pink and gold
I wish that this country would legitimise the existence and rights of all queer folks. Abolish all criminalisation of queer folks. Let us live as citizens.
wait for what?
Dear Mr. Nothing,
I sit here in the quiet space between who I am and who I am trying to become, holding onto a promise made in the dark. The image I stare at reminds me so deeply of this internal landscape—a mirrored, structured reality of waiting. "I will wait for you like I always do," it echoes, though the "you" feels less like a person and more like an absence. Like you.
There is a striking symmetry in this patience. It is an active, muscular sort of endurance, a strength forged out of holding onto empty air. The folded arms, the clasped hands, the repetition of a form looking inward—it all speaks to the ways we loop back into our own thoughts when we are waiting for something that never arrives. You are the stillness in the room, the unanswered text, the expectations that lead nowhere. Yet, there is a strange comfort in this consistency. You are always there, or rather, always not there, exactly as expected.
I am learning to navigate this geometry of longing. Even in the absence, there is a powerful architecture of resilience. I will continue to wait, to stand strong within my own borders, mirroring the patience required to survive the quiet.
Sincerely,
The One Who Waits
bite down
An appetite built out of grief and static, the jaw hinges open, sharp and dramatic. We swallow the anger, the envy, the fear, chewing the shadows that keep drawing near. A mirrored buffet of the things left unsaid, we feast on the heavy, the heart-sick, the dead. Bite into the panic, sink deep in the pride, a desperate attempt to consume what’s inside. The mouth is a cavern, the teeth are a wall, trying to grind down the weight of it all. But feelings aren't fuel, they don't break apart—they sit in the stomach and heavy the heart.
the dead live again
there’s something haunting about these old films… it’s like watching a bunch of ghosts playing music that no one really understands, at least not among the living. but beautiful… achingly beautiful.
rewards of failure
from “The Queer Art of Failure” by Jack Halberstam (Duke University Press, 2011)
do you like spa music?
Are you a tree in need of rest?
Come sit by my stream, of mountain and mist, and drink from my hands
Let the horizons double down and lean against your knees
Stay for a while and spread your branches around
And dream
farewell to JAMBU
JAMBU was a queer party that I organised at Woof Bar in Kota Kinabalu from April to August 2026. I played a lot of retro music. Managed to get a crowd going on some of the nights. Lots of fun… anyway, it’s done now. If you were there, you were there. This is just a little memorial.
artificial, artifice, art
Ceci n'est pas une fleur
I wonder what cave-dwelling stone age artists would think about what passes as art these days. Would they recognise it? Would they be amazed and mind blown? Or would they look at it and be all judge-y and totally dismissive? “It’s not real enough… you should be painting on rock walls… you didn’t crush the ochres yourself… you are much too clothed and you smell of flowers… you don’t stink right… do you even know what a mammoth is? did you not live the life?” Just imagine the controversy… how totally shameful it would be to be written off by our ancestors… fuck
let’s get lost
a mysterious turn
where do we come from? where the fuck are we? and where are we going to?