1. 10
    Jun

    "Find a truly original idea. It is the only way I will ever distinguish myself. It is the only way I will ever matter."

    - John Forbes Nash Jr., A Beautiful Mind.
  2. 10
    Jun

    The Best Night of My Life.

    Just me and you tonight

    Just let it be

    Me

    and You

    Tonight.

  3. 1
    10
    Jun

    Crazy author.

    Writers with mental problems get so much sparks to write. Makes you wonder if you really want to stop being so crazy or sad because you love productivity. You’re mad and sad but you love productivity so you carry on with the ridiculous and malevolent life. Until you sink into a deafening pit and you realise that no amount of words or work is enough to make your pain worth it.

    It’s almost as if we were forced to choose: happiness or writing?

  4. 10
    Jun

    Tonight.

    Writers and thinkers of the world unite. Tonight, we solve half the mysteries of the world.

  5. 10
    Jun

    No, wait.

    Please read it. 

    I just need someone to truly listen. 

  6. 10
    Jun

    I want a typewriter. This post was impromptu. It’s messy as fuck. Don’t read it unless you don’t mind wordy spam.

    Sometimes I think it’d be fun to just be that depressed girl, wretched by her own destiny, and wedged deep in it by her self-pity and toxic cyclic fall backs, who could produce amazing works, all her inspiration derived from her sadness. 

    I’d be the little writer who’d lock myself up in my room, the only place I’d feel safe and calm in, munch on little crumbly cookies and drinking lukewarm creamy milk, typing away on my typewriter painted black with acrylic paint. The kind where you can still see huge lines and droplets of loose paint appearing on the finished, dried work. The huge lines remind me of what I used to see on my wrist. What I once did to my palm, except smaller, but still deeper, and it wouldn’t heal for days and I was so scared I was sure I’d get an infection and die and it still wouldn’t heal because I didn’t get stitches. 

    I’d blot my oily fingers soiled by potato crisps on wet wipes and continue typing away.

    Why don’t they sell typewriters like they do with laptops? Those things may not have access to the entire world but they have limitless access to the human mind. Sometimes I think typewriters are the only things that understood the mind and heart of a writer. The emotional strain and turmoil and conflict I used to go through everyday, and would still have to bear with every now and then. The fear to wake up in the morning knowing that despite the fact that I’d get to work with my charming typewriter again, I’d also have to face the world. And I hated the world. I hated the people. I hated their hypocrisy. I hated their deceit. I hated those who took advantage of others. I hated the people who made fun of me and made me feel like a fucking retard, like an ugly piece of shit, worthless, mindless, heartless, brainless, talentless, unworthy of love and sympathy and a listening ear. Hated those who were happy. Hated those who were sad. Hated those who had a family. And those who were alone. I hated humanity because they were just a bunch of fucking robots without any humanity left in them. I hated everyone.

    I hated everyone.

    I hated all of them.


    I didn’t want to wake up. I go to bed every night and I prayed. I prayed and I bargained. 

    Give me salvation, end all my pain, or take my life away. Stop leaving me here dangling from a thread. I hate this fucking life. I want out. I hate everyone. All these people. Your creations are fucking cunts. Get me out!


    Every morning, 5.45am, I wake up again, disappointed. Oh, I am disappointed again.

    One time I was returning home. I stared down at the man-made grass patches and car park from the stairs of the eleventh floor. I thought about what it’d be like to jump. I hated everyone. Why was everyone so mean to me? I didn’t do anything to them. I was a good friend to them and I fought for them when they needed a stronger friend to be beside them but no one ever fought for me.

    Why was I always left alone?


    I wanted to jump. I imagined myself coursing through eleven levels worth of air. All that cumulated air resistance, I wondered which level I’d be swooping by when the velocity of my frail falling body would match the air resistance, the meek attempt of God trying to pull my body away from concrete death and into the heavens of my apartment. He didn’t realise that concrete death was my heaven, and that apartment was filled with nothing but love and lies and attention for the few deemed more special and in need of them. I cried every time storms flooded my apartment. I sat on the bus and went round after round on it just to avoid having to go home the afternoon after a night of thunders. That was no home. I was so afraid. No one was ever there for me.

    So yes, I want a typewriter. Because a typewriter will see things from my perspective.

  7. 147189
    9
    Jun

    (Source: detention, via detention)

  8. 1
    9
    Jun

    I knock on the trap door from below.

    Hello?

    Can anyone hear me?

    Help

    I need help here.

    Anyone?

    Can anyone see the door? Anybody? 

    Help.

    I’m not alright!

  9. 2
    9
    Jun

    I’m crazy. I’m sorry.

    I feel submerged.

    I am going down in a sea. The waves are choppy. They are so strong. I just… I just can’t…

    Can’t fight them away… Too strong… Those little droplets of water all surrounding me, moulding a fluid jail and I’m all caught up in it.

    Those droplets change form. They change. 

    They are people.

    I listen and listen. Then she stops suddenly. It was a cue that it was my turn to speak. I start. I get cut off. I listen and listen. Then she stops suddenly. It was a cue that it was my turn to speak. I start. I get cut off. I listen and listen. Then she stops. It was a cue that it was my turn to speak. I start.

    I start.

    To realise.

    It was never my turn to speak.

    It was my role to fill up the gaps in which she couldn’t find words for. I was her wordy substitute. Her message is what’s important. Not mine. Even when she sounds incredibly fucked up. Her fucked up messages are what’s important. Not mine.

    are you even listening to me?


    Yes. Yes I always do. I always do.

    No you’re not! Why do you do this to me!? Why does… why does everybody keep doing this to me?


    Words come spluttering out again. Words I do not recognise nor understand because they make no sense. We are united by a common language, yet painfully divided by different minds.

    I felt suffocated. I paint the walls plum. Light, baby plum. They make the space look bigger. 

    No, they don’t. It just keeps looking smaller and smaller. I feel so cramped. 


    But the room is empty. The room is big.

    No. There’s just too many things. There’s just too many things around here!


    Where? I don’t see it! I don’t get it!

    It’s everywhere. It’s everywhere! Oh GOD why can’t you see it? Why can’t you see that everything, EVERYTHING is just SO WRONG!?


    We sit side by side and we talk about the sun and the sky. You tell me you like it bright blue. I smile to myself because you told me you liked it dark blue the other day. I told you I liked it cobalt. I told you it wouldn’t be that bad if it were red and purple-tinted clouded flashed across it. You start telling me about how the purple tint was created. I don’t give a fuck but you do. I listen.

    La tristesse durera toujours. Van Gogh, you sad, sad man. But you were right. You were sad, but you were right.

    I blow my nose into a tissue. It was soiled with all my tears. I made a pact.


    You made a pact? With who?

    An old friend. I told her I’d never come running back to her after I realised that I could change the colour of skies for people around me.


    Why not go back?

    I’d die.

    She’d kill you?

    No.

    She will make me kill myself.


    Change it dark blue.

    Okay. Done.

    I wipe the trickle of blood on my nose. 

    Change it sky blue. 

    Okay. Done.

    I wipe the trickle of blood on my nose.

    Change it dark blue.

    Someone shouted, change it purple.

    Another, could you make it red later?

    Okay. Done.

    My nose was dripping crimson. Never mind. I’m doing something good.

    Maybe someday they’ll do something good for me too, when I need it.

    What? Someone shouted. How could you say that? 

    Was I wrong to say that? 

    I smile. She’s so fucked up. So terribly insane and sad and just… she was a load a trouble. But it was okay. Because he saw it through and he was okay with it. He saw her skies, and he saw her plum-walled, cluttered room, and he saw her when she was screaming, and he chased when she was running. Running away.

    I smile. La tristesse durera toujours. That isn’t real life.


    She gets up and walks away. She needs her room to think. I’m not allowed to do that when I need to think, but she needs her room more to think. I think.

    Okay. Let’s have that.

    She gets frustrated. What’s going on? 

    I’m perfect, aren’t I? I’m perfect, but no one sees it. Everyone just wants to change me.

    Yes, you are. You are perfect. You are so amazing. You make me so happy. So happy. But you don’t see it. Don’t see your imperfections. You look into a mirror, and you see yourself. But you don’t see the things around you. You only see yourself. It’s always been about you. God. Why can’t you see how sad I am? How sad you make me sometimes? I feel like I’m just burying away all the sadness with the facade of happiness and when things happen there they are again. It’s not… I can’t live like that!

    I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so fucked up. I didn’t want to be fucked up, but I’m so fucked up oh God. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard but you’re not helping me. I’m trying not to be so insecure, but you’re not helping. 

    I’m

    I’m slipping down on aisle 34, and no one sees. There’s a stampede coming. I can’t get up. I scream for you. You scan me, and you say I’m fine. You say I’m good to get my ass off and go. But I can’t. I really can’t. God help me, I really can’t, why can’t you see? I’m not okay. Why can’t you see? Why won’t you listen? Why won’t anyone listen?

    Why should I change myself when you’re not willing to compromise?

    Why doesn’t anyone, anybody, listen?


    I didn’t realise the plum-coloured wall was this hard. My knuckle cracked.

  10. 432764
    12
    May

    (Source: caattnip, via screams)

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A pen name doesn't restrict me like an Asian name does. Or so I like to think.
Words are like notes scrawled across staffs.
I hope you can hear what mine are singing


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