for about two months now, since i’ve returned to singapore from taiwan, i’ve had drafts upon drafts of thoughts i’d wanted to post on this space. for about two months now, i kill those drafts or let them sit unseen because they didn’t feel enough.

i’m sick of feeling like this world is inhabitable and feeling my throat close up in regular intervals, closing because no words are enough or polished enough. it’s sharp, the irony, how i’ve professed my love and belief for processes and the uncut, yet i have silenced myself all this while. hypocritical, this word brands me in my self-sight. harsh words. there isn’t anyone i’m harsher towards than myself. these words, what i found i’m able to muster, to offer in this period, i’m learning to just fucking speak. to let flow, allow.

for the past few wednesdays i’ve been sharing digital space with corrie and 5 more others, masticating the resonances that arises from “critique as care”. today, the phrase “critique as action” surfaced and my mind latches on to it. something about this feels urgent, liberating. words and i have a tense loving relationship. words to articulate what my “practice” is, words to articulate how i am “doing”, words wretched words. words that allow me certainty when i am told “i love and care for you”.

thus far the pieces of critique i’ve birthed take the form of words. letters, hyperlinked codes, musings. there isn’t anything i love as much as words, isn’t anything i despise as much as words. it’s a love that moves me to strangle words as though they are monstrous. perhaps i’m the monster. monstrous fleshy gurgling up throats and fingers. i’ve been growing mushrooms, from a mushroom kit. the first buds quickly stretches and it’s a constant surprise whenever i check on them. how quickly they swell and how intricate their gills. to nestle in a bouquet of mushrooms, in between its gills, hugging close the stalk… my body achingly wants that. i collapse into the folds of fresh fungi and do not ever want to emerge. right now this feels true. the next moment i would have dismissed this feeling because the emotion has passed. the next moment, before this, i might discard this draft and these words will join others in their grave. no. these words i commit to posting. there, i’ve said it. a promise.

“even nothing is overwhelming” is a sentiment i’ve expressed to many loved ones, and this “nothing” is really a dense kernel of dark matter. it’s not nothing at all, but unspeakable exhaustion, and endless loop of feeling things/justifying/rationalising. acts of violence i do to myself on a daily basis, violence i desperately want to unlearn. the world habitable is one with aeration. a world habitable is one where we hold each other and ourselves. hold. how this word sounds, “old” without the rigidity of back of throat closing to indicate the start of its utterance.

i want to write about so much, too much. let this be the start of this exercise of speaking.