Agfa 400 (Singapore 2015) How often do we inflict emotional violence on each other without realising it? A cutting remark. A careless comment. Another curt response. It may not stem from the design to hurt, but each chips away at the receiver when it’s directed with intent. Something is taken away from them, unwillingly. Bit by bit, little acts of cruelty, sculpting a valley of hollow. Empathy led astray without mindfulness, gouging self-esteem in its rage. Advertisements
we were learning fisherman’s knots before we spoke. after we met. they weren’t the simplest to master, and we thought it’ll be a difficulty best embarked on our own. we have to learn that the knots use two free lines but alas! we have both knotted ones. (oh but what are these knots that formed on their own)
Sundays are essentially not much different from Saturdays―time flows at the same speed. An alarm set so luxuriously late I awake multiple times before it goes off. The remnants of last night lingers: books on the bedframe, thoughts in the playing shadows above, dreams dancing in an elusive blanket I can’t hold. Your absence in the way I fall asleep, diagonal between strewn pillows to fill space. I stay here for a while. The pillows no longer have your smell. I know that no matter where I reach out to, I won’t find the warmth softness of human skin. I remember with acrid lucidity scenes playing like a badly taped film reel, the reality only in my head. Here, it’s just me and the bed in a void of sound, encased somewhere within the outside world. Patience. My senses are learning how to deal with ghosts. But there are new things to remember.
Feelings take on such a different shape a decade on. They often come in layered complexity now; in a tenuous indecision that lingers. I remember rolling in bed during a particular break week in secondary school , frustrated at not being allowed out, which in my opinion was a bloody waste of holidays. Cooped up at home when everyone was out! I indulged in this emotion for probably about 10-15 minutes; a conscious moment of indulgent mourning and almost-boredom before I toddled off to nose myself in a book. That was a scene I remember vividly, one intense but fleeting. Emotions were straightforward. Everything was linear and simple; conversations naturally desired writing, and writing to sharing and conversation. Nowadays, conversations―or rather, liaising―exhaust and drain, leaving me empty and searching for something to refuel.
Beijing, 2013 (Agfa 400) I wanted to be a tree, but standing still didn’t work because I am human. Now, I breathe to feel like air. I swim to feel like water. I dance to feel like music. I am still to feel like silence. I photograph to feel like vision. I drink to feel like night. I run to feel like flying. One day, I hope to be able to have words flow through me as it did. I write to feel. I write to be alive. I write to be.
Singapore, 2012 (Agfa 400) Saturdays start with the fading buzz of half a bottle of wine into the deep quiet of the night, with the knowledge borne from conviction and belief that you will get a good well-deserved long sleep, and naturally you wake too early. You head for a pee to reason this awakening, silence your mind petulantly and dive firmly back to bed, and perhaps that is why in your dreams, you are with your loved ones, admiring the attic that will (finally) be your room, but suddenly, they are buried under collapsed rafters. Still, you emerge with the drowsy pride of sleeping past 8 hours, even (oh the audacity!) dozing for a while more. This time, your body seem to have gotten the message, and for the next hour or so, the …