An Ode to Sinking Sorrows

There should be a word for the gap in our souls, for this hollow space in our chest where our hearts used to be.

I reach out for myself, dragging my hand all the way down my trembling lips, my bruised neck, my aching collarbones, and notice the cracks stretching infinitely into that lonely cave they call heartbreak. I let my hand wander further and find my skin a vast ocean of memories. My eyes water, my tears forming pool and tracing an island of scars.

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Inside my Homicide: A Verse in Purification

I thought I would never to be able to bring myself to write another entry here.

But here I am once again: scribbling a letter after another until I finally make up a word, a sentence, a paragraph that’s lucid enough to express my apparent ambiguity and my obscure speculations about the world, about everything I know (or thought I knew).

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At the Mercy of Mnemosyne

The end of February always brings a certain kind of sadness to me: sharp, weighty and wordless like a falling dagger to the chest, hammering through the flesh and beating my heart to death. Out of all the months in the year, February is the most difficult to say goodbye to, because the farewell only acknowledges the arrival of a new month, my birth month, and that for me is more than terrifying.

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Death and Demystification

I went to the cemetery today: a one-ride trip to the northern part of the city that is well-known for roasted pork and burial grounds and crematoriums. I have been to this area only once in my life, about two years ago, when we had to take Lola to her final resting place. Even then, I couldn’t understand the idea of burial rites as the final passage of a person’s life. And when they said in unison, “Lola is finally going to rest,” I thought mournfully to myself, “Finally?”

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Phantoms in Transit

phantoms-in-transit

Hello September, it’s you again.

It seems to me that once again I have lost track of time. If someone comes up to me and asks what month it is today, I would probably say December or March without thinking twice, or scream the year 2010 without doubting its validity. My sinking soul could only hold so much of its consciousness before it finally starts to displace its attention to something more crucial than the fleeting motion of people and events, before it finally starts to lose all reverence to time.

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Return to Poseidon

Today I stood in the middle of a sea: a great white sea of papers and parchments and pain crashing one after the other with all the madness of a tidal wave, screaming to kiss the shores with all the urgency of a ticking time bomb. I stood in the middle of the raging waters and looked longingly at the immeasurable vastness of this now foreign territory, an ocean-deep of memories from my five-year stay at the university. Piles and piles of papers lay before me like flowing river: test papers, term papers, thesis drafts, photocopied pages of books from all of my adored authors, sheets of scratch and sentiments.

I looked each of them with wistful eyes, trying not to remember the long tough days when I once clung onto them like a child, like my whole life depended on every single word written on their pages. I read these words now, treaded on them carefully as if trying to extract a secret code, to see if maybe I had missed something important in all of my five-year education in philosophy. But in the end I only see these words words words and the absence of their context, their meaning, and realize that maybe I could never think again as deeply as when I did when I was there in the university—face to face with the unspeakable colors of dusk, the gentle breeze wheezing from the lonely river nearby, the gentle rhythm of trees swaying as in a dance, the sound of students’ laughter seeping through the cracks of time.

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Titanium Hearts

There are so many things I would like to say, so many stories I would like to share, so many pain I would like to express. These things are in my head—screaming, boiling, begging to be heard. But I cannot find any more reasons to release them to the universe where I know they would also inflict the same damage that I have sustained.

Sometimes I imagine myself as the vest to a bulletproof man: this weary little jacket which serves to cushion off the assault of bullets. But as soon as I think of such a thought, I banish it from my mind as much as possible, for there is no reason at all for one to think of oneself as a hero at all costs.

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Songs of the Sea

This has been the longest semester I have ever had in my entire stay in the university. When I closed my eyes last January—the blaring sound of beating deadlines ringing in the background, the clicking sound of tapping keyboards banging steadily in my ears at 2am, the hollow feeling of isolation in the midst of the great white sea of papers—I felt like Time stood still and never again ticked like it used to. But now I could hear the rushing sound of Time once more as I approach the final deadline.

Graduating today feels more like a dream, like a fiction. Like even if I put on my best dress, slip into these expensive pair of Charles and Keith, wear my graduation robe, it would all seem unreal (Yes, I deliberately used the word unreal instead of surreal, for the former captures better the phantasmagoric nature of the event) which I deem is a pretty normal feeling for an event as momentous as this one. But far from this dreamlike reality, I imagine myself misplaced—a piece of a jigsaw puzzle which could not fit into the picture. I feel like I am not here anymore, like I have graduated a long time ago and carried on a different life.

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Marching Meltdown

Hello blog! I have not written much for quite some time because of the crazy deadlines at the university and of all the unimaginable pressure from thesis writing. I do not have any grand plans for my upcoming birthday on the 15th as I would spend every ounce of my time on reconstructing my chapters. But it was a very good thing (and I am very happy for this) that my thesis adviser was finally able to get an initial overview of my proposed thesis, and more than that, to congratulate me for braving the road less traveled (At least academically, since I will be writing on Proust and Deleuze)

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Race to Silence

Some days just feel so unspeakably empty despite the presence of events and people. some days just run like the flow of time and take away everything in its wake. But some days just run dry and leave no words, no language—nothing but the sound of a moving life with all its unmoving senselessness.

I wish I know what I am saying, dear blog. But you see, I think of all these things I want to write about, but as soon as my mind sets itself into motion, the thought of all those feelings, all those senseless attempt to craft my own meaning, simply melts into the distance. Maybe what I am trying to say is that sometimes you just have to lie to yourself because the cost of honesty is too high a price.