a belated guide on making new year resolutions

this guide has come three years and two months late. during this time i have learnt to hate myself.

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i. stop making it about other people

2016’s resolution was to get over the guy who held the universe in his eyes. his eyes were like black holes, deep and dark but also so potent. i forgot that space is an infinite abyss of silent hell. when he dropped my heart, the world blinked, and then it moved on. it hasn’t ever been the same then. i tripped over my memories of him.

2017’s resolution was to exercise that self love. go for a jog when the weight of responsibilities and toxicity crashes down on my shoulders. my feet pounding against concrete and blood rushing through my veins are all that i need to feel dead. i keeled over and threw up.

2018’s resolution was to clear the clutter in my life. sweep away the negativity. wash off the stench of rumors and hatred sent my way. trash the memories of what was possibly the worst year of my life, and focus on the good. i am (supposed to be) better than that mess of negativity on the table.  i left the pile of rubbish in a corner of my heart. i’ve been hoarding the negative energy ever since.

ii. understand that the new year’s positivity lasts only a day

i start every year a little more jaded and cynical than the last, but i am a romantic who believes in the power of change. this year’s planner: washi tape? check. cute? double check. it has hipster monstera leaf vectors on it. cute calligraphy? done. my two years experience was made for this moment. motivational quotes? dusted and sprinkled liberally with icing powder.

two weeks into january, and card captor sakura: clear card hen is the only thing keeping me from spiralling into anxiety induced meltdowns and self hatred. 2018’s resolution is intact and safe, baby.

(just ignore those days spent pressed up against the door of bathroom stalls, legs trembling and mind chanting: it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok. it’s not ok and i try to muffle my sobs because i can hear them chattering on the other side of the door.)

iii. aim for the moon and if you miss, your body will smash against solid concrete

resolutions are named as such because they are an ideal. ideals however, are simply not practical, nor realistic. ceteris paribus is a lie. no energy loss is a theory. my happiness is a myth. perfect specialization has never been further from the truth.

how many stabs in the back does it take to kill? my body is a battleground: every bombshell of scorn etched into my skin, the razor sharp anger digging trenches into my flesh and the army of self confidence soldiers dying bloody deaths. i am familiar with the metallic tang of resignation and helplessness.

i hear the whispers like screams in my mind and i fall inwards on myself. tuck my shoulders in a little more. stop wearing my pink jacket even if i am freezing and my fingers are numb. stop fidgeting even if my legs are falling asleep. bowing my head more. speak a little softer. speak a little less.

it’s never enough.

iv. don’t make them 

there is always a high. then comes the crash. the world burns.

you have my silence. just as you wished.

___

an ideal: keala settle is the baddest bitch 

i’ve learnt to slam on the brakes: before i even turned the key

i climb, till the entire sun shines on my face: and suddenly i feel the branch give way

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a/n: my anxiety is off the charts but it got super bad today. this piece takes on a rlly different tone, but yay to my growth as a writer i guess. lol. school hasnt been too hot and hopefully break will be good. shop me my wishlist: unlimited warm hugs, instant death and a shoulder to cry on. thanks! but in all honesty, i’m grateful for all the love here at pointilisms :__)

 

 

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newton’s first law

newton’s first law states that an object will remain at rest or in uniform motion in a straight line unless acted upon by an external force. it may be seen as a statement about inertia, that objects will remain in their state of motion unless a force acts to change the motion.

maybe this was what newton meant:

  1. depression keeps me gutted and motionless. some days i wait for mother to rip the covers off my body but it never happens, because i am a Big Girl who has to wake up on her own. instead i lay still and stop breathing. maybe if i pretend i’m dead long enough i might not have to face the world: too big too loud too much.                   it never works.
  2.  somehow my fingers stay stuck on the twitter tab, no matter if four tests six deadlines seven thousand fucking expectations  are looming over my head. nineteen doggos in and my will to die has not decreased.
  3. swallowing becomes so fucking hard when my skirt becomes tighter every day.
  4. no one understands when i say i am too depressed to eat/sleep/do my homework/continue to be a slave to the government. the glances sent my way are pitying and suddenly death seems to be a viable option.
  5. why does everyone make depression the subject of their mental health awareness project when they don’t give a fuck? i am not your token character to fill up a diversity quota. fuck off.
  6. how much force is is required to overcome the inertia of this body?
  7. i don’t know. i dropped physics.

i keep us in my wallet (not my mind)

  • these are grainy moments burned into pixels: your laugh, brilliant as i steal a glance; my face, blemished but radiant, even as my hair falls over my face; our nights, your fingers curled loosely around mine, my lips on your shoulder. these are our souls burned and made tangible, lying solidly against my crinkled bedsheets when they slip out of of my treasure trove. but why is it that i cannot remember what exactly we were? these are grainy moments, not in my mind: your laugh, muted; my face, blurred; our nights, ebbed.

 

this love is why i live

this was just like every other camp: the-night-before-anxiety hit me full on like twenty textbooks, i dragged myself and tried to cheer up, butter cup, made one friend, changed my mind about how god awful this was supposed to be, fell in love with the warmth of everyone, blinked back the tears when the goodbyes came, and made my way home.

this is just like every other camp: the people were so different from the last, but i loved them anyway. i loved the way we’d have our nightly feasts, calories be damned. i loved the ways we’d play cat and mouse, bated breaths and flushed cheeks pressed against closet doors when someone was rapping, rapping at our chamber door. i loved the way we’d banter with one another, exasperated laughter and poker faces meeting the most awful jokes ever. i loved the way we’d have each other’s back, you telling me to sleep even if i hadn’t done enough, or the way we’d give our all even if exhaustion made itself home on our eyelids.

this might just be like every other camp, when we drift apart because we’re all so busy, and live across the country from each other. maybe your faces will start to blur a little in my mind and maybe your names won’t curl as comfortably around my tongue, but this is enough. you made me happy these for days, and i don’t think i’ll forget the taste of this love on my tongue, not ever.

it made me want to live, even if just for a while. and i’m thankful enough.

_

babes, this love will never end: my heart will always love you

 

will you grant my dying wish?

of all the things i have lost i miss my fucking sanity the most.

this fever is lawless the way it siezes my brain hostage, shoving degree celsius after degree celsius at me and i am screaming screaming screaming limbs too weak to flail and the words that fall out of my parched lips are tearful prayers to gods i do not believe in. this is what desperation tastes like: the way my sweat ransom is not enough to set me fucking free, the way my body crumples and falls to ground when the cool water i used to frolick in bites against my skin, no longer gentle kisses running away the magma mount in my head. desperation is the way i wear my thickest jacket in singapore’s fucking weather ot the way i force myself to sweat till i am blind or the way i force myself to cry. women earn 79 cents to every dollar a man earns, my vision is barbercue hazed while my stomach sloshes, a sick sound that threatens to let itself be heard and i wish i was dead. they say everyone is afraid of death and i want to laugh because i crave death the way you crave life.

why dont you kill yourself then? they whisper and i am buzzed.

i fear pain. i would rather be dead than writhing in bed, ghostly images telling me that have me thrashing in bed like the wild animal i am.

WHEN SUMMER WENT ASKEW

there is a dull pounding against my head, thud thud thud until it bounces off the hollow of my sky, ringing like the crow’s cry on summer’s evening. there is a judge with a gavel in his hand and with every thought of /i must give up/ he strikes a wooden mark, /this is where the world does not wait for you/, his gavel whispers, husky crackle amplifying until my head is flooded with sound waves.

there is a lava trail down my cheek.

and the sea will swallow you whole

my heart is as heavy as my schoolbag and the guilt from yet-to-be-forged test papers. these days slipping into my depression is as easy as sleeping into my problems. look on the bright side they say, so i do. my australian friend sleeps six hours on a regular basis but here in singapore i sleep four hours. (three in the morning and one in lectures because my eyes are weighed down by the weariness bore from days of juggling a test every other day. my stomach churns like the sea deranged, slosh slosh slosh and i have to press my lips together lest oceans pour out of my eyes and rivers up my parched throat.) dreaming is a foreign concept but when i do i see quiet, hear the way the sky is blue and the grass, green, and i can feel the sweetness in the air and taste the joy in my heart.

when i come to, my pillow is damp.

i plunge headfirst into schoolwork.