For we must all learn to howl.

The smell of joss sticks always makes me think of too much. When I was younger, the smell was uncomfortable - it was smoky and burned my eyes, and I didn't like it because I felt like I was choking, like the tendrils of smoke were coiling around my throat and slowly but surely squeezing the life out of me. It didn't help that I had a fear of going to the temple when I was younger either - the bright-painted deities sitting on the shelves of the temple scared me, like they were watching my every movement and didn't welcome me because I didn't know what to do in front of them - and I soon learned to loathe and fear the smell of incense. Things tend to change as you grow older, though, and when I finally learnt to accept my Chinese heritage and culture I learned to get used to the smell of the smoke - it wasn't as though you could avoid it when you visited the temple, after all. Over time, I actually learned to like the smell of the smoke, and I used to think ...

It's true that this is a cliche picture (he laughed at me when I took the picture), but I felt it was appropriate. This is my view when I'm too tired, when the days and late nights and sickness have worn me down - this is when I'm too tired to keep up with him and choose instead to lag behind him, letting him pull me along with every step he takes.  This is the view I admire, the boy he is right now, the man he hopes he can and will be.  He's someone not everyone approves of - this is also true. But he's always here for me, and he's always so supportive, and he truly cares. I know of no one else who worries about me the way he does, or listens to me the way he does, or loves me the way he does. We may be young, but we know what we know, and I know that he makes me feel incredibly lucky sometimes, and he makes me wonder what on earth he ever saw in me that he thought was so special. It's sappy, but it's all true. Happy 7thsary, baby.

It's on hot, sticky lazy days like these when everything feels like it's all caving in, and there's too much to do in too little time. Fuck everything, I say. Fuck it all, and come join me in bed - wrap those warm arms around me and let me fall asleep to your breathing, your heartbeat, your safety. Come kiss me to sleep.

Tick Tock.

I am tired of coughing, so very tired. Everyone has a remedy to offer, be it to take hot honey with lemon or to gargle warm water with salt, to take pills and syrups and so on and so on. I am tired, tired of coughing, tired of the rawness that is what's left of my throat, tired of anything hot searing through it like a hot knife through flesh. I am tired of having these feathers in my throat tickle and stab like the knives they are, tired of seeing the nonexistent red that spots my palm, tired of having my words, my voice cut off by this sudden restriction in my airways. I am tired, so very tired, and I wish I could take my lungs and my throat and tongue and drop them into a hot pan, fry them till they sizzle and drip, and the very air smells warm and savoury and copper-tinged. Will you take them? Take my lungs and throat and tongue, and coat them with salt and honey and pills and syrup? Send the doctor my regards, dear daughter, he'll be glad to know you enjoy his medici...

It's interesting, isn't it, the then and the now? It's interesting. When you stop and think about it, how things were so different. The then of red-rimmed eyes, of messily gluing the broken pieces back together, of not knowing what fit where anymore.  The then of bright orange, of ghastly smiles and cackles, of candy and alcohol - way too much alcohol. The now of beaches, of mid-class glances, of smiles so feather light and a warmth comforting in its weight. The now of late-night phone calls, of pixels and laughter, of strain and tension and the wire going taut only to relax again. Then's clumsiness has led to now's warmth, has led to what feels right. Of what was then and what is now, though, one thing still remains- The coffee.