22nd April.

There's a burnt taste to the air. Heavy with moisture and carelessness. I can taste it at the tip of my tongue, the bitter acid spreading and coating every buds.

The walls are pulsing with disapproval, doors creaking with speculation as I wonder the source. The exact point where the bitterness starts.

With a cluck of my tongue I let the reel of film rewind in my head, not images but tiny events jumping out every now and then.

I can feel the center moving about, the smell of its harshness suffocating my nose. It glides down, leaving the air above a bit cleaner. But the burnt quality still lingers.

The aura of puzzled fear pulses through the floor, underneath my feet. Confusion, guilt and sorrow.

All so familiar to me now.

A sigh of sadness escaped my lips as I wonder if some emotions would always make maturity fly to the horizon.

Proof I'm Not Being Cooped Up.

Lately, my posts are either Confessions, Tuesday Thoughts or Sad Creative Posts. I'm pretty sure people now think I have been cooped up at home, tearing my hair out as I write verse after verse. Well, throw in some cooking and According to Jim's episodes and you got it right.

Not. 

I have been living a nice life. Sharpening cooking skills, but still no curry. Made a pact with mom about baking classes. Fell in love with the purple KitchenAid mixer stand. And of course, books. Here are some pictures from my Instagram account, hanisgorgeous.

Wantan noodles with roasted duck at this Chinese Muslim restaurant.
I will stick to chicken.

Cheesecake in the making  

Of course, new books

.

White coffee while waiting to sit for IELTS.

At a wedding of a high school mate with old friends. The guy in the middle?
Cousin.

More books bought today. The Carol Goodman is a sequel to Incubus.
The gem I found last year.

Today at an aqiqah for a friend's baby girl. Kinda like a baby shower.

At a schoolmate's wedding with a friend.

The Heartbreaker's Heart.

The heartbreaker failed her task

Too busy looking in the harsh desert

For tiny glittering pieces

Of her own heart

Broken and stomped upon

By the muse to her imagination

As she weeps and tries to reconstruct

With blood stained fingertips

Her heart with the words

She wrote with a fevered hope

That he will come to read

And weep as pathetically

As she did.

I wrote this yesterday, while chatting to a friend about my day. He asked me if I have broke any hearts for the day and this poem, came out instead. I showed it to Mokesart, he said I was trying to drive him to suicide with all the depressing poems. He also said its incredible and I made some tweaks and voila.

Yes, thank you.

Confession No. 52

In a way, I have to thank you.

I will when the chance comes by.

I might end up dedicating the next book to you.

You'll like that, I bet.

Intimate Words.

Lately, I've been in a creative mood. Blame the contemplation of my future, or that cocktail of emotions swirling in my veins. I've been writing poetry, such as Fate. I also went for something a bit more artistic-ish and contemplative, such as the one about a baby god, and the one that seems to mean differently to the people who have read it.

On my phone is a notepad app, which is becoming my favourite so far. I have a handful of notes in there, some in poetry form, some not. But all of those seem to have this intimate feeling to it. Its like those words were plucked from inside of me and composed into something personal and so clear.

Longing, confusion and hope. 

It makes me hesitate to post them on here because the way I write makes it seem so sensual. Your first impression would make you think of skin on skin, lips on lips and such pleasure.

See, I did that again.

I don't know why I'm writing this post, just to tell you guys that "Hey, I've written things that I'm shy to show off." perhaps. But since I'm already baring this part of my soul, a tiny tiny part, I'll just let you read two lines of something I wrote.

The way he said my name was like

A heavenly sweetness dripping from those lips.

Tuesday Thoughts.

Fate.

Fate 

Is a cruel maiden aunt

Who can't resist the tiniest temptation

Of ruining another's chance at happiness

With a slide of her taloned fingers

A smile on her chapped lips

As she scatter pain over helpless mortals

Laughing at the forced strength

Clapping gleefully at the tears of despair

Sighing with contentment at the sound

Of another dream shattering

Into sharp pieces of glass

Embedded deeply in the hearts

Of jaded souls.

Confession No. 51

"Nothing is so firmly believed as that which is least known."

-Michel de Montaigne (1533-1592)

Baby God.

There's a baby god playing with pots and pans in the sky which is just light enough to show me the heavy clouds. I pull close the golden curtains, a sigh at another few hours to live with. Before I can slip into temporary death.

Shedding the layers that covered my shame, I pull a thin cloth around me before pulling the heavy darkness around my face into a messy 'do.

The smell of honey and lemon danced in the air as the moistness sticks to my face with a promise of a glow that rival the night's lover. Narrowing my eyes at the looking glass, I killed Narcissus' whisper a moment too late.

The coolness in the air seemed to soothe the insecurities, or perhaps it was the love of my resting place. The ticking of the time piece reminded me of what I'm supposed to do.

In a graceful movement, the cloth pools on the floor as the wood creaked at every step. 17 steps before the baby cloud drizzled down over me. Cool drops of water has never felt as refreshing.

Hands on skin. Hands filled with almond bubbles. Hands that soothed and calmed. A flick of the wrist, a tilt of the head and an infusion of milk and aloe that promised a gleaming softness.

Soft skin. Yummy skin. Drops of water trickled down a caramel toned length. Heavy lashes of soot wiped away. Worries put aside in jewelled boxes. Insecurity folded and kept in a drawer.

As cloud maidens danced on the roof to the baby god's tune I finally give freedom to the demon inside of me. The one I love and fear the most. He dances. He touches.

And whisper into my ear. Every desire hope and want. Longing that lead to sadness.

He tells me a story of what I know will never happen. He tells me the plot in the tiniest details with such a glee. A smile on his face as I succumbed to the cruelty of the love child of imagination. Daydreaming. A wicked laugh at the first tear.

The baby god keeps playing.

Tuesday Thoughts.

Random Letter No.5

Dear Random Person No.5,

Its pretty amazing how in such a short time period, you were able to take my beliefs into your hands and give them a really good shake in a more effective manner compare to anyone else I have ever met/known.

You managed to make me take a step back and really think about certain things that I was once so sure of. It was like, all this time I was really sure that the sky is pure blue and along came you and I was now thinking that the sky is a lovely purple. It made me take a seat and question myself.

Do I really care about those things?

And what bothered me even more is that I got the answer to that so quickly. 

I didn't care.

It left me feeling like I'm spinning around in a room full of bright colours and techno blasting from the speakers before falling back onto my bed, low lights and Adam Levine crooning into my ears.

Breathless and happily confused.

But then, sometimes I wish I could just cut off that time period of knowing you, because it just made me less satisfied with what I have. I was blissfully ignorant, in a sense, before that. And to know that someone with that many checkmarks really exist but to not have the tiniest of a chance, is just very very cruel of life.

Or of you.

I don't know which to blame, apart from myself.

Maybe you.

Sincerely,

Me.

Reflection at Then.

Laying here on the ancient red carpet, hair damp with the smell of lavender and skin lotion soft and allergy red; I have never felt more at peace.

Artificial cool wind stroke the bare skin of my thighs as the radio crackled with bad reception; I wish for the feeling to last. 

The book that seem to be that spider web thin thread between me and crushed belief, an empty notebook waiting patiently for ink beside it; I imagine so much.

Scratch. 

Scratch.

Sigh.

But what is this, the difference, the impact, the bitterness, the hope, the wish. 

Nothing more than a motivation for it.

Spread those wings baby butterfly.

Make the sun shine in your colours.

I'm Not Gonna Write Cause You Ask Me To.

They say if you make a writer, a poet or a song writer fall in love with you, you will continue to live on eternally in their work. But they also say if you break those people's hearts, you will continue to be condemned indirectly for doing so.

I've always wanted to fall for someone who writes. But then I thought to myself, that might not be as interesting and exciting as it is for another girl when its me. Why? Because I write myself. I'm used to being the one who might write a poem about the thoughts that come to mind at how a guy smells like. Or dedicate a paragraph in a story about the way someone can say a name in fifteen different ways.

Would I truly appreciate someone doing that for me? Or would it be some kind of competition where I'll feel I have to write something in return? 

No, I'm not falling for anyone who writes.

I would rather fall for someone who reads. Who dreams and plans of trips to different places. That would make a perfect combination with a girl who writes and dreams.

On the other hand, I would like to thank to everyone who has managed to spark some emotion fireworks because hell, that just helps me write more.

And how can someone not love this song? 

Tuesday Thoughts.

Rainy 30th March.

Confession No. 50

Dear Life,

Bravo, bravo. You have truly played the cruel card on me.

I do hope there's only one in the deck.

Love,

Tuesday Thoughts.

Patient, You Shall Know.

My love for reading is quite known, among my friends and family. Among people who have had enough time to talk to me. I read when I have the spare time to, when I don't. I read before I fall asleep and pick up the book again when I wake up.

I read and reread. I sometimes take my sweet time, knowing that those unread books won't run away. I read the Harry Potter books as if the words are being deleted as I read every single one of them. I let myself be consumed by the story. I let myself read from a distance, not hooked to a certain character.

I laugh, I cry, I fall in love.

But, never have I read books the way I'm doing now. The stack of books I bought in December, I'm going through them when I'm not reading an ebook I downloaded. In the past 3 weeks, I have read 8 books. I read them mostly at night. From after dinner till I go to bed, I'll be in my room with the radio turned on and a book in hand.

I get consumed by some. I cried when a character cut herself. I giggled when another got asked out by the dashing man. I felt so many emotions from reading those words just because I'm tired of facing my own. Its not fear, but just reluctance. When I read, I stop hearing that voice in my head.

Yes, the voice is back after its debut way back in 2006. How did that end? I had a breakdown, a heart break and went through a self hate phase so badly that I became quite the actor. No one noticed. Hurrah.

I wrote a lot during that time. Read as if my life depends on knowing the plot. And one day, that wretched voice decided to pack its bags and took the next plane to some holiday destination with no return ticket.

But what am I so stressed about now? 

I'm .. tired of what some people think of me. I'm tired of being that person they think I am. I'm so tired of trying to fit into that being. No matter what, I'll never be that person and because of that, the voice is telling me I'm a failure.

Its carving out tiny chunks from an already fragile self esteem and god, my heart is helping. Such a traitor. 

For the third was unwanted. And oh it hurts like a paper cut.

I want to heap all the blame on those people. And some of them do deserve it. But, I can't undo things, right? If I can, I would undo only one thing. Prevent the third. I was perfectly happy before that.

As I read all those books, as I read the sadness, the happiness, the arrogance of it all, I made a plan. And I really really hope it would go as planned. If it does, I would be free of that voice. I would finally be allowed to be who I am. 

Hanis.

And when that happens, the third would eventually be forgotten.

Confession No. 49

For the first was hopeless

For the second was regret

For the third was unwanted.

Confession No. 48

Its like the yummy chocolate ball I bought from the bakery turns out to be a ball of fruit cake dipped in chocolate. Not a ball of chocolate cake dipped in chocolate .

How dissapointing.

From a Book: Self Hatred.

Never have I cried with such understanding.

She had fancied Andrew Price once, before she realised that she was utterly unfit to fancy anyone; before she realised that she was laughable and strange.

The Casual Vacancy - J. K. Rowling

Rusty Chains.

rusty chains of self will

creak and moan as i fight

every whisper of logic

every note of caution.

i crave for such wrongness

such short lived pleasure

such abandon

such selfishness

such tingling sweetness

to only end up with the bitterness of guilt in my mouth.

rusty chains of self will

slip and slide off as i succumb

to meaningful looks

to whispered intentions.

i crave for such delights

such a kiss the leaves me breathless

such sinful touches

such warm trails of the forbidden

such delightful madness

to just abandon those rusty chains.

Written by Hanis in the middle of the night, between the 14th and 15th of March.

Inspired by the 3rd.

3rd of what?

I won't tell.

But you might know.

Confession No. 47

I swear

I believe you have voodoed me

Only sane explanation.

Tuesday Thoughts.

And how I should realise this.

Guilty of wrapping the present so prettily and hiding it in my closet.

Everybody's Looking for Something.

Alright. Music player on, ear plugs in. Thoughts flowing.

Oasis- Wonderwall

When I was 17, I was pretty sure of who I was. Then I went into uni and met with so many different people that I began to doubt who I was just because I did not fit in with any of those known groups. I made friends, but I never revealed the whole of me to a single one of them.

Most of them saw the bookworm, who loves to eat. A handful knew of that very short fuse of mine and they also knew that is why I often hold indifference to things around me. Just so I won't lose control.

It was about last year that I met that 17 year old girl again. So sure and confident of who she is. I learned that I no longer care about keeping friendships that make me sad. I learned that you can tell me that I'm the ugliest being in the world and I won't mind. Why? Because I used to tell myself worse things and I no longer believe those. Even when its kinda obvious I'm being overlooked, due to some physical shit, I tell myself this:

I'm gorgeous. I believe I'm gorgeous, therefore I'm gorgeous.

Justin- Cry Me a River

I have grown confident, and began to believe the above mantra. I told myself I have an amazing personality and if anyone is not willing to spend time with me, they are missing out, big time.

Yesterday, someone told me I was a future wreck. They also told me I have plenty of issues and that I clearly have no respect for myself because I'm overweight. They also said, I should get myself checked because if I don't, I'll be bipolar by the time I'm 50 due to the lack of a man's attention.

Between the lines? I'm physically, mentally and emotionally so unattractive that it is no surprise that I'm single.

Did I cry? Yes.

Did I believe them? At first.

Adele- Skyfall

It went on for nearly an hour, and it even went to said that the way I went on about my education is wrong. I snapped, I cut off contact and went to cry on the couch. That breathless gasps, shaking shoulders and an acid burn in the heart. It was major heartbreak all over again, this time without any love involved.

I'm better now, thanks to Mokesart and another friend. The person might have said it to help me, but it didn't. He could have been right about a small matter, but it does not justify the rest. Instead of wanting to flip him the bird, I want to thank him because it makes me respect myself even more.

Eurythmics- Sweet Dreams

From now, I won't be sad unless I let myself be. Or one of those Disney/Pixar movies.

Excuses, So Many of Them.

I know, I have been such a lazy person to even look at my blog for the past few days. I blame the boredom of my days. Of my new addiction to any tv shows that has "Gypsy Weddings" in the title or "Millionaire's Matchmaker". I also blame the books I'm reading. The people I'm talking to online. Let's just say I'm blaming everything.

I've been living a healthy eating system. Grilled, baked fish or chicken. No salt. A bit of carbs. Tons of vegetables. It was suprisingly easy to eat out, just avoid fast food and be ready to spend a bit more above your usual budget. Result: A loss of 12lbs. Yes, I shall be hotter, as a certain person told me.

Just as I was thinking its easier than I thought, I was put on a sugar blockage diet. Or something that is done for 2 weeks, to retrain my taste buds to hate sweet things. I don't have a sweet tooth. I just like baking and devouring a bar of dark chocolate as if I'm seducing someone with the sounds of pleasure.

But, I'm on the second day and everything Mama cooks, which I usually won't even care for, looks so good. Why? First three days, I can only eat eggs and tofu. No condiments, no carbs. Its pretty hard. The good thing, I'm good at not feeling hungry now. Day four would be when I can eat other proteins so that piece of salmon in the freezer, would so be grilled and eaten with such appetite.

I've been reading a lot. City of Bones and Ashes for the moment. Cassandra Claire, who is the author of the famous Mortal Instruments series started out as a fanfiction writer, Harry Potter fandom. I read one of her stories, pretty long and it wasn't really to my taste. But, reading the books make me realise, that the general feel of them, is something familiar as that is how the good HP fanfics are like.

There's a plot skipping around in my head for a day now. I have the main points, but I need to find the right settings, to really show that internal struggle. I know that this will be one of my better stories. What I have in my head now, is this line:

His kiss was like a wisp of smoke, curling tightly in my mouth before leaving me so out of breath and full of chemical joy.

I will now go find random people to talk to while coaxing that plot onto paper while ignoring that confession I have already typed up in my Drafts. Do enjoy this cover of Cranberries' Linger by a Malaysian band. It is addictively good, even more angst-y that the original version which is one of my all time favourites.

2. I Made This!

Viennese fingers. Well, the piping bag broke, I didn't have enough chocolate but damn, it was decent tasting.

1. L is for ... Longing.

Tommy, longing for freedom outside.

Photo A Day: March

As a way of utilising my camera on my phone, I've decided to join this photo challenge as a way to keep this blog updated.