hhharukun

[hhharukun]

quivering rocks, violently expanding & shrinking at times. he can never decide which one weighs more - the hunger to compete, versus the fear of competing. either way, to decide is immensely redundant; he trains to compete.

it was never funny that he started out muay thai because it sat in his mental pre-thyroid-world-ending-kaboosh checklist. while he never thought of it being a one-off sweaty exposure, he also didn't expect to commit for weeks. yet we're 4 months away from 2 years. did any of these rocks took part in burying theatre into separate boxes? probably. sleep became a necessity. neglecting food as fuel erupted dire consequences. things were for once excruciatingly onerous for an artist in his 20's, that he found it acutely exciting, as if the sore bruises and learning setbacks are slowly pencil-colouring the rut he snoozes in.

no foreshadow no nothing, 3 weeks ago he was given the green light to compete (or at least train towards competing). the conversation was done through text - that overwhelming surge of elation hardly braced by the stool he crouched on behind the bar counter. zooming past those countless evenings he chose the heavy bag over everything else he'd label as 'much needed', he couldn't wait for his shift to end so he could drill with a sharper goal.

writing this now, who knew, 3 weeks later, all of what he tried with mouthfuls of ecstatic might to self-contain would instantly be crushed by a shitty spar session, with his coach walking away mid-round, spewing the possibility of cancelling the fight if that horrendous spar repeats itself next week.

the seconds following the silence after his coach left the floor trailed feelings words couldn't describe. if he must try: that 'so close yet so far' sludge, absolute revulsion narrowly directed straight inwards, oh the urge to break & cry yet preserve the shell of a fighter. numbing anguish. blur indecisiveness of immediate next steps. uniquely, regret.

at this moment, to crave vs. to cower? still inapt. self-reminder: he only trains to compete.

[hhharukun]

(a spill found from april '22)

while exiting my pitch-black room around 5am last night, i knocked over a wooden stool by accident. the imaginatively-familiar sound froze me for a second. after turning on the lights to pick the stool up, i opened the door to find dad outside of my room, feet glued to the floor. those eyes, not knowing what to do. a battle between who'd open the door first, in his head floating a chance that only he'd be able to. instincts then kicked in: i laughed off my clumsiness and apologised for the noise, before he unstuck his feet and returned to his room.

that moment said a lot and it broke me in many ways i didn't wish to think of

mom used to tell me countless times that dad attempted once. knowing dad, knowing myself -- how i'm barely able to hide the signs when i'm (rarely, thankfully) at my peak; the bottles in my room; the silvers on my bed; the "as if you're equipped to handle this" glares -- last night sent us both to places we fear yet expect.

i should really consider therapy.

[hhharukun]

living a version of the dream, here & now.

early 2019, i had to convince dad to let me do theatre in cardiff. in order to do so made me realise... i had to convince myself. how would i make this theatre degree work in ways society would say 'it worked'? i vividly remember telling dad, "you know i'm a night owl; the dream's to have a cool non-corporate day job -- say, a barista -- and keep on making theatre at night. the dream."

would he be proud of me now? a part of me thinks he'd sigh with a smirk, yet a larger part doubts he'd feel so to the bone. i don't know. with the current creative block aside, i don't know whether i like this ('like' might be the wrong word here). pre-2024 haru would be proud; finally someone broke out of impermanence. his first proper full-time gig, hours dragging much shorter than freelancing in the arts. a strange year with one new thing leading to another, finding comfort & familiarity in extreme unfamiliar territories, something i never thought i'd crave for until sinking the first bite in. 5am alarms being the new norm, irritated by texts that come in after 9pm; some days i don't recognise the person standing in my mirror, mentally & physically. does this come with age?

at the end of the day, this post serves as a self-reminder to zoom out a little. regardless of how you see it, or how i'd hurl myself into a cave of self-deprecation, i can never deny the fact that this is what i once dreamed of. to be sane enough, alive enough, to be doing what i do right now. you're alright, haru. you're okay.

[hhharukun]

june: a positive thing each day

1/6 - fav bagel before MEXT papers 2/6 - caught up with k 3/6 - survived a holiday rush 4/6 - finally made musubi 5/6 - choji's bagel surprise 6/6 - timothy???!!! 7/6 - best pan mee post-physio 8/6 - 4.5 wide pull-ups PR 9/6 - 51kg deadlift PR + first brow slit 10/6 - succeeded making matcha cookies 11/6 - first 'grappling' sesh + saw perfect days 12/6 - cheap yus mixed rice dins 13/6 - legs survived + full grocery trolley 14/6 - fought through; still sober 15/6 - taipan bike rush 16/6 - bad artist collab 17/6 - spar progress edit 18/6 - finally cleared dad's workbag 19/6 - shimomo with kazehiko 20/6 - satisfying hook practice 21/6 - unexpected 5K run 22/6 - finished dungeon meshi 23/6 - 2nd set of postcards out 24/6 - sold 3 carousell listings 25/6 - banana leaf rice (3rd week in a row) 26/6 - uchiha tattoo 27/6 - rawfuel collab 28/6 - full-time july onwards secured 29/6 - mmm beef noodles 30/6 - 75kg deadlift PR!

july started off terribly. considering doing this again for august. grr.

[hhharukun]

only those who want to listen to my moronic, obstinate music -- only they should listen. art cannot order people around. art dies the moment it acquires authority.

nothing lights anymore

i even forgot my lighter

albeit quitting the head's not even a tad bit lighter

lighter

lighter

like her

[hhharukun]

amnesia. unsure what he dreamt of, yet sure he woke up from one hell of a nightmare. and all of a sudden, the thought of doing theatre violently flung his left arm across a tear-soaked face, grabbing the nearest empty bag/cup/bowl he could reach, ready for his gut to uncontain such revulsion.

theatre can always wait, but can he? by doing nothing, lying still, waiting to snooze his 6:45am alarm, waiting for this shiver of disgust to pass? snoozed. waiting for things to figure themselves out? snoozed. waiting for proposal (rejected) after proposal (dropped) after proposal (neglected) after proposal (flaked) after proposal (ghosted)? snoozed. waiting for the distractions that once worked for asher? snoozed. waiting for kelvin's return to knock some peer-pressure sense into him? snoozed with a chortle. waiting for reason? passion?? love??? at this point he could've dozed off head buried under his comforter, unbothered by king gnu's boy blasting at max, only to be bothered by the same forgotten dream that folded his torso up, for him to throw up, before dragging his burnt out ass to the gym.

the urge to see & feel red unusually overcomes the urge to gulp & down. fearfully hoping that the risk of being barista-fired upon visual notice claims the higher ground, he writes. with billie's the greatest on replay for the 12th time. choiceless, he waits.