John asked me, “Why? Why do you write these things and post them, when it clearly shows that you’re not over things?”.

I told him I’d rather post them now than in a year from now, because they have to come out sooner or later. This has always been necessary, even if it’s a little embarrassing at times, and I’ve never cared who reads, and who judges me. It’s my catharsis, my way of dealing with what can’t be changed. Sometimes, people find relief in knowing they’re not alone in having painful emotions, in making mistakes, or experiencing unrequited love. I don’t write for them, but if they can take something away from my words, then it helps me know I’m not alone as well.

Sometimes, I write these entries in my head over several days, but when it comes to getting them on the screen, I can’t. Not because I don’t feel like it, but because the words come out with such difficulty.

So I sit in my room with the lights off, hoping for something to give me courage, something to move my mute fingers.

Instead, I procrastinate. I buy myself time by playing a game on my iPhone, or surfing the net. It’s like I’m stalling, I’m building up for a moment that’s no more important than any other, like a nervous schoolboy trying to ask his crush to the prom; picking up the phone, dialing a number, and hanging up again.

Maybe if I bury it after a bunch of inconsequential thoughts — like how it’s hard for me to write about something — then people will get bored and won’t bother reading the rest. I try to convince myself that everything will be forgotten much quicker than it took for me to write this. Nothing works, when all I’m trying to say is that every time I listen to Letter Read by Rachael Yamagata, I imagine she’s listening to the same thing at the same time.

So sometimes, you just have to say fuck it and write it anyway, even if you’re afraid and you can’t breathe, and put it out of your head that you’re left vulnerable, that anyone could read it, that people know something that you probably shouldn’t share, that you’re still thinking about her when everyone is telling you not to, because none of it matters when it’s the truth, and telling the truth is what makes you you.

Pat and Jen bought me this feather fountain pen set from their honeymoon to Europe. It comes from an Italian sculpture store, Fabris Giuliana in Venice, Italy.

The nib is super fine; I don’t think I’ve ever owned a fountain pen with such a small nib, which is perfect, because I tend to have small handwriting. You can’t even tell which direction the stroke is going. So far it writes a little rough and scratchy, but with enough use, the nib will break in to my writing style.

I’ve always enjoyed writing. Not just the concept of putting ideas into more a tangible medium, but the act of writing itself, whether it’s on a keyboard by night, or flowing lines on a sheet of paper.

A reader recently sent me an e-mail. This was the last paragraph:

Lastly and please don’t take this as being bold, I want to keep reading and one day read that you are nothing but happy and fulfilled. I would never post a comment because I am too shy and also pretty prone to being embarrassed by people who are cooler than me (and I consider people who blog as people who are cooler then me), but many times when I read your entries I feel like I am watching a protagonist in a favourite movie or re-reading Siddhartha. Does that make any sense to you? I’m cheering you on and I’m in your corner.

It made me wonder: if she wants to read that I’m happy one day, does that mean that I’m not happy now? It forced the realization in me that the answer is no. Obviously no. Life isn’t great. But do I only write about the bad stuff? I’ve always believed that you have to suffer to create. I’m one of those, so maybe this is the case. I imagine it’s the opposite with my Tai Chi or table tennis partners, who must think my life is perfect, because of how happy I am when I’m doing those activities.

It also made me wonder how much of myself is revealed here. Someone once told me that she sees two different sides of me: one who is serious and intimidating from the things I write, and another who is easy-going and relaxed over the phone.

So what comes through in my words? Certainly not everything. But it’s the same as anything else, because it’s hard to get a total picture of someone, unless, perhaps, you spend an appropriately uncomfortable amount of time with them.

The about section of my site has always remained somewhat spartan. Even though blogging gurus say you should have a blurb about yourself so your audience can “identify” with you, it’s always seemed pointless to me.

I’ve never been one to describe myself. I prefer to let my writings be my description, especially since I’m evolving all the time, and it’s reflected even more in the changes to my writing style. In English class, you learn “say, don’t tell”. So instead of writing, “Tim was scared”, write something like “Tim’s forehead tightened as a bead of sweat fell across his trembling face”.

I also tend to write without explaining things. Like the fact that Dolly is my cat (although I don’t think many people are named Dolores nowadays), or that John is my best friend. Entries are a stream of thought, instead of stopping to make sure that new readers are caught up. That means anyone who follows me here is jumping right into my life. Sure, it’s probably hard to follow without all the context — like trying to watch 24 by starting in the middle of a season — but I’d rather assume that people already know what’s going on.

It doesn’t make me very accessible, but the things I say probably aren’t that accessible to begin with.

I admit that I not only save other people’s posts, but entire blogs.

Sometimes, there are entries I like to read over again. Other times, I just like to be reminded of how right I was. But more often than not, it’s the ephemeral nature of blogs in general, combined with the fickle nature of adolescent writers still trying to “define themselves” on a free medium, that gives me the itch to save. So many writers I used to follow have changed domain names, started protecting their entries, or deleted their blogs.

Some things are garbage and should be forgotten or thrown away — but some things deserve to be kept too. Word-for-word, exactly the way it was spoken, because that’s the way it was expressed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point-of-view, our words do last. Just because they aren’t there anymore, doesn’t mean they were never spoken.

There are consequences to the things we write, whether we want them or not.

There’s so much to say, and not enough time to write. It’s obvious that I haven’t been sticking to any kind of posting schedule lately. The benefit is that I don’t feel the pressure of having to write something every day, the drawback being the fact that things I want to get down are often lost. When I do get a chance to write, it’s like I’m perpetually writing about thoughts, feelings, and events that are a month old.

I used to write my thoughts quite often. Things I had to figure out or get off my chest. Now, it’s mostly things that happen in my daily life, and something random here and there. It’s like I’m moving beyond my confused adolescence into some sort of reflective dotage.

The entries from the first year were written with so much more frequency — roughly three times a day. Then that changed to once a day, then every other day. A few times, I tried to write less frequently, without a set schedule, but that never really worked. The writing itch was always there. At one point I took a month-long hiatus.

Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.

The thing I particularly miss are the entries written late at night. Spilling my soul out in words, with the music, the sky, and the empty streets guiding me. As tired as I would be (I swear, sometimes it was the exhaustion that brought it out in me), I always went to bed after feeling satisfied.

Now, I’m not sure what this all is.

I have 106 unpublished drafts in my database.

Things I don’t feel like saying. Parts of myself I’m not ready to reveal.

The written word has always been my medium of choice. Photography is only an extension of that, when I need to express myself better than words can let me, and video goes one step further.

Aside from picking up a useful word here and there, I’ve never made a conscious effort to improve my writing. The things I say are taken from my memories, experiences, and thoughts. How I say it is inspired by snippets of Nabokov (when I’m feeling lyrical or verbose), Cohen (when I’m feeling sad or romantic), Herbert (when I’m feeling dry), or Irving (when I’m feeling quirky or honest). The only way I’ve been able to gain any semblance of a writer is by mimicking to the best of my ability the lyrical styles I enjoy the most.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever stop. Writing is often a need, not a want. I do it when I’m feeling restless, when I have something to say, when things are unsettled, when I have things to figure out. And the case most often is that life is filled with these moments. Perhaps if I ever find some sort of permanent serenity, I’ll be able to stop.

But I probably wouldn’t want to.

Last class, Mike asked how I was doing, and as a somewhat phatic response, I told him I was doing well.

He told me, with a chuckle, that if he didn’t know me any better and went only by my writings, he would imagine me to be like Joe Btfsplk, with a perpetual rain cloud above my head.

So I went home and read through the last couple pages of my entries, and found that they painted a somewhat lugubrious picture.

I’ve always contended that happiness is too hard to write. When I feel like expressing myself, it’s often because of a problem of some sort, internal or external, that I need to figure out. Writing has always been a way for me to get my thoughts in line, and off my chest. Not much of a peaceful, detached, care-free Taoist, am I?

The funny thing is that my life has improved tremendously after therapy. I used to be a very dark person. After gaining the stability of a house and a career, along with separation from my mother, not much else has changed. I’ve come to realize that it’s not so much the things in my life that’s improved in the last few years (aside from the struggle with anxiety), as my attitude. To be honest, I have nothing to complain about.

That doesn’t change the fact that my entries have been somewhat depressing.

Perhaps I’m still not truly happy yet.

Or perhaps I’m still not looking at things the right way.

biting keeps your words at bay
tending to the sores that stay
happiness is just a gash away
when i open a familiar scar
pain goes shooting like a star
comfort hasn’t failed to follow so far

and you might say it’s self-indulgent
and you might say it’s self-destructive
but, you see, it’s more productive
than if i were to be happy

—The Dresden Dolls, Bad Habit

I was jittery and nervous all day.

Several new developments have left me with a lack of resolution. People to meet, presents to give, pictures to take, responsibilities to fulfill. And as much as I try not to think about it, it’s in my nature to do so.

I still haven’t gotten passed this feeling. Still don’t know if I want to. Still don’t even know what it is. All I know is that it’s making me manic.

I can only write this at night. When I’m falling asleep and off my guard, sitting on my chaise, with the curtains drawn and the window open to the winter air.

Now I feel like writing, but I don’t even know what to say. Everything’s too jumbled for me to decide whether I’m happy or sad. Maybe it’s both, maybe it’s one because of the other. Life, at the moment, is so bittersweet.

Wonderfully bittersweet, that’s what it is.

Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?
Should’ve known this was the kind of place
That that sort of thing just wasn’t allowed
…
And look at me now up here running my mouth
I just open it up and see what comes running out

Well here it comes…

Like I give a fuck, like I give a shit about that fuck
Like I give a fuck, like I give a shit about that fuck
Like I give a fuck about that motherfucking shit
Like I give a fuck
Like I give a fuck
LIKE I GIVE A FUCK
LIKE I GIVE A SHIT
LIKE I GIVE A FUCK

—!!!, Pardon My Freedom

This is me without boundaries.

This is the truth. My truth. My honesty in it’s purest form, including my opinion and bias.

Often, there are things said that people don’t want to hear, or don’t want to know. I never apologize for what I say because my opinions are never forced on others. No one has to come here and read what I say.

There are two rules: I never say anything here that I can’t say to someone’s face, and I never give away someone else’s private information.¹

Other than that, I’ll never censor myself for the sake of others.

1. “Private” is to my discretion, of course. [↑]

I’m most productive on Saturday nights. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I’ve been doing nothing all day and I’m feeling guilty. I’ve never been one to work on Saturday afternoons, which were made for relaxation.

The nights are different though. It’s when I can concentrate on my writing. I’m tired. My guard is down.

The week comes pouring out.

This was written from the heart

With my back against the wall, I sit on the ground next to my back door, opening it to let the breeze drift in. Sometimes I turn my head to look outside and smell the night air. It’s cool, no matter the time of year. The street lamps are soft, and they bathe my back porch in warm light.

One can’t help but feel influenced by such serenity.

This was written out of order

I’ve become a slave to this blog. After some self-evaluation, I’ve come to realize that everything is inspired but forced. Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, no more.

It’s time to start writing when I want.

I used to fancy myself a poet. Then I read a series of poems by Susan Musgrave and realized how naïve I was to believe such a thing. So I stuck with writing, and fancied myself a writer, until I read Aurora’s words, mysterious and resonating, still bitter from the breakup in January.

A while ago, it felt like I ran out of things to say. Now I realize that it’s not a lack of subject matter, but a lack of conviction.

Even as recent as January, Dave Seah, prolific creator of the Printable CEO, Procrastinator’s Clock, and fellow 9ruler, said that I wrote with “literate-yet-conversational intensity, the kind of writing that sounds good when spoken aloud”. Now my entries are dry and technical, devoid of the intensity I used to feel, and I fear that it’s a reflection of myself.

Maybe this is why I’m so quick to embrace my moods and emotions. They let me write the way I used to, with the lyrical quality and style I once enjoyed.

So I sit here, with the lights out and Leonard Cohen on, the early folk stuff before he went synth in the 80s, songs of love and hate, windows open to the night, trying to recapture the passion that drove me to write when I started this blog.

I’m not a writer. I can’t write.

I’m simply a thinker, with the need to express himself.

On the 25th of September, at 11:04 am, my mom Googled my e-mail address, and found this blog.

She visits every day like clockwork; around 8:30 am when she gets into work, and sometimes during lunch around 12:30 pm. Even though I told her never to contact me again, she continues to check on me.

It’s something I’ve known for a while now.

The existence of this website was a secret I kept from my parents for as long as I could. I felt like I owed it to them to overlook my childhood memories because they stayed together for my sake, so I never wanted them to know this seemingly unreconciled side of me. When they told me they were getting divorced, I wrote an entry (that’s never been published) about how I stopped caring. It was their turn to start caring about me.

Of course, this was only true in theory.

To be honest, I was devastated. Bronwen likened it to her mom finding her diary under her bed, and I tend to agree with the analogy.

Chinese kids don’t talk to their parents about much. Even after being out of touch for a long time, parents will only ask whether they have enough money, whether they’re eating enough, and how their marks are in school, if applicable.

Some were surprised that my mom would continue reading my blog, believing the things I say would be too painful for her to read. It makes sense though. This is the only way she can stay close to me.

So I have to ignore the entries in my server logs that constantly remind me of her presence. I can’t let it affect the only place where I can write unrestricted. I just have to let go, and continue writing. Damn the consequence, as someone once said. There’s nothing else I can do. After all, this is a public journal. I have no right to complain about who comes here.

When you let go, you can write about anything.