If you could imagine a lemon, it’d be her. But maybe she was more like lemonade put outside of the fridge for too long. Upon involuntary conversation, she sat herself at the corner with crossed legs on the stool beneath her. Tucked in was a woman in a baggy sweater, ripped jeans, and the fulfillment of the occasional tap of her menthol cigarette. Fraudulent eyes stared at the screen of her phone in a bask of secret disinterest. Perhaps life was just a burden for her. Perhaps she didn’t even care.

Taken from my post at 92 Degrees


no sign of a wishbone

It took about 3 looks through the window before I got the motivation to get myself off my chair and stride out that door. He was sitting idly alone with an open book in his hands and eyes everywhere but there. With hair scuffled and owl-looking glasses, perhaps he’d been looking through those plastered stickers on the window in hopes of arriving coffee. He was unfazed by the current of people across him with a dose of gossip to seize their appetite.

A single chair sat across him, and an impractical option at his side. I asked if he was bored. “Don’t worry, I’m only waiting for my friends to come over,” he said, and I asked if he minded me sitting with him.

It didn’t take long for us to discover our mutual love for both art and photography. It also happened to be that I had a book on me too, and stashed in his tote bag was an analog camera. By 10 pm, his friends had left, both of us were still around, and his eyes were on contemporary poetry, with a little more preoccupation this time.

For someone of the same age, he was years ahead. Well-presented, polite, ambitious, committed; I wouldn’t be surprised if a few girls knocked over a few chess pieces for him. And family? Well, family was his absolute priority. I’ve had the opportunity to meet him a second time, now a skinhead with a weak attempt to hide it with a hat, but nevertheless still as affable and courteous as before. We didn’t have the time on our hands to talk as much as before, but we made sure to say our swift hellos. With the apparent frequency he comes by here, I wouldn’t be surprised if I bumped into him again.


Taken from my another blog at 92 Degrees

too many cartwheels

Sometimes it’s just too much to take, something that frustrates my days and leaves me in a little bubble of my own; give it one touch and I’ll snap. I worry that perhaps I’m just a little selfish, that I really don’t care about anyone but myself, but I just yearn for just a little ease on what I take.

Do I get too involved? I guess so. Perhaps I’m looking too eagerly for things like these, to such a point that people just open up to me in levels I can’t even fathom myself. There’s just so many; it scares me to think that the person at fault would be me.

I get through with this as often as I can, but as this newer life continues I feel it growing heavier. The people add on, the stories make friends, and I struggle to find a way to keep this all aligned. So when I disappear for just one day, or let out an expression just a little too harsh, seeing how they react just makes me fall even deeper into such a mind-whirling pool of confusion on what it is I should do. Taking my steps elsewhere for even just a second leads me to feeling incredibly guilty.

Despite it all, there are undoubtedly those who know how to put my mind at ease. They aren’t people I have to tell this all about, because why would I tell anyone? Having them around just talking to me is enough to lift my spirit a little higher. And I’m incredibly grateful for them. I don’t think they realise, but I sure hope they’ll know it sometime. Besides, if I told them I think they’d frankly find it quite strange really.

Given this time, I suppose I can really think things out. The unimportant stuff is out of my head now, and my friends have always been the ones to help hold up the right filters. Call it a stressful day, another one I’m going to have to push to get through, but hopefully that’s a saying I won’t be saying too much from now on.