Pages

Tuesday, December 29, 2020

1:34pm

 

Its 11 pm and

I.    Am.      Hungry.

Maria and I came up with the idea that instead of stress eating at night, I should alleviate it through blogging instead so here I’ll give it a shot.

Essentially, I have become a huge stress eater. Instant noodles, mi goreng, ice-cream, ham, cakes, sweet bread, drowned with litres of milk. Whatever is at closest reach I will devour it on top of my three meals. Most of which are happening long past dinnertime…and sadly, instigated by my isolated thoughts.

So I’ve basically become a giant rat rummaging through my kitchen, prying open fridges, sniffing out meat and nibbling on sweets.

I’d love to convince myself that this is a mere consequence of a once-in-a-lifetime pandemic, but I’ll always know, in my most private moments, that this started before the C.O.V.I.D-19

Long before the lockdowns, self-isolations, and mental afflictions of a pandemic.

It began when my dog died.

And I picked up awful coping mechanisms to manage grief.

 

Eating.

  Over Eating.

    Comfort Food.

  Over Comforting.

Crying.

 

Bursting into flames tears in public

 

I would say I am aware of the grieving affecting my everyday activities. If I were to describe it – I would describe it I would compare it to your hunger –  you notice it when your body asks of it but how you choose to fill it is entirely up to you.

1.       You can eat healthy, in the right proportion, OR

2.       Overeat and indulge in your worst eating habits.

My choice has been the latter…and like a werewolf, it seems to manifest worst at night.  There I would lay, alone in bed, lamenting in the dark before the memories of lucky coarse through my veins and the stress envelops me and I become…insatiable. Thus, beginning my midnight scavenge.  

Unfortunately, these moments were not exclusive to bedtime –

I’d cry at lunch during work.

I’d cry on the train to and from work,

I’d cry walking through parks where my hands would feel the ghostly tugs of a dog leash and I’m pulled into a whirl of old memories.

I’ve received some advice on the matter as other share their stories of their lost pet and they are all on the similar lines of -

“Wounds heal”

“Make new memories with new pets”

“Things get better with time”

 

And … they are all …true.

Only problem is that I cannot rush time…merely wait for it to past.

And eventually those stressful moments frequent less,

and less,

and less,

and less

until you’re left with more blissful memories and nostalgic moments.

And you wish to make those memories with something …or someone…new.

 

But I still have one last grievance.

I cannot overcome my nightly mourning.

Something about every night before bed makes me so desperately yearn for the warming touches of my dog by my bed.

 

What better way to end the day than with the unconditional love of your dog?

 

Tuesday, February 14, 2017

My Valentine

I would be a little too much
and he
a little too little,
I am a thornbush,
bristling from the over attention of my parents,
and he,
a man of million little fatherly stab wounds
and my thorns fit perfectly into them

***


Thursday, February 25, 2016

I ..

A sombre sililoquy
hands outstretched through transparent tranqulity, then withdrawn.
It wraps around you, constricting, until I cease resistance and slip into its warmth and comforting familiarity .
Assured, to fall slumber eternal underneath its promised peace... as the
dark veil consumes mysight and breath.

Monday, November 2, 2015

Blue

I woke up at 3pm.

Brushed my teeth, then went to find something to eat only to realise I wasn't hungry. So I laid in bed and stared out my windows to the bleak empty driveway for an hour.

I felt like the sky; dark and gloomy, but no signs of rain. Not a gust nor a trickle.

I feel ...

I had a dream that I was sitting off the edge of a mountain cliff. Dirt, no grass. I stared blankly into the mountain range. Grey, sunless ... and blurred, as though my mind couldn't formulate a complete view, like an unfocused image. There was no cloud, yet there seemed like an intangible pall that made my dream dark. I looked down the dark ditch and pondered my frailty as a human, as man of blood and bone that would fail if I fall. I could feel my arms, spotted slits downstream but no red oozed, no pain radiated. Just colourless and empty. I guess you had to be alive to bleed...