(Source: fuckyeahindieboys)

(via menstrends)

(Source: serialstranger, via toughtomato)

Hi there, apologies for the jarring start, and any unpleasant/discomforting mistakes along the way. The volume dynamics is possibly due to me moving about when I’m singing. I really can’t stand still.

Time and again, I have to remind myself to stop imagining the what-ifs and the could-haves, to stop reaching for objects beyond my grasp and to embrace all that I have, here and now. I don’t deny the efficacy of daydreams in transporting me to a world where everything went my way, and came to me accordingly, but the snap back to reality can be harsh, unsettling and upsetting. Because this is where I am. I am imperfect, the world I live in spins in proleptical ways beyond my knowledge and control. The only prudent act on my part is to appreciate the present and all that I have.

Today I spent my morning playing the piano and singing Skinny Love over and over again, tirelessly. The amazing elements of music are empathy and interpretation. I am no Justin Vernon (nor any other notable musician, for that matter), but after playing Skinny Love for a good two hours, I feel as though a part of my life was lived through the song, experiencing its every chord, major or minor, its progression from being hopeful to reprimanding, pleading to questioning. Come on, skinny love, what happened here? The lyrics resonated through me, like my very thoughts materialized in the works of another person. Words. Whispered. Cried out. Screamed. All words, phonetically the same, yet such varying levels of emotions can be attached to any one word.

I decided to go for a swim. While doing the laps, I thought of the play I had caught a while ago: an imagined meeting of Sigmund Freud and C.S. Lewis, and the religious discourse between the two. If God did watch upon humans, I think he (or she) would have preferred watching brilliant minds battle it out, rather than commoners engaged in mundane and often stupid banters. Freud’s oral cancer reminded me how in his book, The Interpretation of Dreams, he was looking down a lady’s wide tubular blood-red throat in a dream, and how it was rumored that Freud met up with an ‘Oxford chap’ which many believed to be J.R.R. Tolkien. What I’m trying to bring across is… these are noteworthy personalities remembered through the ages, and it makes me feel clichedly inadequate and insignificant in this scope of existence, because I’m certain I’m not going to be mentioned in any history books nor talked about with reverence.

I tried to continue reading House of Mirth by the pool, like how the Caucasians at the pool do it, but the weather was too unbearably blistering I only managed a chapter of it. So really, how do they manage it? Anyway I think any writer would want any reader to read their works in comfort, so would Edith Wharton. I feel terribly sorry for the fictitious Lily Bart because she would definitely survive very well in this day and age. I can only imagine how shackled the women must have felt in a patriarchal society back then. And then I think about how the rise of feminism and the freedom of speech has spawned many intellectually-deficient people, both men and women included, and I feel angered for Lily Bart because I strongly feel that stupidity should be contained, and only the intelligent ones should be given free reign to speak. I am not even talking about speaking marvelously good English, though one should know that a good grasp of language can buffet one’s credibility, but in any case it’s more than just knowing your grammar. I sometimes just wished I had the ability to read the minds of others and understand what makes them the way they are. Also, in this way, I can avoid social interaction and hence confrontation.

Summer is going good and I am fervently reading my many unread books, I have a pretty good job standing around, looking good in borrowed clothes and getting paid for it, a trip to Hong Kong coming up in July, and good, good friends I can count on.

I want more, but I am also contented now.

(Source: drunkonstevphen, via thegood-morrow)

1. I understand that in a relationship, one would want to be more involved with the significant half, but to be engaging yourself in topics of which you were never interested in before the relationship, to speak with such fervent opinion, is so self-degrading I can’t bear to watch you without feeling overwhelmed by your desire to feel included and accepted, and also your delusions.
2. Getting a degree in: psychology =/= you are a mind reader and a fine analyst (predictor, even) of human behaviour and thought, so no arguments there _|_ ; literature =/= you read texts better than the rest so you are totally qualified to monopolize the appreciation of books and fantasies about ~being of one mind with the author~ _|_ ; sociology =/= you have the clearest and unbiased view of society and in fact every aspect of it and everyone else is hoodwinked by various ideological sheen, so you are right in every discourse _|_
3. Lemon in my barley drink.

“Someway, baby, it’s part of me, apart from me.”

… and at once I knew I was not magnificent
Strayed above the highway aisle
Jagged vacant, thick without us
I could see for miles, miles, miles