Not everything has to mean something: September 2017

Friday, September 29, 2017

Being Two

I.

If death is letting go then life is small doses of dying.
In lamplight, a shadow trails a pen in love.
In this manner, always, there is recollection,

a tight-spaced box, crowding ghost words
in teaspoons and minutiae,
passing blips no scale registers.

On a stagnant page even the brightest words are shadowless.
In a cul-de-sac I turned, walked over you.
In a cul-de-sac the impossibility of apology.

II.

A green pen, on a green pillow.
The flowering of blue ink thoughts, spilt like Rorschach -

when the mind is phrased to certain lips
and turns of tongue,
there is, always, that inability to return
a same meaning.
This is the blot of being two.

By Edlyn Ang

QLRS Vol. 4 No. 1 Oct 2004

23rd - 24 July 2017: Exercise Sunday x Masterchef

Morning cuddles with Aunty Beli.

20 mins work out which killed us.

So ded.

No sweat for Timtams though hehe.

Ordered us burgers after our workout hehehe.

I'm not even a big burger person but this looked sooooo good at the time hehe.

Don't know why Tofu is even tired lol.

Trying out my new game which... sucked...

Got my driving permit!

Lunch time.

Good boy waiting for mami at home.

Honey glazed chicken wings to contribute to our Masterchef dinner night.

Getting ready to walk to Tofu's aunties' house hehe.

Beautiful evening.

Almost there!

Home cooked dinner <3

Yup, what the picture said.

Excessive? Hehehehee.

"Please can I have some ice cream."

Such a good night :')

Goodnight :3

Thursday, September 28, 2017

Consolation

If we must relearn tenderness,
I will ask you to forget all things
permanent. Have the maps we keep
on our palms rubbed off so that trees
stay unmarked, stones remain unturned,
and geographies of good luck, love,
and rain become uncharted parts
of the universe. If we must insist

on warmth, I will ask you to forget
all things that permit forgiveness
so light and prayer don't die on us
like fingernails, promises don't grow
like sleep — unhurried, unnoticed —
and stars don't dare fall without
meaning or magic. Come the end of it

all, I hope to find you scavenging
for sunflowers on the outskirts
of a rainbow, wearing nothing
but your wings and dented halo.
I hope we never run out of things
to say to each other. Say, how
we have come to understand
what the world is made of after

all — Earth and all its complexities,
heaven and all its sadness, splendour
and all things that make for mystery.
Listen. If you listen close enough
to the clockwork of olden love songs
you will hear its metal pulse beating
steadily against our bodies, against
the weather, against everything under

the sun, as though its many hands
keep count of every second we spend
before we come to our senses. If
we really must come to our senses,
I will ask you to forget all things
beautiful. If you ask for a reason,
I will tell you – I have lost

my reflection in the wreckage
of water. If you ask for help,
I will say — let dewfall settle
at the tips of your lashes.
If you ask for consolation, I will
have you know – our shadows press
through the gaps of stained-glass
windows. We are quick and strange
like the beginning of sorrow.

By Allen Samsuya

QLRS Vol. 11 No. 3 Jul 2012