September's Finale

Last Friday the Avatar: The Last Airbender’s spin-off THE LEGEND OF KORRA had aired with surprisingly two episodes across Asia while I incoherently tweeted about my favorites’ debuts on TV. Not less just fifty minutes before the premiere the cable was pretending to be dead and I was plunged in an ephemeral pall caused by the pessimistic feeling that it would not come back before the very much hair-standing series of which I have been awaiting for months and months. Now, I am supposed to be reviewing for an emphatically long quiz on cells for tomorrow, but I wanted to record a few happenings of which were quite enjoyable, and the record had already started with Korra’s heavenly intro pre-October. But I will still study afterwards this update!

My mother and I watched The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and I had awkwardly yet almost boldly explained the reason why Perks is rated R-13. Basically the book would be the same if they were rated like movies were. I also rambled on about how people should not act immature about the scenes in both the book and its movie adaptation, because seriously. Anyway Perks was emotional and by “emotional” I mean exhaustingly enjoyable and captivating. And as two older teenage girls giggled on about how cute Logan Lerman is and why this and why that (since one of them apparently did not read Stephen Chbosky's work of brilliance), I clung to my mother’s arm and thought of many things, which I admit did not exclude the attempt of figuring out what personality type Charlie has and the probability of a high wave of the online statistics of Harry Potter/Percy Jackson crossovers via a number of writing sites I admittedly tarry around for fanfiction from other fandoms. I argue that some aspects from the book weren’t so stressed about or did not even appear in the adaptation, but overall I’d given Stephen a thumbs up and a friendly smile. I should also mention how beautifully blessed Ezra Miller is with the audience’s obvious infatuation with him summed up by their cheers, but I’m handing it over to you to dream about until you see the movie (if you haven’t seen it yet).

But before Perks had caught my full attention I was at Fully Booked, hissing around lest someone grab the SIGNED COPY of John Green’s bestseller The Fault in Our Stars. My mother was of course hesitant about getting it for me since I already own a NOT SIGNED COPY of the book, but she eventually did. I wriggled around with my hands across my face, a tingle of the Nerdfighter sign racing through my fingers. Then en route to a nearer mall after a quick respite in the house, I replaced Owl City’s The Midsummer Station with Ocean Eyes. It was a bound to safety and relief, for I had needed it.

One significant character from TFiOS is Augustus Waters, and I just had to add: I also love metaphors and fear oblivion, Gus. I feel comfort through your sentences through Hazel, so thank you.

Today a book and the cutest bookmark were purchased. Think Shakespeare and a flower, getting ready for October. With a new month comes this kind of unpredictability I both dread and dream about. Let's do that together, hopefully with less worrying.

The following month, again, okay! Good evening, good night.

Blind Them With This

Despite how perilous it would be if it continued on pouring, I like the rain. I like rainy days and petrichor. Although nights sabotaged by rain may worry me at times, I can never say I do not enjoy the company of the sound of water falling from the sky and the smell of it, the atmosphere. The rain is an inspiration, and when thunder starts knocking on the front door, I do not fear. I like the shout of the heavens. Oddly it comforts me more than it should.

An archive for my feelings - that is what I desperately need. I can't seem to collect them all, tuck them in somewhere safe and private every other day. I am a scattered mural stretching my arms as if they were wings, but I am apterous, and it couldn't suffice! I dream of sunny mornings of plates of bacon but I also do dip my head into reveries of tucking myself in a bed of handwritten journal entries, cotton blankets, and a hazy whisper of elsewhere. I don't really know, I really don't know. I'm just a bundle of question marks. What happens if I fall from a cliff to a pit of flames and waves? Will I ever redeem myself from letting it happen? If I could blame the propinquity of madness, I would. But I can't for I had promised myself that I am in control of my own steering wheel. I could parry these haunted circuits, but I did not and I do not know why.

Run, they told me. Run like the wind. I ran into pale moonlight and whirls of claustrophobia. I fell apart under a garden of pending ambition. What do I do now? Do I dream?

Yes. No.

I feel defeated. My hands feel defeated. Marks of teeth and cold calluses wind around my hands and arms like my conscience. I can't fathom, I can't let science explain this one. I spot a fortress of breathing blood in my body. I sniff a scarf of trees and rivers, and it is never the same. Yet I could not be the same. My veins burst with adrenaline and my cough plans to outrun my heartbeat. And my smile, dear, is terrible. I, people, have scarred it maliciously and have planted battles on it. I cannot cancel my dreams; I cannot cut them in half and save the latter part for later. I do not go back. My spine is aching. My eyes are lost. My lips are searching for a kiss I've never won. I had no competition but the foretold way of how events sequence. I am in bliss somewhere in between these lines, in between these mad trains of thought. Dear God, my thoughts are malarkey! My doings are its quintessence! I am but a figment of a girl's imagination, aren't I? I am spiraling into her disappearing childhood memories. Bring me back! Am I not of import to you? Haven't I nourished your mind and heart in lieu of leaving you with blank pages? Do I not give you something to think about? Oh, my panic. She must have felt it, and it should've been heavy on her, so she had unceremoniously burned it to the ground.

But it's still here. With me. In the ashes of her memory.

Chalky Throat

and though the embers are new, whatever you do, just don't let the fire die

From slapping sinew to cracking degrees, she pirouetted like a swan across the hollow stage. Her trailing ribbon of aquamarine sequins floated above her head as her chalky skirt and opalescent arms diced the air in swift precision. Dredged in rosy daydream, stuck in an aquarium, the auditorium of Gothic Orchestra sang no song but the dance of October. The spines of thousands and thousands of books have graced the tip of her fingers. She couldn’t see; her eyeglasses were missing and her head was tumbling and her heart was crashing to her feet and oh 
                           God oh God someone please catch me–

Catch! Caught. I-She caught herself, found her heart, and then twirled some more. Composure. She watched her shaking fingers tickle the ghosts, lavishing them with secrets to keep. She felt diaphanous, so naked in the two or three stage lights. When she’d breathe, she’d swallow an ocean. She could already feel the overwhelming bedlam of the crowd, the cheer not so collective. She had swallowed a fire, wanting to give up, but nothing. Nothing but a nauseating rollercoaster on life. She tripped – almost broke – on her own feet. She followed traces. She followed ghosts. She followed embers. Trying to swallow, then swallowed, couldn’t choke, will not choke. 

She was better than this, still.

Icy Drumming

His spindly legs prickle even under the fluorescent light, with snow in between his fingers and his heart drumming in his ears, knocking on his ribs with such stamina he himself couldn't fathom. His coat rises with each breath, one inhalation feeling like his last. His tongue is ribboned with snowflakes, daggers of icy water creeping down and down his throat and swimming in his peanut butter and jam-rimmed belly. It is futile. He couldn't fight. He couldn't stand and battle the men. Those snowmen in the snow world of a house. He cants his head and finds his clawed hoodie, his barely shielded head, in the low mirror. And oh, the sore of his shoulders, slapped with loose rhythm by icicle hands. A pained groan escapes him and the room shakes, he thinks. The bathroom trembles with belatedly prophesied transformation.

"No," he croaks. First the ceiling grows roots, and a chandeleir sprouts, accompanied with more swaying and the sound of ice bumping and tinkering. His breath quickens, and when he tries to fold his legs they cower and collapse in front of him, betraying him. But then he still initiates to move although it hurts, because he doesn't forget. Those fairytales. Those myths. The truth all along. The slow yet deadly gain of ice on his flesh will hurt a million times more than the ache he feels.

By the time he is in the mimicry of standing on both feet, the bathroom has shrunk, with the ceiling thickening with ice and daydream. Later, the floor will breathe with the snowmen and he needs to get out before the walls and the floor do, too.

With his head down he miraculously manages to squat and pass through the door with his whole body still, as he knows it, intact and his ice skates tacitly with his feet and the large expanse of ice. It is almost dark outside, and as a breeze kisses him a voluminous chatter follows. He grapples for his flashlight in one baggy pocket, then turns it on, flashing each corner of his bedroom with yellow light. Ice, ice, ice. All is ice. Then the floor creaks, so he's got to move. That's the trick; you've got to keep moving, keep yourself warm, keep being human. The rules of life among snowmen always have the word "keep." But in this life you can't always keep the ones you love. You can't keep trust. You can't keep Earth. You get snow, and then you begin to keep and not keep again. He finds it hilarious, tiresome, this make-believe gone real. He warms his hands, quick, and skates onward to elsewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere. Just not here, where everything is scarier alone.

Zac Efron

Every time I see Zac Efron for Bench I always see this image.

You're welcome.