nocturnal verbal diarrhea

in my small world, my sunday comprises of lunch with my boyfriend, his mother, and his childhood friend. mee siam and topshell-mistaken-for-abalone and then a new can of abalone that we told auntie not to open but the age old "aiya, chinese new year, must eat until bao bao"

and then a futile attempt at remembering the only piece i know how to play on the piano, and then dinner at a coffeeshop with my extended family. yu sheng and fried rice and lobster with FRUIT PASTE (yay) and shark's fin soup and herbal chicken and steamed fish and vegetables with mushrooms and ice cream

and then boyboy asking me how to spell assistant for the hundredth time and my sister listening to ji de by amei for the millionth time and my dad rushing me to go shower so that he can take a lifetime in the bathroom and then me looking through my notebook for my first solo export session tomorrow and papa and boyboy playing chinese chess and papa telling another of his whoa-last-time-ah stories.

Darling, so share with me
Your love if you have enough
Your tears if you're holding back
Or pain if that's what it is
How can I let you know
I'm more than the dress and the voice
Just reach me out then
You would know that you're not dreaming
:eyes on me - faye wong

one of my first debates with mingyang on music was about final fantasy vii, his personal favourite - i said that music can be appreciated in its own right and contextualised as to whatever is relevant to each unique listener. kind of a textual analysis kind of thing. he disagreed, saying that understanding the story for which the piece was composed would give it inherent depth and symbolism that would make it more memorable for the listener, and that the applicability would be drawn from an already poignant tale. i disagreed, and then he told me the story of final fantasy vii. and then i changed my mind.

shall i be the one for you,
who reaches out softly but sure?

i am notvery sure if i should have written the 25 notes thing! i hope i have not said too much about myself. please don't hate or despise or love me, for what i know not, but please just don't.

there are moments stolen almost true and maybe it does not matter if they were so to you, for they are to me i can almost touch you right here right now. this i will distil into essence to scent my writings, and maybe the next time we meet the wafts of memory's semblance will draw you in,
again

to see a world in a grain of sand
heaven in a wild flower;
hold infinity in the palm of your hand,
and eternity in an hour.
:william blake