I never liked hot pot: I was an impatient kid armed with a surprisingly scroogey sense of humor.
“If I wanted to go to a restaurant, why would I cook?”
Yes, the ingredients are all prepped. All I had to do was to throw them in boiling broths in a specified order that would appease my mother.
Oh no, I must stop myself before I analyze it as a metaphor.
Hell, I wrote this one for a reason. In an attempt to capture those rare winter weekends paired with icy rains and the usual polite indecision, when my family didn’t have the insight to make dinner reservations and opted to wait in line. Then we would be seated, hungry, order and watch as mother insists on throwing in the napa cabbage first and nothing else.
I reached for a meatball to earn a retort I knew coming.
“Don’t touch that, if you eat it, you will get breast cancer or other bad things for women.”
The last part was always added as father proceeded to drop all the toppings she deemed cancerous. And, as I settled with flavorless meat — soy sauce and variations were also forbidden — and piles of vegetables, assuming that my father only continue to throw those things in the pot may kill me anyway because he cared not of me.
Then, one fateful day on a rainy, foggy weekend, my friends made plans for hot pot. Then I noticed that all was already placed in the pot for me. Then I realized that there was no cancer threats for me. But the toppings felt so wrong, like the forbidden fruits of a mother’s threat-laced care.
I ate the whole pot and was satisfied.
I thought purple was the prettiest color,
royal, refined, calm and deep.
It was the color my sister wore to Prom,
and I thought I am so lucky
I looked like her: because, God, she
was beautiful. Her date was lucky.
But now this was the only positive association:
it’s so much nicer that the color is
on silk than a metaphorical broken-heart.
Yet as I write, I press against the
Bruises. I guess, I won’t be able to do
this after all. Just like a blood
clot, the words stuck and wither and die
before I can ever speak of it. Perhaps
when it fades I can remember, no one will
beat me with logic again and break
All that is sweet and pure.
—– Support me on Patreon ——
I write with a fountain pen because it’s easier to see the point,
to get the point across, to be poignant and wring the essence
out of me. Ideas and ideals so low and pointless in the walks
of life, so absent; I imagine what I can be and what I want to
Ink against paper, I read diffusion and try to reverse the
process in the ocean of my mind. To achieve peace, my brain
should care less of others’ pieces of mind, even when their
points and sharper than my fountain pen, I ought to not be
susceptible, unscratchable, uncomparable.
—– Support me on Patreon ——
Despair is such an old song, wrecking every sense of
order beyond repair, sending all to square one. Once upon
a late night’s musings that went wrong: a flicker of
fear that just went so wrong. The world suddenly swirl
and twirl, whirling in a whirlwind of doubts, a maelstrom of
maybes and other filler words of uncertainty, we have so
little faith we simply cry and cul into ourselves and sing of
old tunes to cry ourselves to sleep. Instead, we can
sing a song about rapport. Sing to build and guide and
yield to none but the deepest darkest place, where we
can only see walking hand-in-hand with the ones we trust
most. Life can glow or croak or screech to mediocrity
lying awake, away from the nightmares and visions that
haunt and taunt. Who are we to think we can
just run alone. No one is an island, adrift, so long.
The philosophers and zealots
explain that the world
is a burning hell, the lot
of us are unrefined gold, whirl
and twirl to the chaos of sins,
“Simmer in the flames so you can
become the gold that is within.”
What if not all of us are fans
of pointless minerals? What if
I realized that I always douse
myself in flames to find motifs
and what-ifs, to rouse
Suspicion and self-loathing. I
am useless, worthless, aimless,
tired of being those things, eyes
staring at cracked mirrors, heartless
As I know my face and heart
are not worth anyone’s
time. There’s no gold, goal, but hurt
and agony. Help. Anyone?
A stroll through campus, oh so
cautious, wrapped in three layers
and raised in the tropics. By Doe
Library, my woes are realized. Prayers
heeded only on the surface: I
begged for a warmth to guide me through
midterms, yet I could only sigh.
We got the clear skies, a bold blue,
yet I still shiver, my teeth
clenched or clattered. I am still
cold, but perhaps beneath,
the heart and skin are both chilled.