An hourglass on sea.

For years I’ve been working towards controlling my energy. I’d say, 98% of the time, there’s always these tiny little fireworks display, exploding in the most inappropriate times. Maybe it’s all a matter of timing. I can’t possibly start a fire to see in a dark library, nor could I use a small flashlight under the sun to read the SPF content of my sunscreen.

I fear not finding something that I can do well in. That I’ll forever be in this egg hunt, and by the time I find one, there’d be a ‘RIP: Humpty Dumpty’ headstone. 

Well, I’m on my way. Whether it’s the right way or not, who knows. Each step is really just a gamble sometimes and sometimes, I secretly think I have roulette strategies. Right now, focus and consistency would be just the cutest new candles to light up in my room. I should be so many types of people. Waah. 

I decided my fairy tale won’t be pinned behind some ass.
And I’ll be better. Then worse. Then a whole lot better.  

Nothing like a deep tissue massage.

Day dreaming about this masseuse
and not with the classic little scenario
where I pay him for an hour to oil me up
and ‘loosen my knots’
and somehow manage to have his fingers inside me. 

The one that’s not so easy to meet up with,
quite a bit of travel to reach.
The one that doesn’t avoid the most sensitive spots.
Who pokes at my darkest bruises
I’ve hidden underneath my clothing.

And with his strong, gentle hands, he’d massage me
and tell me that this is not permanent
and that I shouldn’t loathe reflections.
More pressure on the deeper layers
he’d say I was shot by illusions
and that they were all assholes
and I am not kidding myself
when I sing the simplest of songs. 

He’ll keep massaging me
and ask if he’s doing alright.
If I’m not too entranced I’d tell him
that he’s going great
and slip in the fact, that I don’t know how, and I don’t know why
but I believed him the very first few minutes
I believed the first time he saw me to say
that things will be okay.   

Note to my present and past, and probably my future self.

I think it’s time I forgave
the little girl who could never say no
who hugged cacti with all her might
and crumbled at every goodbye

Who buried her face in her hands
and opened her legs
and accepted everyone’s apologies
except the ones she made to herself

The one who refused to look in the mirror
but smashed it to pieces
to draw out the bad blood
in order to feel good

The one who devoted to decorating an empty box
and scrubbed the outside of the bin spotless
but never took the trash out
I ought to forgive you
for calling an animal control officer
each time it rained cats and dogs

I too, would like to say I’m sorry
for ruining your skin
and poorly bandaging your heart

But I’ve invested in some make up, and moisturiser
and I’ve learnt to love
this seems like a good start

Little one, I’ll do everything I can
to make sure this never happens again
You’ll win, you’ll lose
and the sky will be dark
but even thunder storms have lightning

It’s that little bit of spark
to prove to you that things will be okay
and it wasn’t all your fault
and I’m learning to forgive you
each and every day

A line drawn on sand, the one separating spontaneity and causing chaos. I was diagnosing my motivation; tried searching for the opposite of intrinsic, but only the four letters of my name came up. Backed up by another four letter word that seems wonderfully justifiable in the most impractical sense. 

Perhaps I spend too much time arranging my closet that I never really have the chance to wear them. Or that I leave my clothes on the floor mentally sorting them for later, leaving them for now. I feel like a birdwatcher with ear plugs on.

Humbled by an open mind, slightly humiliated at how stupid I am. Crossing the road for the thrill, not just to observe the hype, or to get to the other side. I feel like I’m playing dodge ball, unable to tell if I’m the player, or the ball. Goddamn I need my focus. 

What are the chances?

I wish I knew how luck worked, or grasped the concept of ‘destiny’. I go with my gut instincts too much. I should work on my posture. Odd how different stations are operating in different directions, at different speeds, but with the same shine, and the same rust. 

Time flies, and I hope my actions can run at the same speed. 

Oh man. 

It seems kind of messy, but I can still see the floor. I feel like having a great big sigh while slapping my thigh. Feels bad, knowing that some things are. Feels great, accepting that everything isn’t. 

  

Feels like sand in my eyes. Not the soft, white hot sand. More like, those gross little clumps of wet sand. I suppose neither are preferable options.  Uncomfortable, annoying. Sometimes I just ignore the discomfort. And it just feels like brushing your hair naked and feeling the discomfort of bristles against nipples. Yeah. Enough to make a face, but certainly not enough to go have a cry about it. 

Wishing on a light bulb, hoping it would flicker. I’m almost in a pleading state.