We are running against traffic, leaving elongated shadows and half-sung lyrics trailing in our wake. We are digging our feet in wet sand, mourning at the impermanence of our footprints and these magical moments. We are staring at our smudged reflections in a greasy glass window, relishing in the way ‘NTU’ stretches across our chests and brands itself into our skin.

Hugging our knees close to our chest, we huddle tightly together and speak in code names and hushed whispers and breathy giggles. With eyes wide open, the girl you’ve just met a few days ago announces, “You’ll never guess what happened at the club last night”, and all of a sudden you’re trapped in a whole web of tales that has your heart beating fast and your mind spiralling out of control.

Lying wide awake in an unfamiliar bed, you attempt to pour your heart out to your roommate, but insecurities take the form of anything and everything but words, so you can never really accurately describe that heaviness in your heart that you are feeling.

You’re trying not to lose yourself, and you don’t feel like you have. Or perhaps you’re merely evolving, or merely shedding an old skin…

Everything is foreign now, even yourself.



very short short stories by me about me


“do you want to race?” the hare asks the tortoise one day.

“not really,” the tortoise replies calmly.

“yeah, me neither.” the hare confesses.

“you could walk beside me if you want,” the tortoise suggests with a smile.

“that’ll be nice,” the hare smiles back.


“aren’t you lonely?” the shadow asks the little girl in the empty hallway.

“no,” the little girl says, and her voice echoes across the length of the corridor.

“but you’re all alone,” the shadow says dumbly.

“not true,” the girl answers, shaking the head. “i have you, and my echo too. that’s quite some company.”

“but we’re both just…made up of you!”

the girl smiles warmly. “exactly.”


“you’re here a lot lately,” the eyes say to the tears.

“is that a problem?” the tears question.

“yeah,” the eyes snort. “you’re in the way of my line of vision.”

“i see more than you do,” the tears tell the eyes calmly. “i’ve always seen more than you.”

“what are you talking about,” the eyes deadpan, rolling itself in annoyance. “my job is literally to see.”

“before i became tears, i was morning dew. and rain. and a part of the sky, and a part of the ocean.” the tears explain. “i’ve seen a lot before you even could see, and i know that my presence is very much needed in the grand scheme of things. for your owner, and for the universe.” the tears pause for a second, clings onto the underside of the chin as it shimmers with brightness. “and for you, too. because of me, you’ll be able to see more clearly now, right?”

the eyes blink, and indeed the tears were right.

and before the tears let go, it gives a little wave, and it tells the eyes. “the next time you see me, i’ll be in the ink of a bestselling novel. good luck!”



the wind: i’m sorry i’m so distant i’m just really uncomfortable with physical touch and also i need some space too; are words of encouragement okay?

the sun: i’m sorry i’m too much; i’ll try my best to tone it down.

people: we don’t care! you gotta fit into the standards of society!



“she’s probably forgotten all about you,” the wall says to the lost thing that is tucked in a corner, collecting dust.

“no, she’s still looking, i’m sure.” the lost thing replies reassuringly.

“she’s stopped trying,” the wall says, a little more forcefully.

“well then,” the lost thing says with a nonchalent shrug. “now i can look forward to her look of happiness when she does find me someday.”


“what are you supposed to be?” the paper asks the dot, squinting at it sceptically.

“for now, i’m a dot.” the dot says.

“that’s boring,” the paper says. “maybe you’re not even meant to be here.”

“maybe,” the dot replies. “or maybe i’m meant to be something more! i could be anything if i took off from here! isn’t that simply exciting?”


“yo,” the face says to the zit. “she hates you.”

“what are you talking about?” the zit says. “i’ve made her life so much more colourful!”


“hello, i’m new.” the pencil says to the contents in a stationary box.

“hello,” everyone greets back happily.

“wait, there’s no correction tape in here?” the pencil says, shocked. “and no ruler?”

“nope,” everyone replies. “our owner is a big fan of having her mistakes as reminders and embracing crooked lines in her life.”


“this is my dog,” the girl tells the boy as she points to her dog.

“and this is my cat.” the girl continues as she points to her cat.

“so which one do you love more?” the boy asks.

“what do you mean?’

“are you a dog-person or a cat-person?”

“pfft,” the girl laughs. “i’m simply a better and happier person.”

“huh,” the boy breathes, taking in her words. “so what’s their names?”

“the dog’s Motivation, and the cat’s called Chill. they balance me out just right, and i love them equally.”


“oh my god!” the girl gasps. “you’re the boy of my dreams!”

“oh my god, aww! that’s the sweetest -”

“yeah! you’re not real! thank god!”




girl: omg the smell of new books!

girl: omg the smell of old books!

boy: wtf girls are so confusing?!

girl: um, im hinting that u stink and i only need books in my life???? omg boys are so dumb its unreal.

boy poofs for the second time.

ps. i died writing number 10.

pps. i conjured all 10 stories during my most recent trip to the showers. go figure!

ppps. very politically and grammatically incorrect which are both true reflections of me.

solo te haces menos


solo te haces menos. 

“do you know what it means?”

“it’s spanish, i know. but i don’t do spanish.”

“it means that it’s not other people who make you feel like you’re alone. you do it to yourself.”


a mother.

in my memory, my mother never had a face. i remembered with vividness the clothes that she wore to work, especially this zebra-striped blouse that was slightly silky. i remembered her cologne when she hugged me close and said goodbye. i remembered my feet dangling from her queen-sized bed as i held onto my stuffed bear and watched her put her face on.

but her face, that i don’t remember.

i kept my aunt’s passport photo in my wallet and told other children in my class that she was my mother because, at that time, i had thought that my aunt was prettier.

in truth, it was because i never truly bothered looking at my mother’s face.

i think my mother knew the word sacrifice well. when she quit her job, in spite of how painstakingly hard she slogged her guts to reach the top, that was sacrifice. when she learned how to drive, in spite of crying silently in trembling anger because the instructors were masochistic shits, that was sacrifice. when she gave up her childhood to be the surrogate mother for her younger siblings because my grandma was working hard to earn a second income, that was sacrifice.

now, when i look at my mother, i think to myself: all this while, the past nineteen years, how could you not see her beauty?

maybe, the real truth was that she was always too beautiful to look at.


my great-grandmother beckons me over and makes me sit beside her. i don’t actually fancy physical affection very much, but she’s the exception.

i sling an arm over her shoulders and i feel her bones jutting into my skin. she’s getting more fragile with age and it pains me to even think of that.

silently, she holds out my hand and stuffs two ten-dollar bills between my fingers. “shh,” she whispers conspiringly. “i won forty dollars in the lottery today. this is your share.”

“this is my share?” i chortle. “i haven’t done anything.”

i wasn’t totally ok with the gambling thing, but it makes her happy, so.

“you ask too many questions, just take it.”

“thank you,” i squeeze her tightly, then lessen my hold a little, because i’m genuinely scared she might break.

“the past few days, you’ve been busy?” she asks me.

“yeah, going out with friends for dinner.” i say, flashing an apologetic smile.”

“because of you, i’ve been walking around with dollar bills tucked in the waistband of my pants for four days straight.”

i laugh, but my lungs feel kind of blocked.

“i’ve missed you a lot. come see your old great-grandmother more often, okay? when i die, i won’t be able to see you anymore.” her blue eyes are swimming a bit. i’ve always been very fascinated by her eyes, but that night i couldn’t bear to look into them.

“don’t say that.” i scold, and tears well up uncontrollably in my eyes.

i still feel like crying whenever i think about this.


i confess to my friends that i’ve never been very good at dealing with sadness. not my own, definitely not with the sadness of others. feelings are kind of like hands. you never know where to put them.

there are so many sad people these days.

but sadness is too personal and trying to interpret them in my own terms seems almost illegal, like i might misunderstand or mistranslate and make things worse.

after all, i look back on my past posts in my phase of sadness, and i still can’t figure out what overwhelmed me at that point of time.


we’re sitting in a far corner in the library, reading to each other children’s books in our best storyteller voices.

i feel so, so light, like i could just jump and i would float to the ceiling. it’s truly an amazing feeling. i’ve been feeling a lot of this lately.

is this what it feels like to be on a permanent high? i’m digging it.


“what time did you come back home?”


“and…you’ve been sleeping all the way since?”


“why? are you very tired?”

“…not really. it’s just. i really like it – sleeping, i mean. it’s kind of like a hobby now.” 

“sleeping as a hobby. wow.”

“ok, more like, dreaming as a hobby. there’s something amazing about what dreams make you feel after you emerge back in reality, you know? this slightly lightheaded, detached feeling and the blood just sinking back to your limbs from where it had just been in your head, and they kind of feel like a golden rush settling into your bones. i don’t remember my dreams, but i do know how they make me feel, and that satisfaction is akin to what you feel after spending time on a favourite hobby. yeah.”

“that’s the biggest bullshit anyone has ever pulled on justifying their laziness.”

6 months in


Here is a flimsy effort to salvage the past 6 months of swimming consciousness.

  1. Reads:
  2. Movies:
    • Favourite Japanese Movies: My Tomorrow, Your Yesterday, Your Lie in April
    • Favourite Western Movies: Big Fish, Little Miss Sunshine, The Edge of Seventeen, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
    • Favourite Animation: In This Corner of the World, Only Yesterday, Wolf Children
    • Favourite Korean Movies: Miss Granny
  3. Films/Documentaries/Videos:
  4. Things that don’t really fit in anywhere:
    • Scotland. Just…everything about that place. It’s magical.
    • Brunswick Cottage, Bath. We stayed in there for 2 days and I’m still feeling “homesick” just thinking about that place. It’s the closest I can get to my imagined dream house set into reality. Absolutely gorgeous and quirky and wonderful.
    • This reddit thread about gay penguins stealing eggs and replacing them with rocks to fulfill their innate desire to raise children. I love it.
    • Korean makeup??? I’ve been really into the Peripera Airy Ink Velvet and the Etude House Contour Stick Duo and the Innisfree No Sebum Powder. Life savers.  I’ve also really been into makeup tutorials like these.
    • Wicked, the Musical. I cried when it was over.
    • Color Club. I love her style!
    • Wholesome Memes!!!
    • I’ve been preferring sketching to writing. Sad, I know. But equally cathartic.
    • Socks! And headbands!
    • Indomee~
  5. Music
    • All in this playlist. I named it 4:35 because that is the time of the day where I feel everything is the most surreal. The air a little bit thinner, the sky a little duller, gravity a little less forceful, and the mind in a hazy, dreamlike state.

It’s sad that I have to resort to a bullet-style form of blogging. I have a nagging sense that I’m missing something (like I do remember having this photographer/artist that I really adore, but his/her name escapes me?) so for now, this will do.


the thing about epiphanies is that you get them all the time. small ones, big ones, stupid ones, ingenious ones. you’re constantly realising things, discovering more about life and about yourself and about the way the world works, which can be a comforting feeling or a distressing one, depending on what clicks.

just the other day i had the “epiphany” that my grandma had lost her youngest brother when my uncle died. all this while, in the entirety of my nineteen years, i had always viewed my uncle’s suicide as an uncle that i had never seen before lost or a father lost or a son lost but when his name was casually discussed on the dining table, along with other phrases like “visiting his grave since it’s that time of the year”, hearing my grandma call him “my brother” just shook me to the very core.

disturbingly stupid, i know. perhaps its just me being thickheaded and unable to connect the dots, but such epiphanies do send me reeling from time to time, for inexplicable reasons.

in my two weeks travelling around united kingdoms, epiphanies do come knocking on my door quietly, and most of the time it’s a heartwarming visit. we have nice chats, and i feel good for an hour after, just having monologues with myself and unwrapping the gift which the epiphany had presented to me.

and then i forget.

just like some people have this habit of not finishing their entire glass of water because they believe that the water accumulated at the bottom are mostly just spit (i laughed at this), i have this stubborn belief that moments of epiphanies must be fully revelled in. i’ll soak in every emotion and thought and enlightenment that this moment of realisation brings me, regardless of its lightness or darkness, focus in the way it sends ripples, vibrations, tingles, within me.

by the time this experience is over, i find that penning down these thoughts become very much futile as i have failed to capture its very essence and the words that i have jotted down seem dull and meaningless and empty.

it annoys me to a great extent that this is the case because i do want to remember these epiphanies, to remind a future-me of how past jean’s mind is wired. but then again, future/present jean has never had a penchant for reading anything she’s written previously. (the cringe attack and secondhand embarrassment take over before nostalgia can).

hence, i can only take solace in the faith that these epiphanies have rooted itself in some part of me, subtly altering some fundamental part of me without me even realising it.

shrinking voids.


The bubbles forming above my haphazardly-placed laptop stickers remind me too much of countless tears that can’t be wiped away. The variation of alphabets on my result slip remind me of efforts wasted and motivations lost and dreams misplaced. The restless buzzing in the still air reminds me of the solitude that is far too loud on a chilly night.

And you will consciously learn to forgive these misgivings, because every second spent dwelling on them is loss, surreality, a shadow creeping over the moon’s shine.

You will learn to unlearn the way you make judgements, the rhyme and reason of the world. You will decide for yourself what is valid and relevant, and you will fight for them. It’s a tough battle; when logic and boundaries are pressing in against you, and you are defenceless when tears suffocate your only weapon – your words.

You tell yourself it’s okay to believe in what you believe. It’s fine to hold onto these blinking half-truths you weave for yourself, because it keeps you safe, and it doesn’t hold any dangers to others. And everybody else is screaming CODE RED, and the more they do it the more you shut them out, like a body that starts to reject painkillers when the dosage gets too high.

Self-destructive, that is what you are. Bitter is the medicine, but oh so necessary. You should know better that too much candy will cause tooth decays and type two diabetes, but for now, you just want to wait until the cherry mint dissolves entirely, held between your tongue and the roof of your mouth.


My eyes follow the moon the way the moon follows the car the way my heart follows my childhood beliefs. For just that moment, I am invincible. The moon chases after me because I am worthy of chasing; because it finds something in me that’s worthy enough to seek out.


In a white coat of purity, I plant myself in loose soil. I make roses bloom on my cheeks and tinted lies grow on my lips. I am the In-Between, the Neither-Here-Nor-There. The thoughts flourish, and the emotions ripen.

The beauty of youth is so fleeting, and the people around me have weathered three decades of elapsed seasons. Bittersweet like the Winter, Fresh in Spring, Passionate Summers, and Perpetual is the Fall. Somewhere deep in them, they’re wishing they can bottle up this miracle essence, but it has long passed its expiry date. They’re now emptied and filled with new contents, repackaged and branded anew: Mothers, Fathers, CEOs, Retired, Menopause, Grey Hair.

But in this habitat, they are immortal. I see these adult men morph back into the young boys they once were, with their pants tucked high, their gangly legs with knobby knees, thick golden rimmed glasses, and glossy hair parted 50-50. Their smiles are still the same, just with less yellow and wistfulness. They’re hiding in rental bookstores, holding in laughs as they read scandalised content under the blushing light. They’re flailing around with badminton rackets in empty carparks. They’re enjoying the night breeze on the school rooftop, singing off-tune to 70s music to amateur guitar plucking. They’re crushing on girls who will eventually become their wives.

It’s heartwarming, and I love to sit on the sidelines and watch these interactions unfold. I like to imagine the past in which I do not exist in.

That way, I become lightweight, like a dandelion seed that floats away with a breath holding a wish, a promise. No longer grounded.

Watch me fly.


This is the fluorescent light that flickers for a good few seconds before burning bright. We used to pretend it was a disco ball, and we would dance crazily to the flashes of white-black-white-black, giggling breathlessly as the whiplash hit us like the canings we received after.

This is the bed that was able to fit all six of us, big and small. We would play rock paper scissors to decide who would sleep by the edges, and who would sleep in the crack dividing the two beds. We would fight for an inch of the blanket, and we would engage ourselves in made up stories until the door opens and the light floods in and an adult head peers in. Someone would be kicked off the bed by morning, and someone else would be half slotted in between the two mattresses with numb limbs and a sore waist. Now we are all big, and now there is only me, and this isn’t my bed no longer. But the smell remains the same, and it smells of security and home.

This is the hand that used to stroke me to sleep. Calloused and thick and firm, rubbing patterns and giving pats on my back until my breathing evens.

This is the radio with the antennae bending out towards the window the same way the plant beside it reaches out towards the sun.  The voice that filters out is crackly and monotonous as it reads out lottory numbers, followed closely by screams of distress from  my ancient great-grandma as she mourns over her loss and could-bes, and it is almost strange to see her upset, when she has witnessed losses greater in breadth and depth than this.

This is the deck of cards that has been shuffled countless times as the elderlies entertain themselves with solitaire and blackjack. This is the deck of cards that has taught me how to add two numbers to make ten, and the deck of cards the kids used to pretend were currency.

These are the familiar voices I will never get tired of. As I pretend to sleep, I listen intently to their conversations involving me, and I smile discreetly to myself.

This is the smell of dinner. Garlic and onions in the pan, roasted chicken in the oven, painstakingly brewed soup over the stove.

This is the sound of the gates swinging open and clanging as it closes. It is never locked, and I used to sigh in frustration as I had to waddle through the sea of shoes till I reached mine, but now it is a heartwarming sight.

This is the apartment I grew up in. It is the noisiest one in the hallway, the brightest one in the night, and it is filled to the brim with love and warmth and I will always be in love with every corner of it.


Step 1: “Wonder at something.”

Step 2: “Invite others to wonder with you.”

in the wake of the fall 

feet digging into the sheets, legs intertwined with blankets, faint playlists muffled under pillows and the dim light of the screen seeping through. empty beds beside and a red night sky with a peek of a toenail moon between window grills. a mother’s padded footsteps across echoed hallways, the tug of chains and the chime of freshly wounded up grandfather clocks counting down to midnight. fantasy and reality intersecting in the fibre of thoughts, half awake thoughts drifting through synapses. the lonely whir of a solo fan, the lonely scratch of tired wheels against asphalt, the amplification of lonely thoughts in a lonely room with doors closed. mourning over miscarriaged words and aborted dreams, air heavy with pregnant struggles with late night worries and inadequacies. there’s something cathartic about re-enacting favourite scenes from fictional sources, a lapse and release from the grips of whatever bounds me to me, and me to him, and me to you, and me to the world. 


grey clouds draped over a washed out sky, casting muted sepia-toned shadows over the furniture. old crackly tunes spinning in the axis of new speakers. sprawled over couch pillows with work clothes still on, a day’s reflections churning in an exhausted mind. the world is as quiet as it is loud, homes being returned to, and a sun knocking off from work without anyone noticing. nostalgia is emotional duct tape, i once saw this somewhere, but i relish in it with appetite, like a young girl with stockholm syndrome.


Those dreams that overflowed in your hands, I hope they’re still tightly held in them

you’re an enigma to yourself sometimes.

you’re so afraid of confrontation and embarrassing yourself, yet you’re okay with singing loudly to yourself walking on the streets while pretending you’re in a movie representation of your life.

you do your nails for more than an hour, then you clean them off immediately after because they’re a neon eyesore.

the littlest things make you burst into tears, and you don’t exactly know why. it might be just looking up at your apartment and thinking about standing at the exact same spot ten years later, and this wave of foreshadowed nostalgia just hits you, and the saltwater just comes flowing out as you listen to songs with lyrics you don’t even understand.

it might be just looking at kids fight and then make up with a kiss and a hug. the innocence in their words, the sincerity in their smiles, it gets overwhelming sometimes, a rare phenomenon that summons tears into your eyes as if you’ve just witnessed the aurora borealis.

just today you cried to yourself while walking to lunch, because you’re suddenly thinking of how you’re spoilt for choice, while children across the globe are working for ten hours a day for a bowl of rice to feed ten hungry mouths.

you’ll cry tomorrow morning, when your cousins fly back to china.

you make promises to yourself every day that you can’t keep, and yet you do it again and again.

you’re always looking for something that doesn’t even exist.

you never finish what you start, but then you seek for closure still.

you’re forever a work in progress, something put on indefinite hiatus, a 65%…


it’s such a big world after all, and fate is as all-encompassing as such. varieties viewed and experienced with vividness, so it’s natural to veer off in tangents, isn’t it?

we might have grown up in the same neighbourhood, schooled together, watched the same tv shows, crushed on the same boys, but this intricacy of intertwinement will one day break apart and diverge. one cm difference, two cm, three. a space between, two fingers spacings, an abyss, a canyon, the rest of our lives.

or we might have been strangers all our lives, filled with chance encounters if we’re truly lucky.  i met have glanced your way one or two times, brushed shoulders with someone from another continent, flew past your house oceans apart, or you might have read one or two silly emotional pieces of myself cast out onto the web. but we are parallel, we will never truly meet, and our fates are not meant to clap together, not meant to harmonise. communications in different frequencies, all human and yet i might share more coincidences and similarities with a banana than with you.

and that’s sad, isn’t it? i might have looked at someone and imagined the lives we might have shared together. i might have heard someone else’s stories and romanticised on how the same plot might have played out in my context.

things have to happen perfectly in order for that one fateful incident to happen. it might have been less than perfect in your eyes, but in the birds’ eye view of fate, everything had been a perfect mission, a wonderful blend of time and space. you might have wished for something so hard, but only to watch with wide eyes as it fell nicely into someone’s arms. and maybe we just have to accept that it’s nothing personal, and there’s nothing really wrong with you. our fates are designed differently, and things will unfold when they are meant to and when its cue has been given and taken.

so be patient. life has something amazing just for you. it’s a gift that no department store or enterprise can ever re-create. a true customisation with no chance of replication, and i think that’s some sort of beautiful.

save your breaths on maybes and what might have beens and immerse yourself in the present you, and your present life, in this present moment. you will look back and realise free will and fate are tangential, but perhaps that point of tangency will be the climax of your existence.


the me of today – a believer of fates, a partially-blinded dismisser of reality