a day in the life.

He sits dangerously close to the edge, leering and peeking and wanting to know what's down there. He turns to his friend, sitting just a few meters away. "Should we do this?" He asks thoughtfully, kicking his feet back and forth.

The friend stares at him, unsure. "Are the guys ready?"

They both look back and see a line of other creatures, similar like them, all two dozens of them. Stretching, bunny hopping, buzzing with excitement, getting ready to make another free fall.

"We wait for the cue," the friend decides solemnly with a nod. He agrees silently and relaxes, slouching in his seat. As usual, he gets the regular feeling of guilt as he looks down again. But what could he do? It was his job; it has always been. I promise you'll feel much better when I'm done, he whispers. This may hurt, but you'll be relieved afterwards. He has long stopped finding out the cause; all he needs to do is make a thousand silent apologies each day.

Suddenly, a jerking movement lurches him forward and he grips the edges fearfully. His eyes widen and he looks at his friend, who grins back at him. "Ready?"

"Race you to the finish line," he says with a wicked smile. For a while his smile falters when he hears the familiar sound of something breaking in the distance- the infamous signal. He squeezes his eyes shut. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he keeps repeating. I know it hurts. But you'll be fine. I promise you. Everything will be alright. With the mantra echoing in his lips, he counts to three and let himself go.

Further, further down. Down the smooth surface. He feels the whoosh of air, the feeling of complete freedom, as he freefalls to the ground. He glances beside him and sees his partner racing and passing him by. Behind him he can hear his friends jumping down,shouting joyfully. What an ironic contrast to the heart-breaking sound of wailing somewhere out there far, far away. He doesn't need to look, but he knows that some of his friends had disappeared mid-air to a land of nothingness, vanishing into thin air with just a swipe of hand. That's normal- out of twenty four, usually only two or four of them survive.

He lands safely down and feels the familiar feeling of scattering away. He quickly reassembles himself and makes a brave decision to glance up. The sight always squeezes his heart.

I'm sorry, he wants to scream. I'm sorry you have to go through this but I need you to trust me. My friends and I are here to make you feel better which you will. I promise you, you will.

Sometimes he cannot stand his job. Sometimes he doesn't want to fall; but it's the default system installed in him that forces him to. Unable to look up anymore, he tears his eyes away.

Sometimes he wants to know her. He wants to let her know how angry he is at the person who forces him jump down. But most of all, more than anything else, he wishes that the next time he jumps, it will be for a completely different reason for her.

The thought calms him down. He stands up straight and walks back to the end of the line, queuing behind his friends to climb up again. In the queue, an officer is passing out the assignment paper. "OK, what's next for me?" He asks, desperately hoping to hear some good news.

"A farewell." The officer shrugs and moves down the line.

 The words are like gunshots to his ears as the worst eight-letter words he ever encounters sinks him into despair. He can take fights. People yelling in anger, hurling hurtful comments at each other. Words so full of venom he shivers when he hears it. He can even handle breakups.

But not a farewell.

Not that infamous bittersweet feeling that squeezes the air out of your lungs the minute the other person walks away, the minute you hold them and realize you won't even feel their comforting presence anymore the next day. Not that feeling when the memories and images flash like film rolls in your mind knowing that things will never be the same. Not  the contraction in the chest.  The feeling of losing something and having that thing taken away that leaves you gasping for air frantically, because you just realize the thing that usually calms you down is the one whose engine just roared off your driveway. For good. 

Gloomily he clutches his assignment in hand and moves an inch forward in the queue. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach that he would require a hell more than just two dozens friends for this.

*** End ***

"I'll be alright, as long as it matters." - Gin Blossoms

"When your mind is a mess

So is mine, I cant sleep 

Cause it hurts when I think

My thoughts aren't at peace

With the plans that we make

Chances we take, they're

Not yours and not mine

There's waves that can break

All the words that we say

And the words that we mean

Words can fall short

Can't see the unseen

Cause the world is awake

For somebody's sake now, please close your eyes woman

Please get some sleep

And know that if I knew

All of the answers I would

Not hold them from you'd

Know all the things that i'd know

We told each other, there is no other way

Well too much silence can be misleading,

You're drifting I can hear it in the way that your breathing

We don't really need to find reason

Cause out the same door that it came well its leaving its leaving

Leaving like a day that's done and part of a season

Resolve is just a concept that's as dead as the leaves

But at least we can sleep, its all that we need

When we wake we will find,

Our minds will be free to go to sleep."

THIS.

"The idea that any two people together could spend an entire lifetime of being “happily ever after,” never once asking themselves serious, uncomfortable questions or taking some time in their respective corners to breathe, seems more terrifying to me than the idea of a stormy relationship that doesn’t work out."


"..Who knows how many people we’ve thrown away for relatively minor offenses, the lists we’ve crafted which could fill libraries of all the qualities we won’t compromise on, all in that promise we’ve been told all our lives that “we shouldn’t settle.” Perhaps “settling” in some way is an essential part of falling in love — as that person equally “settles” for you, knowing that no one is perfect but that this particular person is someone for whom you want to try to be better."



Somewhere, 90% of female population feel like they've been slapped in the face. 

this one goes out to you.

This one goes out to the countless times people are shaking their head in disbelief when it comes to our thirteen years of friendship. For the countless laughter we shared in your house, the mindless conversations that run from lunchtime to the middle of the night, from the serious talks to the ones we could never remember five minutes after, thanks to the hyena-like laughter that follows once we realize how random and ridiculous it all was. For understanding each other's jokes, which are sometimes out of this world. For our countless share of Soho sandwiches and milk teas. For our family vacations and afternoon strolls eating Wafflestops and dipping our feet into the hotel swimming pool at night talking about college like a couple of smartasses, as if we'd had any clue.

This one goes out to the many times I sneaked to your house to grab my  favorite drink--which is always in stock in your fridge--even when you were not around. To the countless times you bullied me to no end, to the many pranks and surprises you pulled tirelessly (the one on my 17th birthday party being the best; but let's not go there now.) to the fact that my 'explosive', expressive personality clashes terribly with your reserved, insensitive one.

This post is for you. For being the only person in the whole freaking universe who said: ''Oh. Terus?" when I, dramatically (as you may say), stressed the importance of my lung illness to you the other day. For continuing to shop casually at the flea market as if nothing happened when I practically yelled at the top of my lungs in pain because I just ate something ridiculously spicy with my hand then scratched my eyes with it. For practically rolling your eyes every time I came to you with the same dilemma, the same confusion, for dismissing my dramatic flair in life with your sarcastic wit. For staring back at me with that dead, expression-less face when I giddily told you about my latest crush and every detail about our date I could possibly blurt out and then cutting me off mid-sentence saying, "Yeah....he's a jerk, you just don't know it yet." For that unforgettable moment when I screamed, scared shitless because you just managed to bully me into getting into a full-loop roller coaster that you know terrifies me to death and there was nothing I could do about it asIwasalreadytrappedunderthebelt.

This  is for our fights. For yelling at you for your stupidity for not listening to me and for being such a protective friend that I went over the line. For the year we drifted apart. For our misunderstandings, our selfishness, our ego (thank God you broke up with that one, so technically I WIN.) ( Not that anyone's counting. Anyways). This post goes out to you and your astounding ability to mentally slap me in the face whenever I wasn't thinking clear. To deliver harsh advises, uncensored, as an effort to knock some sense into my head when I lived in denial. For never thinking twice to say what's on your mind, with no sugarcoating whatsoever, which makes you stand out from any other person I know. For just sitting there  offering your shoulders and arms when I exploded in tears during my breakups, my battles, my lowest points....and  for never, not even once, saying 'I told you so' despite the many times the term perfectly fits.

You're living a million miles away from where I am right now, working your ass off to reach your ultimate dream, which I'm insanely proud of and I will never be tired in reminding you of. Here's to more uncontrollable laughter, public embarrassment, pleasant surprises, heart-to-heart talks in your room, the infamous iPod shuffle game that you came up with to lift my ugly moods. Here's to that day, thirteen years ago, when I approached you like a clueless, happy-go-lucky elementary school kid tapping your shoulder, ready to make a new friend, and with a huge friendly grin on my face, said, "Hi! My name is xxx. I think your brother is best friends with my sister! What's your name??" And all you did was stare back at me with that trademark expressionless face, turned, and walked away.

The only wish from me would be for you to stay exactly the way you are. As my best guy friend in the whole world with freakishly absurd, creative brain and unpredictable word vomit who always supports me in whatever I do and whom I admire for never giving a fck about what other people say. I wish you an unlimited, uncomplicated happiness, and may you finally meet that one person who deserves to see the real you and your awesomeness. Here's to more insane stories I'll hear from Paris, to more twisted tales of our love lives, to whatever's next, to being on our way to reach our dream goals. Here's to more unexpected roller coaster rides I look forward to share with you.

This one goes out to you, for knowing myself better than I do.

Happy 25th Birthday, Kae.

Love,
me

p.s: I'll get you back one day, for all those pranks and surprises. I swear.  

"we've got tonight."

I am no good with happiness.


It's something you fumble with, like a slick ball you're trying to juggle in your hand but keeps trying to slide. Like something you try to hold on to with both hands instead of one; like a thin rope you try to walk on with your arms outstretched as to not to fall down the cliff. Over the years you've learned over and over again how to keep this balance so you'll know what to expect at the end of the road.You learned about it so much that you're getting exceptionally good at mastering to disguise the word in your head.


This word, this nine-letter word that everyone has different definitions of, is becoming somewhat dangerous to your well-being. It lurks in the corner, hides under the bed, waits outside your room in the dark. Out of nowhere it would sneak up on you, out in full force and knocking all senses out of your system, lowering and eventually demolishing anything that used to stand between perfect happiness and common sense--including pride.  And I'm not talking about simple happiness e.g. seeing your best friend or getting your hands on that Ben & Jerry's pint or buying Neil Gaiman's latest book or watching a teen flick on a lazy Sunday.  I'm talking about a hurricane, a monster storm of explosive rush of feelings so pleasant and shocking it's ridiculous. The force is so powerful and magnetic that it leaves you breathless yearning for more. It peels off the most inner layers of you one by one, undressing it very slowly and subtly to the point where you didn't even know existed. Happiness can make you do things you never thought you'd do or deliver words you thought you'd never say.  Because deep down, deep down you know just how quick it is for you to just let yourself go; to go from the phase of exchanging glances and conversations, to insisting ignorance, and how you start curling up a smile which turns to a grin and eventually a laughter; the flutter in your chest and the tingles in your spine; the crazy anticipation and the scary, nerve-wrecking realization that you need to admit how unsuccessful you've been in kicking that person out of your mind.


That's how cruel happiness can be.


It's not that you don't believe in this word; in all of your 25 years of living, you're lucky enough to have experienced a few full-blown happiness from time to time. You do believe it with all your heart and you have faith that it will happen to you again one day; you just realize you need to start to choose it wisely. Permitting yourself for happiness to a certain limit. After the heart realizes what it's done, then the head follows suit, making you panic and torn between taking a million steps backward or finally lifting your chin up and walking forward. 


As a result, you're back to phase one; to try to curl up that smile; to cut off your laughter short; to calm the flutter of expectation in your chest; to avert your gaze from the person when you realize just how content you feel just by being in their presence. Literally biting your lip so whatever rush of words that's coming up next won't ruin anything. And you just keep on thinking; word vomit rolling around in your brain, thinking just how much you dislike happiness for making you hold on to a certain thought; how it digs the deepest layer in you and stir something inside you awake; how smiling and laughing freely makes you scared shitless; how you wish there aren't so many factors affecting your mood; how relieved you feel when you've crossed that thin rope with both arms outstretched in perfect balance despite the many voices, the many opinions shouting to your ear left and right that can easily change your perception. 


But most of all, most of all, you can't help wondering how all of this, however bothering and toxic and cruel and dangerous it may be, has actually made you sit down for the past half an hour to dedicate an entire blog post just to rant on and on and on about how you've been trying to avoid the nine-letter word....and failing miserably. 

"Can I please see the one in the corner?"

The door jingles cheerfully as she bounces into the shop, all decked out in her Saturday morning outfit. Wherever she turns, the clerks and salespeople greet her warmly by name.

 "How are you?!"
 "Isn't that the most darling dress I have ever seen!"
"Oh, look how you've grown; you look lovely as ever!"

 She laughs and twirls her new dress as the shopkeepers gasp and clap. She has been going to this desserts shoppe for years and years, she couldn't remember not going there on a Saturday morning. She loves the rush of the shoppe opening, the calm buzz of early customers seeking sweet indulgence, but most of all, the smell of burnt sugar and roasted vanilla and warm chocolate buns just fresh out of the oven.

 She never remembers the name of each shopkeeper who practically raised her here; she just made up names for them in her mind. Like Mr Overalls over there, a nice young fella who always tips his denim cap in a funny salute when he greets newcomers. Or Ms Lollipops and Mr Gums, who always flirt with each other when they think the Boss is not looking. Or Mrs Apron, the big old lady who roars when she laughs and always smells of cinnamon everytime she gets out of the kitchen back there. "Oh darling, always a pleasure to see you here! What can I get you? Cinnamon buns? Chocolate-filled croissants?" she bends down to the girl, who shakes her head shyly and curling up a smile, her hands behind her back. She rocks back and forth on her soles, enjoying the familiar rush of excitement and giddiness in her most favorite shoppe in the world with her most favorite people.

 "Don't scare her, Apron. The girl already knows what she wants."

The old, raspy, familiar voice startled the girl and she squeals happily when she locates the source. Mr Mustache! She runs towards him and falls into his Santa-like bear hug. He smells like sugar and cigar and mint all mixed together and she smiles broadly. Her favorite candy maker! Mr Mustache is the ultimate Boss and he's owned the shoppe since he was a little boy, working side by side with his father. "Now, princess. What can I get for you?" he picks her up and sits her down on the wooden counter. "Or is it such a shame that I need to ask?" the man smiles warmly, knowing that the girl always, always, always orders the same thing: white chocolate crepes with custard filling.

 She grins, kicking her feet in the air in excitement, already tasting the half-burnt crepes and the thick cream in her mouth. Her stomach grumbles unashamedly. "Can you sit down here for a couple of minutes while I take care of my customers?" Mr Mustache asks, and hands her a pen and a blank sheet of paper for her drawing while she kills time. "I'll be back; and no cheating. I know exactly how many candies I have in that jar so watch it," he winks, then hobbles over to the cashier.

The girl pushes the drawing sheet away instead and stares at the selection of chocolates in the wooden helves behind the cashier. One, two, three...even with her eyes shut, she knows exactly how many shelves are there and how many chocolates are stacked in each shelf. She opens her eyes and smiles. Her calculations never miss. She knows this place all too well and always knows what she wants without looking left and right. There it is, her ultimate target, a box of white chocolate sitting prettily which Mr Mustache will pour into her order soon. She glances around, humming tunelessly, until something steals her attention in the corner. Her smile slowly leaves her face, and she titles her head to one side.

What is it about this box?

 She gets off the corner and approaches the corner shelf. A blue, classic box of chocolate is sitting there, alone. She picks it up and runs her finger around the hard edges. How come she never saw this one before? The box doesn't have any title or engraving in it. It's just...there.

"That's dark chocolate. You will never, ever like the taste of it in a million years."

She turns, startled.

Mr Mustache is smiling down at her, eyebrows knitted questioningly, "Come on, come back to the counter." "Why is it sitting alone?" she asks slowly. Mr Mustache looks thoughtful. "It doesn't really match with the rest of the boxes in the shelf, don't you think? I put it there because customers are all oohing and aahing over its packaging. I love the blue color myself. But no one has actually purchased it; so it's just sitting there waiting to be made into drinks, cookies, cakes, or just, you know, plain dark chocolate."

 "What is dark chocolate?" The term sounds strange in her ears.

"It's an original cocoa. It tastes bitter and doesn't have an inch of sugar inside. You know, dark chocolate." Mr Mustache explains. "But I'm not surprised you've never learned of the word before," he chuckles.

 "Oh. Seems like it doesn't fit into my sugary world," she smiles, ready to put the classic blue box back onto the shelf.

"Anyways, it doesn't matter. Come on, I have your white chocolate crepes ready. This time, I told Apron to add more caramel swirls inside, just the way you like it," he winks. She follows him back to the countertop. "Voila! One white-chocolate crepe to go," Mr Mustache hands her a takeaway box with a pretty ribbon on top. She looks at it, and she can already picture what's inside. Yes, it's mouth-wateringly delicious. The crepe will definitely leave a sweet aftertaste in her mouth. She knows how happy she'll feel when she takes that first bite. It feels..predictable. Safe.

 She turns around to glance back at the box. It glistens under the morning sunlight. The color does look good and attracts customers to talk about it, but she isn't interested in the packaging. She wants to look what's inside. How many are they and what do they look like? Where did it come from? What is it about the box that intrigues her so much?

"Actually.." she hesitates. "I don't feel like eating the vanilla crepes today."

 It was as if the music stops playing and the earth freezes and somewhere in the kitchen, Mrs Apron gasps. Mr Mustache frowns, "Are you feeling okay, dear? Is it my sauce? Is the crepe not burnt enough around the edges; because we can..." he follows her trail of gaze and knits his eyebrows questioningly. "Would you like the blue box instead, dear?"

 "No!" she shakes her head, a little too quickly. Not yet, not now. The idea of this strange, new item coming out of nowhere and breaking all her habits is still foreign to her. But it does radiate something else that she's sure not familiar about.

Mr Mustache smiles at her confusion and hands her the takeaway box. "Tell you what. Keep this anyway; it's on the house. And you're free to come back at anytime. Sounds good?" She nods, almost imperceptibly. Mr Mustache smiles as he walks her to the front door. "I have to say; I never thought in a million years you'd be interested in that dark chocolate. Or that I would live to see the day you say no to our world-famous white chocolate crepe."

 "That makes two of us," she mumbles, still dazed. "Sorry for the troubles, Mr Mustache. It's not like I don't like your cooking--that would be crazy."

 "Don't sweat it," he stops to plant a kiss on top of her head. "You just never meet something like that in your life before, so you're not familiar with it."

 The girl stops walking and looks at him.

 "Get home safe, and I'll see you soon!" Mr Mustache waves and waits until she disappears in the corner. She continues walking to the bus stop, her mind reeling. A wave of nausea and excitement flew through her veins. And she tells herself it's all because of the sunny, bright morning instead of an all-too-familiar feeling in her stomach that scares the living hell out of her.