Thedarkside,

"Imperfection is perfection." 

Clearly, this doesn’t apply to character imperfection. My flaws, they surface. And emotions, they surface too. Negativity grabs me in the most unexpected and unrelenting way. Hands are all over, it stretches one part of you then mercilessly moves on to other parts of your body. You feel stretched, and helpless. Comeon, I really hate negativity, which is why I really dislike my character flaw. They say, “Embrace it”, I say, “Kick it.” 

"Imperfection is not perfection." 

Not for this. 

New blog sibling,

Residing over at www.whiteteaspoon.tumblr.com as well. Catch me over the other side. Xx. 

24 May 2013,

Incapability and inferiority, are my poisons. I’ve been living in positivity for as long as I can remember. I breathe positivity. I usually steer clear from negativity because I don’t believe in it. The mind is a powerful tool and when manipulated properly and rightfully, it can make you great. However, when the sense of incapability and inferiority strikes, I delve down to rock bottom, coming face to face with an unbearable sight of negativity. It can cripple me I swear, but I refuse to let it. Life is a competition. As cliche as it sounds, I am my greatest competitor. Tonight’s the night when all don’t go right. I am faced with the tough reality of my own state, coupled with my unrelenting call of self-doubt. “Believe in yourself,” they say. But no, tonight’s the night where all my self-confidence is being sucked away. Tonight’s the night where I feel helpless and extremely negative. Tonight’s the night that I realise, I’m not great. Tonight’s the night I wish I could run to a place and take comfort in my own existence. Tonight’s the night I feel I need to scream, so loud that it deafens my own ears. Tonight’s a depressing night my friends. 

Tonight’s the night where I am poisoned. 

Love isn’t perfect. It wasn’t built to be perfect. 

But it can be. 

Love is about learning to love the only one, and not about finding the only one. What are the chances of finding that one perfect partner in a world filled with god-knows-how-many guys? You’ll think you’ve found the perfect one, till you met another better option. Grass is always greener on the other side.

Despite that said, show me all that you are, and I won’t shy. I believe what’s worth fighting for is what’s worth keeping. Love your hardest and you’ll experience the most magical moments. 

She sees something from afar. It’s neither clear nor vague. It’s a shadow. Details littered all over like stars in the sky. It is fragile, something that goes away with the gust of wind. Pay close attention for it pays no attention to anyone. 

I set my goal, and work towards it. I’ve learnt that hard work brings one closer to the taste of sweet success. Yet no one said anything about how accurate our actions are while we climb the slow ladder towards victory. Once in a while, I stop in my tracks and think, “Am I doing it right?” 

All I hear is silence. What is right and what is wrong? There is no right answer or is there? I figured, the difference between being a child and adolescence, would be there’s no spoon feeding of knowledge. You’re on your own. Whatever your doubts are, you source for ways to get it clarified. My brain gets wired in a more complex manner as day goes by. I crave knowledge. I crave for answers. I crave to discover. There’s so much that this world has to offer. 

Everyone’s a competitor. We compete to be the creme of the crop, we compete to be the fastest in a race, the highest in a test, even in the slightest of all things. I’m a competitor of life. Sometimes I win, sometimes I learn. I am my own warrior.

13 April,

How is it one man can do so many good in his life, yet when an act of ill conscious is displayed, guilt plagues him forever?

In life, it’s a given that you will lose people. People will flow in and out like curtains through an open window, sometimes for no reason at all. But losing someone important to you will feel like a suckerpunch every single time, and you’ll never see it coming. Which makes the friendships that dohold out, the ones that make it through countless breakdowns and breakthroughs and changes and years, so damn important.
― ThoughtCatalog
Thinking I’m a writer, when I’m actually not.

9.32pm on a Monday night, reading through a gazillion of well-written articles then sobbing in inferiority. 

I never was a writer. That was something I clearly knew in primary school. How do I know that? Well because books scare me and English bores me. That, is very well why I always score between the range of 45-60 for all my English exams.

Then came my first Secondary One English exam results. An A was reflected on the crisp white report. Holy shit. Unbelievable. How did that happen? I goddamn wasn’t sure. All of a sudden (I literally mean that), the beauty of English became evident to me. Words itself are a form of art, beneath it lies beautiful messages, waiting for one to fathom. I started to read, and began to like it. I appreciated the written text, the hard covers, the touch of the pages as I ran my fingers through it. One day, I consumed a 350 page book. I never once got to reading even the first 20 pages of a book when I was younger. And now? Magic happens. I enjoyed writing essays but never was too good in it. I have read essays so artfully written my eyes were constantly glued to it, my brain absorbing the description like a sponge. I developed the habit of reading the papers every morning, taking note of sentences that caught my attention, highlighting words that I wasn’t sure. Slowly but surely, my English began to improve. I often scored a 23/30 for my essays but slowly began to realise: something was lacking. Was it my grammer? Or my lack of description? Or my mediocre story lines?  What was it? Never really knew what was it but today, I know. I think. 

The lack of personal touch. 

A sense of familiarity gushes through me as I read articles, the familiarity of heart ache, the familiarity of ecstasy, the familiarity of love, the familiarity of all the familiar. Then I return to look at mine and there they are, just… there? Can anyone even understand what I’m saying? To put it bluntly, my writings are soulless. They are a shell without any interior. They have no depth, no feelings, no nothing. 

As I thought a writer has developed in me, it has actually not. That thought slipped away fast like water. Thinking I’m a writer, when I’m actually not. 

This is scary. And sad.