Never again. To my dark doings and mistakes. Never again. That was the last time. I need to be the person who is proud of myself. You are bigger than this. It's alright to revert to your past who did well. It's bouncing back up again using whatever tool you have. Whatever it is you're given is what you're supposed to use. Use it. Mino.

♥ 5:34 AM

Do we live for a sense of normalcy or what? I find myself not being able to speak now, like something is stuck in my throat. It feels awfully familiar yet is something of the past now creeping up on me again. It's comforting and daunting at the same time. I don't know if I'm improving or reverting back to my old bad habits. Am I going forward or backwards.

I have a strong attraction to songs that pull me away from reality. I'm so scared of it. Probably because reality has hurt me so many times whereas this escapism is a safe haven where I am able to accumulate small happinesses and feel detached pain. It's not even bearing in this place, it is that light, the pain I feel there. It is as as tremendous as it is fleeting.

I can't speak. So I write. This is what scares me. Do I only write things when the words are too heavy for my tongue to roll them out. Do I only write when I know what I'll say will come out as thin wisps of uncomfortable air, so worthless and meaningless to others that they'll be responded with either a shoulder brush or a 'comforting' remark similar to one.

However, despite this darkness that ambushes me into an invisible corner, I am glad that I'm writing. Despite my terrible writing, despite it all, I am glad. Kinda. Because I know, just like how it used to be, my words wont turn their backs on me and this furious typing desperate to spill whatever scant emotions I  have left wont evaporate carelessly. They will stand tall, black on white, like knights unashamed to serve their queen. They won't lie, and they wont mutate or manipulate. They are as they are, and they will remain.

♥ 1:26 AM

Homemade food meant fresh-baked pandan mantou, a whole vat of spaghetti sauce with sausages cut small enough for small mouths, and chicken ginseng soup that made you feel stronger with every sip. That's what I had at home. So here, a thousand miles away from those comfort, I'd pick up a packet of processed mantou at the local Asian store or throw in a bunch of herbs whose names I'd never know in a soup just to have a touch of home.

The stale mantou is what it is. Uncomfortable to your teeth, it is soft and crispy where it's not supposed to be. It tastes far from home. But I eat them anyway, and it makes me feel like I have a taste of what was on our marble table.

My home probably doesn't taste much like yours. That's why I gravitate towards tastes that are different than what you're used to. I don't know if anyone would want to have ginseng soup and mantou as their daily meals, so I'm scared of having to share what my home is like. It's different, and it might not suit your taste.

♥ 2:29 PM

I think I used to like sharing myself. The gift of sharing myself and having others shared to me was something that made my heart glow. Those moments felt warm. But not now, I think. Sharing myself is scary now. Like I'm imposing, instead of sharing. Like an unwanted presence. Like a thorn on someone's side.

Sharing about myself feels like a mistake afterwards. It's defeating. You are a disgrace o be known.

It's probably time to change.

♥ 5:04 AM