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 if I reach the coast.

"There is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures."

— William Shakespeare.


The Book of Melancholy.


Imagine breathing in.
Imagine leaving all your air behind.


Agonised Antagonist.

Who was to say that the crook wasn't a cook who whipped out dishes of love with sweat-less effort?

Who was to say that the crook wasn't a musician who composed symphonies of love with virtuous talent?

Who was to say that the crook wasn't a florist who arranged bouquets of love with dedicated packets of red balloons?

Who was to say that the crook wasn't a crook because the only thing he stole out of love was, in fact, a heart?


What matters in the end,
a matter of opinion 'til you find out.


Better Broken.

It was just right ahead, barely around the corner.

The ball continued rolling until it almost reached the end,
and stopped.

Chasing after the ball with a wagging tail and salivating gasps of excitement,
the little footsteps stopped.

It went into retreat, away from the ball.


Life can only mean hardly anything.
All I'll ever be is partly settled in.


Chimerical Cure.

Wake up. It was daytime in the night.

The time to get the gears grinding is on, but the eyes couldn't open. The mind couldn't let itself close after absorbing so much new information.

Time to shut off, interested silence is well-past its novelty. The listening ears of others were only for show—for nobody cared what you had to say; everything said is always pretentious—because nobody likes to listen. I do, and it goes unappreciated.

Wake up. It was the time for naivety as the conclusion for the night.


They show you how to swim, then they throw you in the deep end.
I've been learning since, but it doesn't mean I'll float.


Deserted Despondency.

What felt like eternity could not be so easily quantifiable into a period of time with value.

Much rather, it would be overlooked in its quality of self-growth—which is often neglected due to other factors considered invaluable despite its price to pay.

How could each smile turn into a frown?
How could an anticipated happiness turn into a spell of dejection?

The painter holds seven colours in one hand and draws an inverted smile across the canvas.


I had a funny sleep,
I didn't have a dream
'cause I don't believe in them.


Evaporating Euphoria.

Boiling a pot of herbal chicken soup.

Grabbing onto a pair of chopsticks and a bowl of rice.

Gulping down plain rice hungrily in a rush.

Too late. The chicken soup had finished boiling and evaporated.


Float away, float away, then come right back to me.


Fermented Facade.

Big boys hide behind big masks.
Small girls hide behind big boys.

Big boys aren't courageous enough to talk to the small girls.
Small girls don't ever hear the truth from the big boys.

Big boys think they are smart and sharp, being careful with their words around small girls.
Small girls pretend to be impressed by the big boys.

Big boys are cowards and present otherwise to small girls.
Small girls see right through the big boys.


What if I don't float?


 Guileful Gullibility.

Camera zooms into the action of wine pouring by the bartender. The bartender pours with a shaky hand due to the nervousness from the action of the camera zooming in. It's the shape of the bottle, says the bartender. This must not be good wine. Perhaps we could try another bottle with a better shape.

Camera hesitantly zooms into the action of the bartender seeking another bottle of wine to use for the scene. The bartender drops a bottle of Spätburgunder anxiously from the action of the camera zooming in. I don't know what this wine is, says the bartender. This must not be good wine. Perhaps we could get a German one instead, and I'll sweep this up later.

Camera procrastinates upon zooming into the action of the bartender putting down the wine bottle next to a filled glass of wine. The bartender stutters with slight confidence from the self-conscious awareness of the earlier prearrangement of the setting as the camera zooms in. Have a drink of this good wine, says the bartender. This is good wine, good sir. There is no other good wine as good as this good wine.

Camera man places the finger on the record button and firmly presses. Zooming into the bartender's face who is dripping in cold sweat while the bartender swings the glass of red wine onto the floor in ignorant frustration—catching the false pretense right in the act.


I think I'll float.


Habitual Heartache.

Making guesses was one thing. Making lucky guesses was another. Making predictive guesses was something else. Making calculated guesses was a whole new ball game. Making manipulated guesses invites an announced "out of the park!", but it is a hell of a home-run where there is no standing ovation or cheering.

Not all guesses are correct. In fact, they are usually wrong; trust is so tangible that it is associated with ignorance—much to the misfortune of failure and rejection from the lucky, predictive, calculated, or manipulated guesses.

Making guesses was one thing. Being wrong about everything—going through the process of anticipation, feelings of disappointment, outright dejection, and the loss of home—was a speculated guess.

That was one speculated guess that didn't go wrong.


I'll float away.


Pain didn't have to feel like this; this unbearable self-induced suffering for a masochist.
The relapse to a melancholic state does not reflect a failed treatment or an unprofessional therapist.
It highlights the addiction to taking cubes of misery and adding it into the warm cup of despondence.
Does it take drinking and pushing it down to not get hurt, not feel anything, and make you feel needed?



But the tide goes high.
I'll grab those oars again.


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