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. 

The Thoughts on the Train – 22 Oct 17

Today, I woke with a slight headache. I have been getting little sleep lately; I blame it on insomnia. It’s becoming unbecoming of me to lay in bed with eyes wide open in the wee hours of the morning. If you want to know the time, it’s 4am. I know, if I don’t do something the weariness will stay. 

They say a habit forms after 21 days of constantly doing it. So, I vowed to read for the next 21 days. I have a list of books to complete and have just started on my first – The Time Traveller’ s Wife. The book’s interesting, but horribly slow. I guess it will take a while. 

I am on my way to work. I wait (part time) for a living. The smokehouse I work at is tucked somwhere in a little district at Lavender. It’s a nice place with nice people. I like it there. 

I work on weekends, which can be really crowded. It’s sometimes manageable, sometimes not. But I’d manage regardless. 

Today, I work alone for lunch. My partner had just reported sick, which means I am late for work. Great.


Left internship for a slower pace in life and got a job two jobs that pay.

The magazine had been terminated, my entry unpublished, unread and archived. 

Dua Lipa has been my muse. 

Meryl Streep is still my spirit animal. 

Murakami, still as depressing as ever, remains my favourite. 

Penang was tiring, but wholly fulfilling. 

Japan was nice, but better alone.  

I’m moving on. 

I’m moving on. 

I’m moving on. 


You know it’s late at night, almost into the wee hours of the morning, weird thoughts start seeping into your head and you cannot sleep. You lay in bed, lights dimmed, eyes shut, but life flickers in that darkness underneath those eyelids. 

Some, like myself, call this an existential crisis. I hate it when this happens. 

Loving Blindly

When love blinds, nothing makes sense.

Your mental vault freezes; you process and recognise nothing. You forget names, deadlines, and even the number of times you fed your pet. 

But nothing is an exaggeration. Nothing does not make sense. Because you do remember snippets of your life flashing by. But mostly, you remember him:  his pearly whites hidden behind his sheepish smile, his mysterious world hidden behind his glimmering eyes, his charming single eyelids, his high cheek bone, his mole on his right cheek …

Someone greets you.

You do not respond.

Someone raises a question.

You do not respond.

Someone repeats the question.

You do not respond.

Someone screams your name.

You do not respond.

And when I do, I panick.




To halt, or to start over
1,492 km away.
The question lingers
like an overdue cigarette.

Memories breed anguish
who greets like old friend.
A shake of hands, a pat on the back –
A dishevelled hair.

To move, or to stay
3 floors apart.
The pain clings
like stench on fabric.

Conversations beget affection
affection begets addiction.
Alcohol-induced palpitations
spur capricious midnight texts.

To chase, or to walk away
5 months down.
My brittle heart beats,
The infatuation remains.