I HAD SNACK THAT LOOKED LITERALLY LIKE SHIT.

People really change. Whoever denies has his brain made of shit. Everything must change in order to exist. These recent weeks have lasted longer than the wait for Game of Thrones. I hardly talk to my best friend now. We used to talk more often back then. Now, she gave me a message when she needs help contacting her family. I wonder if we are taking our friendship for granted.

As for the company I'm working for, I still feel warm being here. Regardless of the fact that people are spreading every where with other projects and plans, and the studio has become less crowded, I still feel ok to work here. I haven't established anything successful to step inside a different pair of shoes.

One of the old friends of mine, if we are even friends, turned into someone new last week. New position and new responsibilities. I am unable to start any conversations with him now for we have all changed. I am no longer the witty and sharp kid he used to talk to. And he no longer has the kind of sophistication I am fond of. I don't even remember how I felt, only fact. If you find someone who matches almost everything of yours at a certain time, in a funny way, will you appreciate their existence in your life? 

CRIMSON SKY.

Tonight.

I looked outside of the window and saw beautiful blocks of shadows coated on grey houses. Crimson sky fell down in grace. The infinity of the night scares and excites me. It could swallow my tiny body and mind, or lift me up high enough to blend with the dark. I don't want to be aroused. I would close my eyes and let it be. I'd be one of the house coated with shadows. Or I'd be a crimson spot on the ground running through dirt, spreading widely in silence. How could the sky be so beautiful at night and yet so few people enjoy it? 

IT MAKES SENSE IN THE END.

I'm sitting in my bed finishing this painting and I wonder if any of this makes sense. This bed is the same bed where I shed my endless tears for my dead mother. The place I felt the safest to be weak, have a self conversation, a self question, and a self wonder. This is the bed where I had the idea of suicide: "I can do it with the help of her pills." I could have taken the pills and slept forever. I remember feeling desperately brave to kill myself, without any hesitation or scare. The most meaningless two weeks of my life took away my willingness to live. Nothing made sense. I felt incredibly lonely. I felt it so unfair that I had to go through the loss of the person who loved me the most in this world while those strangers outside were laughing, holding hands and just be happy. "How could this happen to me?" My tears fell down my face uncontrollably. I had dinner in my room while crying for weeks. I thought maybe nothing would make sense anymore. No one would ever love me as much as she did. No one would ever accept my flaw and help me out. So that night, her pills were in my hands. Pills that supported heart diseases but would kill a healthy heart in minutes.

They sat in my hands quietly. I tried to find a reason not to swallow, but I found nothing. The pills were slowly melting with my sweat. Time was tiking. I turned my head to the side of the pills and was about to finish everything. But I turned enough to see the sarcasm of the night, the glimpse of the beige shirtdress I wore to hang out with my friend. How inelegant it was to be hung on my door. How cruel life was for my friend to lose her mother when she was in primary school. And suddenly that shirtdress made sense. Suddenly I didn't know if I was a coward or a total coward. All of the sudden, the pills in my hands became disgusting.

It's been two years since my mother died. Two years since I first had the sympathy for people who committed suicide. I want to say, I understand. My life has improved a lot. I have become a better person. The sadness I felt no longer is bad. It's a gift. I have never seen or talked to my mother since her death. Perhaps once in my dream. I wonder what she thinks of me now. I've been through enough to know death is no mercy or torture. Death is death. Death means done. Life goes on. People who live will receive.

MORPHINE OR COCAINE?

"Morphine or cocaine? Which is this today?

Holmes?"

_Sherlock Holmes. The Abominable Bride_

I woke up to the voice of myself calling me out for staying in the blur too long. I've been there. Morphine or cocaine? Morphine from my dying mother's bed or cocaine from the dying stranger who shamelessly sold it to an underage. It was illegal anyway. I get it now. "Let's make sense to each other." I see it now. The no-expectation claim was a lie. I had my own expectations and I flicked them off the coat like they were nothing. I shouldn't have had any. You were as hurting as a deer suffering from bullet shots. I saw your insecurities so clearly. It's not happiness that you must seek for. It's the thing that can fill the holes inside you. The deer in you once believed and sacrificed unconditionally got hurt severely with only bandaids to cover. You kept bleeding until all those wounds became big, black, empty holes. I was so blind not to admit my expectations and refuse your wounds, those that I could see the first time but too proud to face.

I get it now. Let's make sense to each other. I no longer have any expectations for you. This morning, I woke up to the feeling of relief. I'm finally myself again. This witty, certain, simple man inside of me has recovered. I breathe this fresh, cold air without minding one bit of any matters that ever happened. I wish my eyes could light up as brightly as my perception of "Let's make sense to each other." They would light up this whole short street without the help of electricity. You and I both know once we get too close, the holes will duplicate and expand. I don't want to get more of them, either. You were right. People need time to be alone. In a physical and mental way. Being by our own is the only one true reflection we should see. The rest can be deceiving and mimicking.

Without the waiting and longing, wanting and demanding, there's no ups and downs, no more anger and tantrums. Of course, Hemingway will curse you and I for being such cowards. Hemingway died. Probably very alone and lonely. We will all die that way anyway. Let's make sense to each other. And sense only. The puzzle is halfway solved.

KEEP IT PRIOR.

This morning represented well laziness. As I fully embraced the dusty pink cotton blanket and 'sandwiched' the big silky pillow between my legs, I thought of the scenario where I was making my very first pieces in a quiet, humble apartment downtown. These days I've been thinking a lot about my education, whether I should stay and continue my study at an expensive, fashion design-exclusive college, or study abroad at a worthy school. The risk is high for both. The advantages I'm having here and now will likely disappear if I move. But an average school and a not-so-highly-competitive environment can't fulfill my personality or improve my skills in any levels. I will fall asleep as soon as the first semester starts. 

After finishing that line, I ask myself why I'm still wondering if I've already known that I don't want to stay. ... Because I'm afraid. Like everybody else, even the ones who keep calling me brave and strong, I have my own fears and midnight is when my overthinking occurs. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to leave what I've built behind me and start a new life, new network and new habits. I can't imagine myself working part-time for money, struggle for it by the end of the month or having to have humble meals. Is this worth it? A couple of months ago I was so certain I would leave. What has happened to me? Is it what it feels like being insecure about our future? I always tell myself to be absolutely sure even when I'm not. Because if I don't say it, no one will knows.

I keep too much inside without sharing. Sometimes when it bursts, I collapse. Very few ones are willing to suffer from it with me. Very few ones find it easy to accept who I am when I'm weak. What I need now is encouragement so I'll have enough strength and focus to complete what I've started and get ready to go. By now, it's the only thing can keep me in sanity.

13.

I've always had a hunch of having the day 13 as the first day I met the special one. My intuition is so precise sometimes that I must ask myself whether there is a before life and I happen to remember a bit of it or not? In this life, it wasn't a date but the very first talk with a stranger, which was distinguished clearly by the similarities and differences we had. The stranger and I have been seeing each other for a month, from 13th December to 13th January. We have been through 3 fights and the most recent one was the biggest yet shortest-to-be-solved. I don't think it's bad that we have created some storms in one month because this is the first relationship that really makes me want to learn to listen and understand the other's differences while swallowing my ego. I wonder if he will do the same for me. In one month, I have had all the feelings I had in my last relationship plus so much more. The kind of feelings that questions me whether I am falling in love or I've had too much tea. I don't think this is love yet but I hope it will be. "If you fall in love with the wrong this much, imagine what it would be when you're with the right one." Can you imagine that? I'm blind already when I take this rollercoaster ride. But I'm sure that day will be beautiful. This thing that we are having, it's meaningful in its own fragility. Its ups and downs show me something absolutely different from other 1-month relationships. I see two people working on the issues together. I see my weaknesses crystal-clear while getting inspired suddenly by only thinking of our last night conversation or the touch or the gaze we had. The point is, not many people can strip down the cover I built for myself. So when it happens, it happens with all the fears and discomfort I possibly imagine.

Sometimes when we stay silent or rest after it, I feel strange. Perhaps I'm demanding? I want more of the petting, pampering and story-telling. I need to listen to his words, anything at all, so I can start telling mine. That's the key to my talking. I need to listen first no matter what the story will be. I want more of the actions. The risks. Look it's the risks that bond us all. The little and genuine surprises. The suggestions. The randomness.

I tend to lose sleep when I'm with someone. I'll stay up late to talk or be with them. This time, I don't have doubts if tomorrow I will feel the same way I feel at night. I know for sure he will care what happens during my day as much as how I feel when the sun goes down.

I remember in our first date, after watching Moulin Rouge, I smelled his shirt and I thought "Is it the smell I will be used to from now on?" He was almost exactly what I pictured the perfect man to date. Almost because his clothes were the opposite. And that perfect figure didn't have beard. But bless the beard and it usefulness. I think I'm seeing a poet and a coffee man that is like me in terms of fears and passion. We are emotionally intelligent, have good sense of humour and somehow are perverts. He, with all of who he is, has been able to crack me talking and sharing my privacy. But not that I am giving my full trust. I'm confused and I need a little push.

I hope for him having my back and vice versa. I hope for more of sympathy and stepping backwards for each other. I long for the protection. I wonder how many things we will be able to share unconditionally. I hope we will find the strength to take risks and just do it. In the end, we will know if it's love, if it's love.

DAVID BOWIE DIED.

David Bowie died yesterday. Heroes and Starman should have been played repeatedly by now but I can't listen to them more than once. I'm scared of this kind of day. The day that only happens once or twice a year. The day I have to try really hard to hold it in, to suck it up and seem normal. Usually I would make another tag, like how I call the others with their countries or the cheesiest tag I can give, which is "first love". It wasn't even love, just two teenagers happened to sit next to each other and share a bunch of stuffs. But today, I'm not ready to give another tag.

I can't believe I deserve this. This is not how I want to end anything. It's not polite, not right, not even true to who I am, or who he is. I hate social media and how it turns all the conversations to be. I ask myself if I would have told the same things I told yesterday face to face. I'm disappointed by the fact that he was the one to give up while everything he kept telling me was "don't write me off just yet." I really thought somehow I was a little in love. Because for the first time I really thought for someone but not myself. I put my ego down so I could minimize the damage. Or at least that's what I thought I did. 

Everything is different times after times, no matter what. And then they'll become the same. Shattered way back home, shattered music, shattered tea, shattered feelings. All will be shattered. I won't deal with this with hatred. I won't face it with weakness because anything goes against love and positive thoughts will only do harm. But I'm broken. I wish my good friend were here so she would hold me and pour a bunch of good things into my ears while I cry the shit out once and for all. I'd rather be stabbed severely than suffer from insidious pain. So that's what I will do even though it sounds like a coward, I will cry it all out until I'm ok again. Because I will be ok again. 

GOLDEN HAS LEFT.

I felt empty when Golden was announced dead. The same emptiness I felt the moment my mother left us. Flashbacks happened and I was a sleep walker walking from home to the pet hospital to pick Golden up. Flashbacks brought memories, those that weren't necessarily about me and Golden. But crucially about Golden. I miss him so much already. Golden always behaved. Never missed the right spot for WC, never bullied new kittens, never ate anything on the table before us. He was always the apple in my father's eyes. He was as big as a toddler, as wise as an elder and dope as eff. His fur, he probably took after a tiger. His eyes were marbles. Everything was very yellow. Golden was a romantic cat. Always went out at midnight and woke the neighborhood up while calling his girl in a scary tone. He was adventurous leaving home for 10 days and coming back fatter. Golden was generous. Always let his sister have more food and never told us if she was stealing some more of ours. He had a great taste. Never ate food on the floor, loved matcha cookies, sweet corn and lettuce. He could tell if your sweater is sh*t by sleeping on it. Golden was beautiful, kind and obedient. He would choke you if your belly happened to be his bed. That huge cat would warm you up at night and shoo you away in the morning for being too sentimental towards a cat. Golden was so cool. Silent most of the time. Only had dark chocolate. Very much hated mice and spiders. Had a great attitude towards annoying guests, which was cold as eff when they touched him.

I can go on talking about Golden all night. I don't know what we're going to do but that's tomorrow. Tonight I will sleep tight thinking of my dear man. Miu may or may not realize the fact but she will be fine. We will probably adopt a new cat. But Golden, that cool man, will always be here with us. I will keep some of his fur, again, that belongs to tomorrow.

COFFEE COLD BY GALT MACDERMOT.

This morning is coated with frozen breaths and rain. It rains differently in a tropical country. What a pity letting our shoes dip into the density of inconvenience. This kind of weather makes me long for noodles, any kind at all. Chewy dough, hard-boiled egg, tender meat, spicy soup, delightful veges. Those remind me of Motosan-Uber. I'm probably one of the few ones who give them compliments for the ramen. As artificial as it tastes, it's my ritual after hot chocolate or Earl Grey. It's my second stop after going for a walk, my second round for my stomach. And it actually rhymes.

I miss my unfinished paintings. I want to hug each of them and say I'm sorry for leaving them undone for so long. The colors, the paper, the smell of unfinished work. It cuts me. If the crayons and pencils had a brain, they would realize how terrible I am and rush to the door immediately. Even the paintings on the wall would break the frames and run away. My cats would help them run faster. The squeeky birds would stand next to the windows and sing bravo. Many things will happen in the ironic calculation of God to finally lead to the explosion of one big failure. Suddenly I'm well-known for no reason.

POEM: THE USUAL TEA.

Hot Earl Grey.

Japanese messenger's bicycle.

Old house in Trang Tien alley.

As seen at Lukas.

The little garden.

Hanoi swings in the cold of winter
Gives us time for cookies and tea
Dipped into the liquid
Softened with ease.

"No Dignity" played
Smoothened in jazz
Leather shoes danced
It wasn't bazaar.

Dark outside
Half past 5 no less
Tea ran out
Should have already left.

Jamie.