breaks a butterfly upon a wheel

Hooray for Windows Live Writer. A weekend of stupidity that can’t be explained past synaptic gaps, and a resulting flu that has me sitting at home on a Wednesday instead of pandering to kiddies and their shiny distractions..

Still struggling to delve beneath surfaces and shows of pride/aggression/love to find substance. Psych class has strange currents of empathy, somehow—that there’s more than just the medulla or the cerebellum, that the brain and the mind are sneaky little bastards. Off to substance.

The Place No Taxi Drivers Dare Venture

I was on my way to class in Aljunied all the way from Sengkang, and it was getting dark out. I got off at a neighbourhood that looked like the Merpati

Road neighbourhood; it had block 121 and the mama shop and everything. But it wasn’t somehow. I walked and walked, concentric circles in chaos, tracing

circuits through the same landscapes of manufactured apartment blocks.

The sheer improbability of getting anywhere was scary and uncountable, and again I am struck by how small I am among landscapes of the vast.

Horizons and hills are pretty enough to distract, but these stone-cold homes don’t let me forget. HDB estates look the same, but the parallel stones, the dripping

cloth squares, the way the streets glowed …was all awry. Like when you make copies of copies with sprinklings of photocopy dust, electricity running askew of

revolutions of light. Dizzy spinning circles became oblong and I grew MAD, really mad! at the uh, maybe useless answers I got from men with ice-creams and

children with cigarettes. I couldn’t get out, how could they not know, wasn’t it so convenient that they didn’t, where the fuck was I, it was getting incredibly late

and unprofessional and careless and I fail again. Again these same faces again the same cars on mortgages again the carpark blinding again I walk towards a

moving vehicle whose blue beacon brings a swell inside me. Its motor is running water, and I run toward it like a fish to my sea, throw open its doors, mutter a

destination, and collapse into the embryonic dark, piqued my yellows, blues & metre reds echoing behind closing eyelids.

(I love taxis.)

<3.14159265

The 4 Hours of You Before Xanax
..were great.
like kissing the sea on the lips,
the waters of you were warm and tender and witty, before
receding to horizons
your eyes permanently fixed on.
A flash of you in your room,
a shy last peck while I was pretending to be mad,
a chill caught in my coming out jacket.
Shuddering jackdaw jaw,
I spoke like a bird; too much.
Dizzy from altitudes and attitudes,
collapsed in the crook of your smokey neck before
high tide came to take you away in a spray of sunlight.
You’ve fallen asleep, but before
you’ve woken me up.

space gape(y)

Haaaaaaa, alright. All that emotional build-up to get a wordpress thingy to ‘speedtype your inner running monologue (sometimes dialogue), Rakky!’ fell victim to anti-climax. I usually never know what to say when looking at blank white spaces. So inspiring.

Will be back. TA!