My Apologies

When you opened your eyes to see the damage that I have done, I knew it was too late. Your eyes flickered for a moment, fading, draining, and when you settled on the dagger I had plunged into your stomach, I saw the way the light vanished from your eyes. It was a sudden gasp and an exhale, breath escaping and dissipating.

You died but you still breathed.

One Blow #DVAM17

When your world is held up by rickety stilts, one blow is all it takes for it to break. My world fell apart when my father dealt the blow and the vessels that broke were on my mother’s face.

My sister would later tell me the screams that escaped my mother’s throat sounded like glass breaking into shards and I would spend an eternity imagining how anguish sounded like in her soft, sweet voice, trying to forgive myself for not being able to help her. I couldn’t have, I’d tell myself over and over. I’d been out that night enjoying the bites of the evening wind with a lover holding my hand. He’d felt safe and I’d felt infinite. I couldn’t have known.

The 'F' Word

"Where there is a fight, there is blood, sweat and tears, and a reason to live." | Written by May Cho of The Mayden
When I was younger and weeping at the altar of carbon-printed paper flown half-way across the world, they told me this was just another obstacle on my path towards the future, the pinnacle that would be the culmination of all my hard work. They told me that, when reached, the pain of the present would melt away leaving behind a pristine, content and happy mind. There is nothing I could want more.

"Just think of the future," they patted my head. Slammed stacks of textbooks on my desk. Assessed my worth through bell curves and scarlet letters.

But I beg the question: what the fuck is the future?

Dead and Scorned: An Obituary

May Cho, self-proclaimed blogger and writer, died last night from complications of losing her soul.

During her living days, May spent a considerable amount of time crafting the perfect “About Me” page. A version never lasted more than a few months. Until her death, there still is no way of accurately describing her; she was all bones and no flesh, and there never was much to her because she never gave much to the world. She preferred to remain a mere body of colored hair and pale lips instead of becoming the stories she so vociferously supported, choosing to perpetuate a false image of herself, dictating meticulously how exactly she should appear in pixels and on screens – broody, intellectual and uncanny – when all she really was amounted to a mere lump of desperation in the short period of time she seemed to believe was her life.

Love Letter 01: Dear Theatre

UBD Performing Arts Club | Red Umbrella, 2017, Rehearsals
Dear Theatre,

I am terribly nervous and there is a ruckus in my chest but I think that it is time I tell you something.

I am writing this to you after the wonderful night we spent together in that hall with air-conditioning turned up a notch too high and lights that never seem to be wired properly, where you had come up to me with your billowy arms and wrapped me tight in your embrace. I am writing this to you after a year of knowing you, and oh, how sweet it has been to know you.

I do not know when I fell in love with you, but I am.

Rivers and Fishes

Brunei Blogger May Cho of The Mayden and Shi Min of discofissh | Kampung Ayer, Golden Hour Brunei Blogger Shi Min of discofissh | Kampung Ayer, Golden Hour, The Mayden
The sun hung low in the sky as Min and I made our way across town to the capital. This was the reunion of two friends which saw the unfolding of a trip -- possibly their last -- to the water village on a Friday afternoon.

In true May and Min fashion, we took every chance we got to take silly snaps during rush hour traffic, ugly-dance to The Jackson Five and shout to Bobby McFerrin. At one point, we spent minutes recovering from fits of laughter as a neighboring driver gawked incredulously at our ferocious head bangs and violent gesticulations during a turning junction. Our dancing and singing didn't stop until the car was parked, the doors locked and our feet hit solid ground.


Visual Anatomy: The Human Condition


Brunei Blogger May Cho of The Mayden | Projector Photography, Tumblr, Neon Sign
Visual Anatomy is a bird's eye view of my inner workings, a pixelated spilling of my guts and thoughts spread out into a trilogy. Find out more here.

I sometimes think that if my heart is sliced open, instead of veins and arteries, there'd be words instead. A blood-pumping organ the core of one's anatomy, catalyst for downfalls and reason for joy -- all this in one made out of words. How insufferably poetic.

"How was your day?"

A treacherous night was upon the world this evening and I was a capsule of energy crouched in a corner witnessing it. Book shelf draped in sentimentality mounted above my head, a phone call in my ear.

I had a nightmare where you were being tortured and I couldn't do anything and I woke up crying. I went back to sleep two hours later after convincing myself that you were perfectly fine. I woke up late with a bloated face and bloated stomach and I didn't have breakfast. I read a book about the bane of humanity and the devastation of feelings and it moved me to tears so I re-read it and re-read it and re-read it and re-read it. And then I fed the cat and cuddled the cat and watched a movie about freedom. And then I tried to workout but got too lazy and ended up napping on the floor instead. I woke up and had dinner and took a bath and did random stuff and now I'm here. It was an odd day, a lazy day, but mostly odd. I miss you.

"It was alright." Understated -- the only way I know how.

© THE MAYDEN.