they call this forever: part 2

I will stand by you, and I will choose to love you. For better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health;
when i wake up next to you and hate the trailing breeze of your morning breath as much as i hate mine; no matter how many times you leave tissue in pockets of the pants you threw in the laundry and the bits get stuck in my washing machine, even if the food you make is salty enough to preserve me perfect in the grave and beyond; even all the petty tiffs and shouting matches doesn’t change the way I love you because honey, i made my vow to you that day and it still stands.
I will stand by you. And I will choose to love you. It’s till death do us part, when your hands are cold no matter how long i hold it, when you no longer make an effort to push back that curly lock of fringe that always falls in your face.
And even that doesn’t mean i’ll stop loving you. “

people love second-hand sales, garage sales. you find unburied treaures everywhere, the pre-loved tea-pots, grandma blouses, perfect blue heirloom china. the old-fashioned things do get our attention, at least mine. those quaint antiques, it gets my attention, all of it.
and naturally, the old-fashioned love, i pay much attention to it.

like my parents.

papa and mama had a videographer for their wedding thank God and i love watching that old cd. and seeing the old photos that records their big(gest) day.
faded mementos of favorite memories.
they celebrated 22 years of marriage last week.
22 years of staying beside each other, caring for each other, and diligently loving each other.
diligent because it is a choice.
diligent because some days, it takes effort to choose to love.
diligent because this choice to love is an everyday thing.
(and too many people are horribly lazy these days)

i used to wonder if i could stand being together with anyone for the rest of my life.
“Love is a choice”, papa wisely told me, “I made a vow and I will keep it. There is no one else and there will be no one else better for me.”
i learn that it’s not being tied down, it’s not being trapped. it’s a free decision.

people call this old-fashioned.

i love the look in mama’s eyes when she talks about the happy yesteryears. I asked her mama why she married papa. She says she married papa because he was spiritually minded and she knew he could lead her spiritually. She had many suitors, but they were not inclined to spiritual things as was papa. and she chose papa, to love another while in the love of God.

people call this old-fashioned.

22 years of being together, sure, there were days of massive volcanic rumblings and days that hail, fire and brimstone threatened to rain. No doubt it was God Who kept them together.
but there were happy days. when their smiles were as bright as when they first linked arms and the whole world cheered for them, when nothing else mattered except having each other.

this ‘old-fashioned’ forever, a God-fashioned forever.

it’s my kind of forever.
& i want this forever.



they call this forever.

“I love you in your good moods, when your laughter sounds like the tinkling wind chimes I got on my 9th birthday. And when your eyes sparkle, i swear they could be more beautiful than the all the star-studded galaxies put together. And I love you, i love you in your bad times, bad mo-/ I’m sorry … I…don’t seem to be able to do that.”

If we could be honest with ourselves like that, maybe then we wouldn’t be the mess we are today, wouldn’t need to break ourselves a thousand times over in this lifetime.  maybe it’ll help, to be honest for once. Because it hurts you, honey, it hurts me. and it hurts more than we care to know.

The first time it feels like stitches, the pain that ferociously assaults your side when you were finely striding along just a second ago.
Then all of a sudden you’re wheezing hard like a strangled beast, gasping for breath, for air, for relief.
it comes in waves, the pain and the relief, the joy and the madness. They alternate its cycles, we could almost figure out their pattern if we tried hard enough. then we could avoid this bitter rollercoaster altogether, could we not?

and love.
you’re hurting. and so am I.

it’s all fading when you begin to count the days and months instead of when you used to call that day the ‘first time we…’.
and you realize it does fade. time always does this trick, he isn’t a nice old man we concoct him to be in our fantasy. no, he doesn’t let you catch your breath. he rushes people right along, whether they like it or not.
and if you’re fortunate enough, he lets you pause just long enough to notice that the leaves have swapped their fashion to match the season.
in just another moment, they fall like awkward oversized confetti in the still air.
and in a time lapse, you see the green veiny thin things spiralling upwards, swept by the winds of change.

they land very unceremoniously, forming crunchy messes in spaces of mindless cement.
one more heap of useless nothings.

so, will we end that way?


sidenote: i haven’t had much writing inspiration lately but tonight all the words fell into place.
also im not in a relationship, thought i’d need to clarify.

“she puts her heart on paper. then the paper turns to gold.”
– joanna tan, 2017.


Leave her alone. 

It’s okay for you to walk with big people steps, but you forget the distance gets too big for the little one to catch up.

Sometimes you all forget she’s the young one, forget that she just started to grow, forget she’s weak. You all are so cruel to forget that you all gone too far ahead for her to catch up, making her trip on your feet when she desperately quickens her pace to keep up, besides tripping on her own.

Please don’t forget she’s the young one. She’s the weak one. She doesn’t want to march in time with your big people steps already because her knees are bleeding.

So leave her alone while you all go play your big people games, talk your big people talk and run your races.

The little one needs to catch her breath.

Oh, I’m sure she’ll get up soon, but this time, she’ll run on her own.

Psalm 103:1-5

Bless the LORD, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name.
Bless the LORD, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits:
Who forgiveth all thine iniquities; who healeth all thy diseases;
Who redeemeth thy life from destruction; who crowneth thee with lovingkindess and tender mercies;
Who satisfieth thy mouth with good things; so that thy youth is renewed like the eagle’s.


All His benefits to me, and dare i complain?

oceans of me

They take a fiendish delight in breaking broken hearts.

I come to write here just so I don’t lose myself, it’s a physically stabilising factor for me.

I like to think I’m an ocean;
Something too deep to know itself fully.
Something full of undiscovered life and deadness.
Something that heals others while being destroyed, yet still lives on gracefully.
Something that maybe no one actually really needs;

who in respectful, lonely silence, observes from afar the glorious moments of others, such as of a human on his knees before the woman who holds his heart, and not only happy moments, but also willingly take in the sight and sounds of a body, broken, full of tears, coming to her bosom to weep;
who is tasked to carry the darkest secrets of others, innumerable, safely buried forever, deep in her black heart;
who is full of roaring energy, alternating her ebbs and flows, between bursting with childish passion, crashing the best of her against lifeless nothings and a gentle demure demeanour, tamed and reflecting nothing of herself, only the majesty of the sun’s rays at daybreak, just because she hopes, she breathes, she lives;

who in fury, is only allowed to tremble beneath the surface, bearing all the emotions that others lacked, not born with it.
and no one ever sees, or think it matters, when her heart splits open in an inability to hold in her agony.

they say, she’ll get over it.

after all, she’s just an ocean.

I’m an ocean, I’m a sea
There’s a world inside of me.

Midnight child

“Maybe this is a rebellious thing to say… But it takes a really strong and brave person to carry around a heart that feels so much.” @ambernroth

Midnight child,

When clash of voices

And harsh sounds

Goes on,

You envy how time has fun,

playing with the sky.

You feel the tiniest atom

Of emotions that others don’t

And you wonder why.

Midnight child,

Maybe you were born to live

Wanting to die.

Love the Hate

In the end they’re gonna judge you anyway so whatever.

I’m learning to love endings. It’s almost sadistic even, maybe, I don’t know. Something like the way a paper turns brown and curls as if writhing in pain as fire consumes it. That kind of pain, I see as art.

While the poor paper disappears, devoured by the devil of a flame, isn’t it bitterly ironic however that it is the fire that was more beautiful?

I’m learning to love the hate I get from my writings, both existing and nonexistent. Kept as proof to shackle me? I’m sorry there won’t be apologies. 

You know why I love the hate? It’s because it trains me to rise higher each time.

You talk about me but I don’t know your name.

That’s exactly how legends live.

You show me what you lack pathetically, honesty, self-respect, love and respect for others.

I solemnly promise I shall strive to fulfill what you have failed to do so.