somehow cny doesn’t feel like cny

i am overthinking alot

i hate the feeling of suffocation that’s in my chest

i wish i am a faster worker

i wish i am a better reader

i wish i can an efficient reader

academic rigor? im not used to it




i didnt sign up for this.

my father did.



I think I am happy because I have friends who care, people who eat lunches with me, and people who compliment me.

I think I am also mildy sad because things are happening in me, and it’s not puberty. I wish it was though.

I was also told that things happen because they are meant to be. I no longer believe in destiny. It’s not bullshit but nothing is really happening. On a brighter note, I was also told that my writing has a voice and it means so much. The same people also told me that I used the ’em dash’ incorrectly.

I think life is going well for now. And I am becoming braver. I no longer apologise to the things I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for. Likewise, I learnt that apologies shouldn’t be given for the sake of it; it should be sincere and precise. The one drawback is that it may not work and I am still trying to learn how to recover from that.

It’s also strange because people think that I am smart. I’d thank them instead and tell them I am not. I try to be but words and logic don’t pair well with me, and this explains my sporadicity (if it’s even a word).

I wonder if anyone would die for me. I think some would. On the contrary, I doubt they will ever live for me.

I mean, you live your own life, right?

Open Heart, Open Mind

I told you the word it takes for me to crack and crumble, and I told you to tell no one else because I want you to be the only one, who knows and be the only one to hold on and never let go. I told you who my favourite band is, why I like ‘Misery Business’, and why red was never my colour even though it is yours. You told me cryptocurrency was the way to go, and you built me the way fools would jump on the Bitcoin bandwagon, only to fall steep and whole, and for some, never the same again. You beamed as the lights transitioned from electric blue to neon red. You shuffled away as DNCE got on, as the lights turned bright scarlet. The dance floor was never lonely. I was. But I still danced to the flow, keeping pretence, even though I felt myself crumbling. It was never the alcohol, it was you. Picking up whatever remnants of self-dignity and self-respect, I left, never looking back, never returning again.



Come February,
lanterns hang
in bursts of neon red and orange,
when smiles smear surreptitiously
and faces gawk in contempt.

The room stretches longer,
and shadows blush a shade darker.
I gird myself in the sheets waiting,
for the cut that follows the fall.
The stench of tobacco and phlegm lingers droopy,
a pebble daggling on a thin thread by the uvula.
I imagine myself turning blue,
lungs wrung, like tablecloths over a parched sink,
knees wobbly, like drunkards disorientated.
But I know better.

Come February,
the sun still sets
fist-planting on our faces,
in shades of scarlet and gold,
the subtle hints of goodbyes.


I was never a good man.
But I am merely one,
of flesh and cheap wine.
I choke back a word,
because my mouth is full of splinters,
and the air is flammable,
and my veins are gasoline.
I need a light,
I need a light.

“If it’s important, don’t let go”, she said.
“I won’t”, I promised.
Not because love triumphs,
but because years do.

Sex Sells

But I beg to differ. Sex doesn’t sell. Your face does. If you appeal, you’d probably climb. If you are ugly, you’d never shine. Period. 

Yet, I am nowhere near anything that define(s) absolute masculinity. It’s a battle between head versus heart where knowing and feeling have become blurred lines – a grey area where I am stuck between boulders of seclusion, inclusion, and probably my right hand.
Life has been slow, it’s excruciating. Nothing fully satisfy, but I’d trade any iota of satisfaction for a decent sleep. You know, it’s the one that doesn’t involve dozing off to lethargy from the late night Tinder swiping and inconsistent, half-hearted replies.

Instagram has become a portfolio and no longer a platform to share my life. Everything is experience-centric. I guess, at this moment, portfolio is life and I am thirsty, terribly so too. 

The year is ending. A new one beckons. It’s the same thing; I haven’t really progress, have I? 

Thoughts in the Bus Terminal – 24 Oct 17

Today, I saw a group of old ladies having a meal. I supposed a scrumptious spread was sprawled on the white, circular ceramic table at Toast Box. I could catch whiffs of coconut milk, lingering spices and notable hints of coffee beans, a blend I was all too familiar with. I knew, for sure, that these were the quintessential scents of the ever popular breakfast staples: Nasi Lemak, Laksa, and Kopi. 

One of the ladies looked up, her gaze somehow landed in my direction and she beamed. She stood up and started waving at me. Another soon followed. I turned around to see another lady hustling over. They exchanged greetings with one another before settling down. 

Age has a way of showing itself on our faces. When I was younger, I could never quite understand why people were afraid of wrinkles or spots in their later stages in life. I realised, years down the road that these signs forebode the premature shit that were bound to occur and I, too, had haboured subtle hatred. 

The ladies at the cafe were old. I could see the deep wrinkles on their forehead, the crowfeet that grew from the side of their eyes, and the dark spots that plastered on their arms. But funny, they were by no means frail. In fact, they were a spirited bunch, laughing and chattering cheerfully, oblivious to the hustling evening crowd that plagued the bus terminal. They were carefree.

I couldn’t help but wonder ten years down the road, the kind of conversations I would have with the acquaintances around me. Would we discuss politics like old men over whisky glasses or would we simply gossip over coffee and kaya toast? Would we dine over posh cuisines or local delights like Nasi Lemak or Laksa?

Only time will tell.