quotes

prose for a quiet weekend

last updated on 9th february

preface

10 (or more? who knows i'm writing this in advance) pieces i wrote this weekend. i wanted to write something that felt like a quiet moment, like a conversation with a friend you haven't seen in a while. or maybe just a conversation with yourself.

i sound schizophrenic. maybe i am. who knows.

ghosts are real, right?

i think ghosts are real. i think they are the memories we can't let go of.

they loom to remind us of the things we've lost, the things we've left behind, the things we've never had.

but maybe they are also the things we've loved, the things we've held onto, the things we've never let go of.

i hope that, in some way, these pieces can be a ghost for you.

p.s. it's also a spotify playlist. i hope you like it.

i

the art of shaping thoughts into something small enough to share without losing what makes them whole is a delicate one.

language is overrated. too many syllables, too many words, and too many ways to say things that don't need to be said.

so much of what we feel is lost in translation. to think that we don't even know what it means to feel something until we find a way to name it.

that we can't even begin to understand the world until we've found a way to describe it.

yet, how many things have gone unnoticed, unfelt, unknown, simply because they were never spoken?

ii

most of life is spent waiting. most of it is the space between what we want and what comes next.

the long walks with no destination, the quiet glances across a room, the sound of rain hitting the window while you do nothing at all.

we rush through these moments, scrolling past them, wishing for the next big thing. but what if we are missing out in the ordinary seconds that don't demand our attention but deserve it anyway?

i think about this as i wait for monday to come, for the sun to rise, for us to see each other again.

and i don't know if i'm missing out on anything.

but i do know that i'm waiting for something. and that's enough for now.

iii

the way we hold onto things says a lot about us.

imagine a boat. a small one, with just enough room for two. you and me.

we're in the middle of the ocean, and the waves are getting rough. the boat is starting to fill with water, and we're bailing as fast as we can.

i look over at you, and you're holding onto something. a book, maybe. a photo. something that matters to you.

and i realize that i'm holding onto something, too. but it's not a book or a photo. it's you.

and i wonder if you're holding onto me, too.

for if we're both holding onto each other, who's left to bail out the water?

iv

time is strange. i love nerding out about relativity, but let's look at it another way.

the universe is expanding. it's getting bigger and bigger, and it's getting faster and faster.

and we're just here, on this tiny rock, spinning around a ball of fire, waiting for something to happen.

we try to measure it in minutes, in years, in lifetimes. we chase time, try to control it, try to save it.

but time just moves.

it moves in two directions at once. it moves too slow when you're waiting, and too fast when you want more of it. it stretches and shrinks depending on how much you feel, how much you want, how much you notice.

it's an unfortunate tragedy that we can't hold onto time. just like we can't hold onto each other, or onto the things that matter most.

so we write journals. we save photos we'll never delete. we replay old conversations in our heads, trying to make them last just a little longer. we hold onto people, onto places, onto the way things used to be, until time pulls them from us, whether we're ready or not.

and maybe that's the cruelest part of living. the moment always ends. the people we love change, or leave, or become memories we wish we could step into.

but maybe that's also the beautiful part. time is something to be in. to sink into, fully, while it is here.

to notice the way the light hits the window in the morning. to laugh a little louder.

to love people while we have them, knowing that one day, all we'll have is the love we gave.

v

have you ever thought about how weird everyday things actually are?

like, who was the first person to look at a cow and think, yeah, i'm gonna drink whatever comes out of that?

it's a stupid trope that everyone uses to question the world, but it's true. we live in a world where we've normalized the weirdest things.

we eat eggs, which are basically chicken periods.

we drink coffee, which is just bean water.

or socks. socks are weird. they are just little sweaters for your feet.

and don't get me started on pockets in women's clothing. no offense, but why are they either fake or so small you can barely fit a single pocket of air in them?

(meanwhile, guys are out here carrying entire water bottles in their cargo shorts. i'm just saying; there is a conspiracy afoot.)

vi

my professor forgot what he talked to me about last week. he asked me to remind him.

the thing is, i don't remember either.

i guess i'm screwed.

but it's funny how we forget things. how we forget the things that matter, the things that don't, the things that we should remember, the things that we shouldn't.

the brain is like a sieve. it holds onto some things and lets others slip through.

and sometimes, it's the things that slip through that matter most.

i wonder what we'll remember.

in the end. the big things, the small things, the things that made us laugh, the things that made us cry.

the way the light hit the window in the morning, or the way the rain sounded on the roof.

the people we loved, the people we lost, the people we never got to say goodbye to.

the way we held onto things, the way we let them go.

and the way we live, until we don't.

vii

i miss a lot.

things i didn't even realize i loved until they were gone.

i remember my last day in shanghai. it was a late flight to singapore, and we actually arrived on chinese new year eve.

we unpacked as my parents turned on the tv to watch the celebrations. fireworks, dragon dances, all the things that made us feel like home.

i didn't want to watch. so i slept as soon as i finished showering and unpacking.

i remember my first day of school in singapore. i was so chubby then. i was so excited. i was not ready.

i was not the best student. i was good at math though. so i was happy. my classmates thought i was annoying. looking back, i was obnoxious. i was so lonely.

i remember my first day visiting the u.s. i got into a fight with someone. i was so angry. but i realized i was wrong. i was so embarrassed.

i believe i apologized. i hope i did. i didn't think i meant it though.

i remember my first day boarding at a school for a summer program. turns out i was good at dorm life. it also turns out that i loved windy nights.

i was a menace in the kitchen. you weren't supposed to even be in the kitchen. but the undergrad students were nice.

i remember my first day of grade 11. i thought i was finally getting the hang of things.

i got a 4 for my chemistry test. i cried.

i remember the day we spent time together. i was so happy. i was so sad.

for the way i memorized the way you looked at me, only to forget the exact shade of your eyes the moment you left for the next block.

for the way i miss you now. for the way i will keep missing you even when we see each other again.

for every moment i thought i would remember, only to realize that they are only snapshots in a perpetual treadmill of living and forgetting.

i miss the moments i didn't know i'd never get back.

viii

i went on a walk today. i had no destination in mind.

in fact, i started in front of botanic gardens, walked past the mrt station, and ended up at farrer road.

i'm not sure what i was looking for. maybe i was looking for something to write about.

i guess there's something about walking that makes you feel like you're going somewhere. even if you're not.

i think that's why i like it. it's a way to do something without actually doing anything.

theseus and his labyrinth. sisyphus and his boulder. me and my walks.

the greeks believed that the notion of movement was a way to ascertain truth. that fate led us to where we needed to be, even if we didn't know where that was.

i don't know if i believe in fate. but i do believe in walking.

ix

let's go back to the boat. the one in the middle of the ocean, with just enough room for two.

(or at least, that's how we saw it. maybe there was always more space. maybe we just pressed ourselves so close together that we forgot how big the world really was.)

now, it's just you. aww. i'm sorry. i guess i had to go somewhere.

(or maybe it was never about where i went.)

you panic, just for a second. not because the boat is broken, not because you don't know how to sail.

oops.

the silence feels heavier.

you look over the edge. the void stares back at you.

it waits.

is this boat still yours? or was it only ours?

(or maybe that was never the point. maybe it wasn't about ownership at all. maybe it was about the fact that, for a time, we shared it.)

you've been sailing so long that maybe you forgot what it was like to be alone. or maybe you never were alone—not really. the ocean kept you moving, i kept you company.

now it's just you and the deck beneath your feet.

(and that should be scary.)

(i would be scared.)

(like imagine if you were actually in the middle of the ocean, with no one around. no land in sight. no one to call for help.)

(can't even imagine this being real. i would die from tweaking out.)

you look around.

the waves that once pushed you forward, the wind that filled your sails, the currents that dictated your course. gone.

it's just you. floating in an infinite, silent void.

were you ever steering? or were you simply being carried?

you reach for the oar—only, there isn't one.

(or maybe there never was.)

(you thought i gave you one, didn't you? hehe i'm so funny)

(but think. did i? or did you just trust me when i said, here, take this, it will help you row?)

(my bad. if i took it with me. if it ever existed at all. either way—i'll bring it back, i promise.)

(but let's be honest. you don't really need it, do you?)

(before we head back into the void, put your design cap on for a second. think about it. what is an oar, really? it's just a tool. a way to move through the water. a way to keep the boat steady.)

(and you. well, you're pretty good at that, aren't you?)

(you don't need an oar. you don't need me.)

because here's the thing: the boat didn't stop moving just because i left.

the boat is still here. it's still strong. it's still yours—not because i'm gone, not because you're alone, but because it always was.

and maybe that's the real question. not whether you were steering before.

but whether you want to steer now.

you sit. you wait. you listen.

(the void hums, steady and patient.)

(i believe that silence is just full of things one hadn't noticed yet.)

you run your hands over the wood. feel the weight of it beneath you. the boat, solid and real. the boat, the thing that held us both.

the boat, the thing that's still here.

it was always about the boat.

the boat was the proof that we were here. it was what carried us, what made the world feel small enough to hold. and now, even with just you on board, it's still doing what it was always meant to do.

it's waiting. still floating. it's still enough.

for you.

to stop looking for what's missing.

miss the boat.

miss what it gave us. the space to exist together. the movement that never needed a destination.

and then—when you're ready—stand up.

and it's still yours to sail.

x

(this is the part where i come back. hi.)

i hope you enjoyed the boat metaphor. i thought it was pretty cool.

i think it's nice to imagine that we are all boats. that we are all floating in the same ocean. that we are all moving, even when we don't know where we're going.

boats are cool. they are strong. they are steady. they are always moving, even when they are still.

but they are also fragile. they can break. they can sink. they can be lost at sea.

so take care of your boat.

and maybe, if you see another boat out there, floating in the same ocean, you can wave. you can say hello. you can share a moment, a conversation, a memory.

i hope you had a nice time.

postface

is that how you end a writing?

(should be an epilogue, but in retrospect, it's more of a preface at the end.)

i hope the pieces made you feel something. i hope they made you think.

and i leave you with the eloquently worded question: ghosts are real, right?

p.s. check out the rest of the playlist though. there's like 12 more songs. kind of like a side b to this whole thing.