This Is Just Me Letting Go

"But I love him"
“So love him.”
 “But I miss him.” “So miss him. Send him some love and light every time you think about him, then drop it."
~~~~

Being with you was comfortable. I was just discovering my type after vowing I was done with cocky, insecure heartbreakers. You were perfect. The right amount of bashful shy, amazingly funny and breathtakingly beautiful. I was blind to it first bit I got there.

Ii needed someone human, a guy who wouldn't chase me and pull back when he reels. I knew you'd never leave me, only because you'd never bait me in the first place.

But I never imagined that being a problem. Was I to know you'd be the first guy I'd ever make out with more than 15 minutes at a stretch in peace? No rush no ripping. Was I to know I'd miss your smooth voice and stupid jokes nicknaming everything? Your sheer innocence and man-child (yes I'm still calling it that) attitude?

But this is me finally accepting feeling, and feeling deeply I am. All the years of shadowing and closing off and cowering and hurting. I take it all in. Read me I'm your favourite book. I'm not afraid of loving, I have too much to give. Too many faces to see smiling, too many hugs to give out.

This is me taking back myself because I need emotion, I need love, and I need someone who is not afraid of it, because I am never going to be anymore. This is me letting you go with a smile and sending you love each time I think of you.

This is me accepting.

Useless

i'vee always known  that i could never let death win. I'd kill myself before it gets to me. No one is allowed the privilege to take away my life except me. I find an odd sort of satisfaction in cowering in a corner in  my 30s with a pistol, no husband, no kids, and blowing up my brains, not being found for days. i have such intense hatred for everyone around me. i'm kicking wrapped inside a plastic bag attached to weights, drowning. i can swim very well, but you'll never know. because i never had the chance, never had the freedom, the opportunity to spread out my wings and show you how long my arms stretch. and i never will.
but im scared. i domt think i want to die before i complete my list of achievements. but it doesnt matte anyhow because i'll never be able to reach that level of success. i've been rejected by society always, how could i ever make it big? i'd have talent but never enough and never at the right place or time. i think id venture out to say that im not a particularly lucky person. maybe i should stop hanging out with pussies eh haha.
i never get what i want. i try so hard. i dont think im cut out for a happy life and im done with pain. i've sruggled too much. with abusive father, lack of a social circle, phobia of speaking out, no person who'd give a shit about me and my all around knack for recklessness. i dont think i can survive anymore. i've fought so much. i can't do this.

i can't.
sorry.

Homestretch

Do people ever get tired of not being good enough? The infamous jack-of-all-trades? When you know you worked hard but just didn't give your all? 

Trying, but never enough. Crying, but never enough.

Lacking.

You've been slogging your ass off, running in the sweltering sun, round and round and round. The same lap. Over and over again. The daily grind.

You see vestiges of the finish line but you realise it's a mirage. Can endings be ephemeral? Aren't they supposed to be final? Isn't that what it's supposed to mean? Lasting, indefinite, irreversible, eternal, constant. The responsible, punctual kid that I'll never be. 

Then, what happened?

You know you see the finish line this time, you can't be wrong. It's a tangible sense of victory you know you're going to hold in your hand soon enough. There it is. One more step, you trip and fall.

Always were a clumsy one, they said.

School ending was supposed to be a good thing but endings aren't real.

The home in the title is making me sick. I need to move.

What Am I Doing With You?

Do you remember that time when we were sitting and laughing in the taxi while travelling the whole city trying to find that one book you wanted? Of course you do, you remember everything I say.

It wasn't even particularly funny, being with you made everything seem happier.
We started laughing together but I was the one to stop first. I was breathless.
I looked into your face, eyes crinkled, chest moving with laughter and your lips forming a perfect curve of a smile.

I stared into your eyes. You looked straight out of a picture years out of school in some old closet, hitting you with nostalgia. 

Time froze. My heart was beating so fast. I was so nervous.
Then you squished in my cheeks with your hand, I felt my heart was a bird crashing against its cages.

What am I doing with you?

Let me sleep without dreaming of your kisses, let me breathe without inhaling your memories. Let me survive an hour without talking to you.

You are a basic need to my survival. I can never tell you I love you enough in a day.

What do you want from me?

You make me dream about all the places we'd go, all the things we'd do. You tell me I'm your number one. You tell me you love me. You are the last person I talk to and the one I wake up to. You don't even do anything without telling me first. You've seen every hill and valley of my life.

Then you go and tell me about the girls you like. You talk about her and her and her. 

Why are you doing this to me?

Whiplash

Whiplash must be the only movie that hit me right in the face like a shit load of bricks. Gut-wrenching and thoroughly distasteful, for me at least. I could never sit through the whole of it again. And it's nothing to do with the superior acting and screenplay.

Whiplash gave me strong, cringing flashbacks of the emotional abuse I was a victim of by my father. Every insult, every threat, and every distrustful reconciliatory apology. I could do nothing but stare at the screen with a gaping mouth as if in surprise that someone stole my diary and picked out instances to flow on the screen.

I was able to identify with every attack hurled and every response, overt or inert. Looking at it playing in front of me like that made it all seem too real and too near.
No one should have to go through that.

But the problem comes when you set about to explain to people just how the emotional abuse is being played. How can I deal with the passive dismissive reactions that try to downplay the effects of something that has me crippled day and night? Because the truth is, they're are not just words. 

The way Neiman consistently sought the approval of Fletcher hit close to home. I'm glad I was able to understand my father's behaviour early on. There are millions more who still justify it until much later on in their life. They blame themselves and litter their life with unnecessary guilt.

The ending of Whiplash just further condoned the abuse. Was getting fucked up in the head and ruining your life really worth finally perfecting the drum solo?
I guess it was for people who want to die the idealistic alcoholic death at 30 and have people debating about you at the dinner table.

Nude Pictures Vol I

I opened up my e-Mail to see a message by some random guy telling me how he admired my "hot figure so sexy". Not thinking much of it I ignored it and carried about my daily routines which consist of redditing and watching old French films.
Next day, I got another similarly worded e-Mail by that guy. Somewhat creeped, I decided to ignore it yet again.

Then, I got a message by that guy on Facebook. 
"Hi I like you I wanna make friendship. 
I saw some sexy pics of you in the bathroom do you wanna see?"
This was what he sent me, albeit with more spelling mistakes and horrid grammar.

I was pretty shook up but I still chalked him up to various other Facebook creeps a moderately average looking girl faces in her life. (pls note modesty)

Later that night he sent me some pictures but I didn't open them because I wanted to ignore him so he would go away. The next morning he sent me another message.

Today, I opened these messages just to get rid of the annoying notification. I saw 4 photos that hadn't loaded yet. I wasn't aware that he sent me pictures too.
They loaded.

And I saw.

Pictures of me. Naked. In sexually explicit poses.
Pictures I clicked as a 15 year old teenager at the height of  her sexual discovery.
Pictures I would never want even my boyfriend to possess.
Pictures of an unconsenting minor.

My heart was beating fast. All blood rushing, time was frozen.
I kept staring at my breasts, my hands, my face, my body.

I'd only read about this happening to other people. All looping around the same thread of words around their minds like beads of a holy rosary.
"Why me?"

How did he get those pictures? How did he find my identity?
How dare he?

Immediately, I started thinking about the girl in school whom everyone stopped talking to because her nudes leaked.
I thought about The Fappening. I thought about the girls reported in news who end up killing themselves or running away because their pictures got distributed.

Is this what I'm going to be?

Acceptance

This was an essay I wrote in answer to the question - What major issue do you notice in your community? 

I wrote it keeping in mind mostly the teenagers I meet or observe on a regular basis around me or online. I edited it here and there to make a bit more relevant to this blog which is why the ending looks a bit off, I might take care of that later. I hope you like it.

I believe acceptance can be applied to the root of almost every problem in our community, or the lack thereof. Whether it be with one’s own self or towards other, I think lack of acceptance in our society stems a lot of difficulties in the bigger picture.
Lack of acceptance within one’s own self gives rise to self-hatred and unnecessary self-pity. it is popularly known that both these vices not only cause a distorted view of our own self image but also of others. Those with hatred and feeling of helplessness inside themselves see it manifesting itself into everything they see around them.
we cannot struggle with reality. we have to learn to accept it. Acceptance does not mean that you are happy with the way things are, it means you are at peace with it and willing to change it for the better if you can. Self acceptance leads to a new life with new possibilities that did not exist before.
Social acceptance is accepting others as they are, including their varying personal beliefs, ethnic backgrounds, religions, and political standpoints. Problem with lack of social acceptance is that most people fail to recognize that not everyone will abide by them in their personal ideals.
When society lacks acceptance, it gives rise to wars, spats, discrimination, racism and other negative factors.
The only way to tackle this problem is by chanhing the people themselves. This can only be done with the help of education and byraising awareness.  Education eliminates ignorance, which helps us too see the world and everyone in it with different eyes and appreciate things we never did before.

Awareness, like education, will also make people distinguish between what is true and false. 

Vivid dreams

I have been having extremely strange and vivid dreams and it has only begun in the past few months. They are often repetitive. Often I have such intense dreams, it feels like I'm watching a movie and I can also remember them for a long time afterwards. The book I'm working on is a spin-off of an extremely imaginative and interesting dream I had. I even made a painting out of some kind of a design I saw in my dream once.
I also experience a surge of emotions in my dreams. I see new people and places everyday, and I literally mean everyday. In real life, I'm mostly dead, emotionless and sociopath-ish all day so it's a nice change.

A guy kept shouting "por favor" at me in my dream today.

Someone call Sigmund Freud.

Rhonda Jones (Short Story)

I always knew there was something strange going on with Rhonda. Maybe it was the ever present distant look in her eyes that made me ponder so or maybe it was her frequent absences from school.  Nevertheless, it came as a shock to everyone when she blew out her brains with her dad's .44 Magnum.  She did always talk about going out with a bang. 

I never could have thought of taking it in the literal sense, of course. 

The signs are often laid out in plain sight, demanding to be heard, but not a soul pays heed.

Rhonda Jones wasn’t a goth or a punk, she didn’t have a disarrayed family and she wasn’t a lonely nerd. Rhonda Jones was the charismatic, beautiful all-round achieving girl that people think only exist in movies or in dreams. Which is why people stared unbelievingly when they first heard of her suicide.

She used to live 2 blocks down the street from me. We'd been together since the time she moved into our neighbourhood with her family from Nottingham when she was six. Though, we failed to preserve the close bond we had as kids as we grew older. Before anyone could notice, our frequent playdates that used to ultimately stretch to sleepovers transitioned into rare hello's in the school hallways.

I still remember the sound of the bullet shooting out from the gun when she pulled the trigger.

I still hear the bang in my nightmares and watch myself running to the source all the while thinking how good of a story it would be to tell Rhonda.

I still am struck with flashbacks of the sirens of the ambulance, the shriek of her mother, the silent sobs of her father and the curious prying eyes of the neighbours.

And I still invariably shudder when I remember myself standing under the oak tree that stands in front of Rhonda’s room, wishing with all my might that it wasn’t what I expected, that it wasn’t whom I expected.

Silently, I shook violently as I saw the plight of her body lying lifelessly on a stretcher, blood still pouring out of numerous indiscernible sources - her nose, her head, her mouth. Even her eyes seemed to be crying tears of blood.

That image has been stuck with me forever. Not a day has passed, when I don’t suddenly remember it. every minute I spend laughing with others, I spend in guilt when I'm alone. Thinking and pondering on what-ifs. 

What if I had done something sooner?

What if I had tried to make an effort to salvage our relationship earlier?

What if I had acted upon those signs instead of playfully dismissing them? 

What if I had paid more attention, tried to rise my head up from my ceaseless self-absorption?

I don't know why she killed herself and I never will. All I can hold on to are the summer days we spent under her oak tree when we were children. When we didn't and couldn't care, living in a place stuck in spring with blooming flowers and exquisitely coloured butterflies.

Rhonda Jones dissipated the pain and turmoil by dividing and distributing it to three other people to carry.

Her parents and me.

Shatter and Clatter (Short Story)

7:42 pm

"I'm sorry. Please, Jake. Please stop, I'm sorry!"

"NO! LOOK WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. LOOK AT WHAT HAS BECOME OF US! IS THIS WHAT YOU HAD WANTED, BITCH?!"

Shatter and clatter, I hear sobs and shouts. With every syllable escalating in its decibel, I shudder and cringe.

"I told you I'm sorry!" She sobs. Her voice cracking. "Sarah can hear you. She is only a child. Don't do this to her. Don't do this to us. Please stop, I beg you!!"

"DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I HAVE HAD FUCKING ENOUGH OF THIS HOUSE. I KNOW ABOUT ALL OF YOUR PLANS YOU SLY WHORE!"

"Jake, I swear to God I didn't do anything. Ple-Please, Jake, please! DON'T TOUCH ME! STOP IT!"

I hear her gut-wrenching cries from under my blanket. I have heard people say that once you experience something on the daily, you become accustomed to it. I never understood why this particular daily house activity couldn't sink and wear down to the accustomed ones.

2:17 am

"C'mon, honey. Time to wake up," I hear my mum hush to me, waking me from my stupor.

"Mummy it's still dark outside. Why do I have to wake up in the night?"

"We're going to a nice place. Put on your coat quickly, sweetie," she says to me kissing the top of my head.

I can hear her breathing hard and fast. She's almost shaking as she clasps my hand tightly. We tip-toe across shards of broken glass and splinters of wood. Beer bottle glass, whiskey bottle glass, tables and chairs. A shattered photo frame here and there occasionally. All in ruins.

She didn't have to tell me to keep quiet or anything. I was smart enough to understand what was happening even if I was only 5. I'd been dreaming of this moment for a long time now. It's exhilarating to feel that my wishes were finally coming true. Maybe there is a God after all.

Once we are through the gate, mum spins around towards me, grabs my shoulders tightly and says, "Now remember, baby. We have to walk as fast as we can to Rosewell Street. We can't stop at all. I know it's a long way but we can do it. I have a rental there and then we can be free. Sarah, we can be as free as the birds." 
As free as the birds. I don't know why but that line makes me start bawling suddenly. I can't believe it. Our freedom is so close; it's almost like an unachievable dream.

"Mum, I can do it."
"Oh, my little girl, I never doubted it." She kisses my hands.

3:58 am

"I can see it, ma. I can see it!"
"Shh, I know."

It was old beat-up car. Hell, the only other thing I remember about it is that it was blue. That's it. Not that I even cared at all. Though, looking back now, I would like to know what kind it was.

We run to the car with elated hearts. Freedom is so close.

We have been in the car for barely 5 minutes when mum notices something odd in the mirror. Her brows furrow in worry and concentration. I look back to see it what it is.
It's a red Camry. Our red Camry. 
 I KNOW ABOUT ALL OF YOUR PLANS YOU SLY WHORE!
Oh. . . .

I can feel all the blood drain out of my body. I have goosebumps on my arms. My heart is racing and it's not from the running. 
Is this what true terror feels like?
My mother is speeding the car to escape dad. She's in so much of a hurry that she all but forgets about the still slick road from the rain. Our car crashes into a tree. Before my eyes close, I see a hint of a smirk in the rear view mirror of the car.

Our freedom is here.

I Can Never Fall in Love

I am a very ambitious person. Mostly it is a good thing, but it has turned out to be destructive for me sometimes. It is a main factor that played in my depression. I admit it has made some things better and helped me keep fighting but. . . .

I can't fall in love because of it!

When I start liking someone and develop a crush, I can't stop thinking about them for a few days. I make some mistakes and act to needy in the beginning; it only stays like that for a short period. I may not be as modest as I should but I can't help but admit that I'm not as bad-looking too. So that's why, I almost always succeed in making a guy I really like falling in love with me. Oh, and also because of my sense of humour and wittiness. *wink, wink* *hint, hint*
Except that one time with 'I'. Arghhhhhh. That guy was something.

Thing is, I can go on forever. There was this guy I was totally smitten for. I spent over 2 years infatuated by him. I got him to fall in love with me. The moment that happened, everything was gone. Poof. 
I had absolutely no feelings for him after that.
Nothing.

This always happens. It happened with my last boyfriend too.

And it's happening again with T. Now that I see how interested he's become into me, I can't feel the same connection. 
Once I achieve a goal, I am higher. Every relationship is a project to be accomplished. I have to move ahead. 
I am so messed up.

What My Parents and Friends Called Me When I Was 11-14yrs Old

Right now, I weigh 50 kgs. I am almost 5'4" feet tall. That's an average height. Neither short nor tall.

I am 11 years old. I weigh 43 kgs. I am not quite, but almost 5 feet tall. My mother worries that I'll always remain like this. She calls me a midget. My father calls me fat and ugly. My mother likes to compare me with girls 7 years older than me in the magazines and on TV and comments about how beautiful they look. She does this intentionally in front of me. Because of the average grades I would get that time (not inclined towards study too much that time), my father liked to call me dumb and said I would die and lead a mediocre life as a sad wife who could never achieve anything.

I am 12 years old. I weigh 48 kgs. I have reached 5'1". I have the undefined body of an early pubescent girl with genes of a plump body. I had boobs that looked weird on my body and always drew attention to them. My mother still fears I won't grow taller. She believes that once a girl has had her periods, she doesn't grow any taller. She draws attention to my thighs and says that I'm so short and fat that because of my thighs it looks like I'm walking on huge pillars. My dad says my body looks like clay. Fat and undefined. My extended family members make fun of me in social gatherings. My parents still think I won't be able to make anything of me in my life.

I am 13 years old. 50 kgs and 5'2" tall. I have a more matured and curvy body than most classmates. They call me a fat slut and say I have a bigger butt than Kim Kardashian. The worst part was that I was in the clique of the popular,  pretty girls. There was an omniscient pressure to look perfect on parties and in school. When you become a known person, there are bound to be some who will pull you down.  Especially in school. People would come up to my face and call me fat. They would constantly make jokes on me and mock me. Part of it was I called it upon myself. I was the class clown type popular. I happily laughed at jokes and acted like it didn't bother me. That's what they say in the books. But that only encouraged them more.

I am 14 years old 5'3" and 50 kgs. I have lost a lot of my baby fat but not all. Not yet. I have plump gene trait. My mother doesn't worry about my height as much but still strings on to me being more taller and prettier and being all that she couldn't be. My family members still call me fat occasionally. My brother has suffered some failures in his career and has been real upset. The buried sadness turns to anger. He starts calling me fat whenever I am just about to go out of the house to some party and all and look in the mirror to check if everything's alright. He knows what it does to me. He will hit me occasionally when he gets frustrated (not somethings that'll hurt. Definitely not domestic violence, but brother-sister banter.). 

My friends aren't that bad now (partially because I diversified my friend circle). But I still had depression.

All this time I would swim everyday, bicycle for hours, try to eat less. Anything to look pretty, thin and fit in.

In a Cave Where The Rest Go To Feel Normal

I have lived as two people in one body. I would adopt a different persona while talking to different people. There was no 'me'. 
Life was a movie. Acting at every corner, every street. No breaks.

But it wasn't a distinguished line. They were intermixing person. 

What happens when the line isn't as hazy? What if it is as clear as a spot on a white cloth that your mum keeps reprimanding you about?

It becomes difficult to decide which person is the real one? Is it the overly friendly and exuberant one? Or is it that sulky, depressed and rude one? Which one is an act? What is true?

I wonder if bipolar and schizophrenic people have a fixed identity about themselves or aren't clear about it yet. I don't know.


PS. I was inspired by Gollum to write this.

I Think About it More Than I Forget (Short Story)

I lay down on the bed with the book once again in my hands. Staring but not reading. Page number 26. The bookmark's been on this page for 21 years now.

 Exactly 21 years.

And she wonders but never asks. Too ridden by my retreating into my shell so frequently. Only staying with me for the sake of little Jake.

Memories are merely instances that fade over the passage of time.

 That is the reason why I agreed. She thought she could heal me. I ought to have forgotten by now.

I try to, but cannot. The time I shared with Amelie was and still is too perfect to be forgotten.

I do not know whether she knows what's on page 26. She still thinks I need time to heal.

I met Amelie at Camp Smith-Bird (go ahead and laugh at the name, but just so you know, the people there were more queer than the name)  when I was 17. She was 16.

She was nothing special. Average looking, but a guy like me was mighty lucky to have someone as unlucky as her.

The only way I can describe her is that she was someone you would keep growing closer as time passed. Like parallel lines; it never ended. 

There was a new thing to discover, a new adventure everyday. Our love growing lovelier as we grew fonder each day.

It wasn't like how rabid young couples get married and grow wearier of each other's very presence by the day.

I still remember how my life diminished to ruins.

We snuck out of our house in the midnight, a bottle of my father's whiskey and our hearts overflowing with love for the world. Two teenagers full of hope and envisioning a bright and happy future for themselves.

We hiked up the hill to our spot, we could see the unhappy town, everyone in the grips of sleep. How we couldn't wait to run away and start a life of our own. 

The stars were twinkling brightly and the pale moon shined bright (for it was the time when pollutants in the air were quite less). Alcohol and adrenaline pulsating through our arteries instead of blood.

Amelie and I were lying on the grass naked, holding hands. We'd just made love and my heart was still racing. She turned to look at me with her eyes blazing with passion and a hint of sadness.

Her family was moving to America in less than a quarter of a year. No one mentioned it in the fear of ruining the Moment.

The Moment was perfect. It was out of a soapy romance film, a heart-breakingly beautiful book, a picture which makes you get jealous and go search for true love. It was what the kids of today would've called infinite. I could not let the Moment get away. I had to memorise it and imprint it into the back of my eyelids.

I had to stay in that time for ever. 

It wouldn't have happened if I hadn't seen the hint of sadness. I wouldn't have remembered. I couldn't let her go away from me. 

Love was for two and I was nothing without her.

She could NOT leave me. I will never let her.

She had to stay in the Moment forever. It was enchanting, exquisite and excitable.

I remember the time. 0026.

I killed her at 0026.

A silver thread of a tear travels from my eyes, down the curves of my face, into page number 26 of Wuthering Heights.

We Accept The Love We Think We Deserve

I would like to start by saying that my post is not the least bit related to the title (maybe it is a little). I haven't even thought much about the that sentence. I don't even think I agree with it. I just thought it seemed pretty.

There is a couple. The boyfriend becomes jealous (obviously) when his girlfriend goes about flirting and kissing other guys. 
Only he has the right to do that with her. He is the only one who can touch her. He has claimed her as his.

Just the way,  there is another boyfriend who indulges in domestic violence. He hits his girlfriend when she forgets to order a double cheese pizza instead of single. But just the same, he cannot bear to see any other man even grip his girlfriend's arm a little tighter than usual so it hurts her in the least.
Only he has the right to hit her. He is the only one who can touch her. 

He doesn't think twice when that blow bruises or the words sting but when he sees some other person hurt her in any way he will automatically become defensive and protect her.

Isn't this funny?

Of course, this whole post is only a metaphor of my father.

It is Only When You Are Lost That You Begin to Find Yourself

What makes a person the way he/she is? How would you describe yourself? What traits of yourself will you say make you the you you (so many you's)? What traits are a part of you but don't describe you?

Too many questions.

There may be a lot I don't know about a person but there's also a lot I don't know about myself. Both in mental and in physical way.
I mean, I have Ordinal Linguistic Personification and I only recently discovered! Who knew?

People go about trying to discover more about their significant other or friend and try to understand more about them but truth is most of them don't know the most basic things about themselves.
They could write 400 page novels on their best friends but not themselves.

I have discovered so much about myself, so much about what I really am. You don't need to go on a pilgrimage trip to the Himalayas to understand yourself.

What I discovered about myself is that I'm a person. (needs hyperlink)

Idolism and Idealism

I like to go around the classroom pestering people with questions about their religious, philosophical and spiritual (very different things, the three) beliefs. Most people are genially surprised. But not too surprised, I'm the sporadic, unexpected girl. People have stopped keeping any kind of expectations from me about tame, polite public behaviour. 

Anyhow, I get to hear very interesting answers (I lie, I hear them rarely). The other group who seem uninteresting to me are people who answer with, 'Gee, I dunno. I've never thought about it.' Ah, you expected me to answer by saying the ones who say they're religious, right? Haha, no. That's more interesting because that shows that person has put some thought, however little in my opinion. I try not to be judgemental. Love all.

I hear (like today) some say they believe in idols but not in religion; some say it the other way round. I hear many variations.

Also, just to add it so I don't forget because we're gonna need it in the conclusion, I usually hate all the hormonal teenage girls who run around crying about how much they love Justin Bieber or that new group One Direction. My mind fills with anguish for the young and astray pubescents. I have a lot of friend that fit like a snug sweater in the category. This is idealism.
 I used to be like that but I never exceeded the crazy limits. I still am some times when I think about Lana Del Rey, but meh. 
However, I would never go and make fun of them (that I NEVER do anyway because I was and am on the receiving end) or say they are stupid and dumb. I could in my mind, though.

So, where does the thin line end between idealism and idolism? 

Personally, I do not like any of the two. Idealism because (as mentioned before) there's too much I do not know about a person for me to follow everything they do. Too many secrets, too many lies. I do like to however, take all good qualities I see in a person and mould them into an ideal person of my choice. Let's name that person Daniel just for the heck of it. I'm feeling pretty silly and emotional today (It's the time of the month). 
Idolism is just a no-no for me. Don't the religions preach to not be materialistic? How can you regard some piece of metal, stone or wood as holy and attach all your feelings to it? Why don't you go nature outside and worship it instead of cutting it up into senseless shapes (reminds me of a new topic, CENSORSHIP!) and decorating your homes with it? Why are you loving (I've used so many brackets in this post. So I'm just posting another. Hehe) something lifeless?

Give love to someone who deserves it.

I'm A Selfish Hypocrite

I enjoy reading, hearing and watching things that teach me about how others live there life. It gives me a thrill to see how people live their lives, what they think about, what their beliefs in life are. I'm a peeping tom in this way. I guess this is why I enjoy things related to life simulation, and please, not in a dirty way. Haha.

I have certain philosophies, rules and mottoes about life. May other people do too-take for example a person whom I've been following. She's a mother of five children and believes in natural, home birthing. She also follows Buddhism and decides to live her life on the outskirts of town beside a beautiful stream. She home-schools her kids and pays the little bills by selling pots and other handicrafts. That is such a beautiful way to live life, the way you want; with family.

Now,  I imagined her as some great intellectual being who would sit around with her family everyday at tea time and discuss about the purpose of life, her kids always smiling in some mysterious way and always answering with "Yes, mother dearie." All the family always happy and gay, meditating and practising Zen in the middle of some forest with all the little animals looking at them in awe.  

Some of that might be true but I'm sure not in the over-exaggerated way I imagine in my head. Well, I do admit that I have an over-active and exaggerated imagination but that's another story.

Now I have plenty things I follow in life, but not always. I try to not hurt and mock people but, I sometimes do, unknowingly and seldom intentional when people annoy me. I try to be peaceful and trust in believe myself but, I sometimes lapse. I try to be positive and keep working but, I turn lazy, procrastinate and then chastise myself. I don't always share and care.

I try but sometimes fail, and then, I try again. I'm not perfect but, I try to be. 
But I take all this and try to strive. I'm improving.

Future Plans For This Blog

Where is this blog going?
I have been AWOL for two months. I've always expressed my intention for making the blog as purely for my benefit. Never have demanded or hoped any views (not that I have many) or money and nor will.
There is a continuous war going on in my head and I see no end to it any time near. It feels like there are two people living inside my head. Though the person I want to speak out more much chooses to ignore me. Gaah I am such a rebel. The shy part keeps chastising the out-spoken part in my head but, to no heed.

I am my worst enemy.

I WILL and SHOULD start posting my poems, paintings, thoughts, stories etc. on here. I need to. I will.
Eh, maybe later.

Why can't I stop procrastinating? All these exquisite thoughts flutter about occasionally in my head before settling right back in some beautiful world where they came from.
Most of my greatest ideas (like the book I'm working on), come into my head in my sleep. Fascinating, hmmm?

Stupid, stupid me. I need to start working again!! Urhhghghhhhhhh.

The Mind Sees What it Wants to See

Self-image. This is what I will talk about today.

I will like to start off with a seemingly meagre example from my own life which might seem, as above stated, really, really meagre and petty and childish and whatnot. But, it's what got me thinking.
Heh, like always.

It was in 8th grade, (very, very long ago, indeed. It's a wonder I still remember it.) I was hanging out with my friends and one of them told me that my top lip was quite small and strange and would tease me and bully me about it. All they had to do (at parties or any event where everyone comes up really dressed up and pretty) was to point out my supposedly deformed lip and I would spend the whole time worrying about how I looked. That escalated to bullying me about my weight and all but that's another topic.

I know, I know, how this might sound, but just wait, it gets better. I promise!

In a way, you could also label it as one of the reasons of my suffering from depression. You know, with the terrible self-image and insecurity and all. But we are not here to talk about that right now.

Back to the topic, what I really want to say is that this society is shite.
Actually, that's still not what I want to say. Gosh, I take too long.

Now, my new friends can't stop gushing and admiring my lips. They think my lips are quite pretty and unique.
Just when my other friends used to tease me about them and bully me. I know, great friends. And I'm just mentioning one of the many things! Asses.

Everybody sees this world differently. Everyone has a different conception of beauty.
When you worry about getting all strands of your hair perfectly straight or that your clothes match perfectly, some other person would be dreaming about how beautiful your eyes or lips are. No one even notices. People spend too much time worrying about unnecessary things. No one cares. No one bothers.

You're perfect the way you are.
Peace out, homies!