y’all i have a writers’ block greater than my emotional instability y’all nothing is coming out on the upside i am consuming a lot of content instead of creating sad excuses of it caught a couple of art shows fell in love with a new band tore up a couple of new books got infatuated with some girl & cleared myself of those hormones
tripped, fell, and wrote some really personal shit
wasn’t gonna post it but i have so little content anyways so i cleaned it up a bit and here it is lol.
it was based off a singpowrimo prompt asking writers to convey what the “east side (of singapore) meant to them”, and me being a strong #westie interpreted that as “everything the west isn’t”. if you’re familiar with singapore geographical stereotypes, the prompt likely makes a lot of sense to you, but if not: the east side is considered wealthier than the west side. amongst other things, but that is the main the stereotype i built this piece upon.
i do not particularly like this piece of work — the rhyming’s too stark and clumsy, the diction too plain the tone too desperate the insecurity complex a tad bit too exposed — but it was cathartic writing it and like the only content i’ve created in a while so have at it. have at it.
what it means to be from the east? to not be from the west
i don’t know what you think of those who live in the east
but on the mrt to changi with my luggage secured between my knees
i see houses worth more than my father’s cumulative salary
housing those who probably don’t spend their life fretting about university fees.
they probably don’t dabao cheap mexican food from the stall with no chairs
the few of us, burrito bowls in hand, asking eh bro so sit where
the first friend nods and speaks of a place
in our hood where we can sit and stare
it’s at the basement level of clementi mall
the little nook where the lift meets a corridor
there’s a single wooden bench, but we deem it too good for us
curling up on the floor instead, grasping tin foil wrapped quesadillas
and in between scoffing down hummus and lettuce
we watch passerby scoff at our scuffed shoes
legs splayed wide bags thrown open yet somehow uniforms still neat
and we decide that yes, tonight shall be the evening i share with these bums my life story
people walking in to get to their cars probably didn’t expect to see
3 school girls sitting round, haggard and mocking mortality.
but between the giddiness of being trusted and the arrogance of intimacy, there is little room for shame
so i wipe up juices spilled without feeling too much heat high up on my cheeks, stained
looking from human burrito to the vegetarian one
one to escape the numbing cold one to be consumed
thinking, man, we must look so dumb
and i am sitting here looking over at the both of you
thinking how large a role geography plays in designating friend and foe
and i am sitting here thinking about how fond i am of clementi
looking at the places i can feel solitude safely in, at the places where safety and support is offered to me, at the places in which i feel authentically me
which might not be much to onlookers
but is so personally settling
the west side might mean shitty food and hobos like us
neither dignified, nor presentable, at least not at this hour
but we’ll gladly sit on the floor and we’ll gladly take laughing too loud than strictly allowed
over your shitty hipster bars manned by goateed asian men who charge 3 bucks for a water.
yeah. i don’t know, man. i felt comfortable and i felt home and maybe i longed for this wrongful home for too much & too long but writing this let that misplaced longing be released and reallocated back where it belongs. home may eventually be a person but it will not and cannot be this person so right now it will be the collective masses residing in nyc. thats safe longing. a more rightful one. as usual, click on post for tags.