this is the last time.

nobody could soothe anybody else’s ghosts. i sit here surrounded by memories of the love you have showered me over the years and i realise i will always let you down.

2016 marks the eighth year of many things- you, me, saigon, blackespresso. eight years from now none of this will have mattered.

i didn’t always know it, but this blog is for you and has been for a very long time. it has served its purpose now.

this is the last time. goodbye.

something about love

between two people there is love and then there are those that are similar-to-that: the flutterings of butterflies, the shared understanding of a joke, the half-smile across a bar, the text messages helping the hours pass. everyone perceives it differently at different points in their lives. it appears there are so many kinds of love and just as many ways to love somebody; but…

to me the purest form of love is trust — entire, complete and unadulterated trust. the kind when asked you realise you are able to put together your heart, your hopes and all your fears and hand them over on a silver platter. the kind you let see your ghosts. when the ghosts come – and oh they will come for everyone – instead of excusing yourself to leave and face solitude until it is over, for better or for worse… you stay, not knowing whether he will. trust is vulnerability. again, for better, or for worse.

i drifted in and out– between cold nights, long drives, the cliffs and the skyscrapers; between nightclubs and silence so long you begin to hear time pass you by, between wishing things could be different to accepting that things could not be different… between all of love and all of similar-to-thats, the line of which i have lost, i trust a boy.

and that is all i know.

the magic of reading.


growing up in a townhouse enclosed by 3 meter high walls and spiked fences i spent most of my days reading everything i could get my hands on, from doraemon and conan comics to translated chinese novels, and occasionally in desperation, the daily paper. one of my father’s favourite stories to tell is that he used to never work on saturdays and sundays — for those were book days where he would get out his bike and the two of us would go scouting every single bookstore in the neighbourhood for new stories. when friends tell stories of childhood i often kid that i had none. those i did have were mostly adventures painted in my head, but they were so vivid to a child they might as well have been real. the comics served little purpose and made no impact on how i viewed the world,  but it did establish a love for reading that i later on realised was life changing. the first year and a half spent in singapore i must have read over fifty novels — some were beautiful and some complete garbage, but the crafted worlds of words you get to choose for yourself when needed is something i will always believe in.

there are so many young children i see sitting in cafes with tablets and their parents’ smart phones watching videos on youtube and i can’t help but wonder how this will impact the world they know. of course you could always argue both ways, but would it be the same exercise of imagination when images are fed to you solely from a digital screen? the point of this is — my children will read, because there are so many wonderful worlds out there and you can’t just live but one.

a different shade of blue on my mind

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a forest run

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the rails bar

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a country road

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pacific highway

half smoked smokes

favourite song lyric of the month —

Guess this is just what I wanna do,
Keeping half-smoked smokes and singing to half-filled rooms.

Photo on 23-01-2016 at 2.05 pm

MUFE Aqua Rouge #14 – Light Rose

There’s only one place that I wanna be,
It’s home with you, girl, so I can hear you breathe.
With your hair up like you do,
And that face that you give me when you’ve missed me.

And I’ve missed our girl so god damn much,
I’ve smoked a lot and I feel so rough.
Guess this is just what I wanna do,
Keeping half-smoked smokes and singing to half-filled rooms.

I was young and irresponsible
About a year ago and it’s impossible to tell
If my hands will ever warm up
I don’t believe in growing up but

Look at me now, I’m engaged to be married,
I’m only 23 and I’ve got myself a family.
She’s not mine and she never will be,
I’m reminded every day.
She’s not mine and it fucking kills me,
She won’t look at me that way

I was young and irresponsible
About a year ago and it’s impossible to tell
If my hands will ever warm up
I don’t believe in growing up