456: Wander (SOC)

456: Wander (SOC)

A human. Many humans. Earphones in. Tonight I feel like an album made for slow dancing, and honestly, I don’t normally listen to this album unless I’m alone or feeling the need for alone time. I sit in this once brimming mall area, watching the deciduous leaves of thin branches sway with the persuasion of the evening zephyr. I watch the rotating white mannequins, donned in the latest trends, and in watching them, I think of my not so recent ex, whom I broke up with some odd eight or so months ago. His habitual expenditures, expensively cheap tastes and insatiable impulsiveness when it came to bargains or sales. He probably still checks OzBargains daily like clockwork. I think of him, and I miss him, all his flaws, our memories together, the good and the bad. Now it feels good to not have to answer to anybody, to spend more time with friends old and new, to think for myself only. Yet there is still a lingering feeling of emptiness, like I want more of something that has only been present in my life for less than a year.

Being in love. Really in love, having fallen so deeply in love that it becomes a trap, your trap. He is the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last thing before you go to sleep. You think of him even more, having ran into him unknowingly a few days ago. His face, all the same. He doesn’t seem to have grown in height. His eyes looking at anything but not you, but cleverly focused away, as if he had not seen you before you saw him. You think of the boy who acknowledged you through a simple nod that late November, early December – for the life of you, you cannot remember; perhaps you have blocked the memory – before he returned your diaries, perhaps never opened to be read. After all, the day you gave them to him, the day you gave him a little part of the younger you, he concealed them behind an unused shelf. Or so the story goes in your mind. His face, his eyes, his smile. He really was the whole deal and it was your fault that it ended. Or perhaps neither party was at fault, but you still feel responsible. An aftermath, the lingering memory cells that remind you of once overthinking and manipulating so many scenarios in your head that it overwhelmed you. Your grasp on the relationship, the memories start to fade the more you try to hold on them, and the songs change. Now you remember yourself in the throes of depression, clinging onto a crumbling illusion in which you had unsuccessfully, yet emotionally, invested. The slow dances in the dead of night in a low lit kitchen with a lover, they come back to simultaneously kiss and bite you, a painful memory of past nostalgia and unbridled naivety, something you have since desperately tried to rein in as the summer starts to ebb and stagnate. You forget about all the past for maybe a few minutes and your eyes start to wander the streets. How beautiful the lights are, the nightlife…how could you ever turn your back on a city that made you? The corporate offices with their brightly lit cubicles, a world you may never find yourself in. You cast a few looks behind your shoulder, taking careful note of the abandoned bike on the footpath. Its twisted red frame, and you turn your head over some angles to better adjust the image before your eyes. Maybe if one squinted, its outline would represent that of an injured individual curled up in a foetal position, frozen in time. The lost memories and livelihood of this outline shakes you, and you stop looking back towards it. You turn a corner and think to yourself, I have not seen a single drunk person on the streets tonight, yet it is a Friday night. Perhaps you are on the quieter side of the city. You pass a bar playing live jazz or country – the notes confuse and bemuse you – and you observe middle aged men and women clustered together, nursing drinks you most likely have not yet had the privilege of tasting. It is time to refrain from engaging in heavy drinking, staying sober, being the best version of yourself without the haze of alcoholism to guide your loosened tongue and limbs. Today you have discovered the terrifying beauty that is hot coffee, enabling you to run on the odd few hours of sleep for the whole day. It bothers you that you could spend up to thirty dollars a week on coffee, so you make a mental note to convince your dad that now you are an adult and can take on responsibilities, it is only fair that he teach you how to operate a coffee machine. The sea of fatigue and exhaustion seems to set in as you sit on the bus, recording your memories, your feelings. You are so thankful for the privilege of sight, sound, taste, movement, smell.

How empowering it is to be young, but how wasteful it is to enjoy it without the preservation of the moment.




455: It Has Been So Long

455: It Has Been So Long

It has been so long since I wrote something for my blog. It’s almost like I abandoned it. But I have to keep to my quota of at least 5 posts a month. Even more of them next year, but still. So here it is. Even though I am writing on my phone, and not really thinking about what I would normally write if I had been sitting down in a “romantic” place.

The posts become more and more intermittent, and with each new one once in a while, they deteriorate more in quality. I feel sorry for myself that my writing skills may have dulled a little, but my ability to make new memories and preserve them with photos, stories, dreams…they are still as sharp as the first day I set up this blog.

One day I hope to write a book. I am trying to follow the train of thought that came before this, but one day I hope to write a book that is a culmination of my experiences, of the human experience, a celebration of human lives, our lives, all unavoidably intertwined with each other. I want to preserve the experience, the privilege, the power of our five senses that we take for granted everyday (yes, I know we have more than five, but I’ve always written with the main five in mind). I want to preserve every memory, the joy, the happiness, the melancholia, the pain, the phantasmagoric realisation of how simultaneous the presence of mundanity and beauty in our lives is, how gorgeously romantic yet grossly misunderstood and misrepresented our own memories and nostalgia can be to others. I keep speaking of a novel, but how can I be writing a novel if all I do is work in the daytime and party when the sun sets? It is difficult to say. Inspiration comes and goes. Perhaps the most difficult thing to say is that I have, in a way, almost forgotten about my desire to write. I feel the shame in me rise to extraordinary heights, the self-beration, the spiritual self-flagellation, for how could a torn and lost soul misplace the need for preservation, the need to be heard, the need to be read, the need to be beautifully appreciated in an almost bemused yet serene way? Although now that I have finally admitted to myself my wrongdoings both in writing and in thought, I only feel but a lingering residue of remorse. One day they will, no, we will technologically advance to the point that we can have a dictaphone for our thoughts, a private dictaphone for which we can record and play back these endless streams of consciousness, save the potential blockbusters, groundbreaking bestsellers, tap into wells of creativity that have-more often than not- dried up with forgetfulness. One day I’ll be able to stop forgetting my dreams while I’m awake, recall them in perfect clarity rather than reciting summaries of summaries, rather than reducing these cinematic motions to nothing more than a few shaky frames, rather than letting thick cobwebs of fallibility shroud them in forever lost archives in the endless recesses of my mind. One day, one day…I think this, I walk home in the semi-dark, thinking of typing the words as they come to me, instead of waiting for the perfect opportunity to sit down and let the creativity flow, because there is never a perfect opportunity, just as there is never the perfect moment to break up, just as you can never be fully ready for what is to come, but ready enough. Walking, thinking, bus rides, train rides, they will be my “ready enough” times. The next time I unknowingly board a train of thought, I’ll run with it. Up and down the corridors, cross each car, bump into strangers, mutter empty apologies under my breath, chase the words as I think them, as they pop into my brain, as they run away from me as soon as they appear.

Now I listen to the crickets chirp, the breeze blow gently, my slow music, walk slowly home, about two minutes away if I continue at this pace, and I feel this insanely lucid rush of creativity stagnate just a little, a car rushes past, it is the eve of the eve of New Year’s Eve, when I cross the road in about twenty seconds, the magic will be lost, the Fantasia that plays in my ears and my mind, no cars come by now, the street is quiet except for my footfalls and the crickets. Now I am five seconds from home, and the magic dies as I exhale. When I look up from my screen, it’s as if I teleported here, having not caught a bus or train home, or whatever it was. Like I’ve been in a trance, and must return to the obligations that occupy my life when I do not pursue the hedonistic lifestyle…

~ Serendipitous

453: It’s Been a While

453: It’s Been a While

Truthfully, I haven’t found the time to sit down and actually write something. If I briefly pass over the twenty-three odd days that have come and gone since the end of exams, it’s difficult to summarise with anything other than indulging in hedonism, and losing myself in dreams that seem too real, that seem to blur that fine line between reality and the realm of imagination. Coupled with having vivid dreams and excruciatingly clear memories, it does start to be a bit difficult to distinguish between the two. Of course when I’m not outside with friends or just outside in general, I’m probably either sleeping or aimlessly wandering on the Internet. Usually lost in my own thoughts, wondering about other people, the nightlife, my future, other worries, succumbing to the pleasures and pains that life offers me, boring things, silly things, strange things. Unfinished thoughts, sentences, lost thoughts, grappling with figments of imagination, broken fragments of slippery dreams lost in translation because of the miscommunication between the conscious and the subconscious. Engaging with my unconventional dreams of looking like a young and employed writer sitting in a coffee shop or a public dining area, not blending in and just being myself. Something that maybe I have done too much, yet too little of. I wish I had engaged more with my memories on paper. My biggest regret is not recording every single moment of my life, or every single thought, but rather that I neglected to take the time out of my day to preserve the threads of the tapestry my eyes weave before me, the forever moving picture that never really stopped or started; it was just there, I guess, but the longer I leave it to decay in the deep recesses of my mind, the more I forget, muddle up, embellish.

Is that not what they say about nostalgia? Going down memory lane, tripped out because everything is the way you remembered it, but coming back to it now, it kind of feels different, like thin, glossy film veiling your vision, or your memories, or both. Actually it’s difficult to know, but the more you trip, maybe the more you notice the bad things, the little, stealthy motions your original eye missed because you were so blinded by love or your constant pursuit of approval that ends up being a fault. Withdrawing from nostalgia trips are difficult because you don’t know, well, sometimes you don’t know how to feel after it. Renewed, displeased, hopeful, ashamed, wistful? Really, it’s difficult to know. For me, though, nostalgia trips aren’t really what they’re meant to be. For me, it’s a mix of the past and the future, peppered with snippets of the present. I prefer to call it being on artificial psychedelics 24/7. It’s easier that way; it’s easier when I don’t have to distinguish between reality and dreams because I am always dreaming, always living in my own world, controlling what I can or cannot do beyond the confines of the education system. If there ever was a time where I did not shit on how god awful the system was to me, to many of my friends, to many other young and younger strangers, that time is now. I have never been more grateful to possess and continue to develop a love for the English language, literary works of art, an acquired taste for thrilling and moving films.

Speaking of which, I went to see Goodbye Christopher Robin this morning. Such a moving film. Anything that focuses heavily on familial relationships, the desire for approval, love, marginalisation (is ostracisation a word??), those really resonate with me. I cried during the film, towards the end. I guess you could say it elicited a strong emotional response from me if we were still in HSC English. That also reminds me, I should probably get a start on my novel. I found it incredibly challenging (or maybe I was just lazy or preoccupied with other things to write those fifty thousand words). I’m not sure. I came here, to where I used to study often and alone, so that maybe I could write something for my novel, but I only ended up writing my next blog post. Whoops.


~ Serendipitous

I want to write an alcohol ballad, for my blog. It’s been a while since I rhymed words and wrote a poem, but I guess I’ll give it a go when I get home.


440: Ministrations for the Uncaring

440: Ministrations for the Uncaring

A little girl of seven years old, maybe younger, watching from the safety of a large covered recliner, passively distraught by the scene going on in front of her. The shrieking cries for a non-existent saviour, dissonant with the retaliating shouts of unrestrained anger. Then a jump-cut to an older girl, still untainted by the unforgiving realities of the real world. The love for summer still strong, blooming in her heart like secretly woeful roses, revelling in the caresses of the warm breeze. For her in that moment, no kinds of violence existed, no pains of unrequited love, an all-encompassing innocence protecting her with a thin film.

A montage, a flurry of montages, all rolled into one, non-sequentially following the other, disrupting a chronological order that only the most boring, most conforming of sentient machines desired. The past, present and future, indiscernible. Like a photo album arranged haphazardly in no identifiable order, being flipped by the little curious hands of a toddler eagerly raking her eyes over the meaningless images.

So what did it matter to her, having been forced to swallow ugly, irrepressible truths? A mentally weak, physically strong girl such as herself instead decides to parry with tokens of affection, gamble with her future, tinkering with the melodious songs of hearts she had yet to discover and capture. Hardened to the fake ministrations the world attempted to offer her, and only seeking solace in the arms of those in whom she made a heavy emotional, potentially physical investment. She wondered, worried for the future, but despite all this, plunged herself into the unknown, plowing aimlessly, furiously, recklessly.

She woke up in a haze of heady lust, her eyes clouded with the remnants of the sexual dream she secretly wished to be true, her fingers fiddling with the edge of the bed sheet. Most mornings were like this now, if she woke up in time.


~ Serendipitous

I don’t know where I was going with this.

436: Bus Ride Home (Flash Fiction)

436: Bus Ride Home (Flash Fiction) 

The young girl boarded the bus and sat close to the back, holding her dark blue satchel close to her body as slow romantic music played in her ears. It drowned out the sounds of the outside world as she waited for the bus to pull away from the curb. She cast a glance through the rain-soaked window, wondering what kind of dinner would be waiting for her at home. The home she had grown to feel more and more detached from, a home she called a mental prison instead. The mealtimes were all she looked forward to…

As the bus halted at a major stop, she watched as the passengers boarded the bus. An older businessman who looked like he was ready to retire, his wrinkled suit and tired, weathered face a testament to that possible fact. A young Asian couple, groceries in hand, chatting quietly between themselves in a foreign language. A lone student with stained uniform and downcast eyes, lost in his own music just as she was. And many more came, filling the bus to nearly capacity. No one sat next to her.

When the bus pulled away again, she began to watch the old businessman. He had his phone out and was scrolling mindlessly, perhaps on some social media platform she did not care about. His glazed eyes, his partially open mouth, his large, smooth hands, salt and pepper hair, wrinkles lining his face. Entranced by the slow music in her ears, which was now on a loop, she drew her eyes towards the young couple, their groceries sitting at their feet and in their lap. They chatted quietly with that special glimmer in their eyes, the kind only reserved for lovers. A small brew of sadness stirred in her heart as she created a little world for them, a story of tempestuous romance – no, perhaps not. A story of a pair of simple lovers who loved simply. The best kind of story. One that she desired, but could not yet have.

Her attention was brought away from the couple when the bus took a sharp turn, and she gripped the seat in front of her to steady herself. She was approaching her stop. Once the bus halted again, she wrapped her satchel around her body and stepped off gently, inhaling the bitter cold air and rubbing her bare arms instinctively. Dinner was waiting for her at home. The little world of that pair of simple lovers was lost on her as she walked down the long road, feeling cold, lonely, disappointed.


–I guess I call it flash fiction instead of drabble. I’m not sure. Let’s give this kind of thing a go. Wrote this for a small writing competition held on a public Discord server I joined about a week ago, maybe less. Nice community. I hope it gets me writing more, like an escape from my current, shitty predicament.



~ Serendipitous


405: Helplessness

405: Helplessness

There is this lake that I know of. That we know of, actually. Sometimes I visit it alone, sometimes he visits it alone, but over the last few days I’ve accompanied him when he pays a visit. I take a lot of walks, but sometimes I stumble upon the lake when I least expect it. Not today, though. We come to the lake together and I beg him not to go too deep because the last time I did alone, I almost drowned. He barely registers my words as he dives in, still clothed. I don’t have time to strip or hesitate, so I dive into the water, too, and it’s damn cold but so is he, and I feel like today I might lose him forever. I told you I’d love you like I’m going to lose you, but today that’s what it is, that I still love you so ardently but you always want to find out what is at the bottom of the lake, even if it is at the cost of your life.

Honey, you swim so fast that I can barely keep up. My vision was blurry to begin with, but the gap between us widens and soon you are nothing but a blur in what seems to be a far off distance. I know you’re still going down to the bottom, but why? I came with you in the hopes of convincing you that you didn’t need to swim all the way down, that there is nothing down there except death and the bones of those who sought the bottom but received eternal sleep instead. You escape my vision and my swimming speed slows and slows until I feel like the water is overflowing my lungs and the bubbles are filling my sight instead. I grab at my throat begging for the air that will never come. I beg for us. I’m not ready to die. We still had so many days left together.

I don’t want my last memory to be of you abandoning me so you could wallow in your pit of sadness. I feel so helpless, knowing I can’t reach out to you and help you, because you refuse my help, because you don’t know how to fix it, but I’m trying, and you won’t let me.

Honey. You’re not the only one suffering in the lake. We’re both running out of oxygen.


~ Serendipitous

Please. Let me help you.

400: Sylvie

400: Sylvie

Sylvie was asked by her boyfriend of two years to wait for him by the crooked streetlight at the end of the road. He said he’d come pick her up sometime past midnight, that they could run away together and get married so they could build their own lives together rather than under the oppression of society and their families. She agreed and arrived at the streetlight a quarter to midnight.

Holding her briefcase of precious possessions, she couldn’t stop smiling as she thought of the new life they would have together. A small part of her felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with regret and longing as she mulled over the fact that she would be leaving her parents, her younger sister, her governesses and tutors, the nanny who doubled up as a housekeeper…people who had played a significant role in raising her from that tiny tot she had been eighteen years ago. People who had brought her up under a range of disciplines, from strict and unsympathetic to embracing and loving. That was partially the reason for her wild streak and her adeptness. He was in love with her because she was not simple, had ambitions and wanted a life outside the middle class. Of course, running away meant that they would be broke and poor, no longer middle class, but they had convinced themselves that their true happiness lay in each other.

Her timepiece told her now that it was half past midnight. What did sometime past midnight mean? Was he late? Did he get held up by his parents? Sylvie was overcome with worry. She had put down the briefcase and sat on it, making sure her skirt did not make contact with the ground. Where was he? A lump rose in her throat, a lump of nervousness and shame. She placed both of her hands across her stomach. A life within a life. She was worried for the little thing growing inside her as well. What if he never came?

The streetlight flickered overhead as the oil lamp in the glass casing began to burn out slowly. They were supposed to run away together, but his absence made her heart rise and fall in time with her racing thoughts. The baby! She had always wanted to be a mother, but only with him by her side as well. Shame flitted into her thoughts again. The people back at home did not raise her to be like this but even so…

Sylvie missed him. She wanted him to be there with her, but he wasn’t. She didn’t bother looking at her timepiece anymore. Maybe he wasn’t coming. Men, no, boys of eighteen going on nineteen years never kept their promises. This was one of the easiest ways for him to leave her – to make a false promise and then never turn up. Sylvie clutched at her stomach again as the streetlight finally went out, enveloping her in darkness.

Boys who don’t keep their promises will always break the hearts of their girls.


~ Serendipitous

Gah I had a better story planned out but this will have to do

I can’t even use it as a discovery creative damn it!