Feels like sorrow, that.

In bed on Friday night—one of the times when you don’t know where to go.

My soul wanders away seeking its rightful home. I’m left with a cell phone light and a pillow as a writing prop.

I’m always left there when you and you and you leave, one by one by one.

It’s not a bad day, this day in time in fact made history, almost. Why is it always so close. Maybe it’s the dread, for the bored-of-living.

My soul seemed to have left me forever. I was always needy, tonight I’m not. It thought I didn’t want it there.

Maybe not.

I feel sorrow, not sadness, blood spurting out of passion nor grief, emptying of heart into trusting test-tubes in white labs, freeze. de-freeze. freeze.de-freeze.heat. Freeze.

Sorrow, the peaceful, little creek meandering with the fluid of muted life.

I feel something behind me.               Nothing.

I always feel something behind me.                  No nothing.

No one behind, I’m the last. Maybe there was, in the past when I still bothered. Maybe it’s haunting me, the past. I like that feeling.

My eyes hurt. Why do I write this. I’m always getting myself hurt. By myself.

What’s wrong with me. Hello?

I cry, I always cry, trying to keep that up— non-stop crying. Can’t, I ran out.

Could I have more?

I’m waving my hands. Left     . Right      . Left     . Right     . Someone’s waving goodbye. To me? I don’t know why.

—————————————————————-

I liked the guy with the shy smile and avoiding eyes, 1 and a half years ago. Tonight, I like him still. I didn’t know I could still like.

He said, congrats on winning the debate and too bad we didn’t break into the quarter-finals. But that’s okay.

I thought you said winning 2 rounds = breaking?

Well, I said, oh well, I left my shoes there. I’m always losing things.

I lost it, I lost my feelings, I feel it coming back, I lost yesterday, I lost 15 years and I was prepared to trade the rest of my life for muted death.

Why had I wanted to do that?

I rubbed my eyes, hurt. I pressed the backlight for the 5th time. 5 x 3 =15 minutes.

I’m always rubbing things, somehow it makes things seem better. I used to use the eraser a lot, rub rub rub, I’m always making mistakes with the pencil. Then later on, I learnt how to rub my wounds into scars into nothingness, rub my heart.

I don’t anymore.

The region after the 2 World Wars. Post-chaos, I feel lonely.

The silence you call peace. I thought not.

Tonight when everyone sleeps, the Earth fell into a giant pit. I was awake, the only one who knew. That’s why humans are so eager to share their secrets– not to be alone. I’m not going to share, yet.

Feels like sorrow, that.

Like a horizon— see-able but unreachable. Someone said that of ‘Hope’ too.

Yesterday, I would have said that the world was all the same,

But no, we’re on the opposite sides of the bay, staring at the endless middle.

If I had a huge telescope, I could see you right away.

But I don’t want to.

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4 comments

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  1. yeeherng

    hey.

    don’t feel so bad about everything, cos i’m sick of everything as well. i think life just has its own way.

    anyway you’re not always alone during sleepless nights, though you may think so at that moment. someone might just be awake late into the night (or early morning)

    love your last two sentences! and the rubbing, it sort of gives me a dreadful feeling. to me, rubbing is just making things worse, making pencil marks smudge, making wounds hurt more. and rubbing something give me the tweaking sound which i really hate.

    blah.

    anyway this thing makes me feel like it’s a song.

    cheer up dudette (for the 35464981650151th time)

    March 29, 2008 10:01
  2. To FEEL, good or bad it matters not which. Is always better then to not feel. It’s the numb times, the unfeeling times which are the scariest. When you FEEL good or bad about something, this gives you the passion needed to take action. When you don’t feel, you have given up the incentive to act.

    Feel all that you can, this is from whence your art springs…

    The scientifically impossible I do right away
    The spiritually miraculous takes a bit longer

    March 30, 2008 23:09
  3. This is a beautiful post— there is something very aesthetically sumptuous in your description of the loneliness set in your bedside, in the ‘post-chaos’ of this our meandering era. I don’t understand how you can be so smart, so young (I should stop emphasizing this because I know I say it every time, but you still also surprise me every time).

    There is so much in this that I enjoy and can relate to very well. The soul wandering away– and then we are left with the space of writing, the most honest, the most aggressive self-attention we can muster. Social circles steal us away to “happy” vagrancy, but ah, the space of writing… we can’t escape its sincerity, but neither do we escape its heat.

    Something that we all extremely thoughtful people do is keep things vague – sometimes concreteness is not bad, though it may at first feel crass or indulgent. I would like to know the “it”s in this piece.

    There is emotional writing, and then there is writing that works through emotions conceptually… your writing I see as the latter and is what makes it interesting to read. I think the way you distinguish this is when you note that you feel sorrow rather than sadness. Sadness can be very self-specific, and something meant to be dealt with on one’s own. Sorrow is the transformation, the interpretation, the internalization of sadness into something universal and new.

    “Sorrow – the peaceful, little creek meandering with the fluid of muted life.” Oh, but how perfect this line is! I just can’t believe you are 15.

    You ask for more tears… THAT is the difference between a purely emotional piece and one that elevates itself to teach us something as readers. You “overhear” yourself and are not simply writing down feelings as they come to you. The sign of an artist.

    I loved how you said that you “lost yesterday”. While I was reading The Faerie Queene by Spenser, I found out that the etymology of the word “happy” shows that it was once synonymous with “success”. Whether you knew this or not, you are more true to yourself regarding suicide than anyone else I have known who was suicidal.

    “Tonight when everyone sleeps, the Earth fell into a giant pit. I was awake, the only one who knew. That’s why humans are so eager to share their secrets– not to be alone. I’m not going to share, yet.

    Feels like sorrow, that.”

    The most sublime moment of the piece – preparing for climax. It doesn’t matter if there are “in reality” others awake while you are awake. The sublimity derives from the intense inward revelation of singularity/loneliness and the quasi-euphoria that attends this thought. Your withholding of your secrets might be damaging to the reader, if they didn’t realize how necessary it is for you to continue to keep them.

    You establish a powerful idea when you call sorrow the feeling of withheld secrets. It seems all-too-easy to divulge one’s secrets; people might say “Come on, it will make you feel better!” But they don’t take into account how large a factor our sense of solitude plays.

    You probably WERE the only one who knew, for it was your world that fell into the pit. Another’s mind would have seen another world, perhaps lifted on the clouds, perhaps dashed with black streaks of oil. In any case, the solitude is authentic, and cannot be taken away. Perhaps the telling of your secrets would dissolve it, but that is not a risk you can take, and that no one should expect you to take.

    But oh! Who would ask for your secrets, when you reveal so much more in these lines?:

    “Yesterday, I would have said that the world was all the same,

    But no, we’re on the opposite sides of the bay, staring at the endless middle.

    If I had a huge telescope, I could see you right away.

    But I don’t want to.”

    My gosh, these are not only so beautiful, but capture so much truth. I won’t say anymore about it, except that it is wonderful, for fear of overanalyzing what speaks to me so powerfully as it is.

    April 1, 2008 07:59
  4. Oh my gosh Jackie, oh my gosh.

    Oh my gosh.

    April 1, 2008 08:41

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Feels like sorrow, that.

In bed on Friday night—one of the times when you don’t know where to go.

My soul wanders away seeking its rightful home. I’m left with a cell phone light and a pillow as a writing prop.

I’m always left there when you and you and you leave, one by one by one.

It’s not a bad day, this day in time in fact made history, almost. Why is it always so close. Maybe it’s the dread, for the bored-of-living.

My soul seemed to have left me forever. I was always needy, tonight I’m not. It thought I didn’t want it there.

Maybe not.

I feel sorrow, not sadness, blood spurting out of passion nor grief, emptying of heart into trusting test-tubes in white labs, freeze. de-freeze. freeze.de-freeze.heat. Freeze.

Sorrow, the peaceful, little creek meandering with the fluid of muted life.

I feel something behind me.               Nothing.

I always feel something behind me.                  No nothing.

No one behind, I’m the last. Maybe there was, in the past when I still bothered. Maybe it’s haunting me, the past. I like that feeling.

My eyes hurt. Why do I write this. I’m always getting myself hurt. By myself.

What’s wrong with me. Hello?

I cry, I always cry, trying to keep that up— non-stop crying. Can’t, I ran out.

Could I have more?

I’m waving my hands. Left     . Right      . Left     . Right     . Someone’s waving goodbye. To me? I don’t know why.

—————————————————————-

I liked the guy with the shy smile and avoiding eyes, 1 and a half years ago. Tonight, I like him still. I didn’t know I could still like.

He said, congrats on winning the debate and too bad we didn’t break into the quarter-finals. But that’s okay.

I thought you said winning 2 rounds = breaking?

Well, I said, oh well, I left my shoes there. I’m always losing things.

I lost it, I lost my feelings, I feel it coming back, I lost yesterday, I lost 15 years and I was prepared to trade the rest of my life for muted death.

Why had I wanted to do that?

I rubbed my eyes, hurt. I pressed the backlight for the 5th time. 5 x 3 =15 minutes.

I’m always rubbing things, somehow it makes things seem better. I used to use the eraser a lot, rub rub rub, I’m always making mistakes with the pencil. Then later on, I learnt how to rub my wounds into scars into nothingness, rub my heart.

I don’t anymore.

The region after the 2 World Wars. Post-chaos, I feel lonely.

The silence you call peace. I thought not.

Tonight when everyone sleeps, the Earth fell into a giant pit. I was awake, the only one who knew. That’s why humans are so eager to share their secrets– not to be alone. I’m not going to share, yet.

Feels like sorrow, that.

Like a horizon— see-able but unreachable. Someone said that of ‘Hope’ too.

Yesterday, I would have said that the world was all the same,

But no, we’re on the opposite sides of the bay, staring at the endless middle.

If I had a huge telescope, I could see you right away.

But I don’t want to.

4 comments

Do you want to comment?

Comments RSS and TrackBack URI

  1. yeeherng

    hey.

    don’t feel so bad about everything, cos i’m sick of everything as well. i think life just has its own way.

    anyway you’re not always alone during sleepless nights, though you may think so at that moment. someone might just be awake late into the night (or early morning)

    love your last two sentences! and the rubbing, it sort of gives me a dreadful feeling. to me, rubbing is just making things worse, making pencil marks smudge, making wounds hurt more. and rubbing something give me the tweaking sound which i really hate.

    blah.

    anyway this thing makes me feel like it’s a song.

    cheer up dudette (for the 35464981650151th time)

    March 29, 2008 10:01
  2. To FEEL, good or bad it matters not which. Is always better then to not feel. It’s the numb times, the unfeeling times which are the scariest. When you FEEL good or bad about something, this gives you the passion needed to take action. When you don’t feel, you have given up the incentive to act.

    Feel all that you can, this is from whence your art springs…

    The scientifically impossible I do right away
    The spiritually miraculous takes a bit longer

    March 30, 2008 23:09
  3. This is a beautiful post— there is something very aesthetically sumptuous in your description of the loneliness set in your bedside, in the ‘post-chaos’ of this our meandering era. I don’t understand how you can be so smart, so young (I should stop emphasizing this because I know I say it every time, but you still also surprise me every time).

    There is so much in this that I enjoy and can relate to very well. The soul wandering away– and then we are left with the space of writing, the most honest, the most aggressive self-attention we can muster. Social circles steal us away to “happy” vagrancy, but ah, the space of writing… we can’t escape its sincerity, but neither do we escape its heat.

    Something that we all extremely thoughtful people do is keep things vague – sometimes concreteness is not bad, though it may at first feel crass or indulgent. I would like to know the “it”s in this piece.

    There is emotional writing, and then there is writing that works through emotions conceptually… your writing I see as the latter and is what makes it interesting to read. I think the way you distinguish this is when you note that you feel sorrow rather than sadness. Sadness can be very self-specific, and something meant to be dealt with on one’s own. Sorrow is the transformation, the interpretation, the internalization of sadness into something universal and new.

    “Sorrow – the peaceful, little creek meandering with the fluid of muted life.” Oh, but how perfect this line is! I just can’t believe you are 15.

    You ask for more tears… THAT is the difference between a purely emotional piece and one that elevates itself to teach us something as readers. You “overhear” yourself and are not simply writing down feelings as they come to you. The sign of an artist.

    I loved how you said that you “lost yesterday”. While I was reading The Faerie Queene by Spenser, I found out that the etymology of the word “happy” shows that it was once synonymous with “success”. Whether you knew this or not, you are more true to yourself regarding suicide than anyone else I have known who was suicidal.

    “Tonight when everyone sleeps, the Earth fell into a giant pit. I was awake, the only one who knew. That’s why humans are so eager to share their secrets– not to be alone. I’m not going to share, yet.

    Feels like sorrow, that.”

    The most sublime moment of the piece – preparing for climax. It doesn’t matter if there are “in reality” others awake while you are awake. The sublimity derives from the intense inward revelation of singularity/loneliness and the quasi-euphoria that attends this thought. Your withholding of your secrets might be damaging to the reader, if they didn’t realize how necessary it is for you to continue to keep them.

    You establish a powerful idea when you call sorrow the feeling of withheld secrets. It seems all-too-easy to divulge one’s secrets; people might say “Come on, it will make you feel better!” But they don’t take into account how large a factor our sense of solitude plays.

    You probably WERE the only one who knew, for it was your world that fell into the pit. Another’s mind would have seen another world, perhaps lifted on the clouds, perhaps dashed with black streaks of oil. In any case, the solitude is authentic, and cannot be taken away. Perhaps the telling of your secrets would dissolve it, but that is not a risk you can take, and that no one should expect you to take.

    But oh! Who would ask for your secrets, when you reveal so much more in these lines?:

    “Yesterday, I would have said that the world was all the same,

    But no, we’re on the opposite sides of the bay, staring at the endless middle.

    If I had a huge telescope, I could see you right away.

    But I don’t want to.”

    My gosh, these are not only so beautiful, but capture so much truth. I won’t say anymore about it, except that it is wonderful, for fear of overanalyzing what speaks to me so powerfully as it is.

    April 1, 2008 07:59
  4. Oh my gosh Jackie, oh my gosh.

    Oh my gosh.

    April 1, 2008 08:41

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