MERRY CHRISTMAS!

HO HO HO
this is extremely short and stupid.
BUT
MERRY CHRISTMAS :D

MAY SANTA VISIT YOU AND GIVE YOU A POTATO!

Christmas in the Cave

My cough isn't getting any better.

I've been forgetting things and people far too easily. All I have left are just some memories, blurred and vague. Memories of people- those that look pretty familiar and whole but if you zoom in on them, you'll see you can't remember them at all. Maybe those are the memories to keep at a distance and never try remembering.

My cough isn't anything big. It just comes in small bits and my throat isn't that dry either. It just makes me feel like I'm choking. Choking for air. Like there's not enough, simply not enough air. Like someone's squeezing my throat and only allowing bits of air to enter and I can't control it. I try, holding my breath and not cough, but it just suffocates me.

Right now, I'm in the Christmas mood. Listening to Andrea Bocelli is lovely. He has such a nice voice and the Christmas carols he sings are all so soothing and relaxing, so homey and happy. So peaceful. I'm almost expecting it to snow, especially after listening to White Christmas by him. Here, in the silence of the night (with only the sound of my choking for air), I feel so comforted. Yet as I gasp and choke for air, my heart isn't thrumming wildly. It's just reduced to a warm, slow beat. It's as though I have conquered death (what a thing to say, I know.) and my physical self is decaying, but my soul is calmed and at ease.


I've been drinking green tea. It's bitter, but fragrant. It also warms my tummy.

I'm turning extremely nocturnal, and I think it's the peacefulness of the night that's luring me. I'm not tired. I'm just extremely peaceful, satisfied and happy. Happy to be away from people.

I'm also worried- well, not quite, seeing as I'm quite composed, my soul, at least. I've sunken into this holiday far deeper than the others. It's like all my friends have faded into the background. Like they are there, but they don't actually matter. Right now, I'm prepared for school. Maybe not quite, but the main gist is there. I've also grown terribly intolerant to people. I'm okay with my friends, because I know they're not quite human (potatoes, aliens, tomatoes, the whole lot), but when it comes to people, I dislike having to acknowledge their presence. This is bad. I'm reverting to my natural state- the hermit crab.

But they're all fading away. Like they do exist, but they don't. It's complicated.

The shooting in Connecticut. It reminded me of Faye-Anne. It's pretty dangerous there. And people who go killing little children. Why? I don't understand. Nobody does. Your thoughts are individual, but they're pretty much similar to everyone's, the way we live, in our own cultured society (or uncultured, but our thinking always grow from the same seed our parents or guardians plant in our heads). Anyway. I think we're pretty lucky to be alive, right now. That although we have a few bad people or some sick thoughts going viral in people's minds, humanity is good. Humanity is naturally good. And there are people who believe. These awful murders keep cropping up, but this one is much more shocking, like the other school shootings, because these were young children. Extremely young children.

Can you imagine? Hoping your mom will come, but instead being locked in closets or classrooms and waiting in the darkness, fear in the air while your young mind is in a whirl, worried, unsure. And then they tell you you've got to keep quiet, or you'll get shot. And suddenly you remember your mom, how you stole the last cookie from your sister, your dad who always hugs you when he reaches home. You want all of that. You don't want this mess. You don't want to die. You want to be home.

That's horrible. That's cruel.

I'm working on a play and I'm undecided on the plot and everything. I keep missing things out so the best way is to write it all on paper and get to know the characters like they're real. I've created the characters from the little traits of my friends. And while writing, I feel really hypocritical.

"Jack Frost nipping at your nose."

I don't live in a country with four seasons, so I don't exactly know what it's like to feel snow. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? How people in countries far away from the equator wish they could live in a place with stable weather conditions while people in countries near the equator wish for snow and the four seasons. I know how terrible snow can be, snowstorms and such.

I just wish Santa visited. Or at least, that I believed in him. I don't recall believing in many fictional myths. I just took them as fake. I don't remember ever having time for them. My childhood was pretty practical. I guess. Since we don't have a chimney -laughs-

Typing out the logistics for my mom and she says that it's what adults do when they work in offices.
I don't like this.
Although I've gotten the hang of it, I don't want to do this every day.

[irrelevant scientific facts: typing will burn around 29 calories per hour and the letter 'e' is the most typed letter of the alphabet and as you press the spacebar, 600000 people around the world are, too]

It must be boring.

Sigh.

Let the world melt and burn. But always, keep believing in humanity.

short, random, sketchy post

Wow.
I've blogged thus far.

So many posts.

My first post was on Pencils, on 7 October 2011.

It's been about a year and more since.

Wow.

That, is amazing.

:)

spiraling down to the end of the world.

today is 12/12/12.

I'm starting this post at 10:10pm.

Quite late, but still.

I'm in quite a good mood. Nothing too hyped up or excited, just serenely happy in a manner. Green tea's a better alternative than milo, I guess. My throat's better- I suddenly started coughing for no reason in the middle of the night on Sunday? I suppose? I'm still taking care not to eat anything too... heaty. So.

Today. I did practically nothing. I did stretching, and I'm glad I spent a whole hour on it. I don't know, but stretching so much and practically testing my endurance skills was just. It sounds masochistic, but I did enjoy it. It kinda took the stress off me. ((what stress when I've just been hoboing around at home?)) I sang a lot too, just random songs that came to mind. I'm pretty sure I traumatised everyone within ten-kilometre radius with my banshee-like-screeching-of-a-singing. But it felt good to have my voice somewhat back.

Even when I say I can't dance, I try. It does sound superficial, but vaguely... uh, dancing or waddling to the fast-paced rhythm of J-pop, it's happy and sweet and fluffy. Even when I know I can't dance, or look good doing it, I like to just- kinda- dance because it's stress-relieving, I guess. I stopped dancing since July, because I was sure it didn't fit me and I was a joke, trying to dance- but it's a good thing I started again, stretching and having fun again. I'm trying to pick up a few Vocaloid songs :D I bet those readers who know me in real life must be laughing at the thought of a potato trying to dance when she can't even walk without tripping. It's okay. I'm pretty proud of being such a klutz. Or a n00b at real life. This game sucks but I can't walk away from it.

It just hit me that I actually have blog readers. Like, people who actually read my blog. It's kinda scary, in that way. I guess I'll have to try to stop being so melodramatic and floop online to blogger whenever I have a bad day. My problems- if they even can be called that- are just. Insignificant and stupid and I'm probably just exaggerating everything. I mean, other people have worse days- much worse than mine. I should be happy with what I have.

I watched Undercover Boss today, while working on next year's- uh, work. And there was this guy, working the night shift at 7-11. He just told the boss (who was undercover) that he was indeed, chasing the American dream, and that he's in bliss now. He's happy with what he has, he feels like it's good enough for him, he doesn't complain. And I think about my life right now- close friends, free and relatively fast wifi, a comfortable bed and a roof over my head, with books and bananas and parents who are different from the typical parents, proper education... What more can I expect?

Of course, when I get sad and floop onto blogger, this whole thing will be contradicted.

I'm sitting at my dining table, there's a soft breeze and it's rather cold here, but it's nice. It's quiet, just a little too silent. I'm half-way through creating a video montage for my class and I might spend the night creating a fandom video, but I'm not sure. Sigh.

I'm surrounded by talented people.

Anyway. I haven't been writing much. I baked some cookies yesterday, but they seem pretty... inedible to me. But oh, my precious little dough circles. I think it's the flour. But I still have quite a bit of flour left, so I might bake some tomorrow.

I haven't been writing much. Instead, I've been drawing. I don't even feel shame for all the lack of writing. And my drawings are, as usual, terrible. But at least. I'm still trying out portraits of real human, and of course I've been dying next to my sketchbook, vomiting rainbows and unicorns because I've reached the point of no return.

I've succeeded in failing.

Recently, I've been extremely excited about my sister's prom. It's a YEAR away, so I must be going bonkers. I really want to try. You know. Helping her and all. Painting her nails. I've gone on tumblr and I've seen this new... thing about painting nails and it looks cool- YOU CAN PAINT WORDS ONTO YOUR NAILS.

((now trust me I'm not high. Not yet.))

Today is 12/12/12. I didn't do anything special at all. I just. Well. Yep. Nothing. People keep talking about how nice it is to have a repetitive date. I think it rather, silly. We're just counting down days and time till a special time and once it passes, we keep counting them down. What does it really matter, anyway? Time is only a word we fashioned to create a much more orderly society. But we've really, just been counting ourselves down.

-takes a sip of tea-

I look at people and just wonder how they want to do all those things, learn a different language, pick up a new skill, while I'm just here. Doing nothing. Of course, I've been experimenting with digital art, but it seems like I'm never going to make it. and it's rather useless, of course. Unless I become a designer which isn't quite possible.

It is, if I try. Hard enough.

Right now I don't even know what I want to do for my subject combination, which I have to choose by the end of next year.

I've been wanting to try painting. I'm hopeless at it, of course. Just dreams that'll fade away. Far, far away.

That's it. I'm just going to end it here, 10:44pm and continue with my video montage :)

Readers, why do you continue to read the life of a melodramatic girl who is untalented and silly and really just dreaming? Is it funny? I think it might be. :)

nine days away to the end of the world.

I can hear them talking about me outside.

How I cry too easily.

I don't know.

They don't understand my insecurities.
Even I don't understand why.

Why I'm such a disappointment.

Sometimes I think of how people can manage everything so easily.

I stalked a senior, just to find that when she was my age, she had so many commitments like Science Olympiad, Math Olympiad, National Debate, WSC, piano and other talent programs. She was able to juggle all of them so well and practise 1.5 hours on the piano and still feel unsatisfied, willing herself to practise more. She aimed to reach for the top three in her class because she knew she could do it.

...I feel so ashamed.

I remember trying to draw Benedict Cumberbatch, I failed miserably at it. At first it seemed good. But the longer I looked at it, the worse it got. Hair. Wrong. Everything. Wrong.

I'm pretty sure I was born wrongly, maybe I was dropped as a baby, that there was some malfunction in my body that made me unable to function normally.

I know I'm supposed to transform these kind of negative thinking into positivity, making sure I try my best to succeed at things. But sometimes when you've tried so damn hard and so many times you can't be sure, you don't. You just can't be bothered to face or acknowledge another failure. And sometimes you need to drown in your own misery and let it flow over you, rush over you.

I don't know what help it does.
But it makes me feel better in the end, when I'm physically and mentally unable to express my frustration at myself.

Perhaps it just means to clear your mind of all emotions, until you just feel numbed. Then you'll bounce back easily.

Writing this out. It makes me feel just that little bit better. I think I should continue with my journal :)

YAY I AM BLOGGING AGAIN

how did you guys miss me

anyway. I have been watching some random China drama (apparently their Chinese standard is better than other- rather expected, though) and it's about the era when there were dynasties and I think it was 清朝 with   雍正皇帝 or something :D And it's quite funny, amusing when they quarrel. But the way they fight- it's just BURN BWAHAHAHA because they're really good at secretly hurting people, hinting things and beating around the bush and stuff. And there was this one scene: XD

松公公：奴才最该万死！
皇帝：不必了，你这种人死一回便足够了。

And the concubines actually have ranks and whatnot! And they always say things like, "这是自然的" and "都怪 臣妾/奴婢 嘴笨" and also "失宠了". It's quite funny I think I can reply to people aptly with these lines.

Friends: Why am I always the one chosen D:
Me: 这是自然的。

Friends: You shouldn't have said that!
Me: 都怪奴婢嘴笨。

Friends: I'm so bored. My friend just abandoned me.
Me: 失宠了，失宠了。

Friends: Would you like coffee?
Me: 那是自然的。

Friends: What are you doing- what?
Me: 这是自然的。

Friends: Why don't you ever go out?
Me: 这是自然的。

Friends: Oh, you don't say.
Me: 这是自然的。

Friends: Why do you have a- potato on your table-
Me: 这是自然的。

Mom: Go do your homework.
Me: 如今，我竟然落到了这个下场，失宠了。失宠了。

Wait, what? Anyway, that was just to prove my point that you can practically answer every single question with "这是自然的。" No matter how weird it sounds.
...

This is when you stretch your arms across walls and continents and pat my back before unplugging my computer. And then you will whisper, "it's time to stop posting."

of bloodied horses and broken carriages

The world's spinning round and round and round in circles, turning on her axis, circling the pathway of the sun. It keeps turning, turning, turning in never-ending circles.

It's what they told her. Turn, spin, whirl. Forever.

And at the same time, people are going about their own circles, riding the merry-go-round of life, seated daintily on porcelain horses and carriages, their monotonous lives running past their minds, their very eyes. It's a slow slur, almost drunken and oblivious. It starts out with blasts of colours, excitement seeping through the thin, thin lines of discovery and exploration, then flashes and shimmers in the fading smudges of the rainbow. Sparks fly out in weak glimmers, piercing through the darkened (it's not even night, yet.) folds of our very skies.

And then it dies out.

Then what's remained of the inky, iridescent display melts and crumbles and mixes together into nothing but black. Putrid, evil, ugly black. And then the nightmare dawns upon us (you, we, her, him, them, all of us) and leads us to a routine of monotony, a penciled line that rushes on forever, never stopping, always the same. The headache sets in and turns all of that black into white and black again, flashing pauses of enlightenment are only mere illusions of the eerie tune the ballerina creaks and twirls to. It's desire.

Then sometimes it's too much and you regurgitate your memories and skills, sending them far, far away to somewhere much more blissful (in hopes it won't burn out like that candle that scalded you--it's the faint scent of the joss sticks lingering in the air like wisps of culture drifting away--when you knew you weren't supposed to touch it. That's red.)

And then the world falls to darkness.

Sometimes you wake up with a hangover, supported by tubes and clean, white sheets of death itself.

Most of the time, you don't.

And sometimes, you'll be kicked off the merry-go-round, off the surface of your planet, off to orbit around your own axis, your own route, a piece of rock floating around in space, undecided, lost, done.

She's probably the one who kicked you off.

It's her job, you know. Or so she thinks it's her job.

Perhaps not within the boundaries of a four-walled occupation. Something that's burning, leaking, sizzling under her sheep skin, something that's creeping up (like a wisteria. It's there, just happily settling in, curving around your finger [when you're the one curled around her finger]-- and then it kills you) beneath the pale porcelain of her doll-like innocence. Maybe it's a lust to feel cobwebs interwoven with tall, sticky tales of flaming scarlet upon your cold, clammy skin. Read the letters and words of your complicated and yet so foolish life. Read the names of every single girl or guy that's made your heart race, every single adrenaline rush you've had with coffee running down your system and pushing your head to a light, dizzy tilt.  

It's  interesting. Like abstract art, gore blotting your cold, peeling canvas-of-a-skin. Frayed threads of lost (it was never there, even from the start) life streaming down trembling, cracked skin.

Maybe it's a hobby.

A hobby with 'B's in full capitals, forced out of cracked lips vehemently with sadism pulsing down the curls of its 'Y' and dotting a glossy red neon, puncturing tanned skin. Tanned- you've gone out, but not all out. She's gone far too out. Too far. Like some disoriented moon drifting on the light-headed wisps of hell, skipping between the lava and orbiting- twirling- in its own path, destroying a black hole or two. (They were never big enough to capture her. She would dig and gnaw at their insides, till her nails bled, all just to watch them tear apart and cripple.)

And before you know it, you're off the spinning edges of the glorious ditch-of-a-home. She's laughing, her passion-smothered eyes haunting your last memory, and she's the last person you'll ever see again. You've just been kicked off the planet and left to spin, float, drift apart in space, your bones eventually breaking apart into a million, billion shatters of what you could have done. They dissolve into the thin, thin air (oh, what is air, when you've already departed from life?) and stir faintly around you, before even your own name, your own memory disappears and rots away to a finale of creaking doors and stagnant air.

There's really, nothing much to it.

And you're off the chain, the metallic stains of supposed freedom releasing its hold (grip, tight- suffocating grip) on you. And you're dead. Just a waste of space. Nothing. Nothing more than a disfigured lost cause (that you always were) waiting for nature to claim you back into her gentle arms.

Really, you're always being kicked around. Why don't you ever kick back?

Your morals(teachings on how to gain enlightenment and live forevermore, when you're just dangling precariously on the edge, waiting for her eyes to label you as her next target). Your fervent hope for a better future, forever living by the mantra that claims your kindness will eventually be rewarded. Yes, rewarded. She'll kick you off this nasty world, live the last moments of your life in sheer fear. Sheer realisation the world just is as bad as you might have thought. At least you know the truth before she's unhooked your fingers from the puppet strings you were clinging so tightly onto. Fall away as a helpless victim before the world can transform you into one of those monsters.

Fall away, then.

Fall away.