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    Patricia

    Majority of my friends call me Trish, I guess you could call me that too. I'm a transcriptions editor with a really messed up body clock and never ending affinity for films, food and written words. I like street art, sweets, neutrals and monochromes, sushi, window seats, golf carts and lazy weekends.

    Some of the things that completely preoccupy me are my fixation with the now defunct The Civil Wars and their beautiful art of sadness, Oh Sehun, sleeping, CSS and HTML, @iameden, and those damn hypnotizing Tasty videos. Top country in my travel bucketlist? Iceland. But the one that will always have my heart? Hong Kong.

    Uncertainty and its diversity

    Original photo credit to Camille

    (1)
    I've awoken three hundred thirty one times to a brand new 'me' and still sometimes, I wonder, how many more versions of myself do I need to wake up to before I am truly, at last, my best self.

    (2)
    There was tenderness in the way your hand held mine, which lasted a wee bit longer than you originally intended, a few seconds from what I expected. Sometimes, I unconsciously stare into nothing, and slowly, I realize your eyes are on me, as if trying to figure me out my thoughts, but I can't look back. At you. And you at me. Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them. 

    (3)
    Everything is bare and white. And I think I've found home. But it takes some getting used to. I like familiarity. I like being surrounded with people and things I know. I like permanence. Being in new ground scares me. Everything is bare and white, and the ugly is beginning to show. Just when I sleep better. Just when I started to look forward to the bareness and whiteness and the comfort it strangely brings.

    (4)
    You know her. She was always in between. You told her she should be more of this, less of that. You told her she's not a bore but only when you feel like talking.* She remembers vividly how your smile permeated her half asleep mind when you decided to see her in the middle of the night.** She remembers all the excuses you made up but she blindly believed.*** No, she's not breathing old, recycled air anymore. 'Damaged goods' is no longer her favorite oxymoron.

    Original photo credit to Camille

    (1)
    I've awoken three hundred thirty one times to a brand new 'me' and still sometimes, I wonder, how many more versions of myself do I need to wake up to before I am truly, at last, my best self.

    (2)
    There was tenderness in the way your hand held mine, which lasted a wee bit longer than you originally intended, a few seconds from what I expected. Sometimes, I unconsciously stare into nothing, and slowly, I realize your eyes are on me, as if trying to figure me out my thoughts, but I can't look back. At you. And you at me. Because some things are never meant to be anything more than a moment. And that was one of them. 

    (3)
    Everything is bare and white. And I think I've found home. But it takes some getting used to. I like familiarity. I like being surrounded with people and things I know. I like permanence. Being in new ground scares me. Everything is bare and white, and the ugly is beginning to show. Just when I sleep better. Just when I started to look forward to the bareness and whiteness and the comfort it strangely brings.

    (4)
    You know her. She was always in between. You told her she should be more of this, less of that. You told her she's not a bore but only when you feel like talking.* She remembers vividly how your smile permeated her half asleep mind when you decided to see her in the middle of the night.** She remembers all the excuses you made up but she blindly believed.*** No, she's not breathing old, recycled air anymore. 'Damaged goods' is no longer her favorite oxymoron.

    . Wednesday, August 27, 2014 .

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