"Celestial / Extraterrestrial"

Woken up by the clinging of cups — had I arrived at Mad Hatter’s tea party? 

This someone who was handling several (yes, it sounded more than a couple) 

cups was nervous, as if it didn’t want to wake 

me? Or Alice? Or whom?

The clinging and tinkling of sensation in my barely alive mind then 

trailed off, like the trail of liquid marks on the floor. 

The sound of spilling. T’was all so gentle to wake up to. 

What time was it? Why did I worry about what time was it? But,

was it early — how early? 

At once, it felt lame in the lack of immediate access to Time. 

Always, it did not matter. 

What to do with this perfect ambiguous morning 

after you’d pushed me out of my dream? 

I don’t even dream of him. Though

I would have never dreamed it being a nightmare with you. 

Going by my routine, confused I began to be. 

It’s not that unusual. 

I’d remembered the possibility that you never loved me. 

And you don’t. 

I am a fragment

outside  

all your outlined non-linearities. 

You told me once I was eternal 

neither linear or non-linear

yet why do I feel constantly on the

edge of ending? Continuously 

ended? 

Is that what forever must come to? 

Although I’d come to you in my dreams, 

weeping in brutal confession,

painful self-confrontation,

I remained outside of you. You still stayed away from us. 

We are a dream made into an entity 

outside of ourselves, running a life of its own 

parallel

to each of our own. 

"Upon Sunset"

I felt the need to lie down

and so we did. 

God must have found

His way to my windowsill;

a touch with His finger, the bed 

was illuminated.

The fresh, crisp air funnelled through

and wrapped us in one

on top of this pale duvet.

When did the sun become kind

and love so undeniable? 

Nap, we didn’t.

Weep, I did. 

Our shadows born from the sun 

barely breathed beneath us.

We were sure

we had each other. 

Hugging is letting your chests kiss.

We let our hearts be close, despite

the barrier of our skin.

I cried,

because I loved him so much. 

He was a jewel

completely surrendered to my possession.

His crown I wanted

to hold entirely—

protected in my chest—

and we’d fit perfectly.

"Learned Helplessness"

What are days for? 

The hours, the years...

Once the moment is gone

how do my words hold on? 

The tediousness of life

teases. Oftentimes 

helplessness refuses to 

cease; it only phases. 

What are we to do 

with so many shutters

of the eyes, witnessing

the overwhelmingly

incessant, violent

murder of time? 

"Running"

I close my eyes, letting my soft-souled, imaginative memory run.

It gathers its energy and momentum, rises up like smoke. 

It’s running fast,

chasing after your face, your frames, 

nose, lips,

the way the two ends of your smile 

curl up 

when your face gets 

closer to mine. 

I open my eyes for a second, 

afraid of getting lost in what’s past. 

But I’ve always been a masochist

with my own stories

in time. 

Lids closed once more, my mind reaches 

out its tender arms, grasping 

onto the feeling of your lips 

touching mine. Oh 

how close, how naturally warm we were together. 

Hours passed by, like time was never 

once an abstract 

so skewed, an entity

so monopolistically significant and constant.

It made an attempt

at alarming us with helplessness, 

reasons, but was of no influence.

For our minds were so unforgettably 

occupied, and we were ourselves

loving the space our beings filled up 

in conjunction. 

"Vancouver"

Days are doting

from blurry mornings

Time is doing 

its usual thing. 

Running and ditching,

like how we chase, afraid of

not reaching the 99 —

look how it’s fleeting.

Fast a week in and

I’d say, “Stop counting.”

Riding, driving,

Eating, immersing

In the blue wide west; 

a coast happily rests 

at its state — 

Forever in her 

Twenties 

stretching, ready;

forming and delving into

its absolute splendid

Best.

"Homecoming"

The red wine 

sensuously 

streams down my throat

My mind,

so high —

Coffee? Tea? 

Suddenly, all these drugs were in front of me. 

Home was 

ahead of me. 

Yet I had no idea I

was going for an epilogue. 

The minimal, 

most quiet kind of exchange 

of sentiments;

silent handshake of air

awaits. Bittersweetness. 

Looking out the tiny window,

depressant and stimulant laid out 

on this awkward table.

While my eyes beamed,

the idea of you

locking away us into the museum of memory

was at once impossible and cruel,

but somehow somewhere

an idea I had.

Yet I had no idea you

are the braver of us —

perhaps the one

bruised, wrenched. Cut-

throat and defensively, you

draw out the dagger

of conclusion.

"Home is So Sad" Adaptation

Source: 

“Home is So Sad” by Philip Larkin

Home is so sad. It stays as it was left,

Shaped to the comfort of the last to go

As if to win them back. Instead, bereft 

Of anyone to please, it withers so,

Having no heart to put aside the theft 

And turn again to what it started as,

A joyous shot at how things ought to be,

Long fallen wide. You can see how it was:

Look at the pictures and the cutlery.

The music in the piano stool. That vase. 

“Have you packed more? Almost done?” 

“Yup, but I’m gonna pack some more tomorrow. Tonight I’m going to hang out with Tiff and them.” 

She came downstairs to the living room — perfumed, dressed, makeup on. 

“Going out again? When are you done having this kind of fun?” Her mother said nonchalantly, not looking up from her iPad. All in all, it’s taken a long time for her to get here — hearing that her daughter is venturing out into the dangerous night full of mischievousness and not try to stop her by saying how much of a risk it was to go out on her own at night.

It was eleven in the morning and she had been awake for about an hour. Remote and warm in the pastel yellow duvet blanket, she surveyed her room from corner to corner: pale pink walls, a painting hung on the wall. That jewelry stand. The rays of light through the blinds are reflecting on the adjacent wall. Stuffed toys in the corner that are dusty. That evening, she was leaving home, going abroad, moving out. 

Every time she left home, she felt almost guilty for leaving her mom behind, alone. At the same time, she could never fight the resistance — the bright lights outside, the carefree attitude, the possibilities. Most of the time her mom would barely utter out a “bye” as she stood at the door with keys in hand; even if she did, it was one with an attitude. Behind her the living room stretches out; the room always suddenly looked so large and empty, despite the visible weight of the grand piano behind the sofa her mother often makes herself comfortable on. 

The carpeted stairs, the wooden floor. The window beside the piano, on it place photo frames of her family — mom, brother, and her — from long ago, still and silently. The uneven space between the two opposite couches and the coffee table in the middle. Her brother’s study room’s white energy-saving light contrasting awkwardly from the warm, wooden colours in the living room. 

Sitting in between her two big suitcases, she looked childish. Her face expressing complex sadness. Her mother observed her, “you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” That was the first time her mother had tried to make her stay with words. “I know.” But she wanted to leave. 

Home is so sad, but why is leaving home sadder? Knowing that everything will stay the same is not enough anymore; the other half of her is pulling her away from this house. This house, so homey, picturesque; so meant for a family. 

Just don't.

“There are and will be a lot of things in life that you don’t want to do, but doesn’t mean that you don’t need to do them!” Said my mom, always. 

Being raised with the teaching of the inevitability of hardship, what will always seem like “unbearable” difficulties, the unacceptability of running away from problems, and the necessity to face it and suck it up (and expected to do a good job along the way) has shaped the excellent quality of self-discipline with minimal complaints in me. It wasn’t easy, especially as a child, to hear the blatant words coming — maybe spitting — out of my mother’s mouth, wide-eyed and matter-of-fact; but that is how it was. I had lessons for piano, ballet, drawing, mathematics, Mandarin, Chinese calligraphy, and swimming outside of school. I was one talented kid, at least for however long I had to put up with these extracurricular activities that I did not take particular, voluntary interest in. But every time I complained, asked to quit, I would get the “life” spiel thrown at me, mostly in slightly exaggerated dramatic seriousness on my mom’s part. But that’s also how I got extra tutoring on all those things. I don’t do half of the list in my daily life now, but knowing deeply that there are and will always be things that I don’t want to do but will have to do has not only stuck with me but become part of me — in my responses to obstacles, my reactions to others’ complaints over, say, work, and my way of dealing with things. 

However, I’m not writing to tell you the valuable lesson that my tiger mother has taught me, albeit it being genuinely an important knowledge I’ve gained. I want to say how much I’ve learned to do otherwise. 

It is true that things which make us unhappy or stressed will continue to exist and not dealing with problems is escapism, immaturity. But there are circumstances where things are simply broken and different. It doesn’t always mean that it calls for an immediate restore or solution. Yes, perhaps time is the go-to when it comes to healing, but sometimes, try leaving the broken pieces on the floor and move on. There is no need to force yourself to rescue; make yourself miserable and guilty over an issue, a broken friendship, a problematic or ended relationship, because things are never one-sided. More basically, you should never have to do anything that you don’t want to. More and more people are turning their focus and values closer to those of hedonism these days, (hopefully) salubriously, which preaches not to waste a chance for pleasure. Getting involved in anything out of your desire is not only the opposite of chasing “the highest good”, but also unhealthy and damaging to your soul, degrading to your self-esteem, and lessening of your personality. Most importantly, we’ve been wired for too long and hard under this and that pressure, worrying about what he and she thinks, what they and so-and-so will say. Then, just like that, we forget what we want, what’s important to us, what more can we appreciate, and ourselves. 

The society is always demanding worth — how much money is it worth, how much pay are you worth — but sometimes you must reverse the judgment on some problems: is this worth my time, is it worth my efforts and mental energy, is it worth fixing? I’ve come across conflicts that have been resolved with more or less efforts, but also problems that will stay a splinter, so deep into your skin that you’d hurt yourself more trying to get it out than letting your body naturally dissolve it. More simply, some things are just broken, like a vase, and there’s no use of putting it back together. At the same time, it’s not necessarily a bad thing.  

As a child, I was disciplined by doing things that I didn’t want to do, simultaneously demanded to do them with a good attitude. At the brim of turning 23, I’m only starting to learn that I never have to do anything that I don’t want to. 

Happy Chinese New Year.