When people talk to you about their travels…

They don’t mention everything.

They don’t tell you there will be humiliating moments when you try to get on a train over at the wrong side of it, with some man shouting at you in Italian, while you fruitlessly try to open a carriage door that isn’t meant to be open. They don’t tell you that the whole station will turn to stare and you will walk into the train with the heat of embarassment buzzing around your head.

They don’t tell you that you will get bored a lot of times, and some places are, however foreign they may be, quite shit.

They don’t tell you that train rides and bus rides are precious, sublime moments, little pockets of time stolen in limbo, sprinting while you’re seated while you let our minds navigate through the marshes of thought. They don’t tell you that you might create your best art or write your best words when the world is passing you by outside your window.

They don’t tell you that there will be songs that stalk you. Everywhere you go. Every country, city, and coffee shop. For me, it was Adele’s Someone Like You. They don’t tell you that you will eventually nurse the habit of groaning out loud and crying out, “For the love of God!” in public every time the first riff plays.

They don’t tell you that travel does nothing to assauge heartbreak. That there’ll be days when right outside your door is a city bustling with life and art and people, and you will be curled up in your couch or bed in your pajamas at 4pm, crying so hard you don’t even recognize your own voice anymore.

They don’t tell you that your internal environment and your external environment are not always the best of chums. They’re not always soulmates, your head won’t always match up with what’s around you.

They don’t tell you that if you are living just 6 tube stops away from someone who annihilated your heart and psyche just by existing, but going over to visit is not an option, it will feel like something is robbed from the experience you wanted. They don’t tell you that reminding yourself why you did this helps quite little at times like these. They don’t tell you that culture and language and skin colour may differ but human loneliness is universal and heavy and more tangible than physical differences.

They don’t tell you that it isn’t the big things that keep you up, it’s the little things, the nuances, the details in the fabric, and sometimes, it’s the familiar rather than the exotic.

They don’t tell you that if you’re looking for a specific kind of love, you’ll never find it. They don’t tell you to open your heart to all the types of love the world has to offer you.

They don’t tell you that at one point, you will give up on capturing. You will collude with the strength of memory and keep your camera in your bag, keep your pen in your pocket, and you will be content with standing in complete awe and letting it just wash over you.

They don’t tell you that everyone you meet has lived a part of your life. And that we are all just contributing to one gigantic organism that the world is, existing and living the human experience, even though at times it may feel like you are painfully alone.

They don’t tell you that you’ll discover more than what you bargained for.

They don’t tell you that it is the most polarizing, most sublime, most hauntingly beautiful experiences ever. They don’t tell you that sometimes, despite you thinking that you’ll never get enough of it, sometimes, you are ready to stop. Sometimes, you want to live for a little bit.

They don’t tell you that it’s as real as reality can get.

When people talk about their travels, they don’t tell you much at all; some things are worth more than just words. Some things you have to live through. Some things you have to travel for.

22.

I was supposed to be back in Singapore on 16 December. But I did a U-turn, flew back to London from Rome, and applied for an 11-week long course on creative writing instead. It is, in retrospect, one of the most HOLY-WOW things I’ve done in my life.

“It’s your birthday today!” Dude at the enrolment counter of City Lit exclaims when he keyed in my application form details.

“Ahhh, yeah it is.”

“Happy birthday!”

“Thank you.”

“Did you do anything fun?”

I pause. “No, not really. I arrived in London yesterday so it’s all been a bit…”

“Ahhh,” he nods understandingly. “And so the first thing you do when you’re in London is apply for a course?”

“Well, I guess. Actually, no. I don’t know. I was sorta here before. It’s all a bit confusing. I was here for three weeks. Then went around Europe for a month, and…now I’m back.” I finish lamely.

He nods again, probably losing interest in my story. It isn’t exactly a summary that would herald an epic tale of travel-for-self-discovery. I didn’t mention the bits I was proud of most (only upon hindsight). I didn’t mention that I was slightly manic at this point. Or that I had just finished an almost two-hour walk from Mile End to Holborn. Or that I had more nervous breakdowns in the last two months than I’ve had in my entire life. Or that I was living off mini-croissants bought at a supermarket in Rome because I can no longer afford a proper hot meal. Or that I have no damn clue where I’m going to sleep tomorrow. Or that I would do ANYTHING – except pay – to have a fuckin’ chicken kebab right then. Or that I am a teensy bit mentally damaged. Or that this is the loneliest birthday of my life. Or that I am so tired of moving around and depending on people for shelter, and I just want to rent a goddamn place and sleep and cook and write and LIVE. Or that I feel like the oldest person in the world right now. Or that I’m so intimidated by everything but I’ve done everything I’ve always been intimidated by. Or that I need new clothes. Or that the best thing that I can imagine happening to me right now is already happening, and I’m still hoping for a little more, and a little more, and a little more.

I wish I had spilled my guts out to enrolment counter dude at City Lit. But I just paid him and left it at that.

Happy birthday to me!

Under the goddamn Tuscan sun.

Every part of me was warm enough except my hands. Just so you know, my threshold for cold weather has increased impressively since 7 weeks ago. Gloves are often troublesome and moot. Fool, my mind would cackle whenever I pull a pair on. You think those thin pieces of faux leather from a crappy Tokyo market will shield you from winter bite? Ha! All you’ll do is struggle to use any touch-screen devices. You make me spit, child.

My mind is needlessly mean. I pouted. In front of where I sat, the Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Flore sprawled majestically, yet I was barely looking. I was reading ’84 Charing Cross Road’ by Helene Hanff, a collection of letters written by the author in 1950 to an old English bookstore in London. I was listening to M.I.A.’s Born Free, telling myself “I was booooooooorrrrn – free!”. I was thinking of Stephanie. I was remembering our attempts at independent filmography in the middle of SoHo at 3am that one Saturday. I was absolutely aching to go back to the UK and my mind reeling with possible dates, routes, job opportunities, financial aid programmes, housing options, people to wheedle money from, banks to rob, rich enemies to have murdered…

Thereafter, I proceeded to walk in desperate circles, whilst nursing a silent mental breakdown. I contemplated flinging myself off the nearest bridge and swimming all the way to Hogwarts. But I stopped myself just in time. Dark Wizards might be tailing, the voice in my head whispered warningly. It is my only friend, that voice.

Mind, I was – am – in Firenze. Tuscany. TUSCANY – one of the most beautiful places in Italy. I was alone and lonely and in the midst of a mostly classical culture I can’t relate to – but sweet Jesus, young lass, YOU ARE IN TUSCANY. I tell myself this over and over. This is no time to have a breakdown. Have it when you’re back in Singapore. Have it when you’re broke and stuck and everyone around you wishes you dead. Have it when you develop lactose intolerance and can no longer consume cheese without breaking out in hives. Just don’t have it now, in goddamn Italy.

But I had it anyway. The mental breakdown. And I started thinking about various things. In no particular order:

- What is it about M.I.A. that makes me want to learn how to krunk?

- It is all very unfair – how some have a myriad of opportunities to further their studies or to get the wonderful jobs they’ve gotten (or can get), while some of us are stuck with desperate, heartachingly grandiose aspirations that are often difficult to achieve thanks to financial obstacles. It is all very unfair that I am thinking this when I am so stupidly lucky enough to be able to have a stash of savings (which, granted, I worked more than two jobs for) to go around Europe for 2 months, and still think I have the right to feel sad. I don’t. Get over yourself.

- I don’t know what my motivations are and I don’t know who my friends are and I don’t know if this is post-pubescent whinging or advanced quarter life crisis or early-twenties-impulse-ridden-confusion. I don’t know if I need guidance or school or a job or money or just a mental leash to tell me to stay put and RATIONALIZE and stop trying to run away everytime I feel like something is slightly off. I don’t know if this is because of one thing, or a plethora of things. I don’t know whether I want to settle somewhere or keep moving. I don’t know if I want solitude or company. Don’t know if I’m scared witless or fearless. Too young or old enough. And I am trying so painfully hard to understand the inner workings of my psyche, see which way the gears turn, that I often lose myself in internal self-imposed pandemonium.

- The Italians ought to start believing in bigger coffee cups. How is this worth 1 euro 30?

- Will Qatar partially refund me if I cancel my flight ticket 2 weeks in advance?

- I feel like someone is vacuuming my chest into a cavity, or Samurai swording my guts into fillet pieces.

- This place is stunning.

So.

I have a few hundred euros left to my name and I have a flight back to Singapore in 2 weeks and I am trying everything in my power to not go back. What the actual FUCK do I do right now? I don’t know what the point of this note is. I just need to write. And because my friendly neighbourhood shrink is not on WhatsApp, I decided this is my next option.

A couple of days ago, when I left Padova and was hugging my host goodbye, she told me, “You’re a good girl. You made it this far.” And that stuck with me because numero uno: Yes. Yes I did make it this far. I should be happy. But numero dos: What’s the point of this all when it seems like I am virtually stuck to a country I detest like PVC glue on kindergarten craft?

I think I’m going to become a nun.

Fleeting revelations and/or catharses.

In October 2011, I upped and left Singapore on a 2-month trip around the UK, Spain, France and Italy. Most of the time, I was torn between wide-eyed wonder and personal mental weather – writing essays and blogs seemed impossible. Still, I penned my thoughts into a travel diary or two; usually one-liners that pop in my head while on a train (I find that movement inspires me). This is what resulted.

1. People are either caricatures or the anti-Christ of their national stereotype.

2. You are the only person you can trust – so why do people struggle to take the leap? You’ll catch yourself. Survival instincts will kick in. Don’t fret. (This might not, however, apply to anyone suffering from a split personality.)

3. Momentary homelessness in a city is not that big of a deal if you know where airports, railway stations or 24-hour cafes are.

4. Everyone has baggage. Everyone has a history you wouldn’t be able to imagine even if you tried. Don’t hold it against them.

5. Art is the internal of the external and the external of the internal.

6. Maybe there is such a thing as loving too much.

7. Butter cookies taste good everywhere you go. There is no such thing as bad butter cookies.

8. Most of the time, you’re only in love with the ideas of something or someone or some place. Most of the time, they’re only subjective concepts; notions sullied by your environment and society. They are ideas OF ideas of what things are. These trap you in between mirrors. You’d have to shuckle yourself out of your own mind before you can escape. Hardly anyone escapes because these things keep us human. Knowing there’s something better out there, despite knowing very little of it, keeps us going.

9. Treat everyone right even if you feel like kicking them in the face.

10. Truth is non-confrontational.

11. Some people build you up, and some people break you down; doesn’t make them entirely good or entirely bad. You have to be slightly broken to be built up. Roll with it. Jay-Z says brush that dirt off your shoulders. Listen to Jay-Z.

12. Culture is imperative. Culture you can relate to is paramount.

13. When in doubt, go to a bookshop. Breathe deep.

14. Life is fabulous. You might not have happened, but you did. You’re one of the elite. 7 billion is a but a pinch in infinity.

15. Give what you want, take what you need.

16. Hold on to memories, but don’t drown in your own head. There’s a whole world of Present out there to be made into the Past.

17. Not everyone will give a shit about you – deal with it.

18. Food is brilliant. Don’t deny yourself of it. Get the last piece if you want to. (Unless I grabbed it first.)

19. You are not a figment of your own imagination.

20. That thing you want to do is waiting for you to do it. SO DO IT GOOD. Yes, that was an innuendo.

Love Letters to the Cosmic Void (II).

In October 2011, I upped and left Singapore on a 2-month trip around the UK, Spain, France and Italy. Most of the time, I was torn between wide-eyed wonder and personal mental weather – writing essays and blogs seemed impossible. Still, I penned my thoughts into a travel diary or two; usually one-liners that pop in my head while on a train (I find that movement inspires me). This is what resulted.

 
Dear reality,

You never mentioned that the rumors of those careless with minds and hearts, of once-dreamers on wet sidewalks, of battered boots and lonely utopias, of terrible timing and beautiful mindscapes, have a basis of truth.

Dear Cardiff,

You’re like Wellington’s little sister who owns pretty dresses but doesn’t really have much of a stake in the personality department.

Dear Wales,

I can’t stand how beautiful you are. I never thought hiking was this therapeutic.

Dear trip-so-far,

You’ve been a muddle of doodles and words and moving vehicles, but one thing I’ve managed to figure out is that penning things down breaks down my encounters and emotions into little bite-sized, psychologically logical pieces I can happily observe under the microscope that is my self-indulgence. If nothing else, it has rekindled the story-teller in me, rather than the word-flow Nazi that has been brewing steadily for many years now. Write for the sake of writing, for expression, creation, projection, emotional relief, and to have something to do with your hands. You feel like a simpler person after, and not at all in a bad way.

Dear Oxfam,

“The System’s bust. Rising food prices, climate change and complacent world leaders are letting people down. Join our GROW campaign www.oxfam.org.uk/eat” – Fo’ shizzle.

Dear loopholes in Wales’ train system,

I love getting away with having a child ticket.

Dear thoughts in the shower,

What would happen if the ‘Once Broken Considered Sold’ rule applies to hearts?

Dear Bath,

You’re wet.

Get it?

Dear man on the train having this oddly comical conversation on the phone,

“Listen. Guess how much my ticket costs? Guess. Absolute EXTORTION. More. ….okay I can’t say cause I’m on the train.”

You tease.

Dear literature goddess,

“If our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then perhaps few activities reveal as much about the dynamics of this quest – in all its ardour and paradoxes – than our travels. They express, however inarticulately, an understanding of what life might be about, outside the constraints of work and the struggle for survival. Yet rarely are they considered to present philosophical problems – that is, issues requiring thought beyond the practical. We are inundated with advice on where to travel to; we hear little of why and how we should go – though the art of travel seems naturally to sustain a number of questions neither so simple nor so trivial and whose study might in modest ways contribute to an understanding of what the Greek philosphers beautifully termed eudaimonia or human flourishing.

…Our misery that afternoon, in which the smell of tears mixed with the scents of suncream and air-conditioning, was a reminder of the rigid, unforgiving logic to which human moods appear to be subject, a logic that we ignore at our peril when we encounter a picture of a beautiful land and imagine that happiness must naturally accompany such magnificence. Our capacity to draw happiness from aesthetic objects or material goods in fact seems critically dependent on our first satisfying a more important range of emotional or psychological needs, among them the need for understanding, for love, expression and respect. We will not enjoy – we are not able to enjoy – sumptuous tropical gardens and attractive wooden beach huts when a relationship to which we are commited abruptly reveals itself to be suffused with incomprehension and resentment.”

What is it about works of art or literature that seem to fall on our laps the precise moment we need to read or experience them? I’ve had that happen to me so often, it starts to feel like a self-fulfilling prophecy – perhaps I’m looking out for some things in particular, perhaps I’m seeing the world through some sort of filter that only emphasizes certain aspects of the work that I normally would bypass if I hadn’t been in a certain state of mind. But how would that explain seemingly random encounters that, had life been a comical play, are so coincidental it feels like it’s been planted by the universe? How does fate work? Damn, world. You’ve done well this time.

Dear Cardiff and Bath,

It’s not you, it’s me.

Dear Pret A Manger barista standing outside for a fag,

Sorry, I wasn’t smiling at you. I just thought of a private joke I had once, with myself.

Dear Jacob’s Coffee House barista,

You don’t know how much I needed the attention. Thank you for the refill offers, free mashed potatoes, Bath bun, Coke and conversation. I might have developed a slight crush because of your niceness. And your scruffiness. And your letting me stay past closing time. And the fact that you gave me free food. You know what they say, the way to my heart….

Dear odd but beautiful conversations between strangers in restaurants,

Man: What makes you smile in the morning?

Waitress: I don’t know. Sun in the sky. Yeah, that’s what it is. What about you?

Man: The daylight setting on my guitar.

Dear Bath,

There’s something beautifully, intricately unreal about you. Leaving is like stepping out of a fresh dream, or a Victorian painting, and I’m shuttling too fast from your old and forgotten wonderland and back into the garish realities of clashing buildings and personal terrors and lack of sun. “Don’t go into any dark alleys” seems, in retrospect, like a useless warning that Barista-Boy-I-Still-Don’t-Know-The-Name-Of gave me – what can hurt me there? In such a gentle, lazy city where everyone’s family and a stranger at the same time? You’re a place of contradiction, as most places are, and now everyone speaks in no tongues and nothing matches like they do inside you. I feel like as long as I was there I could find missing pieces, even if they’re mostly deceiving because each one found is far too promising to be real. My magpie-like tendencies won’t get me any real gems.

Dear London,

Due to several hitches in my travel plans…er, I’m back. I apologize for the anti-climax. This city is starting to dangerously feel like home. If I’m honest with myself, it’s probably really mentally unhealthy for me to be here right now; I feel like I took a step forward, then ten steps back. I’m starting to explore the relations between internal and external environment and how it’s never good enough to settle for satiating just one of them.

Dear external environment,

I’m afraid that if I stay here long enough, I’ll learn how to hate you.

Dear internal environment,

I have no words left to predict your mental weather. Tie a string to your paper soul and fly it.

Dear aimlessness,

Staying put means emotions and thoughts have time to catch up on me. I’ll stop walking or moving, and suddenly nothing feels fleeting, hurried. Suddenly everything is fixed and immovable and permanent; bruises set in and healing wounds are cut open to bleed freshly again and your throat seizes up and you get oxygen in your brain and it starts to work and work and work – so assauge this with words. If nothing else moves, make sure the pen does.

Dear Kensington Garden,

You’re a catharsis.

Dear bird attempting to eat a fly mid-air,

Sweet Jesus, I thought I was awkward. That was the best entertainment I’ve seen all week.

Dear past self,

Stop romanticizing loneliness. There is nothing beautiful about knowing that solitude is the only thing about yourself you can’t fix. Pain is not pleasure. You are not a movie. There’s nothing romantic about not knowing what to do. There’s nothing romantic about the cold. There’s nothing romantic about free-floating sadness with deceiving sources when you can’t see anything beyond it.

Dear current self,

Coughcyniccough.

Dear past self,

I heard that.

Dear sudden realizations,

The idea of pouring my heart out to someone excites me far more than actually doing it.

Dear pigeon,

Stop pacing in front of me like that, it’s making me nervous!

Dear William Wordsworth of Cockermouth,

You’re right about nature being an indispensable corrective to the psychological damage inflicted by life in the city. Spot on, mate.

Dear Oxford Street,

Walking your entire length in the afternoon makes me feel indestructible. Walking your entire length after dusk makes me feel small and desperate and useless.

Dear London after dusk,

Why do you get so depressing!?

Dear voice,

Speak, lest your

sonic disposition

might get cut open

like how the skin

at the corners of your lips

were sliced.

because when winter silence

kisses,

it bites.

Dear confessionals/lessons learnt,

- Everyone will tell you exactly how you should feel and ignore how you actually feel.

- This is not cynicism but you can’t depend on anyone other than yourself. This isn’t a bitter revelation. It is logic and those things are permanent fixtures in life, unfortunately.

- The only reason why I have a grudge against formal education is because I cannot afford it.

- You have no idea how much I want the things I want.

- I’m pretty sure being a feminist doesn’t mean I should be alone forever.

- I should stop hoping for cliches.

Dear bipolar tendencies,

Sometimes it feels like I’m laughing so much and I’m so happy that I think it’ll stay that way forever. Sometimes it feels like I’m being punched in the gut over and over. Sometimes I just watch as every person walks into my life for as long as the cafe window stretches, before leaving it again.

Dear Serpentine,

We’ll take turns to fly

orbit around our

own thoughts

like misguided planets

trying too hard to be out of this world.

Dear London couples,

STOP MAKING OUT AROUND ME.

Dear unfinished admissions,

I am

still

truly

despite it all

desperately

probably –

Dear universe,

Can’t I tempt you for yet another?

Dear little girl smiling sweetly in front of me on the bus,

Nice girls finish last; trust me baby, I know.

Dear cosmic void,

I think harboring bitterness and regrets is something that I can’t seem to muster. I suppose this is a good thing, but it hurts a little differently than it would have had I not gone with my gut.

Dear LG Fuad,

‘I’m a mess, I’m a wreck, I am perfect and I have learnt to accept all my problems and shortcomings cause I’m so visceral yet deeply inept.’

More than a day of repeating you non-stop. You’re still the most played song on my iTunes since 2007.

Dear truth,

A wonderful friend once told me, ‘You create who you are through actions like these’.

Dear self,

As the great Justin Pierre once said, Someday you’ll understand that everything is A-OK.

Dear second leg of my trip,

Bring on the madness.

40 Letters to the Cosmic Void

In October 2011, I upped and left Singapore on a 2-month trip around the UK, Spain, France and Italy. Most of the time, I was torn between wide-eyed wonder and personal mental weather – writing essays and blogs seemed impossible. Still, I penned my thoughts into a travel diary or two; usually one-liners that pop in my head while on a train (I find that movement inspires me). This is what resulted.

1. Dear cosmic void,

It takes an odd skill to keep wandering and wondering, facing the competition, readying ourselves for boarding and mental take-off because the nomadic tendencies kick in far too often when we’re well in touch with our peripatetic selves.

2. Dear cosmic void,

This isn’t a search, it’s psychological manhunt.

3. Dear aviation travel/space-time continuum,

I don’t think anyone’s ever climbed on board an aircraft and exclaimed, “Wow! Time is passing by SO quickly!” Fix this.

4. Dear poet,

Draw patterns to keep you awake. Dream a little bit more about golden liquids. Fog up your mirrors to reject God’s salty sense of humor.

5. Dear airport immigration,

This feels like Amazing Race. I’m trying to stay afloat.

6. Dear coffee,

Forget grandiose plans of drinking English tea (two sugars) with my pinkie sticking out from the ceramic mug. I’ve uttered a prayer into your medio caramel latte: Please, oh please, keep me up all night. I can’t afford to miss a beat.

7. Dear lack of funds,

I’ve spent 13 quid and I’m not even out of the airport yet.

8. Dear girl sitting across me in Costa,

I think I’m in love with you.

9. Dear London,

I’m so happy being here I could actually cry. And I’m not a happy-tears kinda girl either.

10. Dear boy with dreadlocks,

Fuck you, you turned my pen ink funny.

11. Dear Stansted,

It is 3am and I’m getting used to the airport floor against my back.

12. Dear self,

Stop underestimating cold. Stop overestimating your tolerance for it.

13. Dear self/cosmic void,

Travel accentuates the self; solitude; the loneliness of unnecessary company. Travel for travel’s sake. You have to fall in love with yourself daily.

14. Dear anyone,

Being practical is something I need to work on. When I miss magic, I try to chase it in people and places. I don’t know what I’m looking for but it’s not myself – I think I’ve stuck my flag into the summit of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

15. Dear Russian Couchsurfer,

Your idea of happiness is so simple, it makes my heart race.

16. Dear American Couchsurfer,

Hot damn, you’re an ignorant shitface.

17. Dear self,

When something has started and you’re still sat around waiting, reset to factory settings. There might be no hope for people like you.

18. Dear sense of adventure,

There is absolutely nothing out there.

Stay in.

Lock the doors.

You’re safer in your head.

19. Dear We Were Promised Jetpacks,

I needed that, thank you.

20. Dear self-assurance,

This is not about anything other than what it is supposed to be about even if it feels like it’s about everything it’s not.

21. Dear lack of direction,

Travel tip for noob solo nomads of the 21st century: make practical plans, not emotional ones.

22. Dear Green Day,

“And there’s nothing wrong with me/This is how I’m supposed to be”

23. Dear everyone,

I bet there’s nothing out there for you but you’re convincing yourself otherwise.

I bet your smile is fake.

I bet you wished people insisted on knowing answers.

I bet life is just a scurry of emotions and places and you can’t even keep up with how fast you’re going and falling and your days have blended and the next thing you know, it’s Monday again.

24. Dear speech bubbles,

I’m forcing myself not to dream. We need something tangible and honesty isn’t hard-hitting enough. I have circular problems.

25. Dear Jason Mraz,

“Calm down/Deep breaths/And get yourself dressed/Instead of running around”

26. Dear London,

You’re an absolute tease. I had grandiose dreams and didn’t prepare myself enough for the neighbors who blast Adele far more than it is healthy to. Sometimes I feel like the diseased, aching blackhole of Westminster. Sometimes I feel indestructible. Grabbing opportunities to feel detached from my head when thought is the only thing that is making me learn and live. I’m conducting an experiment: hold a gaze when strangers walk past you and 9 times out of 10, they turn to look. Vision burns against flesh. I think this way I’ll find what I’m looking for.

27. Dear SPINK,

You’re one of my better doodles so far.

28. Dear old woman outside Caffe Nero,

“Anytime is cake time”

29. Dear self,

I wish my words could punch stomachs.

30. Dear 8 Simple Rules,

“God is a comedian performing for an audience that’s too afraid to laugh”

31. Dear Stephanie,

You’re the highlight of my London stay. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone I got on with so well and easily and it feels physically uncomfortable knowing that we’ll never have cafe-hopping sessions and talk about women and life and sleazebags and sexuality and exhibitionists and traveling circuses and writing and art and Noel Fielding and the cosmic void and the concept of time and the debated existence of the g-spot and Tim and Scottish dude as often as I would want to.

32. Dear anyone/everyone/someone,

It feels like I lived a lifetime and I feel like I’m closing in on one chapter; a short one at that. I can come back but the experience will be completely different – good, or bad, who knows – but it’ll just be different. And even though you may find me mediocre/fantastic/obnoxious/compelling/repulsive/over-idealistic, I am so truly glad we met and I feel really lucky and thankful and blessed to have had your wonderful presence grace my life however briefly, whoever you are. Sometimes I sit and start thinking about how different life would be if even one person we’ve interacted with was extricated from our lives – or how things can remain unchanged, as if they weren’t ever there. If I’m writing this about you, you’ve affected me profoundly enough for everything to have changed had we not met. So, genuinely and without bitterness, from the bottom of my massively confusing and somewhat hairline-fractured heart, thank you.

32. Dear Stephanie’s email,

“That rapture that happens so suddenly and ends so quickly, and while it’s happening it sometimes feels like it’s dragging on forever and you’re miserable and hate it, and then it is time to leave, and you realize how profoundly it affected you and how much you’ll miss it.. it’s so strange. LIFE is strange.

I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I’d click with right off the bat and have so many great conversations and crazy adventures with! You are right, that nomadic compulsion is irresistible (for some of us anyway) and you’ve gotta keep on moving…but i am stoked that you’ll be venturing back london-way, at least for a night, so we can make some more bizarre, lovely, exciting memories! It will be different the second time around, but you and the city will both remember. I am so glad you had such a turbulent/wonderful experience. Those are damn good for the soul.”

33. Dear cosmic void,

Mood swings should be a social hazard.

Flirt through window reflections.

Coy smiles may get you places. You can’t smile coyly.

Don’t wait until your story has an ending before writing it.

Don’t underestimate the healing powers of basic human decency.

Pain is pain is pain.

Sometimes indenial destroys opportunities; sometimes being truthful destroys friendships.

Corner booths are great for realizing that things aren’t as bad as they seem.

34. Dear self,

And you think,

you think,

that’s the kind of thing that

never will happen to me

because I take careful risks

and know how to see myself as a third-person,

but risks are risks honey,

and that third person still shares your body

and mind

and heart.

35. Dear Psychic Playlist,

Paris – Kate Nash

Good Riddance – Green Day

Bruised – Jack’s Mannequin

The Times Are A-Changing – Bob Dylan

Paper Planes – M.I.A.

Warning – Green Day

First Day of my Life – Bright Eyes

There She Goes – Six Pence None The Richer

Futures – Jimmy Eat World

36. Dear Cardiff,

Holy shit.

37. Dear everyone,

I subscribe to the ‘many worlds’ theory. It justifies my living in my head.

38. Dear cosmic void,

The best thing about going halfway across the world is settling in and going about with life as if nothing at all has changed. Growth is only apparent in retrospect. It’s not so much the physical; not your environment, nor your concept of time, nor the people around you. Perhaps this is something I would never have imagined doing two years ago -  or perhaps I did imagine it. But I never would have imagined being deeply affected by so many things, feeling everything as intensely as I have that I finally realize it has to hurt before it can heal and having something be so polarizing you’re not sure where you’re actually going. Nothing is foreign. Everything is sacred.

39. Dear LG Fuad,

“It’s the only way I have learnt/To express myself/Through other people’s descriptions of life”

40. Dear cosmic void,

If self-awareness is my biggest flaw, I am lucky.

Candy land.

There’s a reason why I can never spell “embarrassment” proper from the get-go: I hate it. It’s stupid. Embarrassment is the death of dreams and unicorns and Candy Land. Embarrassment is why Santa Claus doesn’t exist; it’s why kids get their heart broken over knowing this. It’s why there are wars in the world and why aliens haven’t invaded Earth yet (I’ve always found integration with other universal life-forms a good thing).

If there’s one emotion humans can easily do without, it’s this. Happiness is fabulous. Anger can be therapeutic. Even sadness works out – we all need to drown in our own bubble of self-pity once in a while. But embarrassment is about as pointless, excruciating, ridiculous and exhausting as the war in Iraq. It is pity but not the kind that is self-inflicted. It’s the knowledge (or perception) that you’re the subject of disgusting, head-shaking, “Awww, look at that poor sod” contemptuous sorrow. It sort of shrivels you up inside and makes you want to drink yourself into a stupor despite not being a drinker.

There’s a reason why animals don’t feel embarrassed (I am assuming they don’t – it just seems scientifically valid that they don’t possess this (in)ability) – because there is no solid reason for it. It’s just a mental whirlwind of torture and misery that just makes you feel so wretched, you want to shoot your face.

Embarrassment doesn’t discriminate. Circumstance is hardly a factor; you can feel humiliated over absolutely nothing. (I know this for a fact. The amount of times I’ve felt painfully humiliated over something that has never even happened to me is astounding).

Let’s imagine, for a while, a world without embarrassment…

For one, I wouldn’t have woken up at 3am last night and started thinking about the silliest of things, futilely trying to fall back asleep. I wouldn’t have chanted “oh my God oh my God oh my God” in the shower trying to rid myself of preposterous thoughts. I wouldn’t have laughed hysterically while walking to the train station. I wouldn’t have stepped into the train, made a beeline for the corner and started casually banging my head against the wall while listening to Motion City Soundtrack’s “Let’s Get Fucked Up And Die” on repeat. (Good song – check it). I wouldn’t have imagined various possible scenarios in which I successfully manage to, literally, crawl in a hole and die, and forget about ever existing.

A world without embarrassment is clearly a beautiful one.

Sometimes I do wish I had Ron Weasley’s “emotional range of a teaspoon” – it would save me insane amounts of manic insecurity and mild anxiety attacks. And to wish that I was some smooth-talking, tremendously-comfy-in-my-own-skin, mint-cool bitch is something I am ashamed to admit, but it’s a wish that manifests itself often enough.

There ought to be drugs to treat this. There are anti-depressants; why do anti-humiliation pills not exist yet? Get on it, Science!

But this is entirely inane. There is little sense to this. I can easily spin this into a wondrous tale – like all those other humiliating situations I’ve been in (see ‘fall in on my face and crushing a $5000 French horn in the process in front of the band when I was 15’ incident) – and it would be a story to laugh about when I go to those cocktail parties I never go to.

Yes. Absolutely.

So…so I’m just gonna….-makes an awkward gesture towards a metaphorical exit before sulking off pathetically-

POST-SCRIPT

I made a mini-soundtrack to this piece because I am so completely trying to avoid doing work:

1. “LG Fuad” – Motion City Soundtrack

2. “Everything is Alright” – Motion City Soundtrack

3. “Don’t You Want To Share The Guilt?” – Kate Nash

4. “Stand Too Close” – Motion City Soundtrack

5. “Attractive Today” – Motion City Soundtrack

6. “Together We’ll Ring In The New Year” – Motion City Soundtrack

7. The sickening sound of my thoughts replaying in my head – My brain

8. “Never Gonna Give You Up” – Rick Astley

9. Okay not #8.

“Are we copacetic?”

My dogma to great living is questionable. Be slightly mad. Dive into a musical obsession and travel across continents for it. Never bring an umbrella; run in the rain and arrive at your destination drenched to the bones. Air-drum in a crowded train during peak hour and try to ignore the stares. The music in your ears is the soundtrack to your life. Live for it. Talk to yourself on the phone to assuage uncomfortable situations you’re flung into. Wield a wand. Laugh a lot when you feel like puking from nerves (laughter controls the gag reflex; I learnt this from CSI). Be sad when you have to, and wallow (but don’t wallow too much – it’ll get dull). Sometimes, when you don’t talk enough, you’ll end up never talking out of habit. People build walls they never wanted to build. Body language can completely contradict intention. Silences are sometimes comfortable. Running for exercise is ridiculously exhausting and slightly stupid, unless you’re running for a front-row spot at a gig. Great lyrics cure everything. Rooftops are sacred places. Don’t create to compete. Sit on the floor of Kinokuniya and read Charles Bukowski’s poetry until the bookshop closes. Most of the time, all you need is enough room and songs that make you dance in your pajamas. Wear faux leather boots and a trenchcoat in the middle of summer. If people ask, tell them you like layers.

Stay quiet long enough and I’ll have you bored to tears with my drivel. I have too much selfish, pointless, reflective indulgence to keep it to myself and there is naught one can do to stop me from overthinking. I’m only quiet when I’m scared shitless.

And as a result, I’m quite fucked, I think.

Though only in the best possible way.

Because, as the great Justin Pierre of Motion City Soundtrack puts it, and excuse the cliché of quoting someone else midway through a futile opus, “It’s the only way I have learnt to express myself through other people’s descriptions of life”. He may have been talking about his reliance on alcohol and the destruction of social suppressions that glugging some down causes when he sang that, but I can relate to it tremendously. I’m kinda screwed because up until recently, I’ve lived in my head. Then one day about two years ago, I upped and decided I’m going to fuck all and start over, and it was terrifying and exciting and brilliant. But now I’m all up in this business of living and not merely existing, and it involves a ridiculous slew of emotions I was only ever grazing before: ecstasy and humiliation and terror and contentment and confusion and sometimes, just calming, sleep-inducing peace. It would be much easier to continue through the whole stage of glazed-over existence, the life bereft of actual living, but I knew I never really stood for that anyway, not even for a second.

And it’s nice. To live in contradiction. It doesn’t feel hypocritical; I feel balanced and so completely…zen. I don’t think I’ll ever stop trying to figure things out, nor would I want to, because that would sort of mean I’ve given up, wouldn’t it? And there’s too much to live for to give up. Stasis is something I never really fancied. I like restlessness in perfect doses. So this is a strange feeling.

And this is a really strange note. But I just feel like writing. While I still can (somewhat).

I’ll leave you with a short verse from a song (A Lifeless Ordinary by Motion City Soundtrack) that I’m totally feeling at the moment:

I always knew I had the answer but I never understood the question

Indoor living lacerated to the bone

And I pose two questions to the universe:

1. Why is Motion City Soundtrack not huge?! I DON’T UNDERSTAND THIS STRANGE PHENOMENON. ):

2. Am I a self-indulgent wanker stuck in the throes of adolescence?

Ummmm…discuss.

Or not. Do whatever you want, I don’t care…. -shuffles uncomfortably-

Pangaea.

i am not saying there is a rulebook but
let’s not take centuries to start walking.
those nomadic paths we’ve set since infancy,
they’ve always been there
laid out like a life-sized map of all our
hopes and desires on crooked-edged land masses.
life can be on Pangaea if we squint our eyes
just enough, and live like we’re the threaded beads
of a child’s plaything, interlocked in a dance ritual that
has no musical fade-out,
never waiting for something akin
to a supernova to take place
before we start going.

so start craving the zest of movement
and of resisting resistance
of comforting darkness and unfamiliar sunlight
of the smell of something you’ve never smelt before
of odd methods of transport that make you sick in a paperbag
of disarming, confusing, mind-boggling, novel-worthy love,
of memories that will make you look back and wonder if
you made it all up in your head
follow footprints only when you can no longer see them.

“It looks,” he said slowly, “like King’s Cross station.”

In the spirit of the final installment of Harry Potter’s imminent release and my upcoming trip to London, here’s a seemingly random throwback in picture-form to when we visited London last May for a weekend.

I really loved London.