You Don’t Always Have to be Okay


I should have just stayed home today.

I’m sitting at my desk, just scrolling through forums and looking at pretty pictures on photography sites. I don’t participate on my usual afternoon spree, because I am too tired to think of answers and all I want to do is close my eyes and sleep.

This morning, I woke up very happy because of some cotton-candy dream I’ve had, but my happiness dissipated quickly when I stepped inside the bathroom for my morning shower. There, on my inner thigh, was a constellation of pinprick bruises, looking for all the world like pretty red freckles.

Reality came rushing up like a riptide and I suddenly couldn’t breathe.

I ran to the mirror and checked every inch of my body. There was a faint sprinkling of the tiny bruises on my chest, on my lower back, and on my arms. And if that wasn’t enough, I finally gave up and let myself feel the aching in my joints and the slight-but-always-there nausea that has been beating down my defenses for weeks now.

The world felt like it was dark and screaming but I refuse to let it get me down. I tried putting on a brave face, but in the back of my mind, images of syringes and dark blood running through tubes and pristine white hospital rooms ran like a looped slideshow.

I don’t like crying. For me, tears are tools for persuasion, props that you can use whenever you need to get out of tight spots. That means that I can’t cry too much, because doing so would risk my cover getting blown. But right now I feel so lost and hopeless and I admitted to myself that I don’t always have to be okay.

I remember reading that when life pulls you down like this, you can react in three ways. Let’s say your troubles are like boiling water. You can start out soft like an egg and come out hard-boiled. You can start out tough like a carrot and end up in a pulpy mess. Or you can be like tea, loose-leafed and bitter, but when introduced to boiling water it blends in and makes things better.

I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t buy that crap. I choose to dig in with my heels and hang on with my teeth and refuse to let the bastard (i.e. life) grind me down and change me.

As far as I’m concerned, this is just one of those practical jokes that life seems to love playing on us. So I am going to laugh this off, forget about it, and continue to live out my short life to the fullest. I don’t always have to pretend that I’m okay, but I sure as hell am going to try to make the best out of this mess I’m in.

I can’t deny that I’m scared of what might happen, but isn’t that the point of living? Pain, experience and failures all help in molding us into what we’re meant to be. From failures we learn, and by learning we grow.

And, well…I can’t wait to see what happens next. 🙂


I’m Running Out of Time

Hey, you.

Yes, you. Come over here.

Now listen carefully, because you see – I’m running out of time.

Don’t you laugh at me and ruffle my hair like I’m kidding. I am serious as death right now.

I’m sorry. I thought I’d have more time because things were going along brilliantly and I was feeling so happy. I even started sleeping at night again. I felt absolutely wonderful.

But then I started waking up with the bruises and the nose bleeds, and I know that something’s not right.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to die. Not by a long shot. Only good people die young, anyway. So yes, you won’t be entirely rid of me, but I won’t be here anymore anyway.

I just wanted to tell you that it’s been great, this thing we’ve had, but it’s time for it to be over. It’s been doomed from the start anyway. You’re too good, too kind, too awesome…and I’m not. I am the opposite of everything that you are.

Don’t say anything. I know, I know what you’ve been thinking and I know what I’ve been reading between the lines. You like me, and it’s horrible of me to cut you down this way, but I can’t bring myself to say it in person.

If it’s any consolation, I feel the same way about you. It’s just…it’s not meant to be, okay? Some things, no matter how wonderful they are or how right they feel, are not meant to happen.

I am leaving, and in a sense I am saving you from being involved with me.

Now I need you to do a few things for me.

First, I want you to be free. Don’t spend any more of your time thinking about me, because you deserve all the good things in life, and I’m not one of them.

Secondly, I want you to be happy. Live, laugh, love. You are worthy of only the most joyous experiences, of the most marvellous people. Don’t let my memory hold you back.

And third, give me your blessing. If, in the future, we happen to meet again, I want it to be delightful reunion. I don’t want us to awkwardly turn away, pretending we didn’t see each other. I don’t want anxiety and dread. I would want us to be happy to see each other again. Please, at least grant me that.

I’m doing this because you’ve told me about all you want to do in life, all the things you plan to accomplish, and I want you to do all of them. Right now you’re spending too much time on me – which is flattering, but is doing nothing good to you at all. I’m trying to help you.

Lastly, please be okay. Whatever happens in life, now and in the future, I will always, always want you to be fine.

It was absolutely wonderful getting to know you. But now I have to go.


I’m Not a Real Writer

dsc_0017_副本Yes. I confess. I’m not a real writer.

This does not, however, mean that I plagiarise.

I say I’m not a ‘real’ writer in the sense that I’m not very good at all. I can spin pretty tales out of words sometimes, but after the initial blindness resulting from the dazzles and sparkles, you can blow on them and they will darken and crumble, just like dust, just the like the ashes they really are.

I like to fancy myself as a writer, but I know none of it is real. In my mind, it sounds wonderful. In my mind, I imagine myself making razor-thin scratches on great blank pages, watching ink blots splatter and smear as my words bleed on the paper.

I imagine making people laugh, cry, think.

I imagine too much.

It’s not like that, not at all.

Instead it’s a race against time, typing or writing the torrent of thoughts so fast that my fingers are cramped afterwards. It’s feeling empty, so drained that one little flick of the thumb could send me spiralling away.

I’m not a real writer because I actually hate writing.

I just write because I have no other way of getting the voices out of my head. If I don’t grab a pen or pull the keyboard towards me, the words and thoughts will build up and I will feel like drowning, suffocating beneath the tide of my own imagination.

It’s a pity that my words are never creative enough, never beautiful enough. It’s a pity that after I write I don’t even read them again, not even to edit.

It’s a pity that…oh, who cares.

I’m not a real writer because I suck.