i am going to blog elsewhere for the time being.
the sight and thought of this blog sickens me.
i have grown to love this blog immensely and it pains me to temporarily say goodbye, but things that have to be done have to be done.
so
see ya. :)
I’m not the one who broke you
I’m not the one you should fear
-
I thought I lost you somewhere
But you were never really ever there at all
-
And I want to get free, talk to me
I can feel you falling
And I wanted to be all you need
Somehow here is gone
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And I want to get free, talk to me
-
And I want to get free, talk to me
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And I want to get free, talk to me
-
somehow
here is gone.
(300 feet of string)
sure – there were tears (again), and my universe did implode (again – though less completely), and everything faded to black (again)
but the matter of the fact is that i am still standing, and that i can fall no further.
this is what they call a dull ache bandaid over an angry wound of frustration.
drifting apart has never felt so painful.
i cannot be responsible for both of our insecurities.
i have kite string to untangle.
maybe what i really need is some alone time. or time for silent reflection.
HAH. as if i am not getting enough as we speak.
few have an idle mind as dangerous as mine.
horrible. horrible.
-
hello estrangement. hello stranger. hello stranger.
hello broken, broken heart.
pickle me in a jar. look at me. tell me i’m beautiful. tell me i’m the most beautiful thing in the universe.
broken, broken heart.
crimson (220, 20, 60). dilute. vermillion (vermilion) (227, 66, 52).
riddle me silly.
red, red heart.
broken, broken heart.
let’s board another one.
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the realisation of all the things that make me me.
the initial self-resentment, the willingness to throw it all away because of external mirrors once disproportionately important. (i seem to be constantly and weirdly consistently disproportionate)
the willingness. irrationality and logic – the lack thereof. the willingness. how could i have been so willing. disappointment.
now – defensiveness. build a fort stronger than mine, i challenge you. (you) built me a fort of conviction, of strong words, of indignance, of hurt and rage and bitterness and passion and jealousy and possessiveness.
the only fort which can mow this fort down (stupid notion – forts don’t move.) is a fort of altruism and hope and patience and forgiveness and kindness and understanding and empathy. qualities which i have never succeeded in cultivating on your plot of land.
evil versus good. this is not a movie.
the morning will come and my fort will by now have dissolved with the last wisps of fitful dreams of the night before and i will now be reduced to nothing more than a normal person.
knight(ess) of the night. peasant by morning. why do i bother waking up.
-
i sit in the last rays of sun coming in through a square window in a dusty attic
(imagine sweeney todd and edward scissorhands. johnny depp. mm.)
the most interesting conversations are the ones going through my mind. i have nothing (much) to say about politics or the state of the country or economics or what is happening in the world of influenza viruses because all my words are being consumed by the voices in my head. i don’t know any big words – i do not have the misfortune – but all the small ones wreak havoc and rise mayhem all the same.
mayhem on crack. hahahahahahahahahahahahahah. apt.
do i like myself?
i have to live with myself for the rest of my life.
-
tom and hannah are going to have to learn to take the backseat.
childish fantasies.
i feel like the kid who had to use a piece of dried fish as his daemon after Ann Coulter got to him. Was it Roger? the kitchen helper’s son or something. Lyra’s best friend. no it wasn’t. but it was a kitchen worker’s son. maybe it wasn’t. i forget.
i should have finished the trilogy when it was still “cool”.
(insert piercing and painfully accurate musing about not thinking about what other people think)
i wouldn’t give people all this shit if i didn’t care about them. i wouldn’t give people all this shit if i cared about them. everybody has their own argument, everybody is never wrong – only i am.
i am the weed that bows in anticipation of the wind. thoroughly appalling.
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there is nothing else you can do and the both of you are tired. this is no time for heroics or for the clash of egos.
let go.
let go.
let.
go.
PS. at least i’m writing now. lose one, gain one. :)
my closest friends are the best friends in the entire universe.
:)
But was it love? The feeling of wanting to die beside her was clearly exaggerated: he had seen her only once before in his life! Was it simply the hysteria of a man who, aware deep down of his inaptitude for love, felt the self-deluding need to simulate it?
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Milan Kundera
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trapped inside me is a dark, twisted and tortured soul of an artist who once ran rampant but is now shackled by propriety, soberness and a lack of inspiration.
sometimes i resent myself for not being as creatively spontanous and exciting and interesting and explosive and colourful as i think i can be.
as i think i can be. we are being mightily ambitious today.
give me the biggest box of crayons in the entire universe and give me the hugest piece of paper in the entire galaxy. tell me to draw as if my life depended on it. i will ask you for a bottle of cyanide.
all. i. want. to. do. now. is to run outside. (not when it’s dark. i am not good enough for when it’s dark. yet. if ever.) and take perfectly imperfect photos (i think i’m getting the hang of them). without having to worry about film or cost of post-processing.
i want to be free.
what would you be doing if you weren’t in med school?
i would be in art school. except maybe i wouldn’t be because they won’t accept me in the first place. i can’t play any musical instruments so beautifully they make the audience cry. i cannot draw pictures so moving they touch the hearts of millions. in fact i cannot draw at all. i cannot take photos that paint the world so magically that they whisk anybody looking at them into a different world. all i churn out is stupid boring predictable textbook-rule-of-thirds crap. i cannot write.
i cannot write.
i am so frustrated it isn’t funny.
i am in med school because it is the only thing i am remotely good at. cold, hard, facts. rules. guidelines. textbook. textbook. textbook.
i cannot even express myself in ways i want to.
all i am is this bloody wallflower who is crying for attention she doesn’t deserve. a wallflower who is shrivelling slowly in envy as she watches other flowers bloom gloriously and furiously and effortlessly.
effortlessly. all this should be effortless. people are artsy at their own leisure. they don’t even have to try. i am trying disproportionately hard to be effortlessly and leisurely artistic and whimsical.
i am the square peg that wants to be the peg that does not fit into any hole.
i don’t know what to do with myself.
i am not trying too hard. i have given up trying. how can somebody take a picture of the most mundane things on earth and turn it into one of the most inspiring things.
(i am somehow starting to sound like chong bing. haha.)
when did i lose my ability to see.
when. how. did i ever.
this is me being restless. being cooped up, away from civilisation as i know it, not having contact with the outside world.
i now know what i want to do if i weren’t in (maybe even instead of) med school
but i now know also that i wouldn’t have been able to do it anyway.
PS. i am not “artistic in (my) own way”. i am merely not artistic. not in the slightest bit.
PPS. have you ever experienced being total rubbish at something you are passionate about?
PPPS. the silver lining: the howling (literally) wind and grassy smell of raindrops on a hot tar road doth soothe my heart slightly. maybe i was a bit too harsh when it came to my photography. it isn’t half bad and i do see some character gradually developing. i just need some maturing. and now i am going to lie on my bed in the dark and just listen to the wind. good night. (oh look, my first poetic notion in a few years. glee.)
I am currently typing this from deep inside the bowels of a monster called Photography.
Help.
On second thought -
I rather like it here. :)
The world is mine to paint
I have found my voice again
(I thank my Polaroid for this)
camera girl sings for no one.
joy :)
