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
Driftwood. Scorching heat of the sun. Vast, endless sea. I’m bobbing up and down quietly, listening to the waves lap against me. Ships yawn a long, low groan, and I realise that even though they’re dry and hollow, they’re not in want. Probably because they know to keep things casual. They’re listless, but they know… Continue reading Let me settle down already.
Names have been changed to protect the identities of people. Even though the names learnt are probably pseudonyms. Stepping into a new space is … Exhilarating. I’ve always liked meeting new people, but when they’re grouped in throngs at wooden tables with identical food buzzers in their hands, it’s kinda robotic and weird. They’re smiling.… Continue reading Connected with Strangers
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.
i think i love you somewhere in that bubble of time when a word leaves my lips and yours begins, a smile already hanging by the window. somewhere, through translucent blinds your fears and beliefs do a pas de deux twin lovers feeding the other fuzzy, blurry — no. in your tendency to squirm, i think… Continue reading *whispers
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.