Resolutions

This Christmas and New Year have been the saddest and loneliest I have ever known. And it is of my singlehanded doing. I have been silly beyond my wildest imagination, and have ended up experiencing unprecedented levels of worthlessness and hopelessness.

In the New Year, I wish to start afresh. I wish to be completely self-reliant. I wish to be utterly selfish, and pursue my own happiness alone. I wish to despise any requests for my understanding, tolerance or accommodation. I wish to be me regardless of the circumstances, at everyone's expense.

Dedicated to You

IF
***

幸福　不是每一天都有
錯過以後要等很久很久
別讓你的快樂在我懷中變成泡沫
至少　我們依然是朋友
如果我不適合握你的手
帶著我的祝福好好的過

藏起心痛　我想我還能忍受
這點寂寞　用最沉默的溫柔
微笑對你揮揮手

IF YOU CRY　我會明白
IF YOU SMILE　我也會溫暖
走累了　IF YOU DON'T MIND
和我坐下來　看看天的藍
IF YOU CRY　還有我在
IF YOU TRY　陪你等待
你永遠不會孤單有個人
只為了你存在

I'm not sure I could say that the last line for me is true, but the rest of these lyrics of my favourite song at least are my heartfelt words to you. I promise you, I will learn to let go.

Beneath the Hush

I remember when I was young, I was one of those kids who had a pet belonging, like a tattered blanket or yellowed pillow case, that they lugged around wherever they went. It became dirty; I couldn't understand the concept and disregarded that fact. It developed a stench; I refused to part with it even for the short term. It became a hindrance to my activities; I forced the environment to accommodate. My mum threatened me; I was prepared to battle to my last breath. In the end, my mum threw it away behind my back and only confessed many years later.

And then I found something else to carry around. An article less cumbersome, and not easily detected by the unsuspecting passer-by. A secret. I figured I should be happy. Now that I got to pick up from where I was rudely knocked off, never to be deterred by anyone again.

And then I questioned the wisdom of creating this weight on my back. Perhaps that was why my mum had been so adamantly against that pet peeve of mine. Perhaps that was why, in the first place, society frowned upon that bad habit as though it were contagious. Sometimes, when all around me is quiet, and peaceful, the silence rings in my ears and gives me a turbulent headache.

And then I try to understand this puzzling urge to reveal myself, just to incur public judgment. I get wound back in time, imagining what it feels, to be able to hold on stubbornly to my disgrace, and to have the whole world embrace me for it.

Reason Versus Consolation

For some reason, on reading this, the proverb "A stitch in time saves nine" suddenly comes to mind.

On writing about runaway screen characters (at the wedding altar)...
"And if you have a nagging sensation that won't go away that a plot point is not quite right, there is a good chance it is fundamentally wrong. In that case, any attempt to patch it up will leave you with a structural problem. Consider throwing the plot point out entirely and replacing it with something more original and truer -- which is usually funnier as well.

This is also, incidentally, good advice about relationships..."

A sensible word in time, I hope, should surely save my life.

Except I long for a comforting word; for understanding; for placation; for indulgence. I'm a spoilt brat that keeps believing that someone will give.