houseofgold

my first cover kind of

confidence points went up a bit this year

Les Étoiles

I like looking at stars because it is technically looking into the past.
Ancient light.
The stars, most of them are probably dead.
Stars that are long gone shine brightly in my night sky.
I'm reading their stories unknowingly.
I hope that's how people remember me after I'm gone.
I wish to shine brightly in the eyes of others after I'm long gone.
I sometimes forget how big a star really is but right now in this moment, the stars are far enough to only be beautiful to those who notice.
If there is life or another planet, in a distant galaxy.
I hope they are happy and I hope they are looking at us and they are smiling.

Sweet

She told me that the past is sweeter when we observe the present and build the future but for how long do I forget?

l'air

It's all around me and I am breathing it in
I feel it choking me
I'm trying to reach the surface
I can't see a thing
My eyes are closed
I can't breathe
I'm slowly slipping into nothing
I feel a hand on my shoulder
I turn around
And open my eyes
I'm not drowning at all
What was then choking me is now the only thing keeping me alive
I was broken 
I needed that hand on my shoulder
It's not there any more but everything is bright now
I can breathe
I see colours
I can breathe
It has been so long since I haven't and now
I can breathe
Until I break again
I can only hope that the hand on my shoulder will save me
I will breathe 
I hope she does too.

J'ai une pensée.

J'ai une pensée.

Ça se passe quelques années dans le futur, je vais prendre un café dans un bar où je vais souvent le week end, quand il ne pleut pas. Je l'apprécie car je suis prêt de l'endroit où je travaille. Étant en train de regarder les gens, je ne donc pas au travail. Les regarder me donne une certaine forme de paix. Il y a du soleil mais la chaleur n'est pas excessive.

Je me sens comme si un géant m'avais mis dans la poche de sa chemise.

Je regarde un jeune couple essayant de synchroniser leurs traces quand un homme, qui semble avoir le même âge que moi, s'approche avec une caméra. Il me demande s'il peut s'assoir pour me poser un question.

Il a l'air assez sur de lui. Il est habillé avec son propre style qui est un mélange entre "je me sens bien aujourd'hui" et "j'ai des regrets".

"Tout le monde à une histoire. Mais peu de gens ont le temps de l'écouter. Je voudrais donner de mon temps pour écouter la votre. Si vous voulez, je vous en paie un autre" dit-il en soulignant ma tasse de café vide.

"Je vais en payer deux pour nous et j'arrêterai de parler quand votre tasse sera vide" répondis-je.

"Que voulez vous partager?"

"Je n'ai pas la moindre idée de comment recommencer. Le début serai un bon choix, mais je sens le besoin de vous raconter une histoire, l'attention du détail est important et partir de mes premiers souvenirs semble une chose pénible à faire. Je pourrai vous dire les meilleurs moments que j'ai passé dans ma vie mais je pourrai aussi vous dire les pires. Je pourrai vous dire combien j'ai changé au fil des ans et ce qui m'a fait changer ou je pourrai vous dire ce que je compte devenir. Je pourrai vous parler de l'amour et de la haine de la société. Je pourrai vous parler de l'amour et de la haine que j'ai en moi. Je pourrai dire de moi que je suis une personne ouverte d'esprit mais cela me conduirait à être plus ignorant que je ne le suis déjà.

Je pourrai vous parler des gens que je connais ou vous parler de ceux que je connaissais ou encore vous parler des gens que je regrette de ne pas connaître. Je pourrai vous raconter beaucoup de choses."

Quelque chose m'empêche de laisser l'homme finir sa tasse de café. Quelque chose m'empêche de raconter ces histoires. À la place, je viens étiqueter ces événement comme des chapitres d'un livre inachevé. Mon train de pensée s'arrête là. Et pour toujours.

Je ne peux pas m'imaginer parler du présent comme du passé, ni comme de mon futur. Je ne peux même pas parler du passé comme de mon présent.

I guess I'm lucky

I'm sitting in a cafe in France. Why don't I feel how those underground writers feel when they romanticize the simple idea of being in a cafe in France by scribbling their thoughts on a napkin? I guess it usually takes place in the south of France where it's warmer and they have the ability to dress up for comfort and appearance. Up north, priorities change and you end up dressing for heat and then comfort and then appearance. Maybe there's something in the heat. Why do these writers write in cafes anyway? I guess whatever they felt, I must be feeling as well because I'm finding the need to write this and so far, there isn't any real message.

I caught the bus to the train station and I got there way too early. I could go to Lille early but I'd rather not be wandering lost in a place filled with people with relative purpose. I crossed the street to this cafe opposite the train station. During my first steps in the cafe, I was overwhelmed with the smell of bad coffee so I got a hot chocolate instead. It wasn't that bad. I'm sitting in this chair with an empty one on the other side of the table. There must have been at least 6 new people that have entered the cafe and at least 4 that have left since I sat here. With all the people I know at this point in my life, I still manage to find myself alone. Sometimes alone time is a blessing but sometimes it can be depressing. I could go into detail probably if you'd ask me nicely and if I trust you enough to let myself melt in your hands.

(12:25pm, I have to go to catch that train in half an hour)

I've been having trust issues recently. Well I'd say all my life but there wasn't any time more evident than the past few months. I put myself in the hands of an Ecuadorian girl named Samantha, a person I've only known for a few months. Great friend she is. I don't think I shared much with her but I did share the things that were bugging me at the time. I had told her that I'd rather not talk about it and that I'd rather have alone time to try and sort it out in my head which I need as well as I have too many things in my head and they all seem tangled, I can't really pick them out one by one. Anyway, as I was telling her my problems, my trust issues became physically noticeable as I began stuttering and my hands began shaking. I don't think she noticed as we were on Skype. It seems arduous for me to share things but I think that night was a start of me dealing with that problem.

(12:34pm, not too long now)

I've been in France for 4 months and I have met an insane amount of people. Nice people mostly. I have a new kind of love for them. I've met the most genuine person in the world, Melisa from Chile. If I believed in the concept of angels, I think I would say she was the kindest and most beautiful of the angels. Beautiful, not only in the sense of aesthetics but also as a person and even her mind. She is artistic and I love the way she expresses herself. Be it music, art or written work. When I see her at work, I see her lose herself in everything she does. She is definitely someone I will not forget for as long as I have my memory.

I haven't met a single person that gets on my wick. I feel like I have always needed to escape Malaysia. I thank my past for being just that, my past but I may come off as ungrateful if I don't go back. I don't think I have much back there for me besides family and 'friends'.

How did I ever get stuck with them? I used to wonder how they put up with me but now, now I wonder how did I ever put up with them. Our friendships can be best described with the words 'ambiguous' and 'disappointing'. Ignorant bastards. They proudly get angry over things don't matter and they let the actual important things go unnoticed. The girls, who proudly claim to be feminists(bullshit), indulged Him as he basically called a girl a 'fake'. A girl posted HER picture on HER instagram of her in her Chelsea football jersey stating she's a fan of Chelsea forever or somewhere along those lines. This guy takes a screenshot of that and says he "bets she doesn't know jackshit about Chelsea" and then claims that he is "officially hating her" from that day on. All She has to say is "Who is she?" to which he replies "some girl on instagram". He doesn't even know this girl yet he spreads news of her as being a fake as though he knew her since she was born. Even if he did, it is not in his rights to label her as anything.

I called him out on it and he replied with "I don't have time to have this conversation with you. Why, aren't you smart." Or something along those lines. Funny how he has the time to be ignorant, like the rest of them.
I know they all saw what was going on yet they had the audacity to change the subject. Apparently they would rather be friends with ignorance than have the guts to say something.

Whatever, I'm tired.

(On the train)

Happy New Year

Thoughts

So I had a thought.

It's a few years in the future. I'm having coffee at some café I go to usually on the weekend when it isn't raining. I enjoy it because I'm within walking distance from where I work so knowing that I could be at work at this moment instead of people-watching gives me some form of peace. It's sunny but the heat doesn't feel like burning the roof of your mouth but more of like if a giant had put me in the pocket of his flannel shirt.
I'm looking at a young couple struggle to synchronize their footsteps when a man, probably the same age as me, walks up to me with a camera and asks if he can sit down to ask me a question.
He looks fairly sure of himself. He dresses like his sense of style for the day was a mix between "I'm feeling good today" and "I have regrets"

"Everyone has a story. Not everyone has the time to listen. I would like to exchange my time for your story and a picture. I'll pay for another if you want." He says as he points to my now empty cup of coffee.

"I'll pay for the both of us and I'll stop talking when your cup is empty" I reply.

"What would you like to share?"

"I haven't the slightest clue where to begin. The very beginning would be a good choice but I feel like if I were to tell you a story, attention to detail would be important and starting from my first memories seems like a tedious thing to do. I could tell you about the best years of my life or I could tell you the worst. I could tell you how much I've changed over the years and what changed me or I could tell you what I'd like to become. I could tell you about my love and hatred of society. I could tell you about love and hate in itself. I could tell you how calling myself an 'open-minded' person would lead me to be more ignorant than I thought I could be. I could tell you about the people I know or I could tell you about the people I knew or I could tell you about the people I regret not knowing. I could tell you about many things-"

Something stops me from letting the man finish his cup of coffee.
Something stops me from telling these stories instead I just label events in my life like chapters to an unfinished book.
My train of thought ends there. Always.

I can't imagine how I would talk about the present as the past of my future self, I can't even talk about the past as my present self.