First thing’s first, I was locked out of my account because I forgot where I put my list of codes to log in (typical) and the text code feature wasn’t working, so yeah, I couldn’t post during Christmas week. A shout-out to Kris, the Happiness Engineer that got me back in. You rock, dude.
I know 2014 has been absolute nonsense to some of us, sprinkled with the good things that propelled us forward. It’s 100% a possibility that is an understatement for many of people. Just thinking of last year, how close it is to this one still, rouses up some upsetting feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t like it one bit. Personally, sure I was conflicted here and there but on a more general level, a more connected-to-humanity-level I am disgusted with the senseless loss of life born of ignorance and hate, saddened and hollowed with the people lost from the air disasters and the boat ones and the train ones and those guys in the stampede in Beijing on New year’s day.
I don’t know what it takes to be someone to govern a country, city or town but it has to take a lot of brass. Every leader has his or her own agenda that affects ‘the people’ but I reflect especially on Russia and Ukraine, on whose affairs I’m not qualified on any level to speak on with any authority but that of a concerned and curious outsider, I ask not only those two leaders but all those involved in peace making in that conflict to do one thing: look at the people.
Yes, aid has pouring in as best as it could and I am at peace inside that people sill care enough (what does that tell about my outlook on humans? A post for another time probably). Again, I have not a clue about the mind numbing effort it takes to organize and make treaties and attend talks and make decisions affecting the lives of billions. But for a moment, can we all just step back from the political and religious extremism (I am not pointing fingers here) that usually start all this clusterfu-
Look, just step back, okay? Boys and men, and the girls and women in the battlefield. No longer fresh faced and ready. Angry and blank. Hot and cold. And look at the children huddled under rippling blue tarp in a hastily put together shelter some places familiar and those others foreign, alien; lost family members, festering wounds, chapped lips and spasming bellies, meticulously portioned food; mothers and fathers sick with worry, elders with bleak eyes and maps etched deep into their faces, souls ready to skedaddle out from their ears.
Two of my most favourite teams. All I could have hoped for was for at least some one winning or at least a tie but not ever at nil-nil.
Ugh the gut wrenching that went on in our living room. Yellow cards, trips and flips. Stubbornly refusing to cede a goal, or that was, until Mario Gotze shocked us with that neat shot! Oh my God, that was a surprise.
Argentina might have lost but boy did they defend! (on the whole, that is, *ahem*) Romero, though. I honestly thought they couldn’t have gotten past him.
You look at some people, at their outward appearances and you judge them to some length. It think it’s instinctive but I also think it’s important to treat it as a hastily scrawled sticky note. One can’t fully ever know a person, no matter how long you’ve known someone, heck, they don’t even know who they are half of the time. I can attest. I want to kick the habit of insta-judge but that doesn’t mean I’ll make friends with any and all. I believe it’s instinctive, this measuring up, for the purpose of self preservation for at some level whilst meeting for the first time (for however briefly) you try to pick up vibes, peaceable, proceed-with-caution or run-the-frak-away. That said, everyone fights invisible wars. Ugh, what I’m getting at is … how to put it?
Here I am. Great things are expected of me and such, you know how family can be (if yours is like mine), supportive with bright eyes and two thumbs aggressively up. Here I am, a chronic-insomniac who is slowly gaining ground in the battle of accepting myself, my fat lazy ass self. I subject myself to self-hate sporadically for various reasons. Sometimes I am so mad at me to the point that I am afraid of what I transform into.
I sit on the roof. It is a cap roof, if a wind should blow with gusto at a certain angle my house would be decapitated. Get it? I sit here dangling my bare feet whilst the sunrise emerge like a growing splot of spilled tea soaking into my grandmother’s Colgate-white table cloth, but in fact it was black in the beginning of things. In a multitude of pinks, lavenders and sly bright oranges, the colours bleed across the skyway.
I smell morning smells. Felt morning feelings. Saw morning sights. I stay awake to feel the world shake the night like a favourite fuzzy blanket, reluctantly. I think of how recently I was taken by the urge to chop off half of my below-the-waist chestnut hair. I can’t say why for I don’t know yet. I made my mother do just that a few nights ago. She did so, also, reluctantly. Another thing, I have taken to wear my post-braces retainer again. My gran frequently reminds me of what a waste two years of self indulged pain was. I finally decided to put the damned thing on, freaking aesthetic compulsions.
Here’s my offering for this week’s Picture it and Write! photo prompts hosted by Ermilia Blog. I must admit this was was a half hearted attempt but I would truly appreciate your thoughts. Cheers!
Another day has caught up with me. The night giving way to the morning, but not without a struggle, for I sensed the rain before I heard it pelting on the cold zinc roof. The chaotic many-tiny-fisted pounding echoed with the way I’ve took a habit of feeling these days. What am I doing staying up, reading books that only feed imagination? At this point Percy Jackson is having a ball finding his path on his way of becoming a hero. In what way was that helpful? When see people my age getting jobs and slowly becoming adults, it prods an uneasy spot in me that gives way to hopeless panic.
I can follow up on the AL biology texts I’d thrown in a corner. But it’s not like I get into that field. I haven’t a clue in which way direction to stumble towards. The wind howled past me, sending the closed window to my right into a fit of nervous shuddering. I fancy it was trying to make up its mind too, hearing my mental distress and was attempting to choose a proper cardinal point.
If I was honest with myself I would admit that I knew exactly what I wanted but I find that my sense of duty a somewhat reluctant obstacle. I mean, it’s not like I could pack up and go exploring. I’m almost broke and living with my aunt and her husband to whom both I already owe a lot.
I should probably find a profession that involves traveling and learning. Archeology was shot down pretty gently and I’m quite embarrassed for myself for submitting to that conclusion they’d drawn up so confidently; my “Indiana Jones” phase. There’s this restlessness inside me that stirs at the glimpse of the churning sea, or at the uneven horizon of mist shrouded mountain tops, the drifting scent of fresh dew and the far cry of a high flying bird.
Aunt Em says that I am pining for my parents. That I want to somehow go out in the big yonder in search for a long gone trail. How do I explain to her that I gave up on them? Continue reading “Strangers on my wall”
So I’ve finished Doctor Who and am where everyone else is at, awaiting the rein of Peter Capaldi. My body spasms in tears and the time in between them can extend for days. I cry in quiet little tremors and every tear is like an arrow that leaks through the cracks in my skin and strikes my singular human heart. It is finally sinking in that Matt is not The Doctor on screen anymore. I mean, and we all can agree, that he – like the other magnificent men – will always be The Doctor. Our Doctor.
It bites every time a face is lost to time, if you know what I mean. Matt, oh, Matt. Ugh. I can’t ever say anything proper. I love him unlike any other. The funny thing is that at the beginning, I acknowledged him as the enigmatic Time Lord before I realized he was an actor. I mean that in a good way, and there are some bad ways it could go because I understand that some actors don’t like to be stuck in our minds just as a particular character. Matt, nah. He seems to bathe in every second of it.
I … I just. Oh for the love of custard and fish bits! I’ll spit it out. His Doctor was one who was filled with the pain on the inside but tried to cover it up under this ever fresh coat of happy paint; fresh because he mostly means it. He was the optimist, the best friend (and the son-in-law, hehe), ever the fighter and believer in dreams and bow-ties and fezzes. Matt’s energy and well-spring of vitality always always makes me feel better about myself and this world, more than any of the previous two had. I haven’t emphasized enough on how much of a goof he was but it was so obvious to us Whovians. Continue reading “Post-Matt blues: Ruminations of a forlorn Whovian”
(US and International suicide hotlines at the end)
Dear fellow humans,
If you made it past a really bad yesterday it means that you’re still here today, able to reach a computer, your eyes aren’t burning badly and too blurry from exhaustion. That’s a lot than what some people can say, the ones that collapse into an unconscious heap, sleep-starved. I don’t know what your life is like so I’m not going to pretend that I do but I have an idea of how it can knock a body down.
It’s extremely saddening to hear when someone gives up on the whole business of existing. Suicide isn’t the solution. If anything, it makes life even more terrible for those still alive. This is issue has been plaguing me off and on for the past few months; why is it so appealing? Oblivion? But what use is that? When so many people are fighting every second, grabbing with hands and feet onto the thread that still binds them to life.
“There’s no such thing as an ordinary human.”
~The (ninth) Doctor
To friends and family and co-workers and even strangers
I understand it’s difficult to spot when when someone is thinking about committing suicide but whenever you see a friend depressed or withdrawn, try to talk to them. A lot of people feel unloved and not cared for, that they’re so insignificant that their absence won’t even matter. Show them that you’re there whenever they need you.
To you, the suicidal
Don’t do it. Please please please don’t. You’re so much more than nothing. You can turn around if you try and you really have to try. If not for your sake now, think about the family and friends and the strangers you’ll never meet, because you can affect everyone of them. One man caused the holocaust, he made that difference. So what change can you, a good person, make?
“900 years of time and space and I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important.”
– The (tenth) Doctor
You can be so much more. There might not be anyone else there for you but you. You are all that you have and you can be strong. I know, personally, someone who very nearly killed herself for the most stupid reason and today she see’s what a fool she was. Not all worries are stupid, or inconsequential but if you’re still breathing the next day, well, it means that it hasn’t destroyed you. If you can survive another day then you can do it again, again … and a thousand other days.
Thank God for mothers, and if you’re an atheist then thank … the universe? Thank goodness. I love mine, and there are moments times when I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am. She’s funny, kind and well, very motherly. Seldom do I see her genuinely serious and friends, those are times to thread lightly. Like right now, I can just walk up to her and give her an impromptu hug (most hugs are, aren’t they?) and she’ll give me a mama grizzly’s feathery embrace.
Why am I thinking about mam? I’m pissed at particularly no once person or group of persons, at the entire world actually and she makes me feel better. I want to be able to talk freely, to express myself without fear of exposing a weakness and generally not give a single crap about bigoted idiots (and I mean completely not waste any braincells) because there are some things one just can’t help at a whim. But that’s a perfect world. Of course I can abruptly choose not to but that’s instability right there. I try to be this tough girl out and about when I’m still plagued by major insecurities and my mind is split and I have to consciously make decisions of what to say in response to someone. Conflicted. I will add that I’m grumpy today.
Despite the tumor-shrinking medical miracle that has bought her a few years, Hazel has never been anything but terminal, her final chapter inscribed upon diagnosis. But when a gorgeous plot twist named Augustus Waters suddenly appears at Cancer Kid Support Group, Hazel’s story is about to be completely rewritten.
It had taken me about 100 pages to really get into but after then I was hooked. I just fell in love with these two teenagers and their love story. Initially I was skeptical, I mean these were really a deep pair with all their in depth analyzing of well … everything. But I went with it, partly because I think that not everyone takes the time to discover themselves and while I believe Hazel and Augustus were both intelligent, this disease prompted them to grow up much faster. Then there’s a couple lines from a NPR.org review:
Green writes books for young adults, but his voice is so compulsively readable that it defies categorization. He writes for youth, rather than to them, and the difference is palpable …. You will be thankful for the little infinity you spend inside this book.”
How unrealistic John Green’s characters tend to be has turned me off from most of his other books – the characters in this one suffered slightly from it too – but The Fault in Our Stars as a whole is John Green’s best book to date.
Like I said, at times Hazel (the protagonist) and Augustus (the love interest, but so much more) came off as wise beyond their years. They notice this, their parents notice this, and readers will notice this. However, there is something so human about the way Green portrays them that makes them relatable. They are not simply teens suffering from cancer, but teens who doubt their place in the world, who are filled with angst and longing and confusion and hope. I can’t say I’ve experienced the exact same emotions as Hazel and Augustus have, but I can say that it’s easy to empathize with them and feel their pain entirely.
I totally recommend that you read the entire review.
This is actually hard for me to write, I know what I feel but the words refuse to leave. The Fault in Our Stars is honest, frank, smart, funny, poignant and heartbreakingly beautiful.
TFIOS is the first book where I really don’t care for negative reviews, while they can seldom be agreeable, they won’t change how I feel at all as they used to tickle the doubt that usually lurks around. I can’t remember crying so much since Harry Potter four years ago, it just seems so real. The words read themselves to me as much as I read them, I felt the emotions they dictated head on, fighting it makes no sense.