“you’re moving too fast.”

i can’t keep up with the number of times this had been directed at me.

“sorry, that’s how i’ve always been,” i say, not actually feeling apologetic.

it’s like Life is telling me something, through the mouths of different people. But you see, I need to. There’s so much to see, so much to explore, Time is hot on our heels and I have to run before the sparkler catches up and burns out.

i’m sorry to all the people that have felt that i’ve left them in the dust. it’s really not intentional. i just love the speed. as much as i like unwinding, the desire for the thrill of soaring through everything triumphs all.


did 2016 happen?

somewhere in the middle, i felt like the year was barely advancing forward. but on second thought, it really did whizz past in a blink of an eye.

what should i do with this sudden freedom? i don’t know. someone help me because i’ve never really been good with directions.

everything tastes better when you’re hungry. similarly, my craving for passion merely expanded the more i felt stifled. and now everything savours of bitter after-climax.

i wonder how long i can keep running away from this reality.


what i would do to write as well as you

and you

and you and you and you

and you

there’s always two or more conflicting emotions fighting for sovereignty. inspiration and envy mostly. i sigh with delight and i sigh with exasperation.

a billion gazillion other people with better characterisations and better dialogues and better ideas and better patience and better speed and better minds and better environments holy shit

maybe it’s futile trying so hard. maybe it’s futile even trying.

it’s clear who wins, isn’t it?

just dwelling on old thoughts like the sentimental i am

i always get a wee bit tender when it’s rainy.

i swear, just a second ago, the window was flung completely open because i wanted to let every inch of sunshine into my room and i wanted to see the azure sky with its amazingly soft fluffy clouds in its full glory and i felt so, so incredibly peaceful and good. and suddenly it’s like completely dark. not complaining, though. i still feel peaceful, just in a more solemn, introspective way.

why am you writing a useless blog post right now! go and study economics because you suck at it. 

(nah imma indulge in this for a little while just because.)

((manhi, my rosemary, is smelling wonderful today. i’m suddenly realising this as i’m locked up in the dark bedroom with it and its woody scent is just completely overwhelming the room. it reminds me of walking beside the lake just right after a rain. simply wonderful. I LOVE THE SMELL OF NATURE. i’m a little upset that it’s getting brownish on the edges. hopefully it’s just a phase and it’ll go back into its full blooming state again. stay healthy, manhi. ))

(((also, i’m taking a break from my usual poetic writing style because my brain is exhausted and it works funny now sobs and it’s really funny because i absolutely abhor people who write like this but guess who’s adopting it!!!!! hypocrisy at its finest.)))

i went off-tangent. where was i.

dreams!! dreams are important. i say this every time. i won’t get enough of it. i probably won’t ever stop obsessing over dreams. oh wells.

i’m really, really excited at what’s beyond these 8 days. freedom. possibilities. a chance of fulfilling whatever little or massive dream i’ve ever had. my fingertips are already tingling with adrenaline.

i like to imagine a world where failure wouldn’t change anything. in that situation, what would i dare to try out? that business endeavour (affectionally called 35%) that my friends and i have always wanted to try out? would i still try out a writing career even if my recent literature exam has been absolutely traumatic and convinced me a little that i’ll probably never be good enough?

(with that being said, i’ve come to the conclusion that regardless of whatever grades i receive for my favourite subjects, it does not diminish my wonderful experience and my love for them. i’ve learnt so much from just these literature books alone, it’s mindblowing.)

it makes me reel a little at all the things i would willingly plunge into. and at the same time, i ask myself this question: why not try them out now? i’m young. it’s okay to take chances, to be impulsive and selfish and adventurous.

i really enjoy daydreaming of all my alternate futures, all the possible outcomes and i’m always wondering which of these dream-worlds will merge together and become reality? it’s my favourite past time and it always puts me in a good mood.

at this moment of time, i’m convinced that everything is worth a shot. after these 8 days, i’ll be revamping this blog (maybe), definitely restarting my dayre, to document my attempts at completing my bucket list. at least to make myself accountable and motivated. i really really hope i don’t lose steam along the way.

okie, all the best future jean. for now, let’s hit the books.


i had a little crying session today while i was sitting by my sunlit window, notes on my lap but eyes focused on elsewhere until my vision blurred. they weren’t tears of sadness or anxiousness or fear or anything of that sort, just a release of pure emotion that i’m pretty sure wasn’t in any way negative.

the beast i’ve spent two years attempting to tame is finally about to be unleashed tomorrow. i can’t tell if i’m relieved, resigned or…?

one part of me is indignant – angry that my future will be determined by a few papers that i’ll write over the course of the next seventeen days. i’m also angry at myself for taming something that perhaps was never meant to be tamed; something wild and natural being conditioned into a product of society.

another part of me is lost, too…i guess. the end is so near. it’s what i’ve been dreaming about for god knows how long, and i’m so close to actually tasting it. but perhaps dreams are meant to remain dreams, and corruption comes the moment one attempts to turn it into reality.

just like gatsby watching his “count of enchanted objects” diminish by one, a source of magic in his life irrevocably vanishes before his eyes as he attains the physical object with a beauty associated with his dream, only to realise that in the midst of materialising his dream, the beauty has disappeared. part of me is – ironically – hoping that the daylight will be longer than usual so that i can embrace the current me for a little longer, ground myself to the present instead of blindly looking towards a dreamlike future that has the potential to disappoint.

on a side note, i got myself a plant. it’s rosemary. i don’t know how to describe it, but it’s been such a big source of joy for me. keeps me calm and centered; just the presence of another living thing beside me, living for me, living from me, gives me more purpose than my life seems to be.

tomorrow begins the duel with the beast. no matter the consequence – to conquer or to let it free – it’s not a failure. i’ll have put up a good fight.


life is weird.

i mean—

when has it really not been weird. i don’t know. maybe it’s my sudden change in emotions and perceptions of things that’s made life seem weirder than it actually is, taking on an almost surreal and unnatural quality to it despite attempts to make my days as grounded as possible.

my life is a to-and-fro causeway. i shuffle between two ends of a spectrum, between depersonalisation and zen/surrender/acceptance/whatever-its-supposed-to-be. on the former end, it’s a mess. a horrible dark tangle of all things sad that i don’t ever want to fall into (but just wake up on some days feeling hollow and hovering and hiccupy-with-tears anyway). recently it’s been more of the latter.

i’m at peace. i’m okay. and that scares me. while everyone around me is freaking out because the biggest examinations in our lives are literally just around the corner (a corner known as 6 fucking days holy shit) and i’m just here, daydreaming. feeble attempts at trying to internalise some of my friends’ stress, take a big bite out of it, but i’m not digesting it. i try to inflict it on myself like self-mutilation but the pain is scaringly temporary.

like everything else is.

i feel like my life is a transition, and it gives me comfort but mostly i detest this stage in life and find myself constantly wondering when will it take on a surer ground.

i really wish i could just skip to the part when my dreams all come true and everything is happy and dandy. i wish it was just as easy as flipping to the last page of a book instead of writing and rewriting as i go.

everything kind of feels like white noise right now—white noise that i try to fill up desperately with my own form of reality. like waking myself up at 2am just to feel the rumble of thunder deep in my chest as i fill my senses up with the smell of midnight rain, sitting in the darkness and waiting for a bolt of magic to light up my room. like filling the empty spaces in my life with fictional writing, then filling my ego up with achieved praises.

constantly afflicted by my own form of reality and the reality that exists, you know? like there’s this tug and pull between the definition of “right time”. confronted by two voices screaming “there is a right time for everything” and “there will never be a right time” simultaneously. it’s deafening, and i need more claps of thunder to wake me up.

do not throw away the life you want over something momentarily rewarding but ultimately sabottaging.

but then again.

it’s a waste of time to think about things you can’t know.

the world through your eyes

my parents don’t think the lake opposite my house is much. probably to most of my friends that i’ve brought over to my neighbourhood, they’ll think the same too. probably to the rest of the world who resides in places with beautiful natural landscapes, the lake really isn’t much.

but i love it. as i’m typing this, my eyes flicker outwards through the windows, towards the distance where a peek of the shimmery waters reflects light back into my eyes. it’s shrouded by my favourite pine trees and the whole dusty green scenery just puts my heart at ease. i feel happy just looking at it.

so what is my point, really, in this—

it’s just…

sometimes i read reviews on movies and novels and art before i even have the chance to perceive them through my own lenses. and i’ve come to realise how superficial and narrow this habit of mine is. things like books and art and music and movies, they’re subjective. it’s quintessentially important to form your own opinions on them, precisely because of their subjective nature. just because one person, because they’re a professional critic or someone famous in that particular industry or just a person that seems to know better says that it’s “bad”, it is just opinion.

it’s weird that it’s the first time i’ve properly sat down to think through this in blatant terms, because somewhere in the back of my head, i know i’ve always been bugged by this social dogma. even in my own realm of fanfiction, i segregate two identities of mine, and now i know how jarringly contradicting my two personas are, and basically i’m kind of beating myself up over it. as an avid reader, my eyes automatically directs themselves to the reviews. on ao3, they’re mainly the number of hits, kudos, comments, or if someone “famous” in the community wrote it, and i base my judgements on that. it’s the first criteria for me to start properly reading a book. and even if the book turns out to be kind of meh, i psycho myself into thinking, yes this wasn’t too bad. 

here’s the hypocritical part. as an author, pretty new into the writing community, i absolutely resent that the entire “hits/kudos/comments” system, because it sets you so far back on the racing track, and as much as i hate metaphorising writing as a race, it’s basically true.

just because a piece of art gets slighted, or just because it’s being praised to the heavens, should mean nothing to me. but it does. and i hate this side of social conditioning that transmits itself into my everyday life, seeping through so insidiously that there is no way for me to cut off the source of prejudice unless i’m being hyperaware about it. and even with much effort of channelling consciousness to stay open-hearted and open-minded, i’m bound to be shackled to preconceived notions. a movie is almost always going to be a bad movie if you actively look out for the source of its “badness” just because someone tells you beforehand that it’s not going to be good, you know? i hate that.

i need to stop taking reviews and social hype as gospel. many of the favourite books that i’ve read often doesn’t have the best reviews. my favourite disney song is god help the outcasts, which is pretty unknown even among my avid disney fans; it’s not highly raved about or anything. some of my favourite pieces of online writing that i’ve come across in my lifetime are buried under the millions of other internet-famous posts. it’s a pity.

how technically good something is has no direct correlation to how much you enjoy it. even if people around me are saying that something is terrible for xyz reasons, i need to learn not to shy away from saying how much i actually love it. my enjoyment for it does not take away their reasons for disliking it.

what i look for in enjoying and appreciating art is just to feel something. if it’s purpose was to make me feel sad and i cried, it’s done its purpose and i enjoyed it.

people are made up of different lifestyles, memories, pasts, opinions, cultures and so much more. they’re bound to feel differently about things. my favourite part of writing is when someone takes the time to comment on what my words invoked in them, whether is it an emotion or a memory, and i thank them profusely for letting me know, because that means so much more than a kudo or being highly popular. it’s knowing you’ve subtly changed someone’s day, for the better, and now a piece of me will remain in them, however small that may be.

likewise, i need to be more conscious that my indifference or dislike does not influence another individual’s enjoyment of something. if you like that kpop group, go ahead. i need to learn to stop making snarky comments about them just because it isn’t my cup of tea. guilty as charged.

i guess a good quote to sum this up is: yellow is not a bad colour; you just don’t like yellow. banana is not a gross fruit; you just don’t like banana.

((this is highly relevant because yellow and bananas are my favourite colour and fruit respectively and they’re for some reason, highly controversial.))

everyone’s opinions are just as valid. listen, take them in, but don’t internalise. i need to realise that the world is a much better place when many different vibrant, contrasting ideas can bounce off walls and be heard without being put down.

this is pretty applicable to life as well? just because someone says something critical about you, about someone else, about your work and your ideas, that does not define you or the subject of discussion.

take everything with a pinch of salt and have the the courage and zeal to experience everything firsthand.

beyond wonder; be yonder


and when my tummy vibrates with your presence and my sleepiness is aroused by your consciousness, your voice pools in the pit of what feels like emptiness in me, filling me with  warmth. you wrote about our early mornings like it was something magical, and there and then i cried, because i thought it was something i conjured out of my own wishful thinking and that you weren’t really present, but

you were there, and you were my present, and i’m so thankful that it was special to you too. miles away, and both in the dark, but i feel you close to me. thank you for 6.45 shared smiles and comfortable silences because you didn’t have to but you did anyway for fear that i would be lonely. thank you for falling in love, not with me, because i can now properly love you.

as a friend.


Gah. Gag.

That was so mushy. Too mushy. I feel like an overripe banana.


There’s something about the after-rain weather that calms me down so much. The sweet dewy scent of the earth lingering in the air, the slight chilly breeze, the crunch of wet leaves under my feet, all the dust and grime of the city washed away. It makes me feel renewed, fresh, at peace. I’m ready to begin again.

Which is great, because recently I’ve been caught up in a metaphorical and physical slump, in academics and in my overdue pieces of writing that I have yet to produce because staring at a blank document is much too daunting.

Numbers – this has been my greatest fear at the moment. Dismal results, the countdown, the number of unchecked boxes on my to-do lists, dollars and cents, battery percentages, viewcounts, number of likes, number of followers. Numbers seem to be everywhere, inescapable, and it scares me. I kind of want to hide in a place where letters and numbers are merely hieroglyphics and nothing more.


My heart is heavy, burdened with a secret that feels like my soul is being crushed. The sadness is overpowering and saturating the air with dampness that would not be peculiar if I found them clinging onto my cheeks.

The secret makes me pensive, perceptive. I’m thinking back about two Tuesdays back, graduation. Holding back a sob as I sang the school song for the first and last time. Thursday, Jimin’s birthday. My friends tolerating my antics and singing along to the Korean version of happy birthday as I pretended to blow out the candle from the $2.70 slice of cake. Friday, head buried in good wishes and heart soaring with love. There were tears but mostly laughter.

I see the human in our Teachers. I definitely saw it today. And all I can say is everything is put into perspective and I am simultaneously saddened but also comforted in this final juncture.

In a sombre tone, we talk about what ifs and one days. We talk about life and people and humanity and the universe. We talk about literature and future adventures and the smell of old bookshops. And then we talk about dedicating our first biographies to each other, and we talk about lyrics that make us sad, quotes that make us think, sober thoughts of how to deal with this secret.

It is always in these moments where we find connection, intimacy, honesty and warmth.

The past few weeks have been a turbulent ride of highs and lows. I embrace the gravity of everything and nothing. Allow me to suspend myself in these moments, allow me to fossilise them in amber, allow me to swim through the charged electricity and the constant draining of time; allow me to breathe.

For you, for all of you, a thousand times over.


today my skin is crawling with the uneasiness of wanting to go home, almost as if i’m  stuck at a party and the feeling of something wrong and uncomfortable wraps itself around me and are my eyes are on the doorknob of the exit, willing it to turn and to open and to compel me out so that i can breathe. my bones feel itchy and light and wind-borne. it’s almost as if there’s something alive under me, waiting to break out from the surface of my skin, tearing me inside out like a wind-up present emerging from its wraps.

this is ironic, because i’m typing this sitting on my desk, right next to my bed. i’m home. why does it feel like i’m not?

is it possible to feel homesick for a place that cannot be located on google maps?

did you mean: suspended in a concept that can be sought after in the times when you’re keeling over so much in laughter that everything dissolves away and your eyes are blinded by white light and spots and your stomach clenches or in other words—a self-imposed surreality?

related to your frantic searches: waking up just before the world does, eyes half-lidded, heart half-lidded, thoughts and dreams and memories spilling over through the opening. talking about the future like it’s already real. the rain on my skin, thunder in my chest. sleeping for twelve hours — 720 precious minutes of bliss, 43200 seconds of being alive. then waking up—720 precious minutes of blurred edges, 43200 seconds of mechanical breathing. 

see also: this song dancing across the expanse of my mind. words that don’t make sense, being possessed.

slippery slopes of consciousness

I often mix up past tense and present tense, like who the hell cares, it’s just tense, but of course, my critical essays suffer because of such complacency, such irrational stubbornness. History becomes something that manifests in the Now, Literature is dead.

Stop fetishizing the past and capturing the present, all because you’re afraid of having no future.

It has come to my attention that I have a horribly narrow view of Reality. My big picture is fuzzy, facts distorted and overlooked and scrutinised too hard all at the same time, materialising itself like one of those self-deprecating mirror exhibitions that’s free-of-entry in an ancient carnival. Reality – in my terms – are not depressing articles I cried over when flipping through my Time magazines. I refused to accept that that was Reality. Jean’s view of Reality, recalibrated in my brain, is a microscopic world, only viewable under special lenses, filled to the brim with minute details, seen mostly in sepia, colours swirling down the drain that enters directly into my belly (probably the reason why I have so much difficulty swallowing truths, because I’m already clogged up and swelling with way too much surreality).

To me, Reality was this:

A good two nights back, in that hole-in-the-wall Korean restaurant with a dodgy name, sitting so closely with my friends that our shoulders bumped into each other. Acutely, I felt my nostalgia being amped up, expertly distilling itself into every conversation, every observation, every emotion I felt. My world filtered and unreal. I was there, but I wasn’t there, because I was teleporting myself to the future, hovering over us as I saw the very same scene play out except that we’re all in office wear, and we’re drinking soju instead of barley tea, and our voices are more tired and more adulty, and perhaps we’re no longer gossiping over the same things that we’re doing now, because we’ve probably forgotten by then. Instead of splitting the bill, we’re pushing it to the one with the highest paycheck, and it’s not me.

Things that still remain the same – the sound of our laughter fusing and swirling up to the ceiling along with the fragrant smoke of our shared dishes, the meaningful silences, the warm eye-contact, the pain in my gut that’s something akin to a bruise blossoming because I’ve been hit so hard by Feelings, the sunset.

We’re happy, we’re giggly, we’re on top of the world.

Crossing the overhead bridge overlooking the highway, I will feel like everything is so small, and like I can conquer everything, or I might feel as small and insignificant as atoms rotating indefinitely on the same axis, and that if I flung myself off the bridge, I would break that tiring continuity, but I would be reduced to nothing.

Ashes to ashes.

Dust to dust.

Me to me.

I’m upset that I can’t be universal. I am only obliged to the universe in my head.

If I had the capacity, if I had the time, I would be cataloguing every tedious detail of my life, right down to the number of breaths I take.

But I don’t, and I won’t.

Because I realise that Life is so upsettingly dismal when it is reduced to mere descriptions. It cannot be summed up to some words I throw in after flipping through the thesaurus. And it wouldn’t be authentic. Nothing is genuine.

From the moment it has passed through my mind, viewed through my very two eyes, it is no longer true. We are all sentient beings, a little drunk on romanticism and the power to record an own version of our life, the way it makes me seem like a reliable and omniscient narrator when in actual fact I’m undercutting everything, everything. If I dwelled on them more, by attempting to write them down, I was singlehandedly mutilating them. I am a criminal to  my own thoughts, and I must be locked in my own solitary prison cell, deprived of experiences as a form of cold turkey.

But since I conflate the past and the present so much that it affects my future, I’ll forget the fact that Present me is breaking the truth (that my visions are all lies, my emotions are not real, all things are only simulacra) to Past me, and by proxy, this cyclical nature will impress itself on the future until it becomes natural.

All memories, transcribed into words, are a diorama, and they will never be an exact replica of what I have breathed life into. That night in the cramped restaurant will translate differently in the various voices of my friends. Maybe the laughter we churned out would be shrill and piercing to their ears, not melodious. Maybe while I was looking down at the cars whizzing past, musing on the impact of velocity on my ragdoll body, my friend was casting her own gaze on her leaden feet, thinking of a basic survival necessity – sleep.

It’s funny. The more I ponder over this, the more confounded I am. Thoughts are being more and more unintelligent as they fight for my attention, like venn diagrams intersecting and intersecting and intersecting until I can only see a blur of graphite.

I think I’ve exhausted myself from thinking of this, but more to come…more to come. I think I need to acknowledge that fighting the dysphoria of change is a flat pursuit, but at the same time, penning down all my thoughts doesn’t make anything clearer, it just makes my hands cramp.

Oh well, feeling physical pain is better than feeling nothing at all.

Perhaps I should stop mourning over an experience and how I’ll never relive it in the quality of authenticity it used to possess, because by doing so, I’m putting it on a pedestal, and the loss is only blacker and more tainted and more real. I’m singlehandedly defaming it, maligning a victim that had been forced to carry my burdens. At what costs? Only my own.

Gosh – my thoughts are being increasingly incoherent.

I have an unjustified and unbridled hostility towards Reality, probably inherited. Maybe in one of my past lives I was a prophetess, and Reality turned itself against me as I turned against it in abandon, tearing me apart in retaliation as I revealed the secrets of the world for the sake of mankind and at the expense of my own sanity.

One day I will read this and I will no longer relate to what I’m feeling, just like how a painter can no longer get back the exact same colour that he/she had previously mixed together on their palette – there will be some degree, however minute, of difference. Never the same consistency: either too thick or too watered down. And that will only grow more and more incongruent if I place my weight on it and bear my pressure on it, hence effectively polarising them and picking up more and more faults that only serves to add to their dissimilarity.

If this was handwritten, I wouldn’t be able to recognise my own handwriting.

I’m an arsonist. I love setting myself on fire. I love watching myself being burnt to ashes.


For dust you are, and from dust you will return.

A love-hate letter to Reality—

Stolen from Taylor Swift.

Please take my hand and
Please take me dancing and
Please leave me stranded
It’s so romantic.

钧 x x

j e a n x x

what you cannot have

As I stood in the kitchen, in front of my microwave, staring blankly at my slouched, convexed reflection merging with the dim illumination of my cup taking a 30-second carousel ride round-and-round, I was suddenly hyper-aware of the presence of Time breathing down my neck. In my mind, the image of the ghost clinging onto the protagonist of the horror film Shutter flashed through my mind, and I held back a strangled scream. I looked back at my own reflection and let out a breath I never knew I was holding after I made sure there was no horror-movie-embodiment-of-vengeance clasping onto my shoulder.

Time momentarily took up all the space in the kitchen. Conflating both terms together, I am reminded of some basic law of physics that meditated on space and time being effectively interchangeable, and fundamentally the same thing. And now their merger created such a powerful presence that I was forced to cower into an area where they could not reach me.

I noticed it most prominently in the blinking countdown, screaming at me in digitalised red ink: 10…9…8…7… It felt like a bomb, ticking ticking ticking, waiting to explode. My mom always told me never to stand right in front of a microwave; you never know when it would decide to betray you. (It almost happened the day I put a metal spoon in WITH an uncooked egg in my half-asleep state, but that’s another story that I probably will never tell.) But I wanted to display my fearlessness, to a grant total of zero audience members, so I parked myself right in front of it, forcing myself to meet the shrill exclamation when Time was reduced to 0.

I noticed it in the forces of time that rendered my third cup of tea cold in the first place, making it necessary for me to pop it into this semi-time-machine, to reverse the effects of time.

Things I am afraid of:

  • Confrontation
  • Gore
  • Failure
  • Reality
  • Time

This post is probably just me expounding on mainly just the final bulletpoint. I’ll elucidate the rest perhaps later (though essentially my blog is literally a compilation of me struggling to conquer these fears on an everyday basis, isn’t it?)

Whenever I found myself wanting to write, it was met with an abysmal absence of energy. It felt like energy and time, in my circumstances, shared an inverse relationship; they were asymptotes of each other. Destined to never cross paths. Sometimes they went close, went so close till there was almost negative space, but in between there remained the gap of Almost, a promise that was doomed to be broken and never to be fulfilled. Instead of immortalising my moments, I was sleeping it away. I hated that I was resting in my free time, that I didn’t have the capacity to maximise my use of 24 hours, or in Donald Trump’s critical and condescending tone, “She doesn’t have the stamina.”

Hating sleep was extremely ironic and sounded ridiculous even to my own ears because it was evident I needed that rest, and it was an indisputable fact that I loved my sleep. But even mothers resent their children sometimes because all things came with opportunity costs.

Hypothesis: Time is never free. Its currency – opportunity costs.

Sleep is a thief, robbing me of things most endearing, most precious to me — my time, my memories, my emotions, my words. I am a firm believer that what I feel at this exact moment can never be replicated in any other fraction of a second. This results in a hasty chase to fossilise everything in words. But I sleep it away. And then these moments are gone from me forever.

Sleep is a hypnotist, settling me comfortably in a world that’s all kinds of tempting and magical, but ultimately wasn’t real. Sleep is a politician, spinning lies after lies, pledging commitments that would never realise.

My fears are all interlinked. I am afraid to Confront – be it Failure, Reality, Time…(ok and then there was Gore, which was less prominent but still haunted me nevertheless to a deep extent.)

And now I am forced to come to terms with Infinity, about what cannot be articulated; the infinite feelings, colors, sounds, experiences that I do not have words for, and will never be accorded the right to breathe and to be presented to the world because I let them slip away, like a pseudo-abortion of sorts.I need to learn how to live in Infinity,  trust that I’ll retain what I need to later, and if not, accept the price of a life fully lived.

钧 x x

j e a n x x