Ctrl+Z. Ctrl+Me.

"Just living is not enough", said the butterfly, "one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower."
— Hans Christian Andersen.

and the timing's never right.

"There aren't many ways to find comfort in this world. We must take it where we can get it, even in the darkest, most disgusting places. Nobody asks to be born. No one signs a form that says, You have my permission to make me exist. Babies are born, because parents feel that they themselves are not enough. So, parents, never condemn us for trying to fill our existential holes, when we are but the fruit of your own vain attempts to fill yours. It's your fault we're here to deal with the void in the first place."

- Melissa Broder.


Something was just very wrong today.
I couldn't explain it.

Today I woke up on the wrong side of bed.

Looking around the confined area I had so precisely arranged to enclose myself in this self-perceived sanctuary of privacy and security, all the stacked up boxes of clothes and personal belongings as well as the empty boxes of used items hoarded and squeezed into any gaps between the loaded shelves. I stopped myself before I questioned myself as to why I had to be such a hoarder and why everything was so damn sentimental and important to me; the nostalgia accompanying the used toilet rolls that have been empty from months ago, the plastics bags accumulated from the innocent indulgence in supermarket shopping while gawking at how brilliantly arranged everything was arranged in such a uniform manner — the section of rectangular-shaped containers organised according to colour and size that felt almost orgasmic.

Today I woke up already engrossed in thoughts.

Immersed in the carousel of questioning, I wondered what's new. Yet, nothing was done about it. I gloat at the self-glorified brilliance of my mind in its capabilities to worship my choice of ignorance; celebrating the mere choice of running in circles around what I already knew needed to be done and yet, once again, I advocated to the notion of retracting my stretched arm which was so patiently awaiting to be pulled out of the compulsive psychosis self-induced in attempt to avoid the bright light shining through the windows of my room. I came to the conclusion that either my boxes weren't enough to be stacked high enough to barricade myself from the blinding light, but I chose to close the windows and curtains to engulf myself to convince myself that it was night time and I didn't need that glimmer of hope or faith of any sort that clouded the already obscure perception of annihilation.

Today I woke up and found knot in my hair.

The temptation to revert back to bleak introspection was for once distracted by the disheartening attempts to untangle the knot. It was woeful to eventually succumb to taking the scissors out to cut off the entire section affect by the knot. It was almost sinisterly pleasurable to discover that it was more than just the section of hair snipped off to get the knot removed. However, that novelty disappeared within seconds as the dreary state of mind was worn off by the funereal visual of the fur ball — alternatively known as an accumulated ball of human hair pulled off my head. The melancholic feeling complementing that horror somehow auto-generated invitations to the self-pity party.

Today I woke up and shouted at everyone I cared about.

The sudden realisation that I had made wrong assumptions about everything and everyone, and more importantly, the narcissistic awakening of how I have been entirely wrong about my despondent self. It was only then where I realised solemnly it was too late to resolve anything or make up for anything. Not succumbing to expected dismal arising from the guilty pleasure — stemming from the masochism within — and the somber urge to go into slumber, it only got clearer. That desolated identity which began to form only got darker, with more shadows tailing and dark clouds hovering the mind. The answer was right ahead, and I knew what happened — loud and clear.


"I am giving you permission to tell the truth about where you are in your process of dismantling your fucked-up schemas. I am not pressuring you to dismantle anything. I am saying let's be here together, undismantled, and just accept that this is where we are. Let's love each other right where we are, even as we compare ourselves to one another. I am saying, yes, baby, I know it's hard."


I woke up today,
or if I did even wake up at all,
and I found that I was nothing,
nothing at all.

I couldn't find myself,
yet I had to face the consequences,
the responsibilities,
the people.

Oh gosh, people.
Am I the only one who hate people?
You may raise your hand if you do too,
no one's watching so no one's gonna know.

I can almost confidently say that I woke up today,
but instead I somehow just want to go back to sleep.
 Something just felt very wrong today,
it was a gut feeling I couldn't kick away.

I woke up again today.
And I knew what was wrong.

It wasn't that I did or didn't wake up,
but I am writing in first person today.


Wrap me up in Chanel inside my coffin.
Might go to Hell and there ain't no stopping.
Might be a sinner and I might be a saint.
I'd like to be proud, but somehow I'm ashamed.



but for now let's get away on a Roman holiday.


Popular Posts