Visions of You

I can’t write in this state when my heart and soul is full of nostalgia. I dreamt you out of my 2 favourite animated movies.

Now you’re big as life, breathing, moving, living right before my eyes.

Everytime I see your face, I can’t believe my luck, but this is reality.

I am no longer sad, only carrying remnants of deep love that I have learned from the past.

Liebling, ich liebe dich.


I Feel It

Coming in more than ever, I feel it strongly.

Pluto in 7th, so transformative, becareful how you play the game —

Thank you Tori for being a really wise voice during this chaos,

If you lose your soul, you lose it all – it’s basically how I feel. I feel like I’m losing my soul, I don’t even know who am I at this point, but remember to transform freely and with tolerance, absorbing other people’s beliefs and view of the world is something to learn with art, and taking it slowly but lightly

To choose is to own..? Don’t let me hit the ground

Manchuria – Pt. 1

She was stuck in a rut due to her over-seemingly unhealthy obsession with tinted lip balms. It was overshadowing every single brain cell of hers.

Without second thought, she wrapped her Nepali scarf around her neck, grabbed her wallet, phone and keys, then swiftly stepped out into the cold winter night, fantasizing about the purchase she was about to make as she made her way to the nearby shop.

Unfortunately, as fate would decide, the shop was not open. She grunted in dismay, furious, fuming, and eventually decided to just walk away. Plop plop plop – sounds of her footsteps in the dark, eyes wildly searching for a substitute. And there it was: she stumbled across a Manchurian restaurant – simple but inviting.

She trampled in with strong but swift footsteps, looked at the Indian lady at the counter – slightly shorter than she is, dusky rose skin, friendly and sincere eyes, high pitched voice.

Still squinting scantily across the menu, she ordered for the vegetarian biryani but eventually changed her mind. She ordered egg fried rice instead.

Definitum – her senses did the trick. On the way to fix her lip balm obsession, a whiff of Chinese wok fryings reminded her of her colorful, bustling, city life – somewhere in distant Kuala Lumpur where Chinatown was bursting with affordable and tasty street food.

And then another flashback. Rewinding to what happened a few minutes just before she changed her order —

A little unsure whether she should get something extra, she squinted her eyes trying to read the menu on the headboard.

“Don’t worry maam, I can help you read if you can’t!”, the Indian lady chirped as she inched closer to her, trying to be helpful.

She was then reminded of her mother, who would do the same thing, squinting her eyes and waving her hands in the air, saying “Sorry I can’t see!” and people would always offer their assistance.

Her sister – another story, but often her partner in crime, was more patient than her in many ways, but sometimes they’d shake their heads in unison, signalling that their mother’s actions were not at all necessary.

She understood her mother’s ways now, and the magnetism of being true to your own plight. It never was a rut to be in. Only when you accept your plight, that’s how one stops being in a rut.

Understanding events in a non-linear way was something that she often thought was crazy and illogical, but now it all made sense.—

Staring at the table in front of her, observing the tropical colors used for the painting. There’s always something with gold-linings in oriental paintings instead of silver ones.

“Should we start saying there’s a gold-lining in every situation instead of silver-lining?” She often got carried away with the origin of phrases or words but her thoughts were interrupted when food was ready for takeaway.


Traveling back in time, listening to Casey’s song the first time I ever watched Whiplash which soon became one of my favourite jazz movies – gut wrenching, heart wrenching, brows furrowed, sighing desolately.

I try to un-furrow my brows – disrupted – music goes on a loop again, this time it’s not so heavy, but it still lingers a little. Bittersweet, slow swaying movements.

I am dancing alone. Carpets with Persian patterns stretching across the floors in my non-existent New York apartment. Glass windows so wide, you could jump out of it anytime.

Living life on the edge, on an emotional edge, surviving every moment when strong emotions come to sweep you off. S do you know?

Trying to find solace somewhere else, they say finding it within you is your best bet, but the deeper I dig, the deeper I feel. I see the rose in full bloom, maybe the darkness does not have to kill her.


The Girl With Curls

“Why don’t I get to be like her?” the child asked.


She remembered seeing her across the road, across the class, across the great courtyard happily walking down the streets while bobbing her cute little head – her cute little head full of curls.

She often watched the doll with fascination as she had porcelain skin, baby doll features, and often wondered why did she not share the same fate.

“Mom, why don’t I get to be like her?” she used to ask her mom.

“Be grateful,” her mom would often reply.

She got bullied a lot growing up as an immigrant in a small little town where people around her predominantly had porcelain skin. “Darkie” was her nickname. In frustration, she tried to hide her own roots, always tried in vain to fit in with the crowd. She tried to be everything else except herself.

Well, there were certainly bright spots in her life. Her life was not that bad as she made it out to be. Those were the moments when she finally got to experience cultural diversity through her travels, and most importantly stories she got to share with strangers who eventually became her closest friends.

She had a fond liking of anything Arab or African as they reminded her of ancient times of joy, journeys and freedom.

– – –

Today, she’s the Asian girl with Afro curls.


Everything in its right place.


The Orange Book of Passion

Is passion a crime?

There was once a girl, who understood that orange meant warmth, and could also mean passion, but little did she not know that passions that were too strong were meant to self destruct until she met a man who would change her perspective on passion forever.

She never understood why so much passion came together with so much unsaid words emanating from her throat chakra. Eventually she got to understand that the throat chakra and sacral chakra are complements, and there has to be a balance between dualities. The more she tried to ensue her passion, the more she felt that something had to be communicated.

Fortunately, the orange book of passion saved her. It was one of those vintage notebooks she got from a thrift shop with yellowing pages inside it. She called it the orange book of passion because it was her safe refuge to write down everything that was in her head, from A – Z.

She once wrote some songs for a guy who taught her the brighter, hippy ways of life. Her passion for him lost its way when she finally met the guy who was going to make her understand the true meaning of passion. Orange, warmth, unconditional love, ancient – just like India.

She had been thinking about the orange book of passion again. Maybe she will write this guy who reminds her of India – a song.

“I’ll bare my soul naked this time,” she told to herself.

Buddha Bar

this is the story of how the buddha bar came into existence:

One day, there was this man who acclaimed to be one of the buddha’s followers but still wanted a drink, an alcoholic drink. Now, buddha never said no to alcohol unlike Jainism counterparts, so this follower was thinking whether it (yes, it started calling itself “It” because It became asexual and also equated asexuality with no self – which by any terms did not make full sense,  but the premise still works nevertheless).

So he went to this drinking place full of rowdy cowboys and what the society would call – “low lives” (we’re talking about drug dealers, cartels, wipers etc.). It wanted to understand how could one merge both aspects – of the material world and the spiritual world. So It assessed its needs, gathered some invisible might (conjuring energies, one would call it). Lo and behold, It realized that there shall be a buddha bar.

And there it was, It took the place of the bartender, said to him :”I’m the innovator, and this buddha bar shall flourish,” in a sullen humor tone.

Where is the buddha aspect then? You’re curious, I’m curious too. It turned out that the buddha aspect was in the ambience itself – candles, buddha figurines. For some, it felt erotic but oddly conservative at the same time; for some, it felt like a luxury.


Well, that was some horse shisse.