an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

an early Thursday morning, an ode to public transport

this morning I lay in bed
awoken by my bladder
the lone motivator for my voluntary movement, these days
but I lay in my bed
and it was the early morning, mind you, the time when the city was alive but not quite awoken
where the masses stumbled under the greater influence of routine than of conscious individuality
although what is individuality but a matter of perspective and scope
but for the sake of the next 29 lines of prose
let’s assume that with enough similarities
individuals form a cohesive enough unity

and I lay in my bed
listening, to the sounds of this mass of a city
go about the beginnings of a truly ordinary day.
and I thought to myself
I have never heard the crickets sing, in woody forests
nor have I heard of a silence that, to hear my father say it, becomes so encompassing that it overwhelms your senses
that you cannot help but take notice of it
so look, I am 17
I was born in one city
and brought up in another
and this morning I find myself awake in a third
where my grandparents complain we live too close to the road
and the cars make too much noise
but I know of nothing else, and I want nothing more.

so I lay in my bed on this normal morning
and thought about how much
I love the sounds of this city
and how soothing they are to me.

then I closed my eyes on this average morning
and let the warm hubbub blanket me
the bells on buses ringing
the exhausting pipe poisoning
the tires, multiplied by friction, added the variable of tarmac, spat out the sound of resistance
these urban sounds – the most enthusiastic,
most comforting usher –
guide me to slip, gratefully, back into a settled slumber.

 

 
[a note: lil love song to big cities. love y’all]

who is your enemy

the ending of poems i did not mean to write

(I WAS GOING SOMEWHERE WITH THOSE OPENING STANZAS, I SWEAR. I JUST DID NOT KNOW WHERE AND SO NOW I AM HERE, A PLACE I DID NOT WANT TO BE, A PLACE I KNOW NAUGHT HOW TO GET OUT OF. SAVE ME. SAVE ME AND MY TERRIBLE ENDINGS.)

i find it hard to enthuse about the current news

title from a poem by ogden nash. highly recommended, btw. also, ranty personal ish blog post ahead haha

i cannot do this. jesus christ it’s 2:38am and i’m reading an nyt article about how trump is doing all these terrible things to sustainable energy and you can’t even talk about it because you’re so tired and they won’t listen so what good does it do. we can be better all we want but one asshole can come and bulldoze all our efforts away and how is that worth it? how is that even— why? is it money? because how much money to you want? how much money to you need to have?

on a separate not jenn ah aiyo i thought we were gonna do this anymore. b i thought we agreed to leave that all behind? yet here you are again. flustered, vulnerable, trusting. you’re so eager for friends on the same wavelength as you. you’re scrabbling for people who have the same (unconventional) values as you. didn’t we talk about this, when we talked about independence? loneliness is the 0 value on a sin graph; we’re gonna encounter it again and again and again. and how are you gonna learn how to deal with that if with each time you just say “it’ll tide over when i find a stopgap”? i’m trying really hard to be more positive about these things. cynicism is fucking tiring, thats what they don’t tell you. is it better than disappointment from hope? idk, & idk if i wanna find out.

can we just hit fast forward and get to the part where everything is comfortable?

what burns colours into you?

i have never felt less alive. i am a mockery of who i aspire to be. routine is comforting and great and all, but routine from mindlessness is absolutely stifling. i have never felt less engaged with all that i love- i have not seen art in so long, i have not sat through a hockey game in the longest of times, i have not discovered new music , i have not unearthed new creators, and instead i reread books i’ve read before in a desperate bid to find comfort and emotion. i have not written or created in so, so long. my mary oliver book is overdue because i have yet to find the energy to finish it, yet i refuse to return it unread, for that surely is a sign of defeat. a definite sign that paints out loud and clear: i no longer have time for art in this shadow of a life i have.

this mindless shuffle for greater achievements is unbecoming. this withdrawal from activities that stimulate you is embarrassing.

godamnit, jenn

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

reading old writings always strange, lol. like, i titled this a “century old argument”, but answered the unspoken question explicitly in the last verse. what childlike simplicity in the confidence in our bluster lmao 

once again, here’s the century-old argument between fate and freewill

They all say that fate is gracious that fate is kind,
okay but why, then, why,
is love for only the desperate, the innocent,
and the blind;

They all say that fate is impartial that fate is just,
okay but why, then, why,
do the rich live with diamonds the size of
the morsels of bread for the kids in the Jordan dust;

They all say that fate sees all that fate will know,
yet the zodiac killer is still unknown;
swindlers still live while the innocent die,
and Lucifer’s eyes will remain bright.

They will all say what they say,
while we will all do what we do;
and the truth is, my dear,
fate can’t decide anything for you.

agar.io

agar.io

When she was ten,
there was this game that her friends told her about.
Where differently sized circles could be steered around an empty space:
Swallowing up any smaller circles it touched, and in turn, avoided being engulfed by the circles bigger than itself.

 

When she was sixteen,
she felt like she was the tiniest circle amongst them all.

you, the being responsible for your own happiness

a note: this one is for you angsty teens out there, ya. i feel u

you, the being responsible for your own happiness

Never say ‘he stole my heart’, ‘oh he took my breath away!’
no he didn’t,
you carved your muscles out of your own chest and then
placed it at his doorstep.
You trapped your exhales into a Ziploc bag and then
set it down by his bed.
He never asked for you to be hopelessly in love with him-
nor did he ask for the drama, the trouble, the burden.
He never asked for the responsibility that is your love
you’ve done that, you and your imagination, all by yourself.