Apr 4

Black, White, Curtains and Glass Sculptures.

Batalla Con no Mismo Es

How do you comfort someone whose situation you know so well?

I don’t and that’s what hurts me the most.

Maybe it’s because there’s this thought that you know anything you try to say will not be able to comfort or put the heart at ease. I’m too familiar with comforting words— things when heard that are already known, but aren’t exactly the things needed— but it is said anyways, because it needs to be heard, one way or another.

Sometimes, even though you know someone’s going to listen, it’s not really easy to get the words out.

It’s hard to know it’s a situation I’ve been in before and I can’t even share how I got over it. It was a time I felt completely alone. Maybe it was because everyone isolated me, but I think it was because I saw them isolating me, so I isolated myself.

Loneliness. Rejection. Denial.

The only comfort I had then was prayer.

I couldn’t tell anyone for fear of being judged. It was embarrassing because I knew there was nothing to fuss about, that I have a good life etc. etc.

But that wasn’t the point.

The point was I couldn’t see the point.

 A lot of people have it harder. But it doesn’t matter how big or small the problem is— the fact that there’s a problem, means that it needed to be solved. 

The battle with the self is the most difficult. I can’t even describe it. 

Whenever it was hard, the immediate option was to look up and cry with the heavens as witness, to think of all the people that loved me and the people that I loved, before I was able to think of anything else.

And that love would have kept me going. And that the realization that I should and can be happy. So I choose to be. 

But the road traveled was quite lonely, with only a hand from heaven as a guide, but that was enough. 

To surround myself with love in its purest form was perhaps my salvation.

So, I pray dear Father that You heal all wounds, physical, emotional and mental. Humans can only do so much and victory over one’s demons seems impossible, but You make everything possible. It is Your love and promise that gives hope and healing. That with every dawn, You give us breath, in a whisper of silence You give purpose because we wake for another day. You don’t care how imperfect we are, or how dirty we are, or anything because it is You, Lord who can love us so purely and celebrate our coming home from being lost. It is You who chase us in the depths of darkness and sends us Your angels bearing light to help us see the path when we’re covered in shadows. 

And that at the end of everything, it is Your loving word that says

"I love you, and I will do everything for you. I will take care of you. When you are broken I will piece you together. I will fight your demons with you, because I want you to know you can, but allow yourself to ask for help, allow yourself to seek me. When you seek me, you will find me, and I will bring you home." 


The Taiwanese cover for THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA, by Shen Ying-jieh.

Locke Lamora, though. 


The Taiwanese cover for THE LIES OF LOCKE LAMORA, by Shen Ying-jieh.

Locke Lamora, though. 

These interiors are amazing.


I’m tired of being tired.

Tired of being tired of being tired. It is a vicious cycle.

These Streets

Shrouded in shadows

Drowned in darkness.

Seeks breath and waits for light to come

And when comes none

Hopelessness sinks in depths

Fathoms too deep to reach 

and then forgotten once 

then never again

"How to smile without hiding pain

How to cry without having to explain

How to speak without shaking

How to live without breaking”

Like slow flowing rivers

Building up to the rim 

Overflows in silence

And if the glass breaks

Then it is heard

But no repair can come

When everything is done

In the corner of the alley

No one watches

Only the stars see

That night when the streets cry

And hope lives in the chasm

Of the unrest 

that are

the streets of this city



Credits to Joyce for one line in this poem that served as my inspiration, and the sadness that’s built up in me when 2014 started, which was leftover from 2013. 

Today, I choose to let the sadness go and choose to share why, as soon as I understand myself even more.

The past few days have been difficult and I still cling to my happiness like a lifeline. Faith backs me up, and picks me up where I left myself. 

Sometimes, I feel like I betray the people around me because they don’t know what’s actually happening to me, and the darkest secret that I keep. I believe only one person knows what it is (and I think she’s forgotten about it, which is good.) 

I don’t know what’s wrong with me and I need help. Okay, I know what’s wrong but, I’m disappointed that I can’t bring myself to trust people to accept what I have to say.

When I pray, at night, I cry—even in my sleep— because at least, no one will see and no one will know. 

There is always that comfort that if no one else understood, at least God did, and that was enough for me. But there are times that I feel like I’m lying to myself. 

I want to talk to someone.

I need to talk to someone. 

God is refuge for me. He’s everything, but on this very night, I pray dear Lord, that You send me an angel. Send me someone that can understand even just a little bit. That can see through me. Let me drown in Your grace, knowing you’ve sent a guiding hand and comforting embrace my way. Because I need You now more than ever, and to Your vassal I pray be blessed, for maybe I can hope I can be carried home at last. Amen. 

Weaving with words is what I miss
Like making music with unsteady rhythm
Beautiful, dynamic
And suddenly the world is still
The view is magnificent
Made beautiful by the dreamers
The dullness of day in full color
Like destiny is waiting
And fortune about to strike
All in one fluid string
Weaved with words and dreams

- Yours truly, April 17, 2013

For every person I love and have met.

Because I can’t count the years and the days when with you.

With your company, I feel eternity.

I met Ashe when I was thirteen, with snow falling around us, gathering at our feet.

My mother had sent me to bring a basket of baked goods to his home as a welcoming gift for his family. On my way there, I chanced upon him, a basket in his own hand as well. He looked at me, a little surprised, a piece of steaming bread halfway through his mouth. The corners of his mouth quirked in a small smile. “Hullo.”

“Hi,” I said quietly, offering a timid smile of my own. Unsure of what else to do, I shoved the basket towards him. “Welcome to the neighbourhood.”

He looked at the basket and then chuckled. Finishing the bread in his mouth, he fished the basket from my hand, switching it with the one he held. “Thanks,” he replied. “From my family to yours.”

For a while, we smiled at each other, the snow continuing to fall.

He was fourteen then, with grey eyes, red hair and a gentle smile.


I became best friends with Ashe when I was fourteen, spring flowers bloomed around us and the cool, wet wind blew away our dishevelled hair.

We didn’t exactly talk about being best friends. It just happened, just like how every kind of friendship did. On summer nights, after school was over, we would stargaze in his backyard, and during autumn we would play on our front yard. When rain comes, we would dance under it, cold tears of the sky soaking us, and though it was cold but it felt warm because of the company.

On sad days, we’d sit silently together, listening to the steady, quiet heartbeat of one another.

On happy days, we’d frolic in the fields and watch the sunset, listening to the humming of the earth bathed in scarlet.

“Thank you,” he whispered one night when we were on our way home. He smiled at me. I smiled at him.

He was fifteen then, with bright eyes, messy hair and a gentle smile.


I fell in love with Ashe when I was sixteen, summer days thick with heat but blazing with energy.

I didn’t know what love was, but I felt like I did. It felt warm to the bones when we were together. He’d play his guitar and we’d sing songs together. I would paint the horizon as he described the sights to me. He’d pull me up from where I sat in the grass and we would dance to the song of the birds and honeybees.

The sea would be our refuge and we would play in its cold embrace, waves crashing around us. He’d fall asleep on the sand as I sketched the sea once more.

“I love you,” I’d whisper to the sea.

He was sixteen then, with closed eyes, wet hair and a gentle smile.


I loved Ashe when I was seventeen, autumn leaves falling in a blur of yellow, orange and red.

My emotions were sure then, because by then I had decided. After school, he would ask me if I were busy, and then we’d visit the bookstore to find other worlds in the tales told in ink. We’d get lost in the words, time lost in our moments. Those stolen fragments in our days I’d keep safe in my heart, for it was only then that we were together.

He sang not only for me then, because I told him to sing for others who needed his songs.

So then I loved him, but they loved him too.

I painted for others then, because he told me I could.

I didn’t know if he loved me, but others did, they’d tell me and he’d see.

Silently, when I placed brush against canvas, he would place pen against paper. I’d create pictures, and he’d create music. There were stories we made for each other, told only in song and colour.

He was seventeen then, with stormy eyes, ponytailed hair and a gentle smile.


I missed Ashe when I was eighteen, the neighbourhood lake was frozen, and children out playing in the snow.

On the television I’d see him and listened to the music of his soul. It sang multitudes. My heart would swell with every note that touched every other heart, and my mother would embrace me. “Look at him now,” she’d say fondly and I’d smile at her words. I have always looked at him.

He came back during the week of storms. The snow was thick, the wind was violent. But we had plans to meet and promises were never broken when we made it.

That’s what he thought, and that was what I thought.

In my mind flashed the last memory of us together. He gave me his first song, and I my first masterpiece, and even my hands couldn’t paint the memory.

He was nineteen then, his eyes, I knew, were grey, his hair would be red, and his smile would be gentle.


Ashe was twenty, when the ice melted and the flowers were bursting with life and colour.

The grass wrinkled beneath his feet as he walked towards memories, both painful and treasured. In his hands were music sheets and a guitar.

He’d sit down on the grass next to me and bring out his guitar. “It’s a new song.” He’d tell me and start to play, fumbling at first, but steady in the next moment.

The wind would blow and the reeds would bend.

He sang his soul, voice shaking quite a bit, tears silently falling.

“I love you,” his voice steady at last in its final note, and the wind would carry it to me.

I was still eighteen then, and Ashe’s eyes would be grey even in grief, his hair cut clean but still red, and his gentle smile was what I will remember, along with his song, in this eternity.

Feb 7







I am SO, SO EXCITED to share my SVA thesis film at long last!!!!! This is what I spent most of the past year working on. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever made, and I still couldn’t have done it without the help and support of a bunch of really awesome people. I strongly recommend watching it in HD and I hope you like it a lot! :)

oh damn, wow, talk about inspiring.  



This is sooo awesome

WATCH THIS IMMEDIATELY. Just charming and perfect and lovely and oh I have tears.

Such a lovely short. Huhu.