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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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Need someone to act like they can't breathe without me.

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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a fictional tale #4

- Life of Shane Parker

I like how my free-spirited self is embedded underneath the manufactured behaviour of mine. This vicious society perpetuates us to obey the social rules and laws dictated by the elite, the corrupt, the “scum” of the earth. We are afraid to do anything to defy the majority, provide a fresh voice amongst the tainted and norm, and write our own legacy with our unabashed honesty and rigour in our views and beliefs. How is it possible that as days go by, we are becoming carbon copies of one another— we think alike, we feel constrained and limited, we feel used, we feel our huge reserves of potential are slowly going to waste, we feel we are rivals, not allies, and every opportunity is meant for us to outrun each other, we feel…

Can someone be original, be authentic, and please, be the scent of my life? Put the stop to this madness and fast-paced competitive rat race that will put us all to shame and devastation as we yield to lust and temptation. Let’s not throw our wealth away, and be conniving creatures. Let’s not destroy each other for no apparent reason. Let’s try to uplift each other. Let’s start from scratch, and build from there— like lego blocks, every piece emphasises the essentiality of teamwork where only with its presence, we can achieve greater things together as one.

As I say this, I fear for my own madness looming ahead. I am bounded by my own years-long inner loneliness and grief, unable to escape my own ill fate. I resent the people not able to see through my mask. Is it that it is silicone and I wore too long that I forgot it was a foreign entity, not my flesh and bones? Maybe I just am too guarded by the “nasty artworks” and whisperers around me that I know for sure knives would penetrate deep in me once my back is exposed to them. Maybe I am just too hurt by my past ordeals that opening up was not an option because I deserve lasting peace. Is it wrong to be a little well-tamed robot and lost my own originality and spark? I so yearn the days I can see myself being highly ambitious, witty and playful, treating everything at face value, once knowing I am safe in the arms of my comrades swimming around me.

What’s worse, recently, I have stopped my Oscar-worthy life performance and decided to just put on the misery expression, to denote a “I’m a gloomy boy, please begone” face. I’m sure they know how many times my face was begging for desperation to be seen and understood and appreciated. Yet, they still choose to assume as a well-fed and grown adult, I can still function and perform demanding tasks without fail (which I assure you, I am capable and equipped). Knowing there should not be any room for error, and chasing after my elusive goals, with my perfectionistic nature coming into play strong and undefeated, I am soon my own demise. I repeat, to suffer in this ill-fated life. As my brain keeps churning of endless possibilities and question marks, I live in anxiety and stress, not wanting to make a foolish error and live in perils and shame anymore. I do not want to be seen less, and feel inferior to the rest I show no respect to. I do not want to be worse off than these people— merciless creatures that were so ready to crush me when I was so down and fell so hard. To underperform and let myself down is like a first-grade crime committed.

I know, everyone, I should not push myself like that. But then again, am I to be blamed? I will say no to victim-blaming because I need no pity party, and like how many here fail to sympathise someone’s plight, I shall say no more. Life has hardened my skin, thrown salt on my burning wounds, and cracked my skull with its velocity. I am a broken individual, unseen and unheard, unwarranted and unwanted, unconfident and unknown, as I sauntered down the dark alley, with tears glistening my face, into the raging sea cheering at the sight of its prey. At my final stretch, I look into the reflection and saw nothing humane but the face of cold-blooded murderer with a crooked smirk.

“You take him or me,” I bellowed against the roaring night breeze as an empty vessel emerged above the horizon casted by the dim moonlight.

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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“For most of history anonymous was a woman.”

-Virginia Woolf

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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a fictional tale #3

— Life by Sarah Jenkins

I remember in life…

when life itself isnt suppose to be tough; we look life with a pair of tender, innocent eyes and a fragile heart.

Long past those minutes, days, and years, and all we left is the broken shards of the remaining innocence in us.

Like the “sheltered life” of mine being torn into tatters by natural disasters, with the heavy allusion that I’m always surrounded by truly just, compassionate and selfless individuals, my potential is mightily high and strong, my wits work at higher velocity compared to my peers, my words come out sharper than ever— I am on “survivor mode”. Just as grandiose as the caterpillar morphing into a cocoon, before undergoing its metamorphosis into a butterfly, or the story of an ugly ducking into a beautiful swan…

Then, I remembered it is not the time to berate whose fault it is, or to denounce the fortune and wealth my life endowed me with. It is the big heart of mine is to be blamed. I was not sheltered or spoilt, matter-of-fact. I suffered emotionally at times, alone, with no reliable, fatherly or motherly figures to follow suit, or close siblings to confide to, as situations at home got very tense. Especially, the taunts I received in schools just because of how different and cheery I am.

Change is inevitable, and people are sinned unless they forgive their past selves and mistakes and undo the damage. I have let go the past and my naive, innocent and dorky self. But, am I better now? Really better now, objectively? The pessimist, the reserved me, with the intense look on my face, despondent and somewhat nonchalant expression pasted twenty-four seven.

But I still carry my huge positive traits with my head held up high, and with immense pride. My unwavering belief to connect with the souls of others, to trust and have faith in humanity, and to be socially approachable and accessible to any in need are what cost me large all the damn time.

Does it truly matter? To answer it myself, honestly, I rather not change those qualities because I know one day I will reap what I deserve. What I rightfully own. “Mark those words, it will happen”, I muttered as I smothered myself in my own tears and cajoled myself to sleep…

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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a fictional tale #2

— Life of Jackie Townes Nicholson

I want a ride down the driveway, turn on the blinkers, as the engines roar at the acceleration of the car nearing sharp curvatures, as I laugh maniacally at how I treat life as a game.

The god of death can bestow on me with all its lunging effort, but I am my own winner. A noble warrior of its kind.

I can never understand the monotone life of some, the mundaneness of a safe lifestyle.

I need the thrill to relish on, to challenge my fate, till the brink of my fall, and let the cards fall in its place.

I am the game, that people fear to not expose their own weaknesses and greed.

None are in my league, because only I show no signs of abating when my life is on the line.

I am ready for the free-fall, the bloodbath, the sharp-tongued remarks, the physical and mental exertions, the…

And only when I achieve my desires, my right of way— as in, my fulfilment of social justice, can I wipe my prickly skin from the dampness of the salty, sticky mixture secreted, pick on the scabs and inflicted wounds, and laugh at the reflection in the mirror. My imperfections mixed with my admiration of myself.

Like cypresses not bending down, standing fearless to the harshest wind and droughts, this is me, unashamedly. A psycho, a trendsetter and a legend in its making. The crème de la crème of life’s true gamblers. A psycho I am.

Believable much?

Till then, you know, it is all for a strong, mighty appearance to cover his inner desire—he is waiting to be enamoured by someone.

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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“Life isn’t about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.”

— George Bernard Shaw

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟷 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝙾𝚏 𝙵𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚣 𝙺𝚊𝚏𝚔𝚊, 𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟺-𝟷𝟿𝟸𝟹

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thewalkingchipmunkk · 7 months

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(a fictional work)

<Anxiety, my friend>

— Life of Eddie Mackenzie

The golden rays peering through my window started to vanish,

once profoundly poured onto the furniture with the dust particles coalescing visibly clear,

dim as the seconds went by,

as the grandfather clock exclaims at seven.

With my thoughts always disturbed by the slightest of noise,

even the pin drop of my surroundings,

the faintest change of the beat of my palpitating heart,

how fragile can my human mind be?

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The neuroscience of it all —due to my poor understanding— which I cannot explain for this everyday’s phenomenom,

the feeling of being lost,

wandering about in my own world,

dwelling on my own feelings, and perspectives,

as if every single thing is at a standstill,

with my mind occasionally on autopilot mode

to stone and daze to block out the everyday’s chaos and mayhem… to block out my thoughts go haywire.

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I cannot stand it— the dread, the anxiety, the sensitivity all caused by the active brain of mine. I want to berate it, and even more, dissect it out so that it is no longer part of my entity. I want no part from this but this is not just a contract you can dictate from the very beginning. A simple, dolce negotiation cannot solve this predicament. Or fundamentally, you cannot back out and escape it. A worrier’s brain is what I own. A property of mine. A bane of my existence.

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Whilst welcoming the inky night,

the serene atmosphere coupled by the hooting noises of owls, the breezy and wheezy sound of vehicles darting down the almost vacant roads,

is enough to make me shudder from my neck,

to my shoulders, to my arms, to the ends of my body, and to my innermost core,

relaxing every taut muscle in me,

with my mind fluttering the idea if only,

just only, i have a companion by my side to explore the world at its solace,

with the nature flourishing in the dewy air, dancing around in the breeze,

in its primal, vital conditions,

elegantly posed for the explorers’ admiration.

If only…

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As you read this,

do you feel the liberating sensation in your chest reaching a crescendo?

the chest of yours warming up?

the fuzzy feeling or substance spreading jubilation in you,

serenading you within as you gained greater awareness?

With my senses healthier and more robust than ever,

and the fog in my brain clearing up,

it is soon the departure from my anxiety.

Something long impossible is seemingly possible,

like anything in life,

when you put your mind to it,

and stop the vicious cycle,

it at the moment,

becomes possible.

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