Nightlight

Feb 11 2012, nearing midnight

I'm thinking a lot today. My mother is in the same room as I am. She is surfing as I type away while listening to Lights.

Some people are just these enigmas. Locked doors, closed and unrevealing. But somewhat beautiful. I have always wondered how it would be to unlock them, open them and peer inside. I wonder why they seemed so beautiful with their words, their actions, and sometimes even just their existence. They're really beautiful you know, eyes telling but not really so. Smile happy. I could wonder helplessly about their childhood - was it fun? Why do they look sad and joyous at the same time? Are they the angels we see in our dreams? In our climatic nightmares? I wonder how they are when they are alone, maybe thinking too much or staring intently at the ceiling of their... home? apartment? parents' house? I might sound like a stalker, but I feel the need to think of these questions, these details. I don't know them and that's the thing. They're just people but still. Something is there and why would they be so intricately gorgeous? Why do they strangely appear lithe while just SITTING there? It's stupidly incomprehensible. It irritates me because of the pull, the attraction i feel mingling with striking curiosity. Are they targets? The world's magnets? Is their head a blur of loud words or a deserted lot? Or both? Do they know they stand out? Captivate? Kill just by doing so? I'm angry. Is this actually giving me a time of anguish? Stupid. Am I the deer in the headlights? Craving the information of an otherworldly stranger? Am I falling into an obsession? A silly thing. Maybe it's painful and heartbreaking to see them cry. Maybe it shatters a heart, hammers it until it's crashing down to a pair of feet. Are they the twinkling stars up there tonight? Are they the insect in an amber or the amber around an insect? Are they trapped? Are they rare? They're still beautiful. They're still insanely enchanting. Do they fall into Witchcraft or God's Gift? I wonder what their heart looks like. Is there glass everywhere? Is it dark? Are there phantoms inside? Do their thoughts sound like an orchestra of violins and violas or a collision of a hundred trucks? How do they see life? The world? People? What do they think of war and peace and love? Do Pac-Man and his enemies travel in their veins?

Who are they?

Pent-up

I hate people. I hate how they’re lonely. I hate how they think too much. I hate how they dodge their feelings, their needs, their wants. I hate how they make things too complicated. I hate how they cry at the night, in the dark. I hate how they’re empty. I hate how they’re reckless. I hate their assumptions. I hate how they think. I hate how they analyze. I hate their stares. I hate their tongues, always moving to convey what they want to say. I hate how they’re so problematic. I hate their illnesses. I hate their thoughts. I hate how they socialize. I hate how they flirt. I hate how they look. I hate how they pretend to know. I hate how they know. I hate their willingness. I hate how they’re too happy. I hate how they’re uninterested. I hate their instincts. I hate that they’re strangers. I hate their selfishness. I hate how they’re villains. I hate their curiosity.

I love people. I love how they share. I love how they care when it seems like they don’t. I love how they’re beautiful. I love their ideas. I love their aspirations. I love their weird dreams. I love how they’re so rapt in something; a book, the sunset, somebody. I love their selflessness. I love how they’re shy. I love how dauntless they look when they feel like they’re vulnerable. I love their smiles. I love the sense they make. I love how mysterious they are. I love their theories. I love their laughter. I love how heart-achingly perfect they look when they cry. I love their secrets. I love how they’re heroes. I love how they’re complete. I love their silence. I love their progression. I love how they don’t care.

Choked by Scarf

Looking for Alaska by John Green SPOILERS (kind of).

As I walked into the other room, textbooks in my arms, I could finally relax. The silence was deafening; the bulb though made its own noise. And so I climbed onto the bed, but only after I picked up my copy of Looking for Alaska by John Green. I sat on my space, wrapping my pink scarf around my neck and wondering if it would attempt to choke me again as I sleep tonight.

Last night, I had reached the ending of the aforementioned novel. It surprised me, honestly; I admired the characters through Pudge’s eyes. Especially Pudge himself – the narrator. I still cannot unlatch my head from the beautiful piece of literature I had swallowed. I want to rant about it in real life, but I see myself not able to because people will not listen and my hands on the keyboard are already BFFs – so why not take over their friendship status?

I learned stuff:

1. Life can be really complicated.

2. Anyone and anything can suddenly go POOF anywhere and anytime. This can affect you in many degrees.

3. Plenty of people do assign themselves to religion just because they just want to go to heaven. 

I’ve known these numbers, but the book enunciated them upon me. Heavily.

Alaska was a big question mark for me, and I know she was this too in Pudge’s perspective. She was a character that struck me and stuck with me. Her death shocked me, and whatever her true reasons were behind it I would still be hit with the whole thing.  
The disappearance of someone is tragic. It always is. Behind those MISSING posters/fliers are sad, wailing parents. The death of someone hurts even more; a missing person (with the possibility of still existing somewhere) can still send hope to relatives and friends, but a DEAD individual will kill YOU, the still existing one. Hope will be unreachable in your vision, and it only leaves you mourning and wishing.

A lot of people would want to live in heaven after their life on Earth ends. I would speak for Christianity. People will believe it just because they want to claim a spot in the afterlife they believe and want, and some will only join in the religion only because they desire THAT. Not because they believe in God. Their prayers and all are summed up into their hypocrisy now, I guess.

I learned another thing:

     4.  I love fictional characters.

I had already known this, but this made it even truer. It pains me to know that they are “fictional” all over and over again. These young, old people I read about and watch on TV give me hope and angst and sometimes more problems but I teach myself to handle it because I love them. This is apparently “obsessive” but not much people will probably read this blog post, so I shall label my situation in my own words: devoted. I could be labeled “uninteresting” publicly, but so far nobody truly knows/understands me but my loved friends in books and screens.