28 December 2017. Eight or nine years on, I stand face to face with the perpetrator. “Do you remember the session we had with Ms Foo, when you told her you woke up outside of IMH and walked in?” I asked. “Yes.” “What happened after you entered IMH?” I remember, of course. You claimed to… Continue reading
For the one that has been with me every day and night of my existence, here is a letter to you. We haven’t had it easy since we hit 15. Maybe 13, if we were being completely honest about secondary school. 12, if we count the days of running away from home and playing truancy… Continue reading Dear Brain,
–sits in his lap, wondering, “Is that a penis or a pistol?” And exactly what is the difference? She screams, “Murder me. I’m telling you to murder me.” If she begged for it, is it still a crime? Can you still be blamed, Mr. Humbert? – Lolita’s Revenge, by Twoey Gray 11.12 p.m. I told… Continue reading Of Mice and Men.
Fiction is helplessly entangled with truth of some kind. Much in the same way that Orson Scott Card believes the reader takes in the fictitious material and constructs something in his mind such that he connects with it, identifies with it. And in that sense, fiction becomes reality for everyone, although everyone has different realities.… Continue reading When Love Arrived.
These eyes are haunting. I can’t bear to look at them in the mirror. There’s something… off, about them.They’re like bottomless wells, and those who venture too close run the risk of falling in, never to find a way out. All the light that tries to illuminate its depths inevitably get sucked into its thick,… Continue reading Metaphors for Amor.
I have spent, and am still spending, quite a bit of time processing my molestation on 30 November 2016. I use “my” to convey ownership. A sense of taking responsibility for what has happened, much like the way one would lay out enough food and water for their pet. A more cynical analogy would be that of being… Continue reading Confidence | Arrogance
Keep the good memories then, but remember: they are over. The good ol’ days will never come back. The bad ones, well — (scribbling on a piece of paper before shredding it, smiling) They are past The point of hurting Me, now.