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.

Driven Madness

Reality likes to sink in very often – so often that I end up spinning like some queen instead of drowning. If Reality’s no. 1 habit is appearing with and like a bang, then Fantasy’s is pulling dreamers into their favorite (or at least one of them) pastimes: Daydreaming.

Hate knocks on the walls around here. This always makes me do something. Perhaps drawing lines on my skin could be the anti-pain version of actual cutting. It’s for cowards – people like me who are not brave enough to even get something pointy and sharp. I like movie-gore on the screens, big and small, but blood on myself by point-sharp-thing already freaks me out just by thinking about it.

Unreachable & Unreal people/things make me happy.

People who KNOW me – big word – know I love some stuff. Books, Owl City, Adventure Time. Not all music can heal – not all make sense. The music-magic gives me the familiarity of home. Some home so far, far away. Faces like Adam Young’s make me happy.

Also his smile feels warm.

Alone time makes me happy.

And so does understanding.

I want to create something worth people’s time.



I want to feel literature everywhere. I want to bite on it like the most attractive cherry pie ever, then chew chew chew – taste the beauty of the words I know. Bitter but sweet. To create. To feel words creeping up to me from an image. Feel. Emotion. Know them under my skin. Acknowledge the birth of thoughts and realization. Move your tongue to the hurricane of words. Kiss the inked lines across my hands. My arms. My fingers. Block out their hysteria and breathe in my own.

I am hungry.

And I hate, and I love.