Monday, 6 June 2016

Mid Air

He steps into the study quietly, knowing you are working and not in a good mood. He left a glass of Ribena cordial with two arrow-shaped ice cubes on your desk. It was your favourite drink that your mum used to make you in the summer. It makes your smile, it makes you believe in love again.

Saturday, 23 April 2016

Thursday, 21 April 2016

Prospect Hummer

I guess this is it. He was in my dream twice that night. We were sitting at a dinning table, a burning metal rod burnt me across my stomach - it was supposedly a nightmare but I was not frightened. Instead I was really calm, this tune slowly filled in the room. When I woke up, it took me a while to find out what the song was.

Lucid dreaming? I have no idea, yet it seems that I am fortunate enough to obtain all the references that I need from my dreams, as if an open library, archive that I can get access from. Or rather, it's like walking into an art bookshop that you are forbid to write anything down, instead you memorise all the references as soon as you come across. At the end, it was a memory game.

How strange is it when things are good people just don't want it? I doubt that he is going to call, I am even feeling silly to make some sort of contact. When people are facing love, they are both courageous and cowardly. Maybe I shouldn't be bothered. He just won't, won't.

'I want to sneeze', whenever I say this to myself I just can't sneeze. Just like you keep telling yourself that you are going to kill yourself you just don't even have the guts to do it. What a coward. Oh, actually maybe not, it's just the pre-text that stops you from actually doing it.

When I am on my motorbike I think about death a lot, ten millions ways to die, and another ten millions ways to live. I shouldn't daydream too much when I am motorcycling, it's too dangerous. But maybe I am missing the time that I used to walk to work, that 45 minutes of thinking, meditating, internal conversation with oneself.

I used to be a good writer and somehow manages to grasp all the fragmented pieces of dreams and turn into literature. Now, alone, I am just a good dreamer.

Tuesday, 29 March 2016

Losing You

I used to think I couldn’t go a day without your smile. Without telling you things and hearing your voice back.

Then, that day arrived and it was so damn hard but the next was harder. And I knew with a sinking feeling it was going to get worse and I wasn’t going to be okay for a very long time.

Because losing someone isn’t an occasion or an event. It doesn’t just happen once. It happens over and over again. I lose you every time I pick up your favorite coffee mug; whenever that one song plays on the radio, or when I discover your old t-shirt at the bottom of my laundry pile.

I lose you every time I think of kissing you, holding you or wanting you. I go to bed at night and lose you, when I wish I could tell you about my day. And in the morning, when I wake and reach for the empty space across the sheets, I begin to lose you all over again.

-- Lang Leav

Sunday, 13 March 2016

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, What We Talk About When We Talk About Dream

It was almost magical when we talked about dreams. A long time ago, I woke up next to J. We spoke about dreams next to each other. The room filled with sweetness whilst ray gently leaked in. 9am on the dot, a very rare email came from an old lover, it then became some sort of consolation. The little sweetness of the brutal world, remember? Yet, all the vivid memories walked in, as betrayal into oblivion.

Last night I dreamt of I went to an art house, walked through multiple doors, entering each room consisted of different scenes, some lost conversations, some fragmented disney cartoon alike, finally I stepped out of the tiny rooms and it opened up to a basketball court. There were two groups of teenagers playing against each other, the first half of the game someone only scored 1, then one of the players encouraged the rest of the team in order to progress into a good game eventually.

No matter if it was metaphorically or in reality, I will always wait for you, gently, quietly and patiently in the room, the Paris room. As I once was, and I shall.

Currently reading Raymond Carver's What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. We covered different format of love. Even though one loves a person, if something were to happen to them, the survivor would grieve but love again.

Also watched Slow West (2015) last night, it's a nice mid-length film starred with Michael Fassbender, lovely music.

Wednesday, 2 March 2016

Start Of My Heart

You changed me / You chained me down, and taught me / The damage I've done / Can show me the way to my heart / Sing out my love / 'cause I've been here before and silence don't get you a thing / I learned this on the way to my heart / It was with you riving ton deep September / We took the long way and your hand and lead me home / Like a ray you woke my heart / With your northern lights with your soul / Yes you slay me / Origami doll i wonder if you'll do it again / Please do it again
I'll thank you from the deep of my heart / I thank you for the start of my heart

Monday, 29 February 2016

A video posted by Beth Lau (@bethlaubraille) on

A Shadow In Time. Live Requiem for David Bowie on a full moon night. As if breathing the purest form of air. An unique night with the reference of music in this very aeonian sonic temple.