As I said, I’m so sick of writing. I just want to paint.
This is an old post that I deleted some time ago. I think its fitting for now. Life regurgitates.

Everything is changing again. You can feel the inner restlessness propelling your feet. Everything wants to change, it needs to. It must. Everything changes to keep with the hours as neither birth nor death can stop the permanent revolutions of these life cycles.

And now, you think you got me all figured out.
And again.
I don’t know….
sometimes I envy the birds that come and go so easily
and seem the same no matter what.

No matter how much you think I’ve changed. I am still pretty much the perfect version of me. I was going through an old suitcase I found – and I related so much to all my past exploits. Everything that has ever made me, me. I know this much – If this (the shallow shopaholic) is who I am as a happy person, Id rather be all that you accuse me of than someone weak under your wings, believing my incompetency. Turning each other into everything we ever hated and now becoming our own self and hating each other more.

In my suitcase, I found:

A novelty Californian number plate that read “Art”, a red silk cheongsam with hand-made frog clasps and golden bamboo stitches from a 1994 family trip to China, a black pvc disco pants I bought in year 9 from Dotti used for under-age rave parties at Metro, camping clothes picked from Reject Shop for my 10 days at OBS when I was 12 years old, My PE shorts from MCKL netball matches, home-made indie beads and friendship bands, a vintage EE-2 Olympus D-Zuiko that was given to a loved one but somehow found its way back into my possession, plane letters and class notes from lost-of-innocence-days in PLC, a wind up jumping frog toy and the only surviving picture taken at my aunts in Vancouver of my mum and dad together with me (3 years old then) squeezed in the middle of a sofa; sound asleep. Snap. Flash and 21 years later, my could-have-been family portrait.

“Where are you? What are you thinking about?” she wanted to know last night as I gazed into the suitcase.

It’s a secret, I told her. I fly away, far from everything. I walk through walls and swim through the ocean. I become part of everything so that I am nobody.
So that I have no body.
I’m just happier this way.



  1. Anonymous · · Reply

    I like how you worded your last paragraph. “I become part of everybody so that I am nobody.”You sound depressed – I hope you’re not because you’re amazing and you deserve to be happy. – J

  2. I won’t comment on how much I’m loving your writing in fear of coming off as a sycophant so no effusive words of praise this time.I’ve always believed that the people we meet make up a part of us. We are who we encounter. However, I reckon we never really lose ourselves in others. There’s still a small part of us that remains uniquely ‘us’.So chin up, Ms Bam. I’ll buy you a drink sometime if you’re bored/free or if I bump into you at events. We all know how tiny the KL scene is…

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