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letters in arial by beverley ng

a collection of letters, of words, of thoughts, unseen by, unheard of, and undelivered to their intended recipients. feelings concealed behind the banality of Arial, and tucked safely in the mail that you chuck away.


you in white, in denim, and uncoloured hair with whom i have no imaginary conversations with, will only remain in a dream.

I am carrying wasted weight. I needed to know when to let go, when to hold on. where and why so. I am repeatedly touched and ruineds by the hands of mind.

I wrote nothing and I could write nothing. “You” – an entity of open-ended-ness that one fills with speculations, clues, words that don’t mean anything.

these good feelings have diminished into negatives. I feel both sad and afraid. countless times, this feeling passed by me. again and again I go through these motions, to come up for fresh air, to go back again and realise that nothing had changed, only the passage of time.

I continue to paint, even though I know I can’t paint. Running a brush back and forth the surface, each stroke a guess. Filling a blank but not making anything. in the dark bus ride home today, I had a dream that you appeared next to me. smiling. I had seen you earlier that day. I wanted to tell you that I admire you so. I wanted to tell you that small monsters in my head painted a picture of you and wanted me to take notice. a dream. not a revelation.

an imagined heart.

yet again, I find myself coming back to this. angry, sad.


we can all only wish to be the same. We just want to remain the same, but be assured that we are different. So many times people have valued the importance of being different. As time passes the glamour and the novelty of being the anomaly fades. It’s like you find yourself shedding the skin of your childish youth and find yourself on the greener side of the grass. All of these things will fade, as will our mentalities when we get older. We have no longer the time and capacity to entertain stranger things. To care and to observe the stranger side of life. But to walk full speed ahead to the bright light at the end. To walk without fail, with no stops, so that when you finally reach the end you cheer about the fact that you made it. That’s all that’s important.

the imagined image is created, forming a set of thoughts that do not govern the rational mind at all. the altered image has no truth. it has no soul. all untruths, but it is to be believed anyway. I was not meant to dream colourfully, wildly anymore, but I continued. nobody knows this except for me, and now you, as you hold this in your hand. but at the end of the day, it is all in my head.. I wanted you to see this, and everything else that I will soon make, and tell me that they are beautiful, for I will only be sure if you tell me that they are. I know sometimes that is as much as I can get. no one needs to know who I am, who I have been. I wonder what it is that I have not accomplished. I thought some more about the magical things I will create, in the hope that one day you will be one of those who would see those things. I wanted you to see that I was different.


you will understand when you cross the line and feel it for yourself / and then you’ll tell the whole world and hope that it will fade away / and you beg for forgiveness / but it will be too late ’ve been having strange feelings. A part of my wants to pick up a pen and draw more. Like how I would used to. And write more. But the pen sometimes fail me, and the words don’t really come out of me. I would have to speak these words. But they haven’t found their target. And so I feel a little strange. I have something to give, but no one to be a receiver.

reading these things about you on your blog makes me feel incredibly inferior and you even more fantastic (of the fantasy) that you already are. there was no comments section on your blog, so I couldn’t leave a comment. there was no email address. even though I knew how to reach you, I did not. instead, I wrote a page long prose about you. you must not have been a bad student like me. in all, you must be a dream. someone I wish I could be. when you were 22, did you feel the same way that I did? I wondered some more, and another weekend long of dreaming passed me by.


on the train ride home with my friend we talked about how not-normal we are. at least I think I really am an alien. there are many times people think of themselves as different- but a good sort of different, like how they have fresh perspective on regular things or like cool obscure things, but on the whole they still are regular and not wholly eccentric to render them as social aliens. but I am not all of that. that could only be the reason why I have a tiny group of friends, little acquaintances and almost nobody who are curious enough about me to want to begin a conversation… a conversation not about what I draw but what I think about certain things. I think I will continue to be an alien for a long time. and perhaps it will take ages or perhaps never to find out why I am an alien and why I couldn’t not be an alien instead. I was collecting stuff at the library and came across this book of sky photographs made by a dude for his girlfriend. sky pictures are essentially skies of course. perhaps there are more clouds in one than the other. the concept is that he wishes to share the skies he sees with her. suitably romantic enough and reading the book makes me feel as if my life is rather plain. no one is gonna do something like that because of me, or at the very least, wanted to see the same sky with me. we all did began by being romantics and idealists but where is that in me now? sometimes I stop and thought about where I have left that part of me. sometimes you get busy trying to move forth with life. then sometimes you just get old and relieved you are no longer your younger self. you’re no longer capable of dreaming. you could live more realistically, less emotionally.

some people come and go and give us things to remember. and even though as a friend you’ve faded away in my life, i still remember you and all the little conversations we have. and some objects will bring pleasant memories to me, back to those days we see each other on a daily basis. for example, that flimsy portable whiteboard which we shared during lesson time, meant to answer teacher’s questions, which we wrote messages to each other instead. when humor was good-hearted and sharp and left no marks. they really give too much to remember. it makes me wonder if I only remember selectively, and for only a select few? I wish some friendships never fade away. if our paths cross again next time, i really want to invite you to my (future) house and (future) exhibition, and show you all the works and explain to you why I made them. miscommunication is misleading. i write with a light heart and hand, but these memories are heavy.


letters in arial