Scribbled Art

When I wake up, I'm afraid, somebody else might take my place

Thursday, October 10, 2013
- Afraid (The Neighborhood)

We repeat the same mistakes not because we're stupid. Even if that admittedly plays a huge role in it. We run back to the same problems because we run back to familiarity. We run back to what we know. Even if all that we know will eventually turn into heartbreak.

But we hope. Oh we do. We do the same thing over and over again in the same way hoping that one day it will change. Einstein called this behavior insanity.

But who is sane enough to claim sanity. Really.

I once ran away. Or tried to. Run away from all my problems. But just before I left a friend told me, that it didn't matter how far away I ran. Even if I managed to get to the other side of the world, if I didn't change, then I would still attract the same kind of problems.

And it's true. And now I'm back. And nothing has changed. Cos I haven't. Cos I'm still stuck in that rut of familiarity. Of safe zones. And when once upon a time I wanted to fly and make my own risks and mistakes, I have learned that it hurts less not to.

So I'm going to keep hoping to do the same thing again and again. And maybe one day, maybe if I get good at it, or the fates shine upon me, something will happen. Something will change.

Cos I don't know how.

The muses

Pen Portraits

Thursday, October 03, 2013
It makes me sad to realize that the only time I feel the need to write, is when I don't feel anything but emptiness. And I'm trying to create something in me, anything, to put into words, to have something concrete and real to define my life, so that I can be sure that I'm living it.

But I'm not quite sure what I'm living for. "Right" answers immediately fill my head, but I'm not sure if that's what I truly want. And it confuses me because I don't even know what I want. I just know it's not this. It's not this.

It also makes me sad to realize that often, the biggest hurts in our lives are the ones that define us. The ones that have molded us into who we are. And very often, it is our biggest hurts that help us give the greatest gift of ourselves to others, the ability to help someone else who is going through what we did, to help them heal, even if we feel it is at our expense.

Recently I've been getting a lot of comments from friends, people who say I'm too serious, that I intimidate. I don't do it on purpose. I didn't use to be like this, I don't think. I was the idiot in the class that talked too much, and laughed too loud, and who everyone could say anything to because "she wouldn't mind." But I did, deep down. I just laughed it off because I didn't want to seem hurt, vulnerable. I didn't realize how counterproductive that was until people went too far. And I snapped. And I've stayed angry for far too long and now I'm saturated with bitterness. Now people are afraid to approach me. And I'm still miserable. It's so hard to find that fine line. You're always falling off one edge or the other. One day, maybe, I'll find that perfectly intricate balance where my gravity's centered but for now, I'm grabbing on to that tightrope looped around my neck with dear life.

I don't really know where I want to go with any of this, this is probably why I don't usually write such random meanderings of my thoughts.
Scribbled Art

Can you hear me?

Monday, July 01, 2013
I stare at the back of your head. Willing you to turn around. I had practiced my telepathic skills lately. And am almost sure the fly that I had been commanding to stop, halted.

Boosted by this small victory, I am now using it on you with all my strength and hope.
"Turn around. Look at me. Look straight into my eyes. Look deep into my soul. Fall in love with me again. Just turn around. Look at me."

Your head suddenly cocked to one side. As if you had heard something.

My heart, paused a beat. Or a hundred.

I felt a surge of overwhelming surprise that my dodgy telepathic skills are working, but before that triumph could fully blossom, you turned back around to face the front and my hope, wilted.

So much for that. I groaned in frustration. And continued my relentless chant.

Do you know, that I hate coming here because of you? Because you remind me of what I use to have. That I was stupid enough to let go. That I wasn't strong enough to hold on to, to chase after.

Do you know that I still think of you? In the dark of the room, the still of the night, the fan lazily swinging its merry go round.

Sometimes, I can almost hear your voice, soothing me asleep. Like you use to.

You don't know, how much you meant to me. And honestly, I didn't either, until I didn't have you anymore.

Maybe not as much you did. Maybe never in the way that you did.

But as much as my selfish, shriveled up heart could.

And I continued staring at the back of your head, hoping that even now, you can hear my thoughts as clearly as you use to.

But if you could. Then you chose to be deaf unto me.



Scribbled Art

Don't Stop the Madness

Monday, July 01, 2013
Surrounded by pretty lights and a city that never sleeps. Dresses made of money and boots too big to fill. Pretenses fabricated with lies and glammed up faces.

Is it all about the pretty shoes you wear or the way you tie your hair? Is it all about that pretty face you wear and the way you tie your tongue?

So walk me down my aisle, my plastic bouquet in hand. Tell me the vows that we swear to keep. Look me in the eyes as we say I do, lift up the veil as we reveal the truth. A lifetime of together, commitment and time, promised from your lips to mine.
Scribbled Art

Not all superheroes wear capes

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Some may wear Gucci and donate billions of dollars to charitable campaigns, whilst others wear only a humble uniform as they clean our trash.  

I know that I may be offending many self-proclaimed hard core fans of Batman, but I must confess; I fell asleep watching Dark Knight Rises, as well as the sequel before that, the Dark Knight. And when I accidentally let slip that I thought The Avengers was “sort of” lengthy to the point of boring, my friend drew himself up to his full five feet five, and called me an uncultured swine.

Now, I may not have any appreciation for superhero movies, but I do understand why there is such a strong fan base for them, especially the Marvel/DC comic varieties. Who doesn't love to believe in ordinary men bestowed with extraordinary capabilities like flying, and saving whiny damsels in distress?

But in the world of iron-clad arrogant billionaires, tight chest-popping outfits and handsome web-shooting vigilantes, we tend to overlook real life people who are perhaps, greater than any cape-flapping superman.

Don Ritchie, 84 years old, lives a quiet unassuming life in Watson Bay, Sydney, or so it seems. He’s been dubbed “Guardian of the Gap” for his tireless attempts for the past 45 years to dissuade people from jumping to their deaths at the notorious suicide cliff called “The Gap”, near his home. Officially, he has successfully saved 160 people’s lives, but unofficially, the figure is closer to 500 people.

Don Ritchie would spot what looked like potentially, suicidal people standing precariously close the edge, and he would slowly walk across the road to them, smile and ask, “Can I help you in some way?” before inviting them over to his house later for tea, or something stronger if necessary.

But of course, even Batman couldn’t save every single citizen of Arkham City. Likewise, Don Ritchie recounts many personal stories of how he had to watch several people jumping before his very eyes.

But refusing to be disheartened, Don Ritchie keeps to his beliefs, “always remember the power of the simple smile, a helping hand, a listening ear and a kind word. My ambition has always been to just get them away from the edge, to buy them time, to give them the opportunity to reflect and give them the chance to realise that things might look better the next morning.”

People are hungry for heroes; a hero who inspires others to believe that humanity is worth saving and the world worth living.

They come in all shapes and forms; some wear the Malaysian flag proudly on their sleeves (Datuk Lee Chong Wei, Nicol David, Pandelela Rinong), whilst others wear only a humble uniform as they clean our trash. Some wear Gucci and donate billions of dollars to charitable campaigns, whilst others wear modest clothing and labour to put food on the table.

Superheroes can be disguised as anyone: our mum, dad, sister, neighbour, best friend, dog, cat, rock, idols, celebrities, relatives, etc. Superheroes can even be you. If only you choose to accept the responsibility and believe that the world around you is one that you are capable of influencing, never forgetting the power of the simple smile, a helping hand, a listening ear and a kind word.

Not all superheroes wear capes.


Though the good looking ones usually do. 



Admittedly not a big fan of Henry Cavill. But this is a really nice picture of the Man of Steel


P.S - one of my very first assignments that I wrote in foundation year. 

Scribbled Art

This was the story that isn't

Tuesday, April 09, 2013
"I need to talk to you." I look at him. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't even want to acknowledge me.

"Please." Maybe it was that tiny note of desperation that has hummed quietly and painfully in my chest for the past year that did it.

Or maybe it was because I asked nicely.

But he turned.

And again. I was struck by how much he has grown. How much he has changed. How much taller and broader he's gotten. How his hair has finally grown to the right length. How there was a tougher glint in his eyes. How finally, his mustache has started to grow.

And then I blink and look again and he was back to the person I remember. His ears a little too big. His eyes a little too small. The slight crease in his forehead that happens every-time he looks at me.

And he was mine.

And he wasn't.

"I'm sorry." I croak out finally.

He just looks at me.

"What are you sorry about?" He asks slowly. Steadily. Calmly. No hint of anger. Or remorse. No understanding either. No curiosity. No interest.

It was.

Just. a question.

Something that dutifully follows perfunctory conversation.

And his indifference was like a force pressing into the hollowness of my collarbones.

"I'm sorry," I grapple in my mind for something appropriate to cover all the wrongs I have ever done to him.  And to myself.

"I'm sorry for..." I was lost in my memory. Of all the times he has waited outside in the rain to go for dinner with me. How we talked until I fell asleep and he listened to my steady breathing before saying goodnight. Of all the Valentines and roses and handmade presents. How he stayed with me time and time again our futures intertwining.

"I'm sorry for not realizing how much you're worth until it was too late."

And there was a pain so big in my chest I'm afraid it may crack me in two and reveal the smallest of hearts beating pitifully against my ribs.

"Every day that I remember, about me and you," I go on brokenly, afraid of what else I may say, but too afraid of stopping, "I regret everything."

"I regret you. I'm so sorry for not loving you in time."

Finally. There's a spark of hate. Or anger. In his eyes.

Anything. Anything was better than the dullness. The lack of. The not care of.

"I made you wait for me. And when I liked you back. It was too late." I closed my eyes recounting those sleepless nights of hearing my heart break and my ribs frantically beating my heart into submission, and my mind floating and floating into eternity.

"And then, all of a sudden, it wasn't too late. And finally. Finally. You liked me. And I liked you." I looked at him and he looked at me and I know, that he was remembering that night, when he held me in his arms, and everything was right.

But then it wasn't.

It wasn't.

"Then you left me" he said. His eyes back to that dull state. And the words. Hitting me again. Never losing momentum. Or velocity. Even after all these times.

"I'm so sorry" I say again, my eyes closed ignoring the screaming in my head, "I'm so sorry that I realized too late that you. That it was you."

I could't look at him, instead trying desperately to remember the times when his eyes held the world, knowing that he would give me that and more if I asked. And how I had taken his world, and more, and walked away. I'm drowning in my self-hate and pity. Knowing that this time, I was the bad guy. That I was unredeemable.

He stared at me. And I stared steadily back. Knowing. Knowing that this. Was what he needed to hear. How his five years of unrequeitedly loving me never accumulated to anything. And that I needed to tell him as much as he needed to hear.

"I thought. Love was something different. I chased after the wrong thing. I thought Love was suppose to be fun. Exciting. Loud. In your face." And I knew he knew I was referring to the person that I stupidly held on to for far too long. And the person that broke my heart and his at the same time over and over again.

"But what I didn't realize was that what I really needed, was just someone to keep me safe. Someone to untangle and uncomplicate the mess I continuously made of my life. Someone to hold my hand when I go over my emotional deep end. Someone to be my quiet anchor when I screamed the waves into a raging sea." I looked at him. As he looked back on all the phone calls we had. Those conversations the moon and the stars bore witness to. And the words that the wind whispered covertly to each other.

"What I didn't realize was that the love that I needed, was the one I already had."

He looked at me. But I looked away.

"So really, I'm sorry." I think I was finally wounding down. Concluding.

"And," he prompted. Knowing me and not knowing me all over again.

"And, I need you to tell me that it's over." I will not cry. I tell myself. Knowing that this was it. Knowing that he would do it. Knowing that I've spent these years in regret and self-inflicted pain because I never fully gave up hope.

"Tell me that it's over." I plead with him to tell me that it's not. Or that he is. I plead with him for an end.

And he sighs. Looking away from me. Looking ahead. At what could be. Or maybe looking back. At what already isn't.

And my heart jumps and dies like petals falling off love-me-nots.

He looks at me and again I see that he holds the world in his eyes and that he could give it to me if I asked him too. Or if he wanted to.

"I'm sorry. It's over."

But I guess not.

Finally.

Finally.

He shuts his world from mine.

And that was it.

This was the story that isn't.



It's the art of letting go, no longer holding on to the past but looking towards the future. But it's not forgetting. It's accepting life as it is. It's moving on. 


Scribbled Art

Give me a chance

Wednesday, March 27, 2013

Re-edited: 27/3/2013

 Hey there
You're beautiful, you know that?

Maybe you don't. You're sitting there so alone. Your head bowed, your hair fanned to block your face. A wall to block the world out or shield you from within? Your shoulders hunched, arms folded in.

Don't hide yourself I long to plead. You ARE worth it. Believe me.

Some people walk by, you shrink. Afraid. The harsh words, the taunts, the ridicule comes.

Ugly. Stupid. Weak.

I see your hands tremble clutching yourself, blood leaving your knuckles turning them white as death, your arms holding yourself in, sheltering as much you can from the hail, smashing the fragility of your house of cards called hope.

Go away! I want to yell. Leave her alone!

But I sit, silent.

Watching.

Maybe she deserves this - a forbidding whisper floats as thought snuggling comfortably in my head - after all, she is sort of ugly. She never smiles, never talks. Doesn't even make an effort to fit in. Maybe she's socially retarded. What a loser. 

And these whispers turn to sirens and signs of confirmation hardening my heart, filling it with contempt and pretentiousness.

When the others meandered away to find another person to victimize, there left only me and her. The room suddenly shrunk, too small to fit the both of us, the silence cliched as it sounds, suffocating, filling every space, every void. I pretended. Pretended that I couldn't see her. That she did not exist. That the room was not pressing onto me laden with, I don't know what, guilt? Superiority? Pity?

I couldn't stay here anymore, couldn't stand to look at her anymore, and just as I was about to leave, she looked up, and stared straight at me, her eyes locked with mine, holding me captive.

And in that instant I realized. 

Her eyes, a deep dark brown, held me, then sucked me into its depths. Falling and falling and falling.

Bottomless holes.

Hurt. Fear. Despair. Suffering.

But at the core of it, a dark, stable heat arose. Its vapor materializing as hate. Hate so hard, hate so bitter, I trembled in fear. With everything that she still had, this girl hated me.

My reflection hated me.
Scribbled Art

On falling for a stranger. Written by a dumbass.

Tuesday, March 26, 2013
On falling for a stranger; it's easy.

You had me at hello.

Well no you didn't.

But it was enough to start.

And we haven't stopped since.

We can talk til our eyes refuse to open anymore, when even our brains decline to pick up the small beep beep of a new message.


3am: You fell asleep didn't you? Sighs. You lose. Again. See you in my dreams. 

11am: I didn't fall asleep! I just, took a longer time to blink that's all.

11:01 Wow. An 8 hour long blink. 

11:10 Shuddup. Leavemealone.
Sometimes. We talk like there's not enough time to cram all the words together in 24 hours. And sometimes. We go for weeks on end with not a single beep of a new message.

And it is the pauses in between that creates a level of uncertainty that fuels this pseudo relationship.

And it is the lack of pause between good morning beautiful, and sweet dreams that is just enough to make you fall. Me fall.

And so we do. And we stumble between the lines of reality and our world of denial.


So, there's this girl I know. She's beautiful. 

So what's the problem?

The problem is I don't think I'm good enough for her. She's just. Perfect.  

Is this why you've never talked to her when you see her in the hallways of college?

Yeah. I'm afraid that she won't give me the time of day.

You will never know til you try.

And she's not perfect.
But she tries.


And its that faint line of reality I realize every time that I see you seeing me and not look away but too afraid to make that first step. And it's that faint hope that I hold on to that maybe one day you will take and cross it, because I don't think I can.

On falling for a stranger; it's easy.
Because you're never close enough to find out who they are, so you fill in the blanks with a dash of gentleman here and a splash of chef there, and maybe a small sprinkle of knight in shining armor.

We may talk endlessly, continuously and covertly. I may know that you have an intense and illogical fear of swimming or water that reaches above your head, and you may know that I dream of saving the world when I can't even save myself.

But.

We don't know each other.

You don't know that I drool when I sleep or that I have an annoying habit of playing with my hair. You don't know that I cower when there's lightning. That I talk whilst I sleep.

You don't know.

You don't even know how your name sounds when I say it.

Or mine in yours.

And I don't know how that matters. But it does. It does.

And when this ends. When one of our heart breaks. It breaks for nothing. Because the disappointment was inevitable, almost self inflicted. Because one day, one of us wouldn't be able to live up to that person we made the other out to be.

So don't fall for a stranger.

Don't fall for someone who could never prove that they could be there for you.

Don't fall for someone, just because it's easy.

Because it may have been easy to say hello.

But it won't be when you say goodbye.

And don't let them fall in love with you either. Because the only courage you have, is to write this letter to everyone else but him.

On falling for a stranger. Written by a dumbass.


I have to confess, every time I see you;
My heart beats a little too fast and dances a little too out of beat.