Hardboiled Wonderland

I’m staring at my birth certificate and it says i was born at 0413
strange feeling, isn’t it, knowing the exact time on the clock when you were embraced into this world. birthdays have always been an odd thing to have. that one day in a year that we recognize to be ours that combination of numbers that you cherish and identify with. we accept gifts and we expect blessings but what for? a reminder that we were once a complete nothingness? i remember watching the Pixar movie Brave last summer and not liking it. however, there was this one scene with Merida sneaking out early in the morning and taking a good care of her horse to go to the forest. the color of the sky in that scene resembled my favorite hours of the day a time when the world is so quiet that you can seem to say anything and nobody would care, in the best way possible. 0413 is one of those times. i’m glad that i was born into a time that i enjoy being awake for. even though after multiple times of traveling my sense of time has lost to its most original meaning. birth certificate itself just sounds redundant, a validation of your birth, while you’re looking at it with your blood and flesh (and pupil). official documents my ass.

in the middle of the night lights are out in your mind and you let the darkness lead your conscience to where i stay
your eyes gleam under the plastic stars while trying to explain to me where they each belong and i thought your lesson was cute and useless because when will you ever take me above and beyond anyway
you told me not to be silly but the lights in your eyes were not there to assure anything anymore

today i was in port authority for two hours waiting for evan and i stayed at au bon pain and got a rip-off croissant and an even more rip-off bowl of soup so completely not worth it so out of frustration i wrote this piece of crap context matters

I wish I can google a smell and smell it

I’m reading the word lavender thinking about the color and the long shape of it.  I’m thinking about that night under the street light when the smell of flowers stopped us from walking on and we sprinkled petals in each other’s hair but it took him a long time to do mine because my hair was too smooth, he kept on saying. I’m thinking about how my hands always have each other’s company when I’m nervous they’re either twirling or giving each other massages or killing the nails off. And with that source of street light he created a movie poster with me and my three suitcases telling a story that only he would know now. When we decided to keep on walking he asked me if those flowers were lavender as if I’m an expert on flowers and I said no because even though I don’t know shit about flowers I have always identified with lavenders partly because it’s also my favorite color partly because I recognize them from my tea and the way they form a field on my favorite family trip and how it’s one of my favorite names for a girl too. But I can’t remember how it smells like. Once in a while I go back to that bush at night with that street light showing how lonely the corner is and I try not to smell the flowers so I won’t have to keep on thinking about shit like time and what ifs. If we’re able to google smells we can probably store smells too. With more personal entries that give specifics like the smell of my blanket after mom washes it on a sunday afternoon in spring time or the smell of shaved ice after our Saturday swimming practices or the smell of my dad after work after two bottles of beer and one satisfying dinner but that’s stupid that’ll probably cost a shit load of pain.

This summer I got an apartment with the money that is half of the price of going home when I’m going home anyway I’m trying to feel what it’s like to be on my own and one of the most effective ways to do that is to take care of myself like going grocery shopping cooking doing the dishes and all that simple stuff but yesterday I went to Trader Joe’s and got 3 boxes of tomatoes and they suck they taste rotten and nasty and I I’m mad at the tomatoes and at the same time mad that I can’t fucking take care of myself man, fuck.

吳庭輝：好爽喔耶
跟你說喔
我有時候都會沒有內褲穿
然後就穿三天
因為我懶得去洗

郭儀凡：幹
跟我說這幹嘛

I feel like a wordwhore sometimes i don’t allow myself to sleep until I’ve written something and it’ll all be seemingly thoughtful and as if i know wtf i’m saying but they’re really just compositions of words going off of one little genuine thought and the rest feelings that i expect myself to have but really who am i kidding with these negligence of proper ways to talk they say magicians should never reveal their tricks but that only applies if you’ve ever fooled anyone

When I go to sleep the other side of the world wakes up. My house, my room, my desk, my lamp, my mom, my dad, my brother, my school, my trees on the street and the rest that I’ve claimed are mine but have never belonged to anything but themselves. When I was little, my mom would send me to darkness with her stories of another culture and songs of another language. In high school I would say goodnight to her before making my bedsheets rust against each other and the sound of my unsettled tip toes rest, then be as quiet as possible and stay up to the lights of screens and sounds of a foreign land that I would later on call home. On some nights I would sneak out and thought every step I took could wake up a curious baby but once I closed the door behind me she could only worry about the me in her sleep. Lies don’t count as lies then and desires turn into mere impulses that would be sealed and kept as the sun sink deeper and deeper into the lake that our faces would shine of halo and nothing we’re familiar with. 

And lately when nighttime comes I think about speaking in my mother tongue under a bright wet sun when I go to sleep the other side of the world wakes up and I never feel like I belong to where I am at while the other side of the world is weightless with real concerns but filled with dreams.