Archive for the ‘Mundanities’ Category

Nothing is Everything.
December 4, 2012

He keeps asking me what’s wrong. I smile patiently and say my pre-rehearsed line.

“Nothing. I’m fine. I promise.”

I tell myself I’m just not ready to talk about it. As though one day I might be.

He sees that something is wrong. A spark dulled by some unknown force. And so unwearyingly he sits and watches “nothing” eat up my words, hollow my bones and empty my soul.

I tell him I don’t know what’s wrong.

And it’s half true because I don’t understand it. Only that his face keeps me from the edge, barely holding it together, but away from edge.

It’s easier to pretend. To put on that quick smile that doesn’t quite reach the eyes and let those simple words slip so effortlessly from quivering lips. It makes everything better. At least for a little while. Because if they believe you, you think maybe you can believe you too. They think, “Maybe she is fine.” And as long as they believe it, you think maybe you can be.

And I’m okay with that. I prefer it. Because it’s easier than the truth. Because I don’t want anyone to know. I can’t talk about it.

(But I need you to understand that I find comfort in you. Even when you don’t know it)

“I’ll walk forever with stories inside me that the people I love the most can never hear.”
Michelle Hodkin.

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Decadence of Neglect.
December 1, 2012

I’m coming back soon, I promise.

School started in a whole different continent from the place I call home in case anyone was wondering, and it’s been pretty much a crazy whirlwind of a ride.

Worry not though, major narcissism speaking, yes,  because I’ve missed this place. I miss tucking secrets between that come out only half right through half-forgotten memories and transcribed from the half smeared words on napkins that can only hope to be half-understood because, as always, their meaning gets misplaced between between my lips and dissolve under my tongue descending into words of half-laced lies scribbled carelessly by half dried pens found in the darkest nooks of my bag.

Naturally, I’ve begun rambling. Rather incoherently, as always, but the point of this was to say that this little space in the middle of nowhere where nobody is hardly now here is not forgotten. Profoundly neglected perhaps. But not forgotten.

“Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.
Truman Capote.

Sleep.
January 30, 2012

In theory, I’m awake

In practice, I might as well be a comatose patient on heavy anaesthetics and completely unaware of anything.

Because that’s basically how I feel right now.

Top of the morning to you too.

Ugh.

Ironic that as a child who refused to take naps during the day and was always a handful to get to bed at night, I now do not go by a single day without waking up at least a little tired.

I mean, I go to bed and I’m exhausted, but my mind’s a-buzzing with all sorts of crap, and when I drift to sweet slumber in a cocoon of thoughts, I awake hours later, far too soon and still tired. Ah life. Thy a heartless heartless bitch.

“You feel empty. You don’t quite know why. You feel a pit in your stomach, a weight on your chest, a thought in your mind that you just cannot reach. As you’re dragged under, you lose your breath. You’re choking. You feel it filling your lungs, taking over your body, your heart, your mind. A panic is sent through your nervous system, a rush of anxiety, a stream of tears. And then suddenly, you’re numb.”

Protected: Misdirection.
November 29, 2011

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November’s Here.
November 3, 2011

My days are remarkably routine now. Wake up. Head in to Uni. Rain. Get stuck in traffic. Take some random snapshot to reduce the boredom. Get home. Repeat cycle.

“Since golden October declined into sombre November, And the apples were gathered and stored, and the land became brown sharp points of death in a waste of water and mud.”
T.S. Eliot

Echo.
September 26, 2011

I let the littlest things consume me. I’ll admit.

As a writer, I dive into anything and everything that I allow for my mind to be completely submerged in; the smallest moment that grows and bleeds life into itself, an idea nurtured like a seedling that blooms with fresh leaves and buds, a scene that spills over from my mind and writes itself once I envision it a starting point.

As a person; a song, a movie, a story, a character, all touches me on a level that’s beyond the ordinary.

I’d say even, that often time it’s obsessive, the way I nitpick and notice and make connections to (what some might regard as in)significant details, (over)analyze, (over)appreciate, (over)think, (over)envision. And while I admit that sometimes it might be better for my sanity to be lesser of an obsessive dwelling nutter in abovementioned aspects, I feel bad when I get fanatically fixated about something arguably fictional and people look at me with a cocked eyebrow and go ‘Whoa. Slow down there. It/He/She is not even real.’

And I say arguably because it is real on so many levels, not just in my own mind. And even if it were something that was only to be real in one’s head, in the words of probably the most famous book of our time, “Of course it’s happening in your head, but why on earth should that mean it’s not real?”

I feel bad that these people are so imaginatively stunted that they can’t feel the life breathing from the characters and the stories and the plot that practically weaves itself seamlessly to life. That they can’t see beyond what’s crammed into their little frigid box that is their mind. That there’s just no whimsy, or imagination or, that distinctive je ne sais quoi that spills a swirl of rainbow colours into their world.

There’s just something very sad about the unimaginative. Or at least, to me it is. I mean Einstein himself said that (and I’m paraphrasing here) that logic only gets you so far where else imagination gets you everywhere!

And of course, this all stems from a heated extensive argument of who-do-you-ship-more of a specific television show now that all the series’ are back on the airwaves, which ended in an objective third party losing their cool and shortly telling us off that “it is just a tv show!” and that “there are people dying of hunger and poverty and war in the world so stop arguing about who’s meant to be and who has more chemistry!”

Needless to say, in a huff, we ceased the not so heated argument and turned the tables on the self righteous objective third party.

Shallow as it sounds to be consumed by televisions and books and fictional characters, I think it’s a perfectly acceptable vice to have. It stops the echoes of real life seeping into my compulsive thinking. And if I’m this obsessed about people that aren’t me, I’d hate to think how much worse I could be consumed by all the little things in my own life. Or worse, the ‘bigger’ things in life.

“Cause my echo, echo, is the only voice coming back.”

Con-FUN-Doh.
August 31, 2011

I seem to find myself caught between situations all the time.

We all do. We all get caught in between a rock and a hard place. All. The. Time.

But sometimes I get confused at how I rationalize things. How my head keeps things in place kind of scares the shit out of me. And when I say keeps things in their place, I mean by how my head stores things and events and secrets in separate boxes that Do. Not. Touch. Each other. At any cost.

Because over the years, I have learned that rationality is a friend, not a foe. And I learned to wrap my head around that logic, which nurtured and birthed my ability to be impartially objective in any given situation (though whether or not I choose to use the said objectivity is another issue entirely).

But the problem is with these boxes and these spaces in my mind that keep things separate and out of each other’s way is they will some intersect and it blows up in my face. And recent events has gotten me quite confounded.

It’s not the first time I’m staring the issue in the face wondering how this shindig is gonna go down, because I DO spend a substantial amount in my head and often time it comes down to that split second, that decision that is made after a split second of internal conflict of what to say, what to do,  that may cause a domino effect that will invariably change the outcome.

Like a few years ago where a friend confessed this crush he was harbouring for another one of my friends to me. Sounds like no biggie right? He just wanted to tell someone about it, ask for simple advice of what he should do and all that.

And under normal circumstances, I would have given him exactly that, tell him my thoughts honestly, advised on what action he should partake in as best as my conscience would permit, because I’m really not one to meddle in the affairs of others.

EXCEPT, I was friends with his crush, of whom I knew about her secret relationship with someone else, and that even if she wasn’t in that secret relationship, she wouldn’t have gone for him either because she just doesn’t feel that way about him.

So there I was with my hands tied.  Caught between a rock and a hard place and about to short wire my little overtaxed brain because the boxes were going to touch! I can’t tell him the circumstances she’s in without spilling over the contents of her box, and I can’t give him any advice that would betray my conscience, “No…. Don’t tell her, the feeling will go away. Or if it won’t, still don’t tell her, let that festering feeling eat you up from the inside like some insidious parasite.”

I can’t tell him to act on it in good faith either as I know the outcome. And I can’t tell him to act on it and not give her some warning about that impending crash landing he’s headed for that is her because her head would be reeling almost as badly as me wondering what to tell him either, as she’s going to come to me about it and ask me what I know and what should she do and I will be taken right back exactly here, with the boxes a millimetre from touching and my mind going a mile a second from thinking in overdrive in prevention of the boxes touching.

I don’t remember the outcome of that painful headache inducing situation as it was more than a few years ago (Oh, yes, high school and petty relationship drama) but what is this other situation that has gotten me back here again? My objectivity getting me into a sticky situation where I dispensed advice objectively fully knowing that I should have just screwed rationality and objectivity both and dispense advice that would not induce a domino effect that shoots out an end result that will come back and bite me in the ass, is what it is.

The storage facility that is my head and the boxes within that are not supposed to touch is preventing me from providing any real information. But I can say that it has gotten me here, all confounded as if I was confuded by the Confundus.

And so I’m just wondering, where is the line? Where is it right for me to decide to draw the said line?

And who am I actually supposed to be?

In the aforementioned situation, it’s a question of whether I should be the person who keeps confidentiality? Or be person who is painstakingly honest to her friends no matter what the outcome?

And why is it impossible to be both? I am both, aren’t I?

I’m different things to different people. And it is quite a pain that when they intersect and I get out of my depth and I stand there dumbly waiting for my mind to reboot after short wiring and stare blankly into space with my mouth hanging ajar drooling away till my brain functions kick in again.

I’m realizing that this rationality and objectivity is not much a friend after all. And that it’s probably unhealthy, the way I compartmentalize.

The different people and different actions I’m supposed to take under different circumstances and the subsequent overanalyzing and multiple reboots after frying my system makes me think I need a system upgrade. Or a shrink. Which ever’s more convenient, really.

“By the time a person has achieved years adequate for choosing a direction, the die is cast and the moment has long since passed which determined the future.”
Zelda Fitzgerald
.

DON’T Love The Way You Lie.
October 21, 2010

I can no longer tell what part of which story to trust anymore.

I can no longer even say anything about you with any degree of confidence at all.

I can no longer think about you and be certain about things that I thought I knew.

One moment. One defining moment and all those lies unraveled like the fine threads of cotton.

If you were going to lie, you could’ve really at least have had the decency not to be caught.

You’re like that charming young lad Hayden Christiansen played in Shattered Glass, getting so caught up in your own web of lies that when someone pulls on that One string and untangles a whole bucket load of ugly, you stumble and trip and fall all over.

You’re not sure which lies to hold onto, so you throw in more lies to bail you out.

Except it doesn’t and you continue slipping, unable to get your footing, desperately clinging onto whatever you can, not wanting to fall.

The worse is, I don’t know if I’m mad at you or mad at me. Or if I’m sad for you or sad for me.

I do know that I’ve always hated liars.

You’re asking to explain. Again. But all I’m thinking is “Is that going to be another lie?”

They say ‘Love isn’t blind. It sees all but doesn’t mind.’

I mind.

“Trust is like a vase.. Once it’s broken, though you can fix it the vase will never be same again.”

Broken Record.
October 19, 2010

Broken? I mean shattered.

Yea, that’s more the word for it.

This HAS to be grounds of establishing whole new category altogether.

The problem with dreams you never dreamt? There was a reason you didn’t dream it to begin with. Or you never knew the awaiting dangers when it came true because you didn’t know that it wasn’t a dream, but a nightmare that had been sugarcoated so that you wouldn’t see what was lurking in the shadows just waiting to jump out, bite you in the ass and say, ‘Hah! You really should’ve trusted your head a little more!’

Record? Yes.

Broken? Oh, yes yes yes..

 

 

Think. Thank. Thunk. Sunk…
June 27, 2010

Took a trip the other day. But they were long closed by the time we arrived and so now I have another week to mull it over. Another week to torture myself. Because as comfortable as I am in making decisions, I’m never comfortable until the decision is made. And I’m as fickle as they get so until its set in stone, it’s just an idea. A possibility. And so here I am again. Wondering. Thinking. Sinking.

Because it’s a hobby. Not a profession. Something I do when I feel like it. When the world feels like too much and I retreat into the shell of my own mind. And I always figured that lawyers hate law, accountants hate money, and hookers hate sex, so there really is no point in ruining a perfectly enjoyable thing by picking it up to do for a living. Plus I’ve never felt that it was something I could be proud of. Nothing I write ever feels good enough anyway. I take forever to edit, and the end product hardly change lives or make a difference.

It hardly matters.

And I want it to matter. Because there’s no point in doing something if it doesn’t matter.

So much for Faith and Resilience. Yes, I. Am. So Fucked.

“Choices are the hinges of destiny.”
Edwin Markham.