It Sinks

I should really start doing things.

Whatever those are.

I could really do things, like read half a book or browse for Gorillaz music, or try to think about what would happen to my favorite character if he lived where I am. And I can be other things, like someone dangerously paranoid or a neighbor. I could schedule my life - make fancy and tacky predictions, pretend I could recite a speech about the events of tomorrow; dice my life into phases, episodes, seasons, books, stanzas, quotations, epiphanies; salvage all the happy thoughts into a bookmark and dare to see where I've stopped last time.

Empire Ants

What if I do find purpose? What if I actually find the concept of life's labyrinthine circus (maybe in a mahogany cabinet or in the passion of someone else's manifest dedication)? But what if all we are are broken bones in quiet parentheses - conducive, scarfing down all the noise and trouble - or worn-out baby shoes resting in the dump? I know nothing but the imagery of constellations like pop cola on my tongue (easy and sizzling and all but fantasy in my head, idyllic as if watching a picturesque field from a rocking chair) and how inconveniently hot and stuffy long-sleeved uniforms are capable of being.

The cubby-holes are powdered with chalk dust. Some retain textbooks haphazardly squeezed onto crusty layers of envelopes. The walls are race tracks on the sun meeting up with full blue traces, blue and yellow wound trim and nice to resemble the academy's facade - gates that steel against intruders and hallways frosted with mustard ribbon (a paunchy American's cheeks, the skin extending from one end to another). In the classroom, light ricochets off the exam folders. The fan orbits and my paper waves at it against my hands. My classmates are playful, and together they emit a raucous chatter. A din rises in fluctuating intensity; laughter unravels in spaces of corners, almost a cacophony as everybody else either giggles or mock-reprimands.

Everything has an affable concordance within themselves, but we are all an oxymoron, we are all phenomena, monsters watching through screen doors, magic but real. We are resilient warriors, marching forward in war of change, and as long as life grows I am there to see the Polaroid gray out and the leaves spin through the air. I am there to hear the echoes of shrill friendship and hostility, slipping through chairs the color of royal blue.

I could be here, like you, to crack the codes and fireworks in the marrows secluded in parentheses, or I could be here to make up silhouettes of worlds this earth will never know (because they are indecipherable scribbles shattering into the faintest Big Bang - like truth and fact and theory and diagnosis and smudges parading across the blackboard before eroding into particles cutting through the crystalline air).

And I think
you are
cutest
when you let
yourself 
smile.

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?

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.

Wake Me If You're Out There

Life. It brings a lot to us. I sometimes worry that when I die, my grandchildren would just forget about me. After a day or a week of tears, memories are long forgotten and my name wouldn’t be mentioned at all. I could sometimes be a worrier. I was never an optimist. But I won’t ever let myself be categorized as a pessimist. But I like to think about the future at times. And maybe what life could be to me if technology wasn’t everywhere and I was older and more adventurous.

“I imagine living in a red, broken house, positioned near the seashore of an abandoned island. The stars cry to me their secrets and sing me lullabies I have never heard before. The waves are calm and the wooden floor beneath me is connected by rusty, old nails. But I know they won’t betray me because we’ve been best friends for soooo long. The seagulls passing by tell me stories and their names. I’ve kept a list of names: Ruby, Angel, Morpheus, Whimper, Boom, and Box. They’re heading for the south and had promised me they’ll visit me again someday. Soon, they have sworn to me.”

I have no fireplace. I only have my little sailboat and this house. The weather is fickle. I sleep on the roof of my house, only at night. I stargaze and greet my friends. They twinkle and silhouette me, asking me questions high school friends enjoy asking. My skin is sun-kissed and my feet are shoeless. My knees are black and blue because I keep tripping and landing on the ground because of my reckless clumsiness. I wish I were an astronaut, looking at planet Earth from a spacecraft’s window, paralyzed from watching angels dance amongst the stars and leap from the moon to Earth, like shooting stars. My frivolous thoughts are vividly imprinted on the sand of the shore. I dance and twirl in the moonlight in my sundress, shivering as the coastal winds whip my hair around my face. I make music through coconut shells and my own rough hands. The tidal waves have turned deadly but I don’t move away; I dive in. The friendly sea creatures blow me bubbles and I can’t help but giggle underwater.”

I wish that was my life. Oh don’t get me wrong, I love my life. But having a life that doesn’t exist would be quite whimsical and just exhilarating.