dreaming of the impossible

Is it possible for love to be distributed so equally?
Human’s imperfection fails to make things just
I’ve already foreseen this, yet you told me no
You will not forsake me like the other did so
But it has happened and will happen again
To interrupt your happy world I’ll refrain
Time is up, let’s face it –you do not care
Your love for me diminishes in the air
I will search for a place called home
A spare room or my lover’s arms
As long they’re willing to love
As long they’re eager to care
Except here in everywhere,
I’ll go places high and low
So that I learn and grow
I won’t be coming back
By then my love lacks
To you who stopped
And have brought
Disinterest, woe
Enkindling the
Heartaches
& sorrows.

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flight

She did not ask to be introduced to this world, but here she is, full of hopes to achieve dreams and live an almost-contented life (because nobody can ever be truly content). Her first few years of her life were mainly about her following orders. Sleep at eight. No telly after six. Study hard.

Occasionally she found some joy in her home, but most of the time she was in pure delight among her friends. They were the ones that pushed her on, believed in her that she could do it -when nobody in her home can.

At that stage of her life, she is given the question that gave a little spark to her eyes. “What do you want to do later on in life?” Finally, with a little taste of freedom at the tip of her tongue, she spills her plans for building her own future. The response to her enthusiastic speech is unfortunate, however. Step by step, with more rebukes and opposing comments from the Backbone, she falls into despair.

There was the saying that goes “home is where the heart is” but she doesn’t believe it. Jealousy boils in her blood every time she sees the parents of her peers supporting what they wanted to do. How old is she now? Already reaching adulthood. She has her own life too, but home does not see it that way.

Stubborn Backbone does not understand, does not even want to step into her shoes. Hard-headed Backbone, cutting off her speech midway, saying things like “you will regret” “you think it’s so easy?” “people who do that won’t succeed”. She’s tired of fighting and exhausted from trying to justify herself.

That night is one of those nights where she hopes nobody hears the echoes of her cries from the bathroom. She hopes the soaked pillow will be dry when she wakes up, and that no one will notice her red swollen eyelids.

People her age are now enjoying herself. Some take their freedom to the fullest and she vows that she will never be like them -even when she has been living in a cage all this while. She will be moderate, she knows she can control herself for she has learned from the disasters her peers faced. She knows what to do, but she was never given a chance to manage her own life by her own self.

She is a child, not a pet dog. Sometimes even dogs were let loose so they can explore, so perhaps she is worse than a dog.

Don’t get her wrong. She doesn’t see “elders know best” as some bull manure. Nonetheless these elders should know that young ones are not as stupid as they think they are. Young ones might be impressionable, but if they were given a moderate radius to explore, they will learn what the world actually tastes like. These experiences able them to adapt.

If elders know best, elders won’t even shelter their children from such one-in-a-lifetime occasions. It turns into a cycle; the children will never grow up, and elders will never see such potential in their offsprings because these poor young ones were never given a chance.

And if Backbone thinks he’s sustaining, maintaining, saving this bond, he’s wrong. She has read one of Shakespeare’s classic, learning that Jessica had even left Shylock in the midst of all anguish.

That night is the night of her breaking point. The warm summer breeze from the window invites her and incites her to flee. If she survives, she runs away to pursue life, lead solely by herself and undriven by nobody else.

And if she doesn’t outlast the fall, the long deep sleep seems exiting enough.

inside the examination hall

in maroon sneakers he rushed in
and sat on the desk beside me
time ticking, legs of the chair
scraping the cemented floor

we started without him
already scribbling in blue
when he just started reading
the instructions and passage

sweat beaded his forehead
eyebrows scrunching as the
pen quickly formed strokes
hurry, not much time left

a drop of a ballpoint pen
which shattered the silence
was rolling towards a leg
of the desk belonging to me

should i?

too late.

i heard footsteps nearing,
bones cracking as the aged
teacher bends down to reach
for the common writing tool

surprised that the teacher
knew who the owner was
he set the object on his desk
instead of mistaking it for mine

and so the boy retrieved his lost pen
but i lost the chance to get him to notice me

monkey see, monkey do

Whenever I dance, he follows. His every step is precise. Every turn accurate. I can sense him watching me sway to the music as he copies my every move.

I am getting used to him nowadays because he appears almost everywhere, but only in certain places. Like the corner of my bedroom for example, or the little space by the bathroom wall. Sometimes I turn my head quickly so I can catch him unaware, but these attempts fail; his head would turn to face me, with dark eyes staring directly into mine.

That day, when all the songs had finished their go, I walked towards the boy. To no surprise he came forward too. I was paying attention to his feet, noticing that the steps he took were a little off. When my right leg moved forward, his left leg did. It went the same with the rest.

When we were close, almost at a hair’s breadth, we both stopped and sat down facing each other. I raised my left arm and he raised his right. I brought my arm towards him, my palm inching closer, finally touching his. It felt smooth and cold.

But it felt real.

“Tired?” I muttered softly.

The boy took a few seconds to reply. “A little.”

His voice seemed oddly similar.

I gave a curt nod in return. Realising my hand was still supported by his, I quickly rubbed the back of my neck. He did so the same.

“Why do you keep copying me?” I asked, puzzled.

He only smiled, showing his dimples. I’m not too sure what that means.

“Felix!”

Startled at the voice belonging to my caretaker, I got up. He stood by the door and pointed at his wristwatch. “Your next session is in ten minutes. The doctor wouldn’t want you to be late, would he?”

I shook my head, feeling quite excited for the upcoming session. I could not wait to tell the doctor about the new friend I just made.

“Come now, you can dance when you get back.” He offered his hand and I took it. “You still haven’t stopped talking to mirrors-” I heard him utter. “-but doctor said that he would do his very best to fix you.”

Before I followed the caretaker out from the room, I looked back and waved to the boy, now standing a distance away. He mimicked me again with his left hand waving me off.

“See you,” I said.

He gave me another one of his smiles. This time it was broad, accompanied with a wink.

And so I winked back before shutting the door.


a/n: Old story lol. Correcting my errors is starting to feel calming after jamming my head with math and sciences for hours. Also I made ask.fm……………………………………..if you want to….ask me…….stuff..?

meetings are better with mee rojak

a/n: LOL SO CRINGEY THIS IS SO MALAYSIAN THERE’S A HIGH CHANCE NOBODY WOULD GET IT AND ALSO I AM PROCRASTINATING AGAIN

mee rojak and char kuey teow are noodle dishes! google to find out how it looks like. come to malaysia to know how it tastes like


“Mee rojak sudah habis, dik.”

She didn’t even mention what she wanted for lunch, but the food vendor knew her usual order. She felt envious of whoever at the front line since they got to place their orders, and possibly snatch the last plate of her favourite noodle dish. Glancing at her watch, she frowned at the two hands which were almost indicating twelve noon.

Mee rojak usually wouldn’t sell out this fast.

The packed food court was a familiar sight to her on that Saturday afternoon. She went to the other stall, ordering the alternative which she was starting to get tired of (she had eaten char kuey teow twice this week). Quickly she found an empty table and bless! It’s clean.

“Mind if I sit here?”

She looked up from her phone, seeing a boy around the the same age. Hair shaved at the sides, clad in a pastel plain t-shirt, and is that…flippers? He’s definitely not from around here.

“Um.” He sounded skeptical. “Is that a yes?”

Immediately she recoiled. “Oh, yeah sure.” She laughed gave a small chuckle partly because she she was embarrassed of what she did. “You can sit here.”

The table they sat by was not the ordinary round ones situated in the middle of the area. It was the small rectangular one just enough for two (or perhaps three if you can magically manage to not block the way) propped by the halfway tiled wall of the building.

Like proper millennials they were, their hands were on their gadgets -and like the proper things millennials face, one’s gadget had ran out of juice. It was easy to notice. Phone involuntary making a not-so-loud-but-obvious ‘thunk’ was indicator number one. The words “you got powerbank” forming in a question-like structure was indicator number two.

She handed the portable battery charger to the boy across her.

“Sorry,” he apologised. “My friend is having mine right now, and Waze takes up a lot of battery.”

His last sentence confirmed her assumption that he was not from around here. She smiled assuring him that it was alright and not smiling would make her appear as rude.

The familiar food vendor arrived to their table, serving the plate of aromatic, heavenly mee rojak which was sadly not hers. It suddenly just occurred to her that this boy in front of her was the one able to place his last order -no wait- orders. 

More mee rojak in plastic packages flooded the small table of theirs. She looked at the boy across her in disbelief. How dare did he do such a thing, ordering so many packets of mee rojak like that. She might or might not have seen the vendor giving her an apologetic smile as he distributed the change to the boy.

“Is this good?” he asked her after keeping his change. “It was recommended on TripAdvisor.”

“TripAdvisor?” She turned to the stall, looking at the bright green sticker plastered beside the pricing menu. Unconsciously she sighed, making him a little worried for this stranger.

She turned to face him again, wishing the plate was hers. “It is good. It has always been.” She then eyed at him, wanting to see his expression when he takes his first bite.

“Spicy.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

She didn’t mean the hint of annoyance in her tone of speech. It was just -that plate or one of those packets of mee rojak could be hers. Nonetheless, God forbid her to have her desired food to be on her taste buds that day. Her char kuey teow arrived seconds later. The overly-familiar brown sight was starting to make her feel sick.

It was a funny sight to see the both of them dealing with their meals. His face was getting redder by the minute, and hers was going green. Never in her life she had eaten three plates of char kuey teow in that same whole week and never in his life he tried food this spicy. They made it nevertheless if we close one eye and ignore the little bits of leftovers which they could not consume.

“At least my friends can handle the spice,” he said, wiping his sweat with his shirt sleeve.

“That’s nice.” She tried to spit out the words politely. “Where are they?”

“They went to eat something spicier; laksa. We’re going to have this tapau-ed mee rojak for tea.”

She nodded. She was pretty used to the typical eat-all-day tourist scheme. There was no surprise that Malacca is one of the top food destinations in Malaysia.

His phone resurrected all of a sudden, vibrating on the plastic surface. She took it as her call to leave. After one more smile and a small wave signalling goodbye, she got up and walked out. The rice noodles churned in her stomach, giving her every reason to regret ordering char kuey teow for Saturday’s lunch.

“Hey, hold up.” She felt a brush on her shoulder. It was the boy from somewhere; shaved sides, pastel plain T-shirt, flippers, and currently with packets of mee rojak hanging from one hand. His other hand returned her the grey portable charger, and surprisingly, something better.

“You don’t want this?” she asked. Her face lit up without her knowledge as she felt warmth radiating from the plastic packaging.

“I’m not a fan of spicy food anyway,” he brushed it off. “Thank you for lending me your powerbank.”

She flashed another smile, a genuine one this time. “And thank you for the mee rojak.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

“Me too.” She laughed at the hidden pun. “It was nice meeting you too.”

hardships of healing

There was where they met:
in the middle of a crowded sidewalk,
where the hustling bustle of feet
and the hoarse voice of cars
created a disastrous melody.

Their eyes were wide.
Her chuckle hinted nervousness.
His scarlet cheeks signaled shame.
Alas, he cleared his throat
and asked, “How are you?”

That night was a hot night
but her sweat was based on fear.
“I’m doing well,” she replied,
fingers fidgeted with her hair.
“What about you?”

“I’m good.” (he missed her)
“That’s nice to hear.” (it wasn’t)
“Are you…” sirens drowned his voice
but they faded within seconds.
“…with somebody now?”

She hesitated and looked away
Finally she nodded, answering
“Yes.” Pause. “Do you have one?”
He gave a faint mutter: “I do.”
If only it was their wedding instead.

The train on the tracks screeched
above them on an overhead bridge.
It was dark for the few seconds
when they embraced each other,
taking in the familiar scent.

They then parted their ways:
one heading north, the other, south.
Moving on to their destinations,
moving on from each other
-like they have always did.

past bedtime

fairy-godmother appeared in front of my very two eyes
she glided closer and pulled me into an embrace
with a soft gentle voice, she spoke:

“to love is never like a piece of cake
though attracting, it is tough work
to love is to learn more about yourself
the brokenness -the cracks within you
to love is to be one with the other
a connection only you two can share”

she paused, trying to make out whether i started to tear
or that my eyes were always this sparkly at midnight
eventually she knew, and wiped them away

“to love is to make big sacrifices but-”
oddly, she paused to give small chuckle
she then held my hand and continued:

“-how big is too big?
for there is a very thin line
between your love for the other
and your love for your own self
but don’t mistake it for selfishness
there is another thin line for that too”

fairy-godmother planted a kiss on my forehead
before she left, she whispered in my ear:
“in the end, it is up to you, my dear girl”
she made her way out from my window,
leaving my room and possibly, leaving this world