Th Only Fear Is Fear Itself

What's home?
All i can think of is th stars on th tip of your tongue. Th flowers sprouting from your mouth, th roots entwined in th gaps between your fingers and th oceans echoing inside of your ribcage. Home is where i belong.

Back t Singapore, a place all too familiar. Th same stories, th same people. A getaway would've been perfect, and indeed it was. But oh how nimble time can be. However a fair amount of us impel t how good things eventually dissolute. Except love, except unconditional love.

In a place my memory has no recollection of whatsoever, surrounded by people i have never and will never see again. Im home. Back here, t th trains and th pathways, th bus stops and greenery. But back here, th place i've been living in for practically my life. I figure it isn't about th place, or th distaste i have obtained for my neighbourhood. It's about being w someone you experience everything w, someone you love so much that leaving would be a crime.

Dusk follows a beautiful phenomena, nights falls and we're all alone.

Armed w nothing more than our thoughts. Dinners together and returning t th same place where we could cuddle all night long w movies and smoke breaks. Random hugs and kisses as we walk past each oth in a room where we know when we were t arise come dawn, we'd see each oth. Surprises, baths, falling off th bed, cute notes, your hairbrush, wearing your clothes, sharing cookies, snuggling beneath th sheets away from th world. Together, just you and me and no goodbyes. Absolute bliss. I miss it, i miss being in a place i know nothing of oth than you, a place where i know of nothing but my love for you. I miss you. But beautiful memories they made and no goodbyes can ever steal that away from me. A letter i would read countless times by th time this week ends and so many others t come. 'You robbed me off my heart, but i want you t keep it forever.' Build your house in my heart?







I hate how i could love myself one minute and th next i hate me. I hate how my imperfections are mine t deal w and nobody can make me feel better, i hate how i've reposed on myself that i use external words as a factor t my hatred when its simply a battle w myself. I hate how those words linger in my mind anyway. But most of all, i hate this feeling. I hate th constant search for perfection, i hate th word 'perfect' being derived when it can never be obtained. I hate how it makes me feel that th past 5 years of what i've always loved t do has gone in vain because im back t yesterday. I hate how i fought it and figured i would never have t stand alone ahead of a fork road that met love and hate. I hate that i was wrong. I hate that i denied it and fought it but failed. I hate that my one and only platform t making me feel better is circumscribed.

I hardly can ever bother how my fears are layed out on a page anybody can access because th ones who would bother turning them against me will never matter. I don't understand how one is special, or different than anybody else. People say they love you for your personality, not looks. But what personality, if not looks? What if - yes two harmless words put together that could destroy. What if you dwell in your imperfections, hope perfection was more than just a word and never worked on your personality, does that deny you of love? Probably not, but why you then. Why me? A question that if you don't see yourself for what you're worth, or what people think you're worth, an answer is instantly extinct. It is said t never let anything get t you or it will eventually eat you up, but wouldn't it be abnegation t flee from it? Im not special if i search perfection. Imperfection is not special when it is of a high degree. Im not different if i question my self worth. So what about me then? Th irony? That's how i see myself, and only me. I believe imperfection makes people special, they do not account for when it comes t someone i love for their imperfections instantaneously is a trait i could use t love them even more. It is not true that you have t love yourself first before you love anybody else. It is bullshit t me. But i do love myself, not on days where i hate myself. Do i make sense?

I hate how i have t succumb t th oth specie on th course of sexuality. How men will always be men and how women will always be women. And you have t accept that. Analogically, my brother hates how i steal his candy but he takes mine all th time. Do i make sense now? Of course i don't. It isn't suppose t make any sense t anyone who doesn't know me well enough, which populates t all but one.

We all say that imperfection is fine, but sometimes it isn't. Go t church and listen t stories about Jesus walking on water, but if i saw a guy doing that, i'd scream. Because it wouldn't look like a miracle t me, it would look like an offence.