theworksof21

[theworksof21]

[theworksof21]

“everything is transformed with recollection” I standby this statement so much, because I relate, goodness

Stenography of the Itinerary. 43

When I reread my own old journals and papers (I don’t know if it has been your experience or not), I was always struck with impossibility of reconnecting through time and space to people and places I knew. I go through my archives, still unable to go out and happy I am unable, because (that’s what I tell myself) I am not feeling very well (such a relief, I can simply dwell in my memoirs), and I came across a telephone number that I recorded, the number which belonged to my first husband. And for a second I thought about dealing this number, knowing perfectly well that after all these years (the journal was from 2004), no one possibly could answer me. (Under no circumstances could I wish to speak to him. If it were in my power, I’d tell then-me never deal that number too.) There was a phrase in a still-earlier journal (2001; the time when the pale lilac color was in vogue) that looks to me now as a rather precise diagnosis of human condition: “Now I saturate the future with my dreams; later I will populate the past with memories.” (”Сейчас я насыщаю мечтами будущее, потом прошлое стану населять воспоминаниями.”) Sixteen years later, this is exactly what I am doing: I am populating my past with my memories. The work of memory is a creative work aware of the arbitrariness of its own process. There is never a given in what we lived through, but everything is transformed with recollection.

And while such transformation is a work that everyone is ceaselessly performing on one’s own, its result, the result of combination, of joint effort, of contestation, is what makes “the past” into a shared history. Many actors summon, revoke and restructure the past, through actions: performance and language (there is no clear division between the two, as we know since Austin and Butler), endlessly reshaping what still appears to be a possible future.

[theworksof21]

poetry experiments

4 examples I came up with

[theworksof21]

Final Critical Paper - FICTWOR

There are many times when I thought my paper was shit. Well, this one isn’t, for once.

TITLE: Beauty is a Wound, an epitome of the addiction the beauties have.

Eka Kurniawan’s Beauty is a Wound is a narrative that expresses actions as ripples that affects a larger sphere, through his use of the themes, language, and the structure of the story. This essay speaks of the frustrations of the reader, who holds the position of a bystander, witnesses the lives of the character. Each chapter reveals a puzzle piece of the larger narrative, which is finally put together and understood at the end of the novel. Kurniawan skilfully toys with the hearts of his audience as he writes the story in such a way that pulls his readers in with each addition of new characters and sub-plots.

The author is praised for his writing structure in Beauty is a Wound because he intoxicates his readers with a poisonous curiosity which would force readers to continue reading until the last words of this novel. This structure includes his language and semi-realistic characters, stories and settings (which, honestly, almost seemed to be an exaggeration of the truth). Eka Kurniawan’s language within the novel is hauntingly brisk and simple to understand, as though he was retelling a story from long ago, recounting the tales of gruesome murder with a nonchalant octave to his speech. When I was just starting to read the novel, I was taken aback with how blunt his words are, the shock added with the introduction of one of the main characters of the novel, Dewi Ayu, and I was furthermore surprised with the plot of the narrative. I started the novel with expectations that this digital book was going to be a romantic logbook of Dewi Ayu’s love vices, until more and more characters were introduced. Kurniawan teased his readers by ending an unfinished subplot, only to be followed with another equally long subplot. This prod his readers to become more alert and tentative, ready to note whatever new was coming their way. I would say this was a unique way to keep the readers reading on their toes, because, in many other novels, it is difficult to keep up with everything that was happening, especially if it is sardined into one novel. That was the charm of Beauty is a Wound; I think Kurniawan fully utilises the simplicity of story-telling, because not only were all the holes and gaps were filled within each chapter, Kurniawan left many details of the characters and backgrounds. This made way and gave time for readers to emotionally attach themselves to the characters of the story, no matter how uncomfortable or disturbing they turn out to be. Eka Kurniawan did an excellent job in making all the elements in his novel to be interactive with emotions, and this allows us to become more immersed into the characters and stories. Each character had a one of a kind disposition and traits assigned to them, which allowed a continuous motion to the plot.

Kurniawan has played the readers by fully utilising the device of magic realism, pumped into his narrative. All the elements of Beauty is a Wound carried a certain amount of magic realism in them, which made readers to do a double take and frown in confusion, as though our own reality has been disturbed. The most shocking aspect of this is how masterfully it has been sewed into this narrative; the things, characters and events are considered so much as a norm within the novel, that readers have a difficult time to differentiate what was out of the norm for the characters in the story. One of the many unrealistic-realistic value this novel hold is the impact the beauty has on the other characters. Dewi Ayu, her daughters, Alamanda, Adinda and Maya Dewi, and their daughters and son, Ai, Rengganis and Krisan held the most out of the ordinary aspects of Halimunda – their beauty and the mysteriousness that come with it in analysis. Kurniawan uses beauty as the tool for the revenge of the evil spirit. The root of the evil spirit’s action is love. In this narrative, having or being beautiful does not necessarily guarantee one a happiness that could last a lifetime, but instead, is used by the author as a fuel for the revenge caused by a broken heart. The meaning of the title was simple; Beauty was a wound, a curse, and anyone who has attained the trait of being beautiful would have to undergo a series of unfortunate events automatically inserted upon their future and the future of their sons and daughters. Kurniawan may have decided to shape the definition of being beautiful in this manner to include a mythical or folktale atmosphere to his story. The responses of the other characters in this narrative were evident of this; everyone judged the looks and appearance of another, and one is given attention when they are beautiful. I think the author wished to highlight characteristics and personality through his novel, because he gave all the beauties each a very unique way of thinking and actions which are quite unpredictable. When one reads Beauty is a Wound, somewhere along the way, the readers would definitely come to feel a certain closeness with the characteristics of the beauties, because, although not very realistic, the actions and reasons become the rational of the narrative. Many other materials that were included in the narrative throws readers off with their general and generic way of thinking, and personally, although the armies and communists had a realistic aspect because of their relatability with our reality, this way we are able to outline their irrationality and shallowness of their actions and traits. It made you think about the ridiculousness these characters hold. Kurniawan perfectly balances these out with the presence of Dewi Ayu, ultimately, and in this sense, ironically enough, the beauties become the rational part of the narrative, instead of the other characters, who we can relate to our own reality.

In my first impression of the novel, I initially thought that the novel’s way of making their readers uncomfortable with the different characteristics and consequences that befall upon them would twist the story into an awkward Indonesian romantic comedy that can be found in theatres. It made one want to laugh jovially and cry in disgust at the same time, because we are unable to extend a hand and interfere with their “destined” futures. However, after reading the unfortunate events that has happened to Dewi Ayu, the reader slowly learns to accept that this was just how it is, and that there was nothing that can be done to change the genre that Kurniawan has shaped for Beauty is a Wound. So, in the reading of the stories of Dewi Ayu’s daughters, one does not feel shocked anymore to see more regrettable tragedies that happened in their lives. Instead, we begin to focus on the happenings of the plot and characters, and begin to understand the type of reality Kurniawan has created for the novel. The simplicity in his language have compensated enough for the discomfort and sympathy we feel for the characters and their destinies. The simplicity of the language also compensates for the complications that slowly (but surely) un-winded itself as each chapter is read. I think patience is what one must have when one reads this novel, because it held many information, but the ending leaves a satisfaction on our hearts, because every piece of this jigsaw puzzle has been fitted well. I applaud Eka Kurniawan’s organising successes and perfect execution of structure and language use that made this (frustrating) novel hard to put down. 

[theworksof21]

Intervention

Why does the ocean always seem so far from where I'm sitting?

The sun glistens on it so prettily, it's at times like this when I won't mind the hot weather…it's a few kilometers away, but from my seat, it's so beautiful. It makes me think about the things beyond. Although I put these blinds down to make the room darker, it just doesn't help… I can still see the sea from here. What else is there for me out there?

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry: Extra Content 5

Late evening jolts

Home makes you feel waves of all kinds of things. There's honestly nothing like driving in the evenings through the highway. There's nothing like waking up in the morning, and going to the bathroom to wash your face, and move the curtain slightly to peek at the morning sky and trees. There's nothing like going on a hike, and breathing the 5pm air, which may have the scent of rain hanging onto them (There's also nothing like slipping a little while climbing the steps: my one fear). Even just driving the closest convenient store with the windows down has its wonder; and when you drive back, man, everything is just let go. There's something in that temporary moment that makes way for release of things held for so long. 60-80km/h, with your hand out the window, constantly weaving through the cool breeze (I wouldn't dare do the same to the waters if I was in a moving boat). There's nothing like finishing your last classes after a long day in university, and hearing nearly a silence, except for the constant rustling of the trees near the foyer, or the cars going on the path, tik toks of footwear in the hallways, or the whirr of the side fans, keeping us cool (everyday is hot here, except for when we are blessed with rain, which is, rarely) (however, recently I heard it has been raining. Surprising. Of course it rains when I am not there) throughout the end of the afternoon. There's so much to feel, sometimes I don't think my heart knows where to start; ----------------------------.

 I'd rather not continue. It sounds confusing already, when I recited what I wanted to type, in my head. So I shall not continue.

 I wish I could show everyone how beautiful this "home" is. Although we don’t have booming parties, or shopping malls, or skyscrapers, there's a certain time of drug that keeps Brunei so…enthralling. (Maybe I shouldn't have used drug. But how could I explain how intoxicated one feels without being under any influences?) For me, sometimes being Brunei is having someone to slap your face, and only realising that sensation after a while. A certain…magic? Of being in a place so small. That makes you want to do so much for it.

Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry: Extra Content 4

Morning jolts

Twitter

Instagram

Snapchat

Social media

in general

These are letters

about the platforms I use

almost everyday in my life

If God permit.

Actions are frightening

because you cannot go back

Once you've done something.

You cannot change

what you did

and if it won't stay in your memory

then it will be in

someone else's storage

for safekeeping.

Media is a powerful thing

It keeps so many of our words (some may call them unwanted trash)

And I am quite fond of it

because I tend to forget many things

and it's difficult to live many times

being in a state where

you're unable to remember

What had happened

It's upsetting.

Social media, to me,

have my words etched onto my skin

Boldly

(not bold, literally, but in my handwriting, written with a blue 0.5 balled pen)

(but BOLDLY, blaring, very noticeable)

and out there

for everyone to see

in an attempt to show you

Who I am

I am not asking

For an acceptance on who I am

Nor for a pity party for what had happened to me

Nor for your approval of my thoughts and actions

Nor is it to make me

feel better

about myself.

It is there so I can remember

Who I am

When I type something and post it

It is there so I can reflect on myself

And to see what I can improve on

And for it to record my words

So I will know who I am

through the words I have said

and the thoughts I have thought of.

 It is not for you

It is for me

If it does help you in a way though

then I am happy that I am able to be of help, even in a small way

If it does help you to think about how you should help yourself or help others

then I thank God that

you found my page.

The words

engrave themselves into my skin

Not for people to see

But for me to remember

My self

My path

To have my thoughts out there

For me to keep.

  Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry 5.2 (Feb)

1) Present a cultural-literary profile of Syria, beyond the dominant images and narratives mainstream media bombard us. Frame it from a particular point-of-view. Ex. as a literary biographer, and thus you can focus to feature its prominent writers? As a visual storyteller, and thus, you can select images/photographs and annotate it, like in an exhibit? Ala Anthony Bourdain? Etc.

IF ANYTHING, THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION, IF IT ISN'T ACCURATE TO THE ACTUAL PLACE OR EVENTS, JUST REMEMBER THAT NONE OF THIS HAPPENED AND NONE OF THIS IS REAL.

I held my camera steady, and clicked the shutter, capturing whatever ethereal being that was standing there, still lingering in the old walls of Krak des Chevaliers (in French too! When I saw it in the brochure, I was wondering why in the world didn't they keep its Arabic name, which was Hosn al-Akrad). The old castle was rotting, but its walls seem to be brimming with the voices of the people who manned this fort during its prime, as though permitting me to breathe in the air and dust, forever sauntering in the reality that belongs to centuries past. I had a huge affection for history. Especially if it wasn't my own. It had been only three months since I started to take a break from my own reality to travel to the Middle East. People saw it as a war-torn, depressing area; I saw this as an opportunity to explore lost cities and stories.

And so I went.

I had no regrets leaving my old life. This was more exciting. More than anything, I was ready to pack my bags and aimed for new heights, as the plane took me all the way from my comfort zone into the zone that everyone was uncomfortable about - the name ‘Syria’ is no longer accepted as a country that people are willing to visit. The first thoughts that my friends have had when I told them Syria was going to be one of the countries I will be visiting, the mood immediately fell, and almost everyone gave me the look. Yes, you know which look I'm talking about; the look when you smelled something unpleasant, their eyes changed from welcoming to being full of doubts and questions - basically, the face they made was literally "what the fuck is this man smoking?". I didn't care though. I knew mentioning Syria would have my friends and family telling me to halt my tracks and rethink my route and destinations (there ain't no way I'm changing. I already paid for those tickets, and I will not waste my money just because you're afraid of what might happen to me). A few weeks had passed after I told them I was going to the land of desolation, and in those weeks, five companies of friends and family came to say Goodbye.

No, not goodbye, Goodbye. They were bidding my soul farewell. How ridiculous! I have never rolled my eyes so hard before, until the third, fourth and fifth company came.

My legs took me up the spiral stairs that hugged a wide pillar - it took me to the top, where the green landscape boasts itself under the gleaming sun, to my delight. I held my camera and took another picture. The sky was clear and the sun scorched, threatening to fry my skin if I didn't find shelter and wait for the heat to become…cooler (funny statement, Xavier). I quickly took two more shots of the hills and slopes that marvelled before my eyes, enticing my lenses, the sun making it move under it's rays.

It was a marvelous ruined castle, that stood on a hill, it's area only large enough to have the whole of Hosn al-Akrad on it's peak. Although the view wasn't filled with blooming plants, or colourful buildings, something about it just screams 'Syria!'. I'm a sucker for the view. I can't help it. It's space made me think about my journey, how far my legs could take my body. The vast space ironically fills my soul like food.

"Xavier! We're done here! Let's move on." A voice called for me from below.

And that is my cue to go. Can you guess who I am?

Signing out, 

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry: Extra Content 3

There’s an underlying meaning in many of my tweets pt 1

You don't understand how heavy this tweet is. "christine", not Christine, because I am myself, but at the same time, I am not my usual self. It's the side of me that gets…so small. Shrunken. Weak, even. There's Christine. She's not an alter ego. She’s as real, I can guarantee this. She is the one who shows when she's comfortable with people and herself, she's the loud and quiet Christine. She's the confused and indecisive Christine. She's Christine who's confident to the point that it disgusts her sometimes. She's Christine who has low self esteem when she feels that someone threatens her by doing something she considers herself to be good at. She's Christine who can't sleep because she's addicted to her phone. She's Christine who likes to eat, but not too much, does not like to spend so much, but adores clothes and loves to go shopping. She's Christine who says that she doesn't consume sugar, but orders "fresh" juices and milk tea (pretty sure bearing more than 30% of sugar). This Christine is flawed, sometimes helpless yet sometimes admirable, relatable - very human.

 Christine? No, I meant christine. This christine usually sits in the quiet, the calm...I consider this part of myself to be “faraway”. Not close but still present. Not quite noticable, but present. Not acnowledged, but present. I don't know what she does. Wait, maybe? 

Maybe, she's the christine who feeds on the emotions Christine dismisses. Like when she tells herself she's confident (sets aside some insecurity), when Christine tells herself its okay that people can do the things you do (sets aside some jealousy, includes the wound she receives from the beating of her pride), and also the Christine who sets aside some (hidden) guilt because she lies a lot. The Christine who sets aside some for excusing herself always 

(’for god sake, get a grip!’ she tells herself. Surprise, it does not work).

 All the things that she sets aside, is released onto christine. This christine, uncapitalised, and at a glance, not very title-like, not considered a name, is like a bottle. Or a storeroom. A vessel. Safekeeping? Is it really safekeeping? Do I keep it to collect? Not really. It just builds up on its own.

 This christine, she keeps these “some”s until the release.

 Sometimes I forget I'm christine.

I don't forget really.

I just don't care (sets aside…)

Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry: Extra Content 2

Content Creator

"I'm just a tightrope walker, holding a big umbrella hoping I don't fall off this imaginary line." Sometimes I make things up for myself. Be it to calm me down, to reassure me, to justify myself, to scare me, to give me a push - anything. I create things out of nothing because it keeps my heart beating. If I didn't have thoughts at all, I wouldn't be living. That is one of my centers. To think is to feel. To not think is to be numb. So where is the positive in this equation? I don't know. I don't have any care for that. My well-being?

I think individuals are built up with the way they feel about things. (Other constituents are merely factors to straighten yourself into society, so why bother) If they feel elated about one thing, that's fine, good for them. If they feel disgusted about another thing, and wish to side step the situation completely, then that's totally fine too. Whatever rows your boat. Or however your route is. To feel the way you do is to feed on your individualism, and perhaps…perchance, you may found yourself at the end of your journey, or on the way there. First step always is to know yourself. The next step is to reach out to grow more. Expand slowly but surely. You'll get there.

You create your own imaginary line. That means you carve out your own path. It doesn't matter if its rough, filled with patches, full of dirt and difficult to walk on - when has anything ever gone easy for humans? We all live through struggles and bring our battle scars with us wherever we go.

 Look at you. You made it. And I'm proud that you did.

Oh. You're going to keep moving?

Okay. I'll be going this way.

I'll see you the next time we meet. Take care of yourself.

Godspeed, child.

  Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry: Extra Content 1

There is no cure in thinking too much.

I hate pixels. It reminds me of you. It reminds me of how transient things are. How impermanent they can be. The more I allow myself to dwell into this ephemeral space, the more my stars get sucked into the addictive feeling of losing, and I watch apathetically as piece by piece, it flies away. I don’t even try to reach out for it. I don't have anything to lose, so why do I feel like I'm losing all these pieces of sunshine? Deteriorating, it drains my energy, and I am left feeling like I've lost something important, even though I'm only sitting here and thinking. It isn’t unpleasant…and it doesn't lift my spirits. Maybe I crave for this fleeting emotion because it is the only thing that allows me to really connect to my core. My center. It makes you think of the things that are beyond the furthest land your eyes can set upon, it makes you think you can do anything you want in the world, and the possibilities are endless-

Then you still find yourself sitting in the same position, and you think for a moment. Why aren't you doing anything about it then, if you think you can do so much? Why aren't you moving? Why do you remain stationary? Then mildly, like bubbles popping in the air in front of your face, you feel the micro-soaps on your cheeks and you close your eyes - ahh, I've lost something again. A chance. An opportunity to change. So you continue sitting there, contemplating about this…"fleetingness" and you find an attraction to this. To yearn for something you cannot reach and own. To watch something beautiful from afar disappearing as soon as the next set of thoughts come in.

You think about the first snow. How the flakes glides through the sky, and falls to the ground. You think of twilight, when the final rays of sun dies out and disappears from your sight - where did the time go? Today ends to make way for tomorrow. I think about the day which was about to end, and suddenly I feel nauseous. How could I leave the day immediately? Each days are never the same, and as pathetic as it sounds, my heart hurts because the day ends to make way for the new. To be put away. To be forgotten. We never write the same dates. Nothing is ever the same. Everything changes. I was offered an opportunity to change. And every time I thought I could take a step (a tiny, slight shuffle of a toe), this always stop me. The fleeting feeling. The sense of losing something. It strikes me and sends shivers throughout my body - I am in love with whatever this is. To be able to see the beauty in the evanescent.

Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry 3

5) Don’t you wish you can metamorphose into an animal or insect? Give me a context or motive or reason why you should. Describe your transformation in your own “La La Land” or what-have-you. Sweetie, it can be marvelous, hilarious, bittersweet, morbid —explore the possibilities in/of storytelling…

 Anything. I wish to be anything. An animal. An insect. Does it really matter? Anything but a human. There’s too much responsibilities. Too many to care about. Too much to think. There’s even systems that we have to follow. We get tired. Exhausted of living. If that isn’t a problem, then I don’t know what is. World, open your eyes, young adults are stressing out, we’re becoming more anxious and fidgety as each day goes by, and most of the time, we don’t even know what’s wrong, we don’t even know what to do, sO WE JUST SIT HERE AND LET THE DIRT BUILD UP AND OUR BODIES BECOME CONTAMINATED WITH OUR OWN INSULTS, SOON WE BECOME NUMB BECAUSE WE DON’T KNOW HOW TO FIX OURSELVES, WE ARE OUR OWN DESTRUCTION AND THAT IS WHY

I wish to be anything. An animal. An insect. Anything but a human.

The first thing that came into mind was a book. Or a smartphone. But they’re not living things, so the strings of animals and insects that I thought of was a ladybug, a bird, a lizard…but if it were to be a real wish, a wish that would come true, then I wish to be a cat.

Generic and typical, I know. I don’t even have the slightest affection for felines. I heard that cats are uninterested, unfazed most of the times, uncaring for their owners, yet cat lovers would always adore their paws and admire a cat’s eyes and the softness of their fur - I think…otherwise. I believe cats are sentient.

If I were to transform or resurrect into a cat for my next life, I would be a chubby, black or white furred cat, with eyes that seem to slice the skin of my owner, and I would never have sharp claws, because I don’t like having long nails. My transformation would happen in this sequence: During a breakdown, when I couldn’t handle my stress anymore, when I couldn’t handle living, when I wanted to cut myself out from breathing, all of a sudden, my world would blackout, and my body would flop, lifeless, onto the ground in a corridor of La Salle. When I woke up, I would notice that my eyes were closer to the floor. My face would feel the cool tile, and I’d try to touch my face, only to have a paw brush my furry cheeks.

“Why do I have a few single hairs on my cheeks?” I would wonder in a daze. I would try to sit up, only to feel a strange disposition in my body. I would look at my body and notice that I no longer look as I did. I have been placed by the gods of the universe into a room that belonged…to someone who’s the same age as I was, a student who didn’t like bright colours. I would have a home. An owner who cares for me. A little bed to sleep in. Honestly, the shock wouldn’t last, I would be glad to leave my human body behind.

I would crawl in a slow, boring manner, and not meow as much as cats do, because as a cat, I would observe my owner in silence, as she or he sits on his bed and reads a letter from an old lover. I would watch as a tear rolls down the cheeks of The Owner, and witness his hunching shoulders move as The Owner takes in air and breathes out, in an attempt to collect themselves again. The Owner would then remember that I was in the same room, and he would look at me. We would hold the eye contact for a moment, and then The Owner would say:

“What shall we do today?”

My eyes would close then open lazily, indicating: “I’ll do what you do.”

The Owner: “Hm…let’s eat then.”

And I would follow him to the kitchen and wait for a good meal of fish, mixed into cat food. I’m not a picky eater. The Owner would bless our food and we would silently munch into goodness in the most comfortable atmosphere; our worlds intertwined in mutual peace. Without cuddles, meowing, scratching, crying, bawling, shouting, like this, I become The Owner’s comfort. A cure to heavy hearts. A lift of the shoulders. The animal companion. A friend.

Signing out,

Christine Ang 

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry 2

5) Talk about a particular place and your dominant memories of it through sensory details (i.e. smells, sounds, sights, etc.).

As a child

I would go to the corridor before bed

I would turn the corridor light on

And turn off the light in my room

And I blindly walked to bed

Once tucked in, the quiet struggle began

I closed my eyes

Then an hour later, opened them

Only to find my sister in the room

Asleep

I listened for footsteps

Or a commentator from the TV

Maybe the clink of mugs

But the silence grew

And I acknowledged that the rest of my family

Have ended their day

As I supposedly have

But I opened the day again

and laid in bed

Stationary

Bored

Dying to sleep again

I would breathe in and hold it,

just to see if my heartbeat would slow down

I’d look at the surface of my blanket over my heart to see if it would tremble

Tremble

Slower

I’d stay awake for hours just doing that 

As I try to sleep

I could hear the sound of the water drops

dripping from the kitchen sink

Then I would imagine what we would do if

we were to wake up in the morning 

and discover a flooded kitchen

I worried

So I would get up

walk to the kitchen to the sink

only to see that the drops of water had gone down

into the drain

And everything was fine

And I still worried

I would tighten the tap

Just to make the drops drop more slower

Then shuffle myself back into bed

And lie down once more

A moment later I started thinking

I would listen to the dark

Alert

Keeping my eyes at the door

Opened ajar

To see if anyone would come in

To spot a glimpse of a spectre 

An excuse to get up again

and leave the strangling blanket

But nothing ever did happen

Many times

Many

Many times

I would think

Feel

that something was wrong

Again, I would sit up 

trying to figure out what it was

In vain

I would go to the corridor

And sit down in the middle

Contemplating whether or not I should wake my parents up

And tell them how I feel

Everytime I did that

The only words that would come out was

“I cannot sleep”

And the answer would always be the same

“Go back to bed”

 Silence

I reluctantly dragged myself to bed

I could feel

The covers pinning me down

suffocating me for whatever reason

I was merely a child

I did not know what I felt

But it scared me

So much 

that my ears strained for someone to come in

And sit by me

And soothe me with airless words

I would listen

to the sound of the wall clock in front of me

Tick

and tock

endlessly

I would sometimes sit up 

And look at it

Wishing it would stay silent

Maybe that is what I thought

The longer I stare at it

The quieter it would become

But the longer I sat up

The longer the endless scream of the hands

It would become

Louder

and louder

Until I gave up

I would lie down again

This time staring into the ceiling that I couldn’t see

Just thinking

How the dark was encompassing

Every time I succumbed into the numb

I would open my eyes

And look at the door 

Which stood ajar

To see if anyone would come in

To see if anything moved

But nothing ever did

And the cycle repeats

A few hours later

I would wake up to my alarm

and start my morning

As if nothing had happened

And everything was forgotten.

Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR

[theworksof21]

Journal Entry 1

Goodbye creation

I couldn't write what I intended to pour my thoughts on. Ideas would always appear and come by, sometimes in a flash, and sometimes gently, like putting your hand into your bag, and after rummaging for what you wanted, you pull it out slowly, so the pages will remain unbent, new and undented. These ideas would come in words, phrases or short sentences, usually in note form. Here are a few examples, if you still have no idea what I'm on about:

"there was a time when emotions are not privileged"

"Literature on its own, with respect to author interpretation, as fiction, as fact."

"Blessed are those who see through the eyes of their soul."

"There is no cure to thinking too much"

Every single time I get these little scraps and pieces of thoughts and fleeting moments in the air, I would note them down into my notebook, or furiously type whatever I could remember into my trusty smartphone, in fear that I would lose them forever, if I didn't. Little did I know, even if I did note them down, I had already lost these little treasures. Right now, I look back and read what I had written, they feel…unknown. Unfamiliar. Faraway. Like I have forgotten my own children. (That contradiction alone shakes me! These words and phrases that came from me like they are my own children, do not feel like they are from me when I see them again, and whenever I think about what my mind has done, the feeling of loss just overwhelms every fiber of my being, and it hurts me, deeply.) It's depressing and I still think about this because who would even dare to leave a book opened, who would start something and not finish it? Apparently, I am very much guilty of this. And of many things. I am a convict for not being able to keep with something once I started it. My hands are tainted with dead ink dipped in processed pulp and thrown pens, I'd like it if I closed my eyes, my wrongdoings could be erased, but alas, life itself is temporary - I can only close my eyes permanently when I am dead.

Signing out,

Christine Ang

FICTWOR