puberty at 26

this entry is self indulgent. pardon the excessive egocentricity that will ensue. music:


after everything i’ve been through this 2014, health just took its toll now on the 12th month. merry christmas. last weekend i forced my body to do all these things: hang with friends, take a shot on love, write 6 briefs, do yoga, and moonlight. it was too much, i knew something will fold. and my immune system did.


i cannot write with beautiful words anymore. the writer self is now just a part of my past, buried with the memories unretrievable. now i write in such a functional, transactional manner. magic has disappeared. (ain’t that statement a bit meta. to disappear is like magic. and magic to disappear is magic about magic!) is this an obituary for the writer self? am i giving up. that is not a question.


26 is such a strange state.
i feel so old. so old.
more and more i spend time reminiscing, reading old emails and conversations. i’ve forgotten so much already – that this happened, that i felt that way, etc etc… the exercise is like observing the self from a 3rd person point of view. as if the old self had will, had a mind of its own that you cannot control. mindfuckful.

and this. this must be a relatively new feeling, born in the 21st century. people from the previous generations don’t have the luxury to read through their past conversations. letters would be the analogue version, but chats and emails are more real time thus are able to portray the unfiltered self more. and reading them is like spying on the past self detachedly, from the present.

26 is such a strange state. i’ve never been this obsessed with aging, and i know it will just get worse. i’m not yet liking this business of getting old. i guess i’m not yet that old. so it will get worse,  then hopefully it will get better.