And so it goes

This is something I haven’t done for a long time. Writing. It’s difficult. With life in chaos and things falling into unwanted places. Books and news. TV shows and social media. I got caught up in that mayhem of things I didn’t want to see, but eventually saw for I had feared of being left alone with my thoughts.

It was difficult.

I noticed the rare occasion in which I found myself writing, albeit in my head, was when I was half asleep, with my lids heavy on my eyes. Things flew behind the blackness of they fragile sets of skin. Images. Words. My thoughts materialised into moving pictures. As disorganised as it was, sentences came out in gibberish, and yet they made perfect sense. When I got up, however, they just simply evaporated.

It takes me lots of efforts to organise my thoughts for writing. Indeed, I have concentration deficiency. And as easy as life goes by, when it happens, it’s also all over the place.

And that is how I often excuse myself for not writing. Always busy. More like restless. Always in the middle of doing unimportant things. Petty things. To get over myself. More like distracting myself from myself. It was soul-sucking.

Yet sometimes, times like today, when this restlessness got me stay up all night. My body is exhausted. I have no more energy to put up any reasoning. Words, finally, come easily. This is when I realise I have so much to write about: LIFE. Life! My life! Things! Everything. Things that changed me. Things that changed. Things that stayed the same.

This is why I chose to write from the beginning. I wanted memories to last. To be scripted down one by one. To have things impacted me documented. So after years went by, I could look back and say “Here, look at this. This is what changed me. This is when I was destroyed and reborn. Never the same ever ever again. For better. For worse.”

How different everything is since the last time I updated. And it’d be insane for me to attempt to talk about everything at once. So here’s the first thing that came to me when I was dozing off last night. It came crashing in. Vivid. In technicolour. So intense that it woke me.

These pictures were taken last July, during my visiting in Los Angeles. It was summer, and I was having the worst major depression crash of my life yet. I’ve always had this weird thing about summer. Too much sunlight. Too bright. Things were burning. I was burning. Colours seemed too washed out, too blunt. Or whatever. Thing is, my depression always get worse during summer. Yes, the season when people are supposed to go out and be happy. Plus, with the things that was happening to my life during the time, it got worst. I felt like I was going to kill myself almost everyday. It was horrible. It was bad.

So, Bridgette Lee, the one and only whom I could never possibly ask anything better in a friend, she was sort of my LA host, and was taking care of me the entire time when ever I was under the curse. So one day she decided to take me to Malibu to show me the mountains and the waves. She was trying to convince me to move to LA, for all that mattered. We left early, stopped by the Getty Museum. Got hungry and decided to stop for some lunch. We ended up drinking some expensive wine under the dying afternoon sun. The memory of our conversation was warm and hazy. I remember being very content.

Bridgette and I share the love of drinking during daytime. It is, indeed, the best. The way you are light on your feet but things are still bright so you could see. The colours pop. The sound of seagulls. Waves kissing the rocky shore. The gigantic blue mirroring the sky. The signature faint in the head given by the wine. It was charming.

We then drove down a couple miles heading towards the pacific coast and finally stopped by a well-worn path that leads down the rocky shore. I believe people call it the coast line, because it was literally just rocks and water. The sun was setting but the moon was already out. Round and bright. And we just sat there for hours looking at the moon and listening the the waves crashing into the rocks – chunky black rocks which we sat on. That was when these pictures was taken.

As shitty as a phone camera could do its best, they reminds me of the real sight that I was lucky to see in person. The darken sky lit with only the soft, silver light of the moon. The sounds of sea water crashing on the black rocks. The white foams. The ocean aglow under the full moon. The salty wind from the sea that sweated my face. I remember wishing I was high at the time, but then realising it wasn’t necessary. Because this, this is so out of this world. I felt like I’d traveled through time to witness such calmness. This is the world we left behind, as we pedal ourselves with glamour and city lights we’ve forgotten the things darkness has to offer: ourselves.

This is where we found ourselves: in the blackness of the night coated under only the faint light of moon and stars, we stopped blending in between lights and shadows, and started seeing ourselves.

For the first time in years I was able to let go of my thoughts and let it come back to me, like waves coming from the sea. The way dreams come to you when you’re drifting into sleep, they come when you’re awake as well, if only you learn to stop polluting yourself with thoughts and let them.

Only when you’ve blackened everything. Things of desire. Suggestions planted in your head. Things you were told that you wanted. That you needed. Everything. Deafened by the darkness so once you peaks into them and shine a faint, tiny light, only the things worth shining get lit up.

I was reminded of my purpose, of the meaning of this life I’m living. All things pretty are often simple. Like the ray of sun filtering through storm clouds. Pu-erh tea in a rainy night. Dandelions. Phone calls. Heartbreaks. I’m here to see this, to experience these mundane things that are often brushed off like dandruff on a cold shoulder.

I was happy, and I was suffering.

I was living.

These are the things that I do. The paths I led. How I was damaged and broken beyond mendable. How I continued to love and to lose.

This is me hurting, and breathing, and still keep moving.

Because if all things get to come home. All waves will just turn to foams. This is me crashing into pointy rocks until they are smooth as pearls.

I am the force that obliterates ships before I am foams.


P/s: this is me being a nerf ball and that was literally moon light reflecting in the waves.

God bless.




That surely is a tough topic that I don’t really wanna put my finger on. Nope. Yet to think about it, I barely have any friends, and my “so called” friends don’t really match with the definition of “friends” I have for my own.

I think it’s all about how each person perceives the meaning of “friendship”. Some just easily call anyone who talks the same language and get the same jokes their friends. Indeed, they could have several “best friends” without feeling any tingle on their tongue saying the word. Some would have a narrower social life, have some friends and one or two best friends whom they tell everything and understand everything. Some even more reclusive, have the smallest count of friends but still they do have some.

And after all that three categories, you’re left with people like me. Those who have no slightest idea of how to socially communicate and “make acquaintance”. I saw it clearly when I had to stand at the reception at the university event. It was cruel and brutal and I was totally lost. We were in the same room, speaking the same language and laughing at the same jokes but I never felt so aliened.

I do communicate, I understand what people say to me and what I should say in response. But what I don’t get is what they call “the social small talks”. I don’t gossip and have no interest in putting my nose into other people’s lives, not to mention judging them. But that’s what keeps the conversation going when you’re coming to a mingle or a social mix up. When I was standing there squeezing my brain out to find what to talk about, people just simply stroll around and talk about things that don’t necessarily link together.

I’m outcasted like that.

And friends? Of course I have “friends”, or that’s what they claim to be.

I don’t know anymore, because the closest persons I might call friends are like, always make me feel bad about myself. And they don’t even seem to care. Maybe they’re just looking for a companion, since they claimed to “have no friend”.

Funny how they can be friendly with everyone, anyone, and claim to have “no friend at all”. But criticize me for not being friendly or “social” enough. Of course I know that would cost me issues when I go out and work in an office environment, but why keep making me feel like a loser? If in your view I’m that incompetent and impotent then why bother keeping me companion?

I don’t see any special thing about our relationship. I’m just the plaster you used to fill up the crack caused when your “bestie” went away.

And I’m not even cement, I don’t cling to that.

Achilles’ heel

We all have histories that don’t want to be excavated. They’re like the soft spot of your toned body, the Achilles’ heel, which if was poked with a dullest knife your body would all start to fall apart.

Think of it as a wound you had when you were an infant. Your body was so soft so fragile and it was damaged at that one little spot and you were so defenseless to stop it from happening. Soon it would heal, and turn in to an ugly scar you don’t want no one to look at. So you cover it under you newly grow skin, and under several layers of fabric. But that wasn’t enough. It still stays, right there as the most vulnerable spot on your body whom you should not forget to protect.

Yet years after years, without anybody discovering or touching it, you soon grew to be oblivious to the protection duty you had over your weakness, which makes perfect sense. Who would ever care about the infant wound that was overgrown by skins and bones. And you’re even stronger now, more comfortable in your own skin; you can protect yourself as a whole so why bother that small thing that you don’t even remember it exists?

But there will come a day when someone eventually put a finger on it. All they have to do is just saying it, addressing the scar that in fact is still a healing wound. And that’ll do. You’ll fall down to your feet and cry like a baby, just like the first time that knife entered your skin. You’ll see yourself living all that pain again and it’s even more hurtful because you realize no matter how hard you tried to fix it you still couldn’t. It will still be there like a phantom knife that never rests from sliding in and out of your skin. No matter how strong you are or how tough you’d grown.

It’s true to say there are points in life you’d need a shoulder to cry on and a spreading arm welcoming you home.

I need it. But there’s none for me.

If they’re all gonna leave then what’s the point anyway?

Tôi tin vào Thượng đế và tin rằng mọi con người đều có thể thương yêu và đều có thể được thương yêu. Ở mọi nơi. Tình yêu và tình thương, sự lựa chọn lứa đôi và niềm hạnh phúc là thứ phi đảng phái. Phi tín ngưỡng, phi giới tính. Ai cũng có quyền yêu. Mọi con người ở tuổi trưởng thành đều có quyền tự do lựa chọn bạn đời. Người mà họ có thể yêu, có thể chung sống, có thể ôm và có thể hôn, người mà họ có thể sẻ chia niềm vui và nỗi sầu muộn. Hoặc, có thể sà vào lòng nhau, khi sợ hãi, mệt mỏi, lúc yếu đuối. Ai cũng có thể yếu đuối và chính điều đó khiến chúng ta cứng cỏi. Và không thể tước đoạt khỏi bất cứ ai, quyền được nhận sự trợ giúp, ủng hộ, quyền được xin và nhận tình thương yêu mỗi khi họ yếu đuối. Để làm được điều này, cần một người bạn đời dám công khai thừa nhận mình, cần một tình thương mang lại nghị lực.

— Szetey Gábor

Last night I thought I kissed
the loneliness from out your belly button.
I thought I did, but later you sat up,
all bones and restless hands, and told me
there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo.

I never know what to say to these things.
“It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.”
“Please don’t go away again.”

Sometimes you are gone for days at a time
and it is all I can do not to call the police,
file a missing person’s report, even though
you are right there, still sleeping next to me
in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house
in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders.

Except in this case I am the intruder and you
are already locked up so tight that no one
could possibly jimmy their way in.

Last night I thought I gave you a reason
not to be so sad when I held your body like
a high note and we both trembled from the effort.

Some people, though, are sad against all reason,
all sensibility, all love. I know better now.
I know what to say to the things you admit to me
in the dark, all bones and restless hands.

“It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.”
“Please come back to me again.”

– Alias: Lenore (http://five–a–

So staying up late and gulping down caffeines kind of makes me feel like being drunk okay. And this spinning Story of Pine is not getting me nowhere because my life is already in chaos.

So it’s like, life is short okay? That’s why we stay up late and smoke weeds and hook up and have fun and cry and laugh at the same time right? How could you even have time to ponder about what to do? Like, after all the times I’ve fucked up I’m trying my best to be patient, because “Patient is a fucking virtue” they said, but NO I CAN’T!

Do you know how hard it is to not say the words? I mean, no matter who or what you are it’s still a freaking burden to keep it all to yourself, your feelings, your twisted longing to touch to kiss to inhale to memorize that object of infatuation who’s driving you nuts. It’s not those kind of burdens that help you fly like wings, no. They’re like lead in your blood, like cement that concreted around your legs that pulls you down so deep so far gone. Keeping them within is like holding your breath, holding it for so long that your body begins to tremble, and starts to seize, and you’d end up being suffocated by your own breath.

So no, it has to be done, and said, and shouted out to the world right? So he/she would know, and for a moment hopefully that person would appreciate your love, before they brush it off their shoulders like a breath of snow.

These thoughts actually pump me up and make me just wanna run up and kiss him there tomorrow at work. Or I could be more secluded, I would walk with him to his apartment that night, staying safe in the coat of night, saying the words in a veil of frost, that I want him, I want us. How I would stake it all for only a fragment of hope. Yet that, is not how things work.

Considering how things were first looked over and pondered for months, why did I decided to remain silent anyway? Given unrequited lust would torture my soul, how sure I am that being rejected would not kill me?

For the worst bet as it is and the stakes are high, there’d be possibility that the moment our lips touch, all hell’d break loose. There’d be screaming and pushing and fighting, and fire, and hail of hatreds. And all would break, burn, and end.

No, I wouldn’t be happy with that either.

Indeed, I’d be devastated.

So might I seal it up, and take it slow. And might I find a way to put it down, or at least turn it into something smoldering, something that wouldn’t burst out from inside and flare up my rib cage, turn me into ashes from the inside out.

Might I find a way to settle for the second best. Because being friends feels good. And as good as it could be, we might have some accidentally on purpose touching, or brushing. Or for some moments let the common senses of personal space fall into oblivion, we could put out lips so close, would study our own reflections in each other’s eyes, and as long as our lips don’t touch, all will be fine. And that’d be as good. That’s be the second best.

And we might as well get there, to the closeness we craved, to have red strings hooked everywhere, but never attached.

If not this way, then another way.