Q

Running is an addiction. It’s difficult to start but as difficult to stop.

Took to the ground again this morning, ran my favourite route over to Serangoon. I take my time but compensate with stamina. It’s pretty much the only time my thoughts are slower than I am going, and that’s pretty fucking relaxing.

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I know my brain works in strange ways. Not illogical but by its own set of logic. And sometimes all I want is someone who gets it – wholly, instantly. Yes i’m lucky to have so many friends who do get it – appreciate it even – after i explain to them. But.

But it’s like I have a set of legos that’s meant to be built in a certain way. Somehow i find myself creating something entirely different, with the same pieces. People would go w t f? Friends would listen to why and how i pieced it together this way, and go: ohhhh, i see it now. But explaining can be exhausting. Sometimes i wish someone would just look at it and think that that’s the way it’s meant to be too, without even realising it’s not the norm.

Guess what i meant to say is, everyone is strange in their own way. And i wish someone was strange in exactly the way i am. Like a twin or something, except fully mine.

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I’m down to the last chapter of A Little Life, and find myself unable to continue. Because it is too painful, knowing what has happened and what is bound to come. But hands down, one of the best books I’ve ever read.

Never have I been presented with such a convincing narrative for self-harm, self-hatred, and beauty. Everything is surreal but so real. On a micro-scale, it has gems of excerpts i’ve been hoarding in my notes. As a whole it’s just a wonderful, skilful, epic piece of work. Bildungsroman? But not really – that cheapens it.

It’s about love, about pain, and life, about friendship. It’s just … aiya go read la.