am afraid of fights.

Q.

Hello. 

It has come to my attention after several conversations with some of my good friends that my fascination with scars (mainly my own) creeps some people out. So today, I would like to blog about scars.

I am no stranger to scars, both physical and emotional scars. Having gone through the kind of teenage years that I went through, those close to me would probably just smile and nod in agreement. Yes, the surface of my skin is littered with plenty of scars ranging from small-barely-visible ones to omg-is-that-a-scar sized ones, some self-inflicted but mostly accidental because I am one of the biggest klutz in the world and because my cats and I; we play rough.

So one day, while I was telling a friend about my latest scar, she told me that I seemed quite proud of it (and my other scars) and at that moment I realised that while I am definitely fond of my scars, I am in fact quite proud of them. I’ve been asked why I don’t make an effort to ‘fix’ my scars and really, why would I? I have never been one to fuss over physical beauty, especially not my own so I don’t see the need to ‘fix’ myself.

I love my scars for they tell stories of times when I was wounded (literally and figuratively) and they remind me everyday that no matter the hardships I face, I will someday be through with it. These scars take me back to a time when I was frail and damaged; these scars are here to teach me a lesson. It is my form of tattoo except they are (mostly) not intentional and I don’t get to choose how I want them to look like. However that’s part of the beauty of scars; not having a say to what they’ll turn out like and wearing them like a badge of honour on your body as proof that yes, I was once wounded and weakened but also yes, I survived to tell the tale. So there, that’s why I am fond of my scars… even the ones inflicted by my rabid, un-neutered cat (that is an interesting story I may want to share here someday).

The same goes for emotional scars, except on a bigger scale. These are scars you face alone because you and only you can see them and you’re the only one who knows how deep the wounds of those scars run and this type of scarring is generally more difficult to accept. I do however hold a different opinion when it comes to emotional scars, at least on some things.

I believe some emotional wounds run too deep and hurt too much that they never really heal but you will have to wake up everyday for the rest of your life with an open, bleeding wound that threatens to consume you alive. I had a very enlightening conversation with a dear friend of mine who is currently going through some difficulties in her life and it is her wish that she will someday wake up with the ache in her chest miraculously reduced to nothing. Me, being the blunt mouthed ass that I am, told her that the kind of wound inflicted on her would probably never heal because it runs too deep and is the first of it’s kind that she’s ever experienced (the first cut is the dee~~~pest). Having said that, I’d let her know my stand on un-healing wounds. That although they never really heal and are always in danger of opening and bleeding again at the slightest pressure, we will someday grow accustomed to the pain. It is a beautiful thing knowing that you can survive such an ugly, vicious wound; bleeding red and throbbing like no kind of pain you’ve ever felt before. It is this fact that makes me appreciate scars and even more; the wounds that never heal, to know that it is possible to make it through to the other side, that you are capable of healing yourself and that you are strong enough to adapt to the pain, even though you may not wake up one day with the pain miraculously gone but you would gradually adapt to the hurt so that one day, the wound that once threatened to consume you alive may hurt no more than an ant bite. It is the kind of pain that reminds you that you are alive and that you have made it to fight another day.

Q.

Love of my life, Sylvia Plath.

“That’s one of the reasons I never wanted to get married. The last thing I wanted was infinite security and to be the place an arrow shoots off from. I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket"