Sunday, November 29, 2015


It was late, I was tired but sleep has been eluding me so I sat at the piano and played my favourite pieces all slow and gentle-like. Moonlight Sonata, Fur Elise, and Oasis's Wonderwall. I played to the best of my ability, it has been too long since I touched the black and ivory keys, too long since I needed the piano to soothe my soul because writing. . . seemed like an impossible feat sometimes. Words like whirlwinds in my mind, I couldn't put them into coherent sentences, not just yet.

A stray thought flitted through my mind; I used to call M. on her mobile, knowing it will go to voice mail, I would play the piano for her to listen later. I remember M. liked Rachmaninoff's Scheherezade, the simple version of it that I could play anyway. We were 16, she was in boarding school and I missed her everyday.

I thumbed the spine of L. (M.'s 'wild-dog' literary friend) wedding gift for M. which he had ask me to later pass to M; Tennyson to Whitman. Volume III of Harvard's Classics' English Poetry. It's such a lovely book, leather bound, the pages gilded with gold, and it's not a crisp new copy at all. It has the softened feel of an aged copy.

I idly leafed through the volume until something catches my eye;

                  The Last Wish

Since all that I can ever do for thee 
Is to do nothing, this my prayer must be:
That thou mayst never guess nor ever see
The all-endured this nothing-done costs me.

Monday, November 23, 2015


I will miss this freedom; your singularity,
your black banner, your elusive mystery.
I will miss dreaming of you in red,
of you as an inviolable image,
                 my ever-flower.

I will stand in this metaphorical field,
      where the Poet waits for the Beloved.
I will gaze at you, my Star as I always have and I will be here,
     at the meeting of our minds;
this field of prose and poetry,
where you are at once mine and never mine.

Lawless one, darling mine,
none shall pluck you from my heart.

Let the night sky be my witness, let it
speak for me in its ageless voice;
       This one is a bystander
       this one waits
              for its other.

Friday, November 20, 2015

Dear M.

14th November 2015

     It's midday, I'm sitting on my front porch listening to Bowie's Space Oddity (I'm also wearing my $5 astronaut nat  geo shirt) as I contemplate the idea of enjoying 'moments' without thinking of what the future might bring. Simple pleasures like writing, tea, reading etc. They're only fun / pleasant when one has the luxury of being idle and carefree.

     I watched a video on YT last night, of a 17 year old boy who is dying of cancer; he was giving a speech to his peers about 'Life'. He said people should strive for short-term goals rather than long-term ones. He used the term 'micro-ambitious'. To be passionate with what is in front of us rather than squander it and waste energy and time in dreamings. It's quite a viewpoint, I think. Makes me think about my current life / work, how I probably should do more studying in order to become a better asset to the hospital. I don't know... I can't seem to put my heart in it... on this score, I believe you do understand me.

     I've been thinking about A. How does one brave a world without parents? It sounds nigh impossible. I know her Mother is still around but still.
     I haven't much else to say really.

     I've just spent an entire hour scooping my guppies out from the water plant flower pot and put some of them into the stone basin thing (part of the koi pond water feature). One of them died in the process. Fell onto the floor and I watched it drown. I couldn't make myself touch its wriggling body. Cowardice. I'm sorry, fish. My heart practically raced when they bump around in the round plastic container I used to scoop them out of the water. Was so worried more will fall onto the floor...
    That aside I then proceeded with watering the potted plants Mother bought when she went to that gardening class a couple of months ago. We have kangkung, daun sup, daun bawang, kunyit, and a couple more I can't name.

     I enjoy this very much. Water, Sun and Living Things. Maybe I should just work at a plant / flower nursery when I'm done with my two year (minimum) stint in the health ministry. Maybe with a pharmacy license I could just locum a few days a week and make just enough money to get by. I don't know. Do you think it has to do with us being millenials that we're so... reluctant to make a living via conventional ways. Perhpas I'm just used to being a bourgeoisie ... too pampered by my parents' well-to-do-ness that I fail to understand what is required to attain comforts and pleasures in life.

     A pension. Working in the government will acquire one a pension. 60 years of one's life for what? For 10 years of so called 'relaxation'? Our parents basically worked hard so that they could provide for us. Now look at me... ungrateful sloth.

     Seeking to coast by and indulge in idleness. What is to become of me. There is one thing that I do enjoy doing at work though (sorry for going off on a tangent), helping people out of my own volition, moments at the hospital when I suddenly find myself facing a stranger in need; a Mother trying lift her pushchair onto the sidewalk, a nurse whom had accidentally turn medicine cart over, a patient looking for directions, a friend who is having trouble doing her work etc. That, I enjoy. I do understand that what I do on a daily basis is basically 'service'. I know. I help people with their meds. "It is a noble job," I've been advised. I know. I just... am not interested in being overworked for an all too practical sense of 'nobility'. You know what... maybe the hospital is too far is all. Maybe I'm just tired from driving inter-state twice a day is all.

     Enough already.
     Til another time, M.

Ever yours,

p.s. I've been trying to get some roses sent to you all morning. I'm not sure if the florist is getting my message.


Note: Letter I wrote M. which I can't hand to her because she's in Kelantan til Sunday. M., if you're reading this, it's very much in the vein of our recent phone call isn't it.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

Tuesday, November 17, 2015


   Roses I sent to M. last night.

Dear M. 

        As written in the note, "For what ails you." We'll brave the world, love. As always.

Ever yours,


It was Sunday, I made my way from the parking lot to the hospital at a brisk clip, hoping to arrive on time, neither early not tardy. As I walked, a very old friend greeted me; the wind.

My pace faltered when I felt my friend greeting me softly. My eyes stung and I very nearly started crying. All those moments spent walking aimlessly alone back in Melbourne, they come to me within the space of a heartbeat.

Melbourne is a lifetime ago. So I walked on and banished the sweet sadness. 

Tuesday, November 10, 2015


It is okay to break.

Just remember that sometimes the one who beats you down is you, sometimes your worst enemy is you.

Fight. Back.