There’s a number of things that I feel I should write down. The last two weeks felt like tall waves crashing onto the shore — natural, even expected, forceful and a little strong. I’ve left my first job in Melbourne to start another journey of self-worth. I’ve ended a relationship of 8 years. I’m relearning what it means to trust and rely on someone.

The earth continues to rotate, space continues to expand, and life goes on. This time I don’t have to carry the disappointments and unmet needs that built up over eight years. I’ve let go of the expectations and missed opportunities of the last eight months. I’ve been exploring what it means to not be alone in the last eight days.

Maybe some of the things weren’t what I expected. It took a long time for me to accept breaking up was the best decision for myself. Work goodbyes felt lonesome, but some people I didn’t imagine were supportive and I received words that touched me and made me believe I’ve done my best. I never would’ve guessed I’d hear, “I’ll take care of you”, from someone when I’ve been well enough on my own. Those moments felt poignant, but also sincere and heartfelt. Maybe I should trust myself a little more. I’ve already gone a long way, after all.

I can think and I can think and I still wouldn’t know what to do. I’m not doing a very splendid job of ignoring my problems.

Fuck, I can’t remember some bits from last night.

That’s my wake-up thought this morning after getting home from a night of drinking.

Well, shit.

I should scold myself more for my lapses of judgment. I mean, I’m not a college student anymore seeking short-lived highs and thrills.

It’s like I’m asking for it because something’s wrong with me and I like the loss of control. I close my eyes and ears and put on this whatever persona. Have fun now, think later.

But adulting means I should know better. Overcome the convenience afforded by stupidity.

It’s been an awful week. I believe I was totally asking for that opportunity to get drunk. I reverted to my college self the moment I’m in a house-drinking party (or, who am I kidding. The moment I’ve decided to go for it for an evening).

I can be introspective now but I still won’t recover memories my brain failed to save last night.

Well, no shit.

I think I’ve holed myself up in a corner of disappointment and self-loathing over my writing. I’ve been staring at writing prompts and whenever I do, my brain freezes into a black hole of blankness. I imagine characters with no plots, and I’ve been writing short, bland pieces that’s never interesting enough to comment on. I just feel like I’m just really incredibly awful at writing fiction and I’m trying to make up for it by reading shoujo manga heroines that point me towards optimism and mental litanies of “I will work harder”, “never give up”, and “I will do my best”.

So rather than not writing at all, I’ve crawled back into this online blog of mine to ramble about my lack of progress, an absence of passion (since I’m not trying harder), and maybe a great deal of procrastination. What I’ve done most of, these past two weeks, was consumption.

To be honest, I haven’t actually read so much manga (and shoujo at that) in possibly the past three or four years as I have been these past couple of days. I’ve been reading on the train, in the toilet, during lunch breaks. I feel like I’ve forgotten what life felt like in high school and college and somehow believed I’d get some pointers from manga aimed at young girls. While most of them were a far cry from the complexities of characters in science fiction YA novels, there were girls that I identified with even at (gasp) this late age of almost-thirty. There were even a few gems that made me laugh, and stories with plots that kept me glued until two in the morning. Then I’d get up at seven, go to work, and force myself to bring myself down to my offline avatar persona.

Somewhere along the way I thought it’ll inspire me to write something, or figure out what I want to write exactly, but it hasn’t been the case. I mean, if anything I should probably continue to sit down and force myself to type anything even if the words don’t end up spinning any kind of story.

I’ve been thinking a little about this and also, why am I doing this again exactly? I need a short story written by March if I’m to remind myself of this quarter’s Key Result for Writing. For no other reason than a small desire to become a Light Novel author (maybe more like wishful thinking or imagination on my part. A shallow reflection of an alternate-universe me who took up writing as a career). It’s not really clear to me what this is for at the end of the day. Like, how would this ever benefit me or my career or my personal growth, I don’t know. Maybe I’m still hoping I’d eventually connect with someone through writing communities for as long as I keep trying. That one day I’d finally write something that would trigger any kind of response from a stranger. I don’t think I’m ever writing for the sake of telling a story, but rather I’m always looking to elicit a reaction, a reply, from somebody.

Most days though, it’s just silence and more silence much like this blog is bereft of conversation.

I pulled those lines from the poem Want, by Carrie Fountain.

To desire everything and nothing at once

I’ve managed to work an extra 36 hours in the past two weeks. My spirit is tired. Waking up at seven, leaving the office at five, then back in front of my monitor in my room-turned-office at eight. Watching a slice-of-life Chinese drama (Story of Ming Lan) and reading shoujo manga in between and I’ve managed to fill the vacant seconds with things — to do, to pay attention to. It’s dangerous, sometimes, to be in a tea party with only me and myself.

But there are still minutes, like the walk from the house to the station or the bus stop to the house, where I’m left alone with my thoughts. Without work or stories to distract from the memories that prod the scabs on my heart — it’s exactly like my skin eczema — I’m always subconsciously scratching on the thoughts of people, of something I don’t have.

In those free moments, I’ve been imagining my characters and their stories. I’ve picked up writing early in January and I’ve been playing out imaginary conversations, hypothetical situations, and non-existent relationships. Sometimes, they are what-could-have-been’s. While reading manga, I conjure scenes of friendships that endured. They are nice, and those moments make me wistful.

To desire everything

It’s not like the past hurts — those small wounds have scabbed over, after all. I just accidentally pick on my skin. I’ve been resigned, for a while now, of people that have come and gone. I’m not thinking things could be different for myself. I wake up every day, live another day. Life is like that.

I wonder if this is something I’ll bury with me when I die.

and nothing

The past is past, but today I thought, I must truly have been such a rotten person for two friends I kept close to reject me like that. I must have been disliked a lot.

at once and to desire it

Nowadays I’m not close enough with anyone to feel rejected, or betrayed. No shared moments, or special memories. Everything is as expected. Everything is okay.

all the time

1. Every 15th of the month is pay date. I look forward to a few things. Tomorrow is one of those.
2. I’ve managed to accomplish so much design work on the first week after holiday season that I’ve filled the team’s backlog for two or three months.
3. I’ve picked up pace on my writing. So much so that I’ve been participating in 5 different writing prompt communities. Look at this. A good soul made a list and there are so many. It is so good. I missed this.
4. I’ve received 80% more comments on the journal themes I shared on Dreamwidth than any of the ficlets I’ve published. Ha! CSS themes were addictive and fun design exercises. I’ve now calmed down after obsessing over it during the last two weekends.
5. Seems like I’m picking up some freelance work again, soon. Starting tomorrow.
6. I haven’t been exercising either.
7. And I’m getting break-outs on my face. I don’t know how long it’ll take for my skin to adjust to this city. Every season irritates the individual pores in my body.
8. Some days I’m floating in a lake of lonesomeness and I’m just creating ripples with this whole writing saga. And freelance work. Touring the city alone, eating alone, exploring alone — there are too many activities outside that reminds me my friends aren’t here. Is it irony that staying home keeps me more occupied?
9. Some days I just feel like I still don’t really have friends, and I’ll call it quits and move back to Singapore. People at work are nice and friendly, but they’re not my friends. Meanwhile, some of the colleagues I shared drinks with from my last job felt like we at least had post-work connections. We hung out, ate together, and with them I wanted to say goodbye. I read that lonesomeness is a step lighter from loneliness. Perhaps this is it.
10. Maybe one day I’ll decide not to leave because I’ve grown to like my work so much. And this lake will cease to be a lake. I have a preference for rivers. They’re more unpredictable.