the partings of walls

My close friend came back from the States around two months ago, and we’ve only seen each other twice.  It is pretty bad actually.  Even my bestfriend who practically lives a few blocks away only sees me during important dates like birthdays and the Holidays, aside from that, none.  I no longer even see my close friends from high school.  I miss these people.  They were the ones who watched me grow in my high school years.  They were the people who I really know that I can say anything and not sound like some big dope.  I can’t say everything with my college friends, they are judgemental, but high school peeps are just, like that.  I feel rather sad by the fact that we no longer see each other. 

What amazes me though, is the fact that I still feel their presence lingering.  Although we don’t constantly contact each other, although I don’t know whether she is a Dean’s Lister or whatever happened to her boyfriend before, I still feel the connection, it is so tight and unweavering.  But I need to see them really.  It is always just me, I’m the person who is not doing anything about it and I know I can.  Why don’t I?  Why can’t I just make some time in my busy schedule.  It is so worth it.

Last night I was watching the first episode of the fifth season of One Tree Hill.  Their lives have changed of course.  Some of them became rich and popular while others are still starving.  What I loved about the episode even though it was filled with depression was when Peyton and Brooke finally made contact with each other and made a way to see one another, after four years.  They haven’t seen each other in a long time but it seemed like nothing has changed.  I hope it is the same for me. 

yet to know image

There was a time that I was obsessed with Harry Potter and because of it, I read fanfiction.  Don’t worry, I used to read those clean ones, not the ones that made no sense and sincerely had a desire to match two people for that. So anyway, I was always fond of  fanfictions that depict a Hermione and Draco pairing.  I don’t know why, but it was an obsession as well.  Maybe it was due to the fact that it will never happen.  Or due to the fact that not once was it mentioned in the book that either of them looked good.  Or maybe due to the fact that I somewhat like “bad boys” who are not really bad once you talk to them and that they’ll protect you from all the other scumbags of the world.

That was 4 years ago, however, these days, I started reading this Hermione/Draco fanfiction again.  I don’t know why, again.  It just occured to me to just do so.   And then suddenly I feel myself beginning to be solemn and quite around people, well, these days.  Maybe it was just PMS or something, I don’t know. But when I am alone, I feel rather sad.  It was the effect of these fanfiction, I’m certain of it.

Earlier I was driving to school, it was so gloomy, my radio was playing sad songs and I couldn’t concentrate on the road.  All I could think about is how would it feel to be loved, well, I know how, but what I wanted to know how is to be loved like that.   Again, I’m blabbing about this issue, like I’ve blabbed before over and over again.  And in some retrospect, I want my love to be somewhat (take note of the word) forbidden.  Well, because of the fact that it’s forbidden and you still love each other makes it more dramatic in a sense because you are breaking rules.  And please don’t have a dirty mind when I say forbidden.

Damn it, I need a boyfriend. 

the growing dream

When I was young, I had various images of an older self accomplishing different careers, whom I wanted to become in the infamous question “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  I’m still growing up, but what I want to be remained the same the moment I step into college, at least I know I’m still in the right track.  Now these careers I dreamed about while growing up were all cooked up fantasies; some of them are preposterous, some of them are still in my mind, though not as strongly as before and some of them actually shaped what I actually want to do the moment I graduate from this endless years of schooling.

The first recollection of what I wanted to be was to become a policewoman.  Well I was a child, a rather tomboyish one; I’d rather play with cars than with Barbie because it was my ultimate dream back then to drive.  So anyway, I wanted to be a policewoman for one reason, to arrest my dentist.  She wasn’t bad, she was actually very nice and excellent with what she does, but it wasn’t my cup of tea and I hated every 6 months, so, I promised to arrest them when I get older.

Ironically, after wanting to be a policewoman, I wanted to became a dentist.  The tools that they were using were so fascinating.  It would have been a better revenge if I did to little innocent children what my dentist was doing to be, hehe, cruel.

After that, my next dream, which took a load of my childhood, was to become a chef, a world renouned chef as a matter of fact.  Whenever I watch the television, it looked to easy and enlightening.  I wanted to create the bests of foods.  I even had a plan for my restaurants,  every Christmas Eve, from 9:00pm-12:00pm, everything I would serve is free.  Hell, I even had an outline of what my restaurant is going to be, complete with round tables, dating tables, a stage and a second floor.  This dream disappeared quite suddenly when I realized something, I don’t eat meat!  How in the world will I be able to taste the food that I cook?  Mind you reader, I still cook very well, just sea food though.

My third to the last dream, which is actually in connection with my second to the last, is, to become a writer.  Seriously, how many children have gone to the phase of wanting to become a writer?  It was my passion for books that lead me to this idea.  I wanted to create stories that would elicit the same emotions from my readers that I elicit from my authors.  And I know, it is still a fact that I actually don’t write well, I have grammatical errors here and there and I don’t actually proofread which is the reason why there are so many typographical errors once in a while.  No matter, it became an obssession for me to become a writer.  I wasn’t too young anymore during this period.  I was grade 5 and it lasted until my 4th year in highschool.  It was something I really really wanted.  I have drafts of stories hidden in my closet.  I even wanted to battle with JRR Tolkien and created my own language.  I had a story where the main antagonist was an albino (sorry to say that Dan Brown had the same idea.  After reading “The Da Vinci Code”, I was a tad bit angry that he “stole” my idea).  I had all these fantasies that should have been published when I was 18 years old, just a year younger than Christopher Paolini whose book “Eragon”, was published when he was 19.  I had a membership in FanFiction.net which became stagnant after realizing that maybe, I’m not really that good.

Well, it was a sad realization.  My second to the last dream, which as mentioned earlier, coincided with my third, is to become a journalist.  I wanted to become one in order to both be able to write and travel the world at the same time.   This one vanished as well while signing up my application form for the UPCAT.

In my “List Before I Die”, there is still this little number which says “write and publish a book.”  I miss writing, I absolutely miss it.  I haven’t sat silently in a long while and just think of stories.  When I’m alone, all I think about are problems.  Before, whenever I’m alone, all I think about are stories that I could create.  The moment before I slept were usually dedicated to this long novel that seems to never end, that keeps on overlapping inside my head.  I wonder.  Maybe I did just grow up, like everyone does.  We all did once believe in fantasies, maybe realities just takes that away.

so broken up and i give up…well, not yet

Am I still happy with how things are going around me?  Sure, in some aspects, like my organization, I’m still very happy with that even though I’m afraid as hell.  However, something’s wrong with my relationships with other people, something is slipping in between.  I know it would end soon, I just hope it won’t end too soon.

I can’t complete my New Year’s Resolution and I want to so badly.  But, I’m a student, and a student who brings work at home would never be able to complete it.   I’ve only been able to read 15 books at least, and the year is in its final half.  Oh well.  I hope that I’ll still be able to do at least 30.

I don’t write as well anymore.  I don’t even know what to write anymore.  Could it be that I’m too confused to think properly of my future?  Could it be that I’m being hindered to reflect on my feelings of the moment?  Or could it possibly that my life really is as boring that I’ve thought it to be all along.

I miss somethings from my past.  I want to play the piano again.  I want to practice Taekwondo again.  I want to go swimming for long hours again.  These things, whom I used to be no longer reflects who I am now. 

the weeds of enticement

I love entering this certain shop, the smell, the titles, they are new.  Every time I get a new one, not necessarily new, but new to my vision, to my brain and to my heart, I can’t help but feel.  I feel the soft shivers trembling by my spinal, tears that would later flow like the current of the river.  I feel the circuits of my imagination tangling like webs to enhance an almost perfect image.  Most of the time, I feel my heart deliberately hammering, pang-pang-pang, I could almost hear it.  Yes those are what I feel, from my eyes, my brain and to my heart.

Why do I feel them?  As if it is really important, as if it really matters in life, as if it would help me.  However, the crucial fact is it is able to encompass me; it captivates me and holds me tight.  What is this that is able to manipulate my person without harming me?  It feeds on me with necessity, yet it teaches me the rules of life.  The new one is always a challenge and each portion would either keep my attention or would release me.  And every time I happen to have one, it deliberately keeps me awake at nights.

It is able to bind me and bring me to unknown places.  One moment I could be on top of the vast mountain ranges of Switzerland while conversing with the most wise man on earth, the next I can be bought to the grand rapids of illusion in the middle of the Pacific while trying to stay alive.  Sometimes, it brings me magic and flying brooms and the next I will enter a deserted attic with all the traditional trinkets of joy.  If it is new, I am often amazed by this, always unsuspecting to me what might happen succeeding each moment, the disarray of perceptions confusing me into an eclipse of unknown quantity. 

I feel my heart skipping a beat once in a while, this particular title is good.  Every time I turn a page, it is often fast, as if I’m afraid to miss a second of the life I’m living whenever I am inside.  Why do I find the life the new one portrays more interesting?  Because it is written, unlike my life that is not.  Having the events unfold in ones mind seems to captivate me more than having real events unfold beyond my eyes.  Will my life, if written, be as interesting?

When I am with the new one, the unfamiliarity will stream around my veins, seeping me from my reality that I consider dull.  I would either be in wonderland, roam happily or I might be suffering, but oblivious to the people around me, it is my little secret they can see.  Sadly, whenever I finish one, the truth in life seeps me back and then I could either feel sad or happy about it, depending on the effect of the new one.

Nevertheless, there are special moments where I might always be inclined to get something old, something I’ve been acquainted with, familiar.  There would no longer be surprises, I know how it ends.  But it is always a great joy to see the old again, to remember the events and to awaken once more, the heart that remained quiet.  It feels like meeting an old friend, and him/her restoring everything you’ve done together; there is no awkwardness, no introductions. 

Consequently, what the new and the old would always try to do is to make me realize the truth, yet ironically rejects reality.  They are certainly escapes from the world and often create the illusions of idealism.  “What must be?” is the wonder of it.  I don’t really care either way.  What is of importance to me is its effect, the drugs running inside of me and would often leave me scarred.

I always turn to them when the world I am living on is in disproportions.  I take them and let it engulf me into a more logical alternate, logical for me at least, even if it is a fake life.  People would always question why I waste money on them, I tell them, “I don’t waste money on things that would always help me understand.”  I am able to understand scenarios in real life when I relate it to how it was understood inside the pages.  There are people who think that how I approach these things and how I let these things over take me is unwise, I ignore them, they don’t understand my connection with these.

All throughout, the magnificence of it is that it is able to expose from me different emotions: I cry, I laugh, I get angry and I get touched. However, the last page of the fiction remains to have me elicit only two major emotions: satisfaction or disappointment.  It might end terribly, hanging, and confusing but it can be a good form of art.  It might end happily, joyfully and complete but might always be a mere façade that can leave me feeling empty, maybe because my life must be more interesting.  The last page would always even out my heart afterwards, my life versus the fiction.

My experience with the thing would replay on my mind and then I would judge whether I really wasted money on these books or not.  And after finishing one, sometimes, I feel sad, as if I’m leaving an old friend, as if I’m going back from vacation, back to truth.  Although not all of them takes a special place in my heart and in my person, there are unique ones that would always capture me, like a best friend, who was able to entice me completely and help me understand my purpose of living, I might feel more blessed and I might feel worse.  How the lesson of the book would have stayed and reflected is what matters when reading.  In a life full of confusion and disaster, I result to the book to take me away and teach me what I wouldn’t have known otherwise.  It can also, however, make me feel like a failure if my life is less interesting than fiction.

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I just had to share this.