Beep!

It would make me happy, if I could write again. A single paragraph of beautiful prose. A few stanzas of haunting poetry. I would settle even for just a short, well-written narrative. But instead of words flowing forth, most times all I manage to do is spit out a few words, if you can call them such -- BURP! WHEE! YAY! AAACK!

Sigh.

Most of my outbursts are here-- bornlippy {dot} tumblr {dot} com.

Denial

walking along your street
(no I'm not going to you)
i'm just passing by
(trying to ignore you're near)

my eyes are looking down
(i'm watching my step)
i'm not trying to see if you're here
(are your windows lit?)

i've gone past at last
(i sigh in relief)
you had no effect at all
(why the fluttering heart?)

i stop and take a breath
(no i do not want to..)
i smile and shake my head
(look back towards your door)

so i walked past your street
(it wasn't you i was going to)
i just had to go somewhere
(maybe somewhere near you?)

01.24.07
First posted on my Multiply

"April ended and May came along, but May was even worse than April. In the deepening of May, I had no choice but to recognize the trembling of my heart. It usually happened as the sun was going down. In the pale evening gloom, when the soft fragrance of magnolias hung in the air, my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and wait for it to pass. And it would pass -- but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache behind."

'Norwegian Wood', Haruki Murakami

 Powerful imagery. I really like the way he writes.

Moments Like These.

There are moments which

Pass by swiftly, and remain

Unremembered, like a dizzying dream

That ends when you wake

And there are some which define

The rest of your life, go by your eyes

Excruciatingly slow, like a slow motion stop dance

As you hold your breath

***

I wish internship would start like, NOW. The anticipation is pushing me to psychosis.

It's just work. It's just hardship. It's just tiredness.

Just like clerkship. And clerkship was fun!

Can we just get it started, so we can get it over with?

Untitled

Like rainshowers in the summer,
A cold breeze in warm dry air
Like a stolen kiss from a stranger,
Surprising us, catching us unawares
(A quick gasp for breath)
(Senses overwhelmed)
(Hearts beating faster faster faster)

Because not all love (even between friends) develop gradually. Sometimes it's more like being hit by a train. Hits you hard, fast, without warning. Inspired by a friend's love story, haha.

Sunday Morning

Mornings are supposed to be beginnings. Each day, each sunrise, the start of hope anew. And yet in this profession, where the lines between yesterday, today and tomorrow are as blurred as a page soaked by spilt coffee, mornings lose their magic. Many a - changing of the sky's hues are accompanied not by a desire to begin a new day but by weariness and anxiety. How many daybreaks have been spent writing last minute reports or cramming for endorsements or nursing a hangover or squeezing in a few more precious moments of sleep, wishing, wishing hard that morning wouldn't arrive so fast? With yesterday's anxieties unpacified by sleep, and its weariness unrestored by dreams, the soul is numbed to pleasure and seeks only to rest.

Mornings are supposed to be beginnings. And in this profession, where the lines between yesterday, today and tomorrow are as blurred as a page drenched in tears, a line must be redrawn where it has been erased to allow renewed enthusiasm. Something different, to separate the present from the previous. Something to look forward to do, to replace weariness with excitement. Something stable, to allay our fears and relieve us of our anxieties. Something (or someone) to live for, and hope for. :]

But some days actually start right. Sunday mornings after a free saturday are priceless.

Untitled

It starts with an initial impression. Good or bad, an impression, a recognition that one exists, is always a start. And then there's attraction, an irresistible urge to be with someone, a curiosity that draws you nearer, like a moth to a flame. Affection, admixing every emotion with tenderness, and a certain degree of fondness. It happens quietly, unconsciously, like a thief in the dark going after your heart. And then you wake up and find yourself falling, falling, falling. The die cast, no turning back. Going, going, gone.

The Game

Call me self-absorbed, but I sometimes feel like I've been handpicked by the universe to be his favorite plaything. And I'm forced to participate in this weird game where I pretend not to care and he gives me heartache after heartache until he elicits a reaction. And the moment I pull away he pulls me back, pulls me in and gives me new reason to continue.