Where did Writing go?

When I look at a blank page, I always have an urge to write. This urge hasn't changed even though I haven't written a short story or sat down to work on my manuscript properly for two months now. My love for words, my love for creative writing will always be strong. It's the one love I can trust to always exist.

A few years ago, I discovered spoken word poetry. It is the single most amazing art form I had the blessing of finding. I always loved poetry or any form of creative writing for that matter. But there is only so much words on paper can do. Spoken word or slam poetry to be precise is loud, actively passionate and engaging. You get your point across to a large amount of people in just a few minutes.

Last night, after years of chickening out, I finally participated in my first poetry slam. And the experience was absolutely amazing. Everyone was really good and I was so sure that I was the only crazy person who went up there without any prior experience. It was the single most scariest moment ever, my words are vulnerable to judgement in a single second. But it was amazing, having my voice float around and hopefully stroke some hearts and it was amazing that I could hear the audience clicking their fingers in appreciation.

In the end, I didn't get a ranking but I had a score of 7 out of 10 which was great considering I blanked out 4 lines from finishing my poem and last year's heat champion approached me, gave me tips and said that he liked my piece. That was incredible. At that moment, I decided, "This is awesome. I'm going to do this more often."

Day 33: Those Days, Those Weeks

There are good weeks. Weeks where you will be motivated and inspired to sit at your ever-so-quick-to overheat laptop and study and write and the words will flow endlessly as though you're a dictionary or a thesaurus.

But you're not.

There are good weeks. Weeks where jogging in the morning and running against the lowering of the sun drives you out of bed in the morning and your toes are jumpy and you are so incredibly healthy because every fibre in your body is screaming with positivity as though you're a proton.

But you're not.

Because, there are bad weeks. Weeks where the words just won't flow and glaringly white word documents stare back at you for hours and you're not even motivated to write in your journal and words just won't write and every day that piles onto each other agitates the growing irritation inside you.

There are bad weeks. Weeks where the morning feels like night and you have to drag yourself out of bed because your body feels like lead and you constantly feel as though the Sandman is constantly pouring sand into your eyes and everything feels so sluggish and you force yourself to smile because you don't want people to be worried.

There are bad weeks. Weeks where you just want to lock your bedroom door, cover your head with your bedsheets and just cry into the mattress because you're so fucking sensitive to every emotion and any little thing people say can make you so fucking depressed that you wonder if you're slipping back into that abyss.

But you're not.

There are just bad weeks and good weeks. And after the bad weeks, good weeks follow. You just have to trudge through and remember all the good weeks.

Day 27: Sleep Deprivation

Let's sleep and not wake up until world ends.

Day 23: Disenchantment

Sublime and nature swims circles around my head
Like Rousseau and his rowing boat
Enlightenment was only enough to keep my eyes barely open
To the fate Oedipus was blindly charging towards
Disenchantment is the reason why Alice jumped down that rabbit hole
She couldn't take anymore of Franklin's bourgeois routine life
Where was the freedoms found?
Text and Traditions is the reason why I need disenchantment
Give me that mythical drink, that pretty little pill
Let's forget the Underground

Day 21: Holding Hands in the Rain

Note: Sorry for the late post! I had a lot going on this weekend.

We held hands in the rain while trying to stay desperately dry underneath your umbrella. In the distance, the harbour bridge lights up rainbows. The queue moved suddenly but slowly. I jabbed your rib every time you said that we were finally moving because every time you spoke, the queue stopped again.

We held hands in the rain as we waited for the concert gates to open. Every time the queue suddenly moved and stopped, I thought that the girl in front of me would poke my eyes out with her umbrella. Everyone was so jammed together, afraid that the concert would start without them.

We held hands in the rain as we strolled through the harbour with hot chocolate lingering on our tongues. Skipping puddles, we shared shivers of the first official winter night, our fluttering breaths disapparating in the air. We couldn't imagine how cold the rest of Winter would get.

We held hands in the rain because you said, "Don't let go." You wanted a change in our relationship. I wanted a transition. And we continued to hold hands because you adapted to my pace. Our footsteps echoed through the streets as we stepped into your car, finally driving home after a concert that left our hearts beating hard.

Day 20: I won't let you win

This is to you, the douche who felt me up,

This is the only acknowledgement I will give you. Because you don't deserve this attention. I have saved a photo of you and I know that you know I took that photograph. And I will keep it and I will remember your face because the next time I see you, I won't be afraid. The next time I see you, you had better run.

I am strong. I worked so hard to become strong so that no one can make me feel otherwise. So that assholes like you cannot make me feel vulnerable. And I hate myself so much for not standing up to  you because no one, absolutely no one is allowed to make me feel fear. I don't want to hate myself for your actions. You don't deserve such feelings. I hate you for making me feel this way. For penetrating my comfort zone. I hate you for making me cry.

This is my promise to you, next time I see you, it is you who will cry.
And I always keep my promises.

Day 19: One of Those Nights

Tonight is just one of those nights
Where weeks and days have taken their toll
And I just want to pull my hair and scream out of control
Tonight is just one of those nights
Where a double bed is twice too large for an empty heart
And I just want to fetal curl and fall apart
Tonight is just one of those nights
Where I pull out that hidden bottle of vodka
And drink myself into a schizophrenic coma
Tonight is just one of those nights
Where calculations of money is lost in The Tardis
And I can't remember what I purchased
Tonight is just one of those nights
Where I would get lost in momentary danger
And wake up next morning with a stranger
Tonight is just one of those nights
Where a bottle of vodka simply won't do
And the burn is just a cheap replacement of you

Day 17: Letter of Farewell

These are the words I would have said at your funeral if I had attended. If only I had known. You were a good man. My memory of you will always be of you struggling to get up from your seat in your old age to welcome me into your home. A warm second home.

Rest in peace, up there in heaven. Where surely that is where you are now. I promise I will look after the boys. My brother and your grandson because they're both my brothers. I will make sure that they grow up to become good proper men. To make sure they don't follow the wrong crowds, don't lose their way but if they do, I'll be there to guide them back onto the right path to a good and moral life. I promise to be there in your place. I will love both the boys.

These are my words to you.

Day 15: Cactus Love

Please love me like a cactus.
Don't bind me to your affection
For I will suffocate under your attention
Let me strive under the blue sky sun
Don't nurse me in your wrapping shade
I need to breathe outside your arms
For I won't wilt without your nurture
Please love me like a cactus
Or you don't know me well enough
To understand my enduring strength.

Day 13: Rainy day Studying

Note: I know, I know, I missed a another day. But I wasn't home til 12 yesterday!

Rain outside window is lulling me to sleep
Sitting next to a friend who hasn't started his assignment
Half-stirred, half-shaken milk coffee to keep me awake
Uneaten sandwich crusts sits in a plastic bag
Did you know crusts gives you curly hair?
Procrastinating with Facebook scrolling addiction,
I don't think he's getting any work done
Trying to keep our laughter down,
Whispers and heads patrol us
Christos Tsiolkas is a skilled writer,
I got turned off men on the first page.
It takes skill to make such realistic and unlikable characters.
Highlighting and scribbling on pages is almost scandalous
But that's how you really appreciate and analyse a text.
I swear we are seriously studying.

Day 12: Realism

It's a bit of a sad thing to admit but I realised when it comes to men, I shouldn't expect anything unless they confirmed themselves. Compliments are just empty words. Gestures, touches are just empty actions. Promises are so often left broken that it's difficult to trust that they'll ever be kept.

I don't want day dreams any more. I don't want fantasies of maybe's and what ifs. I want facts and confessions. I want to know the true meaning to words being said. I want to be able to read between the lines. I don't want to grab at patchy words and decipher hieroglyphics. I want a word for word, mirror reflection of your heart because I'm tired of watching mine break.

I want realism.

Day 10: Dodgeball

You are standing on asphalt with your shoe laces double knotted and your fingers tingling. Anticipating the meteor shower of rubber balls. Anticipating the impact. You think that you can't come out of this without at least a bruised gut, thigh or forehead. You watched the previous match. These people aren't human.

The whistle blows and you join the stampede of feet running towards the centre. You mentally chant that you must get a ball. Must get a ball. Must get a - motherfucker! Somehow that faggot of a player  snatched the ball away before you could wrap your hands around it. You retreat behind the safety of your teammates. It's okay. You don't have much of a throwing arm anyway. But you are light on your feet. You can dodge, catch and survive.

You blink as a ball almost makes contact with your stomach. You duck as another almost hits your side. You would catch except these aren't dodgeballs, these are fucking cannonballs. You would get knocked out with a single hit. These people are not fucking around. They want to win and your pain is their goal. You smirk as you manage to grab onto a ball. That's a player out. With the ball in hand you try to single out their weakest link but miss.

You twist back behind the shoulders of your teammates and continue to dodge as one by one, your team starts to dwindle. But at this point, all you can do is hope to survive. Left. Right. Duck. Dodge. As you try to steady your breathing, you realise that all of a sudden you're the only one left on the court.

Every nerve in your body tingle with anticipation as you watch an almost full team of men grip onto their dodgeballs and ready their arms. You almost shiver as they smirk at you, taunting as they walk close to the centre line.

'Little girl, you better run.'

Shit.

Day 5: How it feels

Being driven home,
Studying side by side,
Being asked out for breakfast, lunch and dinner,
I forgot how it felt to have someone around.
I want your shoulder leaning against mine
But I don't want dependence,
It's still too early to tell where this will go
But I can see where this is leading.
Experience has read the signs in your actions.
I want to unsee what I see.
Can't undo words that haven't been heard yet.
I hate to admit that I'm afraid
To feel once again.

Day 4: It totally slipped my mind

Note: After a week of almost non-stop studying, I just crashed into bed and Friday was forgotten.

Lots of things have slipped my mind.
Friday's post. Saturday's post. And now it's Sunday.
Now it's May. Where did the days go?
In between going to lectures, attending club meetings
and finding time to exercise, I squeeze in more studying.
I forgot how it felt to be wanted.
It's the end of the second week of May.
It's that time again.
Blood tests and prescription changes.
Hypothyroidism maintenance.
It feels good to be so busy.
My life so full of life.

Day 2: Studying

As I'm nearing the end of the first half of the academic year, I found myself buried underneath stacks of textbooks and hermiting away in my room, writing madly about weak-willed Ancient Greek women who saw death as an escape for all their troubles and how even though Australians like to believe that we live in an egalitarian society, it is not so.

Yesterday, as a change of environment, instead of my four-walled bedroom, I cooped myself into the university library for eight hours. I was there from noon till 9 with an hour lunch break. I haven't done this in two years. It feels really good to be back to studying. I can't believe two years have passed since then. One of my colleagues asked me last week if I was happy. I smiled in reply, "I'm happy." I haven't been this happy since three years ago. Every day, I go to bed content with my life. Things are good.

Day 1: Beginning

Note: I thought I would start the first of this 365 days writing project with the beginning of my life.

1991, the year I was born was the year Australia accepted my parents into the country. They spent the previous two years in an off-shore refugee centre in Malaysia. That year, my parents were placed in Hobart, the capital of the island state of Tasmania.

My mother didn't like Hobart. The place she stayed was much too cold, there was snow and having been born and raised in Vietnam, snow was incredibly much too cold. Hobart at the time was more remote than it is now. It took an hour for her to walk to the shops.

I was born in spring. Weighing less than a kilogram, I was so fragile, my mother thought that I wasn't going to survive my first winter there. So everyday, she held onto me desperately sharing her warmth, singing a lullaby.

She is the reason why I don't do stupid things to my body. Like tattoos, drugs, smoke or excessive drinking. My body is much too precious to damage.

Every Life has a Story Worth Being Told

Every day, we're living a chapter, a story that could be recounted, or story-told. The vital point is that, do you, the main character in this story believe that your story is worth telling? If not, is there something you can do about it?

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." Benjamin Franklin

With this quote in mind, I would like to start my own project 365. However, not with photography. I'm a writer so evidently, the medium will be writing. I haven't been blogging much lately so there probably won't be many readers but this project is more of a self-motivation to live a more purposeful and eventful life than a marketing scheme because the days are short and the years pass by without our knowing. I think we would be a lot happier knowing we spent our days with meaning. 

Barely lasting a second

I used to wish to grow up quickly.
I felt so small in my own skin.
Like a princess locked far away.
I wanted to be someone else.
Sailor Moon with her strong powers.
Superman with his super strength.
But I realised that true strength,
wasn't about extraordinary powers.

Or being an adult.
Sometimes, adults are the weakest.

When I grew up, I wished that I didn't.
Adulthood was unexpectedly ugly.
I wanted Peter Pan to whisk me away.
But I never found that second star to the right.
Neverland only exists in our innocence.
It isn't a place for run aways.
Because Time doesn't wait for do overs.
But the future is yet to be made.
And the present barely lasts a second.

Lemonade anyone?

When life gives us lemons, we make lemonade.

When life is a tipped over hourglass, what am I supposed to do? I pass days by with work and any means of passing time. I exercise, I write, I read, I become fixated on the fictional lives inside television dramas. I try to distract myself from self-destructing thoughts. I try not to think about the "Maybes."

Maybe I'll change my mind again?
Maybe next year won't be better afterall?
Maybe I'm making a mistake?
Maybe I should get engaged?
Maybe I'm really a horrible person?
Maybe my dreams will always remain such?
Maybe I 'm a little lost?

When life becomes complicated, I always try to think back to how it became this way. How did things end up the way they did? When did I start blending lemons instead of squeezing them? Then I realise that I think too much. If I stop thinking, maybe I'll start feeling again. Because, I fear that I may have lost my heart somewhere along this journey and I can't get it back.

A Poem of Quotes

Note: Sorry for posting late again. This poem is consisted of lines from a few of my favourite books.

- - - - -

A poem of Quotes

If we burn, you burn with us.
Summer of 18 years old, deep in my heart there’s a broken sound.
Our only kiss was like an accident- a beautiful gasoline rainbow.
Lies can sound awfully pretty when a girl is in love with the person telling them.
You don’t love someone because they’re perfect,
You love them in spite the fact that they’re not.
I won’t ever leave you, even though you’re always leaving me.
Love is like the wind. You can’t see it but you can feel it.
Nothing that’s worthwhile is ever easy. Remember that.
I don't know that love changes. People change. Circumstances change.
You save yourself or you remain unsaved.
Because horror on Earth is real and it is every day.
It is like a flower or like the sun; it cannot be contained
A human life is a beautiful mess.

Sources (in order): Suzanne Collins: Mockingjay,  Hinako Ashihara: Sand Chronicles, Alice Sebold: The Lovely Bones, Grabrielle Zevin: All these things I've done, Jodi Picoult: My sister's keeper, Audrey Niffenegger: The Time traveler's wife, Nicolas Sparks: A walk to remember, Nicolas Sparks: Messege in a bottle, Alice Sebold: The Lovely bones and Gabrielle Zevin: Elsewhere.