Why is it that only when people die do others ask questions? Why is it that only when something bad happens, then people start to notice? Why is it that people are so inherently selfish?

Then again, why do I expect others to help? This is an individualistic society we're all living in, there's no escapism allowed at all. To ask for help itself -- it is seen as a sign of being weak.

Maybe even as I write this, this post, can be interpreted as a cry for help into the deep recesses of cyberspace. Maybe even as I write this, I am contemplating my bleak future and seeing nothing much in it. Maybe as I write on, I am hoping for some miracle enlightenment, for me to figure out what exactly is my purpose of being born.

Someone, anyone?

All of us have dreams.
We dream of the future. We dream of the past. And sometimes, we dream of the present too, and forget to live. 

In those many paradoxical fantasies, somewhere, we have lost our sense of reality. We craft our dreamworlds to perfection -- to our every whim and ideal. Life goes on -- and we are stuck in the soft warm bed of dreaming. It is an illusion that we partake in, thinking that it will be harmless because it is not real. But, we have never realised that it's precisely because it's not real, that it becomes harmful. 

We build up unrealistic expectations of others and ourselves in dreams, and feel disappointed when things don't go the same way in real life.

Dreams: the trappings of an idealist, and bait to a realist.

Unrealistic dreams that is impossible to fulfil leads to anxiety.
 Anxiety is thinking, worrying, being anxious about a variety of trivial matter. 
Anxiety is worrying that someone might hate you just because he/she wrote your name in all small-letters while capitalising the first letter of all others' names. 
Anxiety is retying your hair twenty times because "it just doesn't look perfect". 
Anxiety is pinching your skin between thumb and forefinger and worrying that you're fat just because you ate a little more than usual for lunch. 
Anxiety is feeling nauseous in public places because you're afraid of others looking at you and thinking "oh, what a perfect failure of a girl." 
Anxiety is a nagging voice at the back of your head. 
Anxiety is unbearable.

Love me, love me not.

You'll never find your secrets,

between the lips of a fraud.

She cheats, she lies, she flirts.

You'll never find her heart,

beneath the bosom of a corpse.

Hate me, hate me hard.

You'll never find your thoughts,

within the flesh of the scarred.

There was this screaming in my head -- then a quiet voice.

Cut. Scratch. Feel.
Anything to stop the tick-ticking numbness crawling up your brain.

Everyone else around me scribbles furiously. It's in the middle of an examination after all. I surreptitiously dig my nails into my palms.

Not enough.More.

Harder.
I trace the tiny half-moons marks stamped on my palms.

MORE.

Running my thumb against my wrists, clawing angry red lines. I look around -- no one notices me. I scratch away at my right wrist until i draw blood.

I rest my chin on the desk, lapping gently on my stinging wrist, writing with my left hand. The taste of blood calms me. I feel normal again -- at least before the voices rouse in the chambers behind my skull.

This is my guilty obsession.

"He relinquished the endeavour, folded his arms, and stood quiet and mute in the rain, now falling fast--"


It's him again.
It's her again.
She's at her usual window seat in Clair De Lune, a cup of hot green tea latte at her side, trying to complete her assignments before her afternoon classes.
Their glances would meet every now and then. He would return her shy sweet smiles with lazy half-smirks, she would blush and look away.

He's sitting on the sidewalk just opposite her cafe, with an unlit cigarette loosely hanging out the corner of his mouth and a battered copy of Dangerous Liaisons by his side.