denn ich werde immer finden Sie

Do you remember why and how you started writing? That of course, I'm being presumptuous thinking that just because you read, it automatically makes you a writer. Feel free to correct me.

I remembered the very first time I started writing fictions, I was 17 and I imagined myself then to be absolutely angry and hysterical and off-kilter for the most parts. I guess I was looking for a reason to carry on. I was stubborn then but I also remembered how terrified I was. I wanted to change the world, well, my world anyway, the little sometimes insignificant bubble I live in. I'm not sure if I did that but I don't think I've ever really given up on writing completely. I may have my share of what I call 'a blank period' where spelling my name is as far as I wanna go in writing. I still have those periods. A hiatus or perhaps an opportunity for me to fill up the empty spaces in my brain so I could start writing again.

Writing to me, was a manner of self-reflecting and rediscovery and reliving certain parts of my life. I wanted to relive the past. So much so that I'm suffering from some kind of amnesia. My memories are shattered, segmented in illogical snippets. I could no longer make sense of my life. I imagine 20-odd years of my life have been so repressed that looking at it now, it just looks to me like scattered petals on a body of ocean. Just floating and going whichever direction the tide ushers them in.

Through writing, whether they are real or fiction, I am revisiting the things I've done and talked about, the foods I've ate, the room, the bed, the person I've slept in and with, the road I've taken to go to school and return from...everything that I have lived and forgotten. I am reinventing these memories.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm making things up. Maybe it's not real. Maybe I wanted it to be real. Maybe it was just an ordinary day but I painted it red. Maybe she wasn't dead.

Acute sensual experiences that form memories are some of the strongest triggers for the greatest literary works. Turns out, creativity and imagination really do not have limitations, except for the lack of a writing instrument just when something hits you. I believe in that. I believe that most writers, if not all, started their first word or sentence with circumstances they have personally lived through or wanted to live through. Fictions are sort of a mirror that apart from reflecting uncomfortable truths, it throws in a pinch of imagination and spin that made you wonder if the things you have written from experiences and life can be further manipulated.

Perhaps all fictions began as an autobiography and muddled with resistance and hopes and expectations. The people you have met in your life, ever so opinionated whether they are conscious of it or not, are like road signs. They tell you where to go and it's up to you to rationalise it. I've met a handful and while sometimes I wish they would just simply shut their mouths, they actually become the reason why I rebel against myself. Although, how that turns out is up to you.

When I write, I prolong a certain part of my life, one that is usually acutely missing. It helps me deal with everyday stuff without feeling that I would fail. Right now, all I remembered are the times I've spent with Tara. It may sound absurd but it's true. Unconsciously, I may have blocked out the rest of everything and as far as I am concerned, I had no problem with that. I shall continue to live life as it is. I may of course also be wrong for perpetuating what seems to be an unhealthy obsession. But I can't care now. I am fine.

In my fictions, Tara never had to die and even if she had, I'll bring her back. I am God, I am Fate, I am that turn around the corner where the switch of your life flicks and changes forever. Most importantly, I am Faith. Who knows, maybe one of these rain-drenched days, I'll see her turn a corner on the streets and find myself drawn to her once again.

I am who I want to be because I can be. I have never quite live life on anyone's terms. Don't think I'm gonna start anytime soon. However, I am rethinking about this project I've been toying with for the longest time. I will reintroduce the characters, based them on believable human natures that will resonate with people who read about them. I will reinvent circumstances and decorations, the turns around the corners, so to speak. I will completely abandon myself and find myself again in the lives of my characters and story.

I will die and be reborn.

denn ich werde immer finden Sie.

I think I've said this before.

I think I'm walking on a familiar route back home.
I said it once then, and I'll say it again.

When you need to fall completely apart, I am where you break, I am where you land
like raindrops on pavements, like an intoxicated outburst
I wanna see you crumble and break down
I wanna see you tore apart
I wanna hear you cry for real
Stop putting up a front, a struggle
It's useless in this light, this time of day.

If I may again, repeat what I've said before, I wouldn't mind
I would love to be drenched in your contradictions
But I can't anymore.
I needed an answer, an answer for your foolishness, selfishness and arrogance.

I will keep my piece, as you would yours.
I will not say a word because I know I wouldn't have to.

Looking at you, I am convulsed with disgust
Looking past you, I realised that I'm still me, and you, you.
And I have no rights.

I can't just be your friend.
I am more than that. Hell, I deserve more than that.
But I'm past that.

Yes, over the years, I may have said this before.

I woke up one Sunday morning with an intense but not unwarranted craving for hotcakes. Half the time, I wake up wanting hotcakes and most of the time, I wouldn't have a clue why. But I guess if I have to ask myself, I always had the answer.

The particular hotcake you're staring at right now at your left corner is one of the rare moments that I actually made it to breakfast and it wasn't because someone pointed a gun to my face. I sat at the edge of my bed for a while, and brushed my teeth and changed and put on my favorite sneakers and head out.

Walking on the streets, I kept forgetting not everyone is as susceptible to blue hair and half-finished tattoos like someone with blue hair and half-finished tattoos would be. So, with much scrutinizing aside, I made my way to McDonalds and ordered myself a Breakfast Deluxe. The good people missed out on my hotcakes on the first try but they got it. I found a seat by the window because I love a seat by the window where the beams of sunshine pour in and if it was pouring heavily outside, I get first class seating to a rain-splattering orchestra. As I eat, I realized how much I have taken having company for granted. I miss how it's all very mundane and romantic yet so difficult to achieve. In a different format, it was on a glass table, in a warm kitchen.

I would wake up to the sweet scent of butter melting on a hot skillet and then cooked batter and honey. I would walk in to see a bottle of whipped cream and fresh strawberries and blueberries and "unbruised OJ" as she liked to call it. Personally, I have never heard of bruised juice but if she insist, then make me a true believer. I stared at the bottle of whipped cream and I burst into laughter. "What?" "Nothing." I said, trying to stifle another laughter. "Ok, I know what that head of yours is thinking about." "Oh, I'm sure you do." I whispered under my breath as I placed a kiss on the back of her head, taking in a generous whiff of her vanilla shampoo. "Hmm, I love how you smell after a shower..." I pulled the chair out and sat down. "Funny shapes are fine, sweetie,"

"What are you reading?" "Just a book about writing. It talks about how one shapes and enriches one's life with the choices he or she makes. The choices are essentially endless and with every direction one makes, each corner he/she should turn, it's a different outcome. This is true for life too, like how I turn a corner at the bookstore and I met you." "Interesting read and coffee, never forget coffee, oh and honey, reading at the breakfast table...not so good." "All right, I'm putting it away." "That's my girl." "So what else do I get for being a good girl?" "You mean, breakfast's not enough?" "Well, I just think it would be a huge pity to let that can of whipped cream go to waste. I bet there are a few shots left in there. And you of all people would agree we shouldn't waste food." She let out a soft sigh. "What do you have in mind?"

Turns out, it has nothing to do with hotcakes.

八年了，想念的人事物真的很多。最想念的一些事情却是很平常，很微妙的细节或习惯。例如能和你躺在同一张床入眠、起床。每天张开或合上眼看到的人是你。喜欢在早上试图把爱耍赖，赖床的我吻醒的你。和你一起用餐，分享一整天下来的心情。在大街上一起大方牵手甚至接吻。在上最沉闷的数字课时傻笑，反复写着你的名字 (幸好没有被老师捉到!) 偶尔被大雨淋湿而乘机把你也拉进冲凉房，等等等… 我想我怀念的是能把自己心爱的人紧紧拥在怀里的那份完整吧。

上个月，好朋友恋爱了。我就像个电灯炮一样和她们一块儿“约会”。我知道她们是不想我成天一个人躲在家里胡思乱想。我很感激她们这么做但就是和她们相处久了才会更想你。 最近身边的朋友们恋爱的恋爱，结婚的结婚，生子的生子。在生活上都起了不少的变化。虽然谈恋爱有谈恋爱的苦，结婚也不代表一辈子的幸福但是我还是不禁地感动，羡慕起来。我真心希望你们都能幸福快乐，不要把一些琐碎的事情当成是理所当然的。这世上虽没有所谓的永远但只要好好珍惜过的感情，人或事就不会消失。

现在的我偶尔还是喜欢停下脚步，天真地以为这样你就能够在人群中找到我，抱紧我，从此以后再也不松手。这种失望算不算一种安慰？以前谈恋爱的我似乎就像个打不死的勇敢超人。只要有你在，什么我都能应付，什么都能看得开。现在没有你，我更必须学会坚强快乐。但我真的不知道该怎么做才好。

现在的我似乎认定了这辈子就是这样过。一个人也应该有一个人快乐的方式吧？

So yeah.

Please don't tell me I'm strong, cause then I'll have to be strong. And I'm nothing like that. I am irresponsible, irrational, very selfish and stupid and doing nothing to better my god damn life. I have however just caught a movie and went out with a cool dude. I've known him what, 5 years now? I love him to bits. He would make a wonderful husband. Maybe not a boyfriend, but a wonderful, wonderful man he is. Maybe even a father. So, here's to you, Drew. It was a great movie and you were great! And yes, I'm not eating Magmum ice cream again.

Yesterday was well, on many levels, unbelievable but sort of predictable. I knew me for my stupidity and my irrationality and romance, none of which works in reality. I know me very well. And while I have no intention to hurt or freak anyone out which I seem to do so fucking well, I have and I'm terribly sorry. I was an idiot who didn't even possess half a teaspoon of brain in my fucking head. All I had was my heart.

All my life, I have been living on everyone else's double standards. What to say or do, who to emulate and please, who to patronise with a smile, and even who to hate and throw daggers at. How I should lead my life, how I should just forget about the nightmares that have plagued me for the last decade, how I should take up god damn driving because, man, it will benefit me greatly. How I should let go of the past and not hold on, especially when my palms and knuckles bleed. It's nothing like they painted me. When Tara died, I died. I cease to exist. It may sound awfully pathetic and it probably is but this is the sad truth. I will not love anything or anyone more than I love Tara. And she is or was the only thing in this god damn life that can ever hurt me. And it's the only thing I see now, the only thing I feel that reminded me at all of her. And I don't wanna feel like that. I don't wanna only feel the bleeding of her death. God damn it! My shirt is still stained. I want a new shirt. I want a new perspective. I want to not cry anymore. I want to not have my heart break every time I offer it up with both hands. I want a lot of things, a lot of things that only I have the power to achieve.

And I'm keeping it shut now. No more stupid crushes or feelings for strangers, no more hopes and expectations. No more waiting because it's the same fucking ending anyway. No more treating anyone with any respect because sometimes, they really do not deserve it. No more broadcasting what I feel or wearing my heart on my sleeve for the world to see. No more wallowing in self-pity. No more holding on to broken promises that no one cares to keep. No, my life won't be put on halt like this.

So...I've been thinking. I have to mirco-manage my life's schedule. I'll chase dreams I've put on hold for the last 10 years. I'll pick up sign language and German because it was a promise I made to Tara. I'll get a motorcycle license. I can fucking die on the fucking road for all I fucking care. I'll make a trip to Greece because, really, it's about fucking time I quit this procrastination and get on with it. I'll then maybe finish my writing projects and see where that take me. First, I have to discuss with my boss the possibility of switching to a part-time position. I really hope she agrees. God knows, I can't fucking function before 11 am in the morning. Besides, copywriting is really nothing I wanna make a career out of. I'll pick up roller-blading again because if you think about it, way more convenient and portable than a bicycle and the instances of theft is greatly minimised. I'm considering taking up boxing and/or kick-boxing if I ever wanna shed 10 kg off my hugh ass body. I'll save up so I can travel at least once every or half a year. I'll finish my 3/4 sleeve tattoo and more while I'm doing all of the above mentioned. It's gonna be a fucking rock concert!

So yeah.

"?driew s'tahw wonk ouY"
".driew era slaicremmoc esenapaJ"
"seY. dnA osla, emos fo eht srats er'ew gnikool ta t'nod neve tsixe eromyna. dnA eht emit ti sekat rof rieht thgil ot hcaer su, ev'yhet deid. .fooP"

Stars. A clutter of beautiful mess.

The air we breathe in each day is suffused with everyone's emotions, unspoken words and thoughts. If I could share a kiss with you, I may just be able to know what you feel, and the words you never said. We'll be soulmates. And I'll fall in love with you everyday. I'll read your mind and love you when you least deserve it. I'll bite down softly on your lips to finish your sentences. I'll trace your name on my skin so my fingers wouldn't forget exactly how you feel. A long drawn out sigh conveys a lot more than you can bear to understand and while I am not here to be compared. Silly dear, I'm not staring into space. I am reading your broken dreams, your joy and unspoken ideas hanging in the air.

What am I thinking right this minute, you ask, I am thinking about you, of you. I am deciphering you one molecule at a time. Tearing you apart and meshing you up so I could match you with my still beating heart. You can look away.

You deserve so much more. You deserve to be free and to find love and pursue passions that would put his dreams to shame. And one of these days, you will put two to two and realize why you left in the first place. The invisible words that are floating around, lingering like old souls, I will capture them and put it on paper. I am staring at you now.

I can't help it if you're blinding like the light that warm my wounded heart. I am at a loss for words and reflexes. Imagine the irony of being set aflame but yet still dead.

A beautiful mess, a disaster waiting to happen, that's how I would sum it up. I fell in love with parts unknown. I fell in love with someone I have to let go of. I will close my eyes tonight and imagine you close to me. At least we have met and I'm no stranger when you spell out my name under the most unexpected circumstances. I pray you would delight me with your voice and laughter everyday, like you have absentmindedly promised.

Listen, when you're gone, just take a deep breath and I'm right there with you, filling your heart with calm.

Hmm, whoever said the air is silent.

"A Beautiful Mess"

You've got the best of both worlds
You're the kind of girl who can take down a man,
And lift him back up again

You are strong but you're needy,
Humble but you're greedy
And based on your body language,
And shoddy cursive I've been reading

Your style is quite selective,
though your mind is rather reckless
Well I guess it just suggests
that this is just what happiness is

Hey, what a beautiful mess this is
It's like we're picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you write
Kind of turn themselves into knives
And don't mind my nerve, you could call it fiction
But I like being submerged in your contradictions, dear
'Cause here we are, here we are

Although you are biased I love your advice
Your comebacks they're quick
And probably have to do with your insecurities
There's no shame in being crazy,
Depending on how you take these
Words I'm paraphrasing this relationship we're staging

And what a beautiful mess, this is
It's like we're picking up trash in dresses

Well, it kind of hurts when the kind of words you say
Kind of turn themselves into blades
And the kind and courteous is a life I've heard
But it's so nice to say that we played in the dirt
Cause here, here we are, Here we are
Here we are [x7]

We're still here
What a beautiful mess, this is
It's like taking a guess when the only answer is "Yes"

Through timeless words and priceless pictures
We'll fly like birds not of this earth

And tides they turn and hearts disfigured
But that's no concern when we're wounded together

And we, tore our dresses and stained our shirts
But it's nice today. Oh the way, it was so worth it.


©Jason Mraz, We Sing, We Dance, We Steal Things ~ Track 12, A Beautiful Mess ~

http://www.haoting.com/musiclist/ht_cb2e349b5dabfa4f.htm

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VD9iDZHrQjw