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

Twitter: @sarahbananachan
Instagram: hisarahnademe

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(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)


I now say your last name when I say your first name - string the two together like they could never be separate entities - because you are no longer the first person I associate with that name. I read poems without you in mind. I paint on canvases without remembering red was your favourite colour. I string roses onto rope and sew them into the hems of my skirts without remembering you hate the smell of flowers and you despise roses because they're covered in thorns. You used to be a thorn: until one day you simply weren't. You are no longer able to draw blood from me with just a prick and a pinch of the skin - you cannot hurt me. Your taste becomes an aftertaste; your right dimple a souvenir with no place to call home. 



I want to write about you for years; immortalise you on pieces of paper and on the insides of books and the backs of napkins. You will now live forever because what is written can never be unwritten.


I like to re-read books. I find comfort; amenity in reading and re-reading the same lines over and over (and over and over) - knowing the next line before my eyes can scan the slope of the letters, before the words register in my brain to make sense of a story or a thought. Sometimes when it gets late and I can't seem to fall asleep, I read my favourite poem (Having a Coke With You by Frank O' Hara, please go google it if you have never read it). I read it repeatedly, relishing each line with renewed awe until my eyes get weary and my heart beat slows down to a steady pace. Every so often, after my eyes get tired from the constant scanning and my eyelids need to flutter shut, I switch to the video of O'Hara reading his own work. I love the lull of his voice: I continue to echo the same words in my brain again and again and again (God, I don't even know why I like that poem so much - I just do, it is so fantastically romantic). I've been doing this since I was fifteen and the poem touched my heart for the very first time - two years later I have it memorised, every word burnt into the edges of my cerebellum; each line tattoed all over my nerves. 





One. 


One of those days where everything that could possibly go wrong does. When you're losing what you thought was a firm grip on life (now you're struggling even to maintain a slippery grasp) and you look down while on public transport because you know that if you make eye contact with a solitary person, you WILL cry. The tears you're trying so hard to balance on the brim of your eyes will leave their brink and fall. People will stare - and you'll never forgive yourself for it.


So often I write about people who anger me, or hurt me, or tear down - no, rip apart - my walls and leave without so much as an attempt of an apology. I have the propensity to leave out the good ones - and I think it's high time to acknowledge them and provide them with the recognition they so deserve. After all, life's not all heartbreak and second guessing - life is good. Life is wonderful and filled with people who love you so much (beyond your understanding) and I should start treating it as such.

(Each "you'' in each paragraph is a different person who leaves me thankful that I have 'em around. Hehehe do you want to guess which paragraph is about yourself if there is one)

I am grateful for you, who knows exactly what type of chocolate I like and hands them out to me like water from a tap. You who reminds me that hard times are ephemeral and you who goes out of your way to spend time with me so I feel less withdrawn. You share yourself with me and to return the favour you allow me to do the same. Both of us, so hidden in our own elements yet we managed to find each other.

I am grateful for you, because I really (really) like your smile. I want to permanently fix your face into that smile and bring it home in my pocket; only I know that the rarity of your smiles makes them even better. I like it when you smile at me - there is something about the slant of your mouth and the way your eyes dance when we make eye contact that makes me feel like we are sharing a secret; you feel like my secret. It is a special talent you have - I have never known anyone who is able to make me feel like their smile is classified information. You do.

I am grateful for you because you look genuinely happy to see me when you see me around. God, I love people like you - people who look pleasantly surprised to see you, even if just in crossing. We barely know each other, yet you make me feel special. I want to bottle the way your face lights up and the way you smile when you see me and keep it at home. Save it for rainy days and even then, be reluctant to open it because I want to preserve how you make me feel.

I am grateful for you, who tolerates my sporadic replies (I am such a terrible texter) and who still wants to talk to me nonetheless. You make me feel special and important and... needed and honestly I'm bewildered about why you even like me so much because I feel like a terrible friend but you've never wanted to stop being mine. I've always been slightly afraid that you would get bored of me (distance is an untimely and terrible thing) but you allay my fears by never acting like it.

I am grateful for you, who knows not to ask questions because your sixth sense tells you I don't want to answer them. I have never known another person more sensitive to my feelings - you accept that I'm secretive and you love me still. I am inconsistent yet you are steady; dependable. You remind me of concrete - you hold my bricks together; you are reliable and sturdy and tough.

..... I'm pretty damn lucky to have all of you.

(I don't have the habit of posting my fictional works here - maybe I should have a site for that - so bear with me if you're only kpo about my life and thoughts and not this shit)
(Disorganised but shit I haven't written in so long) 

Dear                      ,

I cannot bring myself to write your name, because to write it is to think it - and your nomenclature echoed in my head leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. Each syllable surfaces an indignant memory I am only trying to drown. You once told me you felt like changing your name because you hate the way it sounds when it comes out of the mouths of the people you despise - note to myself to never say your name again so you never have to feel that way once more (I'm probably on the top of your list of people you hate).

I've always loved your name - when you first introduced yourself I wondered how someone with so many rough edges and bruised palms and skinned kneecaps could have such a pretty and delicate name. I wonder if your parents looked at you when you were a newborn and matched your raw features and essence to a suitable name - gave you the most beautiful name they could think of because despite all newborns looking pretty much the same, you were the most beautiful baby in the Universe to them because they so hopelessly loved you. Or if they planned your name months before, years before you were born - plucked your name from movies or books for their future children knowing that one day you would come along and fill it in.

I think of the way your lips curve when you smile, the way your eyes dart left and right (damn it you're so freaking cute), the brevity of your smirks and the way being with you is almost celestial - and I could not possibly choose another name to fit you; you fit your name perfectly. Being with you is both comfortable and exciting - it is neither one or the other but a perfect synthesis of the two - I'm not exactly sure how you manage to both be the storm and the calm seas but you once told me to question a little less and live a little more so I accepted how you made me feel. You were - no, are - the most volatile person I know, yet at night when I watch your eyelashes flutter and the veins on your closed eyelids as you lay perfectly still, I wonder how such an effervescent human can be so serene.

We never had any labels and I was never exactly sure of what we were - "Who cares what we are? I'm happy." you would argue. I care. I care. I never retaliated for the fear of losing you but here I am, telling you that I care and that maybe I need labels and despite your free spirit and lack of desire for anything certain, I needed confirmation. I know it's too late and this letter is just me screaming into a void; an eclipse, but damn it, I'm sorry for all the times we fought and all the times I was never honest and maybe if I forced you to talk about the uncertainty that was so alive between us maybe I never would have lost you.

Love,
Me (I choose not to write my name either because you probably don't like reading it as well)

P.S I hope you still take your vitamins. It's flu season.

P.P.S ........ Yeah.







Eargasmic

#1. I hate that you plowed my lawn and planted your seeds here, embedding them in the depths of the richest part of the soil I own. You were never welcome, yet you god damned uprooted other plants I carefully selected to shove in your own and now you're telling me these seeds don't bear fruit. TAKE YOUR DAMN SEEDS OUT OF MY GARDEN IF THEY'RE NEVER GOING TO AMOUNT TO ANYTHING - I've had it with your insouciance


You were the one who started it, stringing me along like the pearls of the necklace you keep in your top drawer reserved for someone else. Now you blame me for getting attached and wanting you around so you fled, then GOD DAMN IT YOU SHOULDN't HAVE CAME ALONG I WAS FINE WITHOUT YOU BEFORE 

My gums really hurt. Or at least, the right side all the way at the back of my mouth does. My family think it's my wisdom tooth that's growing out - I feel grown up. As a little kid, I used to anticipate this with fervour - big girls have their wisdom tooth grown out. It's called "wisdom tooth" because you're getting wiser. The niggling feeling of ceaseless pain at the back of your mouth starts getting comforting - there might not be a lot of things you know to be sure in this world but at least you're certain you are going to hurt in the same place every single day. The way some people find a home in pain is perverse, for sure - but at least intangible homes are better than ones you can touch and then feel them escape your grasp and slip out of your fingers. You can't make homes out of human beings - I know that. Most people want the pain to vacate them so bad - they have the propensity to dive into people who have the potential to eliminate their pain. They settle for mismatched ideals and zero chemistry, succumbing to the warmth of the intoxicating promise of reduced hurt. What they don't realise is they've become accustomed to the pain - they aren't "fixer uppers". We're not houses. We don't need repair.