Sarah

☀☀☀
Sarah, 18, Singapore
(click the flower above for older entries)

Twitter: @sarahbananachan
Instagram: hisarahnademe

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Thoughts #2

Thursday, July 31, 2014 || 11:09 PM

(inspired by my terrible headache — i yearn to sleep this off so badly)

the sadness is so acute: i never knew feelings could retaliate in the form of physical ache — the back of my throat hurts and so does my head and my heart and every part of me that you looked at and every part of me that you didn't.

ii.

i think it normal because i do not (cannot) expect anything — that is how my life works. i am not built with a heart that beats in synchrony with someone else's orchestra or built for the turpentine stench of the streetlamps that lights a path that fits two. i am beautifully crafted but my palms are flat; the lack of curvature proving that other hands are never meant to slip into my own.

iii.

this will be true in all ways, always. nothing has ever proven to me otherwise.

Thoughts

Wednesday, July 30, 2014 || 10:03 AM

(tonight i feel the weight of my 15 year old self again, wanting to not let slip about you, no one can know — let you be my secret; hidden in the residues of my brain and lodged between the spaces of my heart)

Ps. You have turned to dread.

Life updates #4

Tuesday, July 29, 2014 || 11:21 PM

(writing this because I honestly wish I wrote about myself and my life more - recently I have deviated so much from what is real because ah I don't know artistic licences do take over my mind in episodes)

#1 Here's to hoping that third time is the charm. I've never understood why three has the propensity to be deemed as the number to take note of: either the number of inconceivable misfortune or luck; the number riddled with possibilities and the number with a promise there will be no after (I truly hope this is the case) (you have very, very bright eyes).

#2 I have incredible friends - thank you so, so much. You put me before yourselves and for that you are so wonderfully selfless and so wonderfully loved (by me). I may insist I have terrible luck but this clearly cannot be the case since I managed to score all of you.

#3 I want to write so much more than I am - I want to write about the taste of foreign foods and drinks and lips, I want to write about people at traffic lights, I want to write about storms and the way your eyes flash like one and I want to write about you. Sadly I cannot: JC life does not permit me to do so ah the heavy workload is quite crushing (!!!) leaving me little time to do things I love.

#4 Sometimes I lose my appetite. The reason for this is silly and hard to explain but I will try: there are days where my stomach feels like they are filled with butterflies. Their wings brush against my edges and douses me in warmth and that fluttery feeling that spreads to my toes and the brink of my fingertips like fire - I am a cage and they are struggling to be free. I simply cannot put food in there because I'm already full from the butterflies living in me - they take up all the space and leave no room for seconds.

You/ clock

Monday, July 21, 2014 || 10:14 PM

you are a clock:

forty five degree angles and

half-an-hour chimes

i know your next move,

your every move
predictable
safe.

ticking is the sound we make

when we are too tired to talk

you are a clock:

you are the endeavor of time

it is inscribed on your face

carved on your skin

(i know the hours from the stiffness of your lips)

ticking is the sound we make

when we are too tired to talk

you are a clock:

bad luck to give and receive

an unhandy, inconvenient version

of something i can so easily don on my wrist

you are a clock:

left at home

— a place i rarely visit
these days

ticking is the sound we make

when we are too tired to talk

my heart: it bleeds.

(i've been reading more poetry books — do not blame me if this reflects in my writing.. this piece was particularly hasty; i wrote it in two minutes while lying on my bed)

New found motivation

Saturday, July 19, 2014 || 3:22 PM

I am sad and I am determined and perhaps those two things do not go together but there is something so pressing about the sadness that culminates the formation of the latter. You are caught up in my synapses (I use biology terms because you would never understand them just as how I don't understand you — it is only fair). The carpet beneath my feet feels warm from where you stood and I hate the heat. I am myself again: consumed by the desire to eliminate every ounce of unecessary from my body and fuelled by the fear of mediocrity. Friend, I cannot promise I won't return but I promise the second time I do it will not matter.

Some thoughts during one of my walks today

Tuesday, July 15, 2014 || 7:25 PM

(it is hard to write when all you do is go to places or be at places — my thoughts are stale; a carbon copy of last week's premises. the air that surrounds me is different: yet i am the same)

(i wear my skirt a little more high waisted today — a futile attempt to embody change even in the most minute ways)

Seasons series (II/IV)

Sunday, July 6, 2014 || 3:47 PM

(I feel so pretentious and stupid when I write poetry??!! This is truly a first attempt and I like to challenge myself so here goes nothing please feel free to ignore the shittiness of it — poetry; unlike prose feels so unnatural on my fingertips)

(if you read this and you know me: please drop me a message and tell me what you think of it ahh poetry's really not up my alley at all and feedback is vital for improvement right? okay, i ramble, i'm sorry-)

Spring

Gingersnaps are your favourite scent

— yet they have no place in Spring

The time of flora versus fauna, or

perhaps they work in perfect synthesis

(either way it is no home for the spicy sweetness of the Fall snack)

Just like you,

a purple tulip when there are only sunflowers spilled on the walkway

— do not trample —

(you do anyway)

My favourite part of Spring is when the snow melts

because

it feels like one beautiful thing evolved to another;

and when do you ever hear stories of that?

The caterpillar to a butterfly

The ugly ducking to a swan

The frog to a prince

It is as if

morphing requires a certain degree of ugly beforehand;

as if

evolution only befalls the unattractive;

then how are you more beautiful each day?

(tell me your secret)

Do you inject the ebony petals of the flowers that bloom in Spring into your veins?

Do you bottle Spring air and inhale it as if it were a drug —

filling your lungs with loveliness?

Or do you eat crushed flowers for breakfast?

(tell me your secret)

You are Spring with eyes and lips

You are Spring with teeth

and blood (lots of it)

Promise me this, love:

(don't tell anyone your secret)

I cannot grasp Spring's arms and hold it's mysteries in my palm

I cannot embed Spring's touch under my skin

I cannot misplace Spring's toothbrush; only to find it on the kitchen sink

Spring is a common amenity:

I am forced to share.

(don't tell anyone your secret)

Let you be mine to keep:

my own Spring; to last me through the three remaining seasons

Season series (I/IV)

|| 12:46 AM

(a project i embarked on with a friend, you can read her blog here. it is fiction by the way, i don't have exotic romances - my life is more like a daily struggle to stay awake in lectures and I appreciate that)

Fall

Orange is currently my favourite colour. Orange is the colour of ground up cinnamon powder (the spice of fall) which you constantly smelt like. It's like you took baths in cinnamon and tea leaves all the damn time, I would taste the sweet spice whenever I tasted you. It came as no surprise to me when people told me that taste and smell were related; I knew that already because whenever I sneaked whiffs of cinnamon, it was like I could almost feel the richness of you on my lips - heat flirting with my skin; teasing my mouth in that inviting way only you know how. My appetence for you almost evolves to a blistering hunger; and I (once again) am afraid of how much I love you.

Orange is the colour of the leaves you pick off the pavements and slip into my pockets after our dates. "A souvenir for the night," you insist. I leaned in to let our lips meet to give you another souvenir of my own - and another and another and another.

Orange is the colour of the shirt you wore on the first day of Fall. That day you told me I was beautiful sixty-two times. You too are beautiful, so, so beautiful; the way a city is beautiful at three in the morning - so alive with shades of neon and incandescent lights that demand attention; yet as still and as reticent as a well-kept secret. Sometimes I wonder how you could be made up from the same stuff as everyone else: blood, sinews, tissues, bones - when you seemed to be otherworldly, like you ate pocketfuls of love fed to you by Life himself. Our love is relentless, like hot tea it scorches my throat going down and stings my tongue with it's sweet aftertaste before it caresses the roof of my mouth with warmth only it can provide. Our love manifests uncontrollably; my feelings are incapable of being caged or concealed.

I loved you in Fall and I'll love you still.

Life updates #3

Friday, July 4, 2014 || 12:05 AM

(This blog has been so vague as of late and I thought it might be time to delve into something more personal and honest - I need a rain check on what's happening in my life)

#1 School has reopened and it has been ... exhausting to say the least. I could be a poster child for lethargy - coupled with heavy eyelids but (perhaps) a not so heavy heart. Tired girls beget tired lives - and my 24/7 drowsiness does conclude in me falling asleep a lot or at least trying (!!!) not to with practically a desperate fervour.

#2 Yet the first week of school proves to be tolerable - maybe even decent - due to my wonderful, wonderful friends (both in and out of CJ). I am beyond grateful for their company, in all senses: at school when I'm barely keeping my consciousness and slipping into a state of doldrums; at home when I get calls at three in the morning just to talk. Everywhere. Anywhere. I laugh until my throat hurts sometimes and I think that is a marvelous thing.

#3 I secretly love the sore muscles that come with every dance practice - I feel like they're my memento for effort. I do sorely miss the days I came home from dance and I was in too much pain to move - the pain reminds you that you are alive, I think.

#4 Attract people by the way you live. You are irresistible when you are drunk with joy, when you embrace life with an ardor hidden in your veins (yet shows on your face). I am trying, trying, trying to be the person who lives in a way that emulates my passions; my hidden vigour for the world and all it is bound to. There is nothing more beautiful that someone who prizes life with an almost foolish certainty. Better not bitter: that has always been; will always be the aim.

#5 I was going to write an acknowledgement dedicated to how now you have evolved to stranger status but I couldn't bother writing too much about you so I didn't. A true-blue sign of me being over it, I guess (it is kind of amazing how .. quickly I get over these things).

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