456: Wander (SOC)

456: Wander (SOC)

A human. Many humans. Earphones in. Tonight I feel like an album made for slow dancing, and honestly, I don’t normally listen to this album unless I’m alone or feeling the need for alone time. I sit in this once brimming mall area, watching the deciduous leaves of thin branches sway with the persuasion of the evening zephyr. I watch the rotating white mannequins, donned in the latest trends, and in watching them, I think of my not so recent ex, whom I broke up with some odd eight or so months ago. His habitual expenditures, expensively cheap tastes and insatiable impulsiveness when it came to bargains or sales. He probably still checks OzBargains daily like clockwork. I think of him, and I miss him, all his flaws, our memories together, the good and the bad. Now it feels good to not have to answer to anybody, to spend more time with friends old and new, to think for myself only. Yet there is still a lingering feeling of emptiness, like I want more of something that has only been present in my life for less than a year.

Being in love. Really in love, having fallen so deeply in love that it becomes a trap, your trap. He is the first thing on your mind when you wake up, and the last thing before you go to sleep. You think of him even more, having ran into him unknowingly a few days ago. His face, all the same. He doesn’t seem to have grown in height. His eyes looking at anything but not you, but cleverly focused away, as if he had not seen you before you saw him. You think of the boy who acknowledged you through a simple nod that late November, early December – for the life of you, you cannot remember; perhaps you have blocked the memory – before he returned your diaries, perhaps never opened to be read. After all, the day you gave them to him, the day you gave him a little part of the younger you, he concealed them behind an unused shelf. Or so the story goes in your mind. His face, his eyes, his smile. He really was the whole deal and it was your fault that it ended. Or perhaps neither party was at fault, but you still feel responsible. An aftermath, the lingering memory cells that remind you of once overthinking and manipulating so many scenarios in your head that it overwhelmed you. Your grasp on the relationship, the memories start to fade the more you try to hold on them, and the songs change. Now you remember yourself in the throes of depression, clinging onto a crumbling illusion in which you had unsuccessfully, yet emotionally, invested. The slow dances in the dead of night in a low lit kitchen with a lover, they come back to simultaneously kiss and bite you, a painful memory of past nostalgia and unbridled naivety, something you have since desperately tried to rein in as the summer starts to ebb and stagnate. You forget about all the past for maybe a few minutes and your eyes start to wander the streets. How beautiful the lights are, the nightlife…how could you ever turn your back on a city that made you? The corporate offices with their brightly lit cubicles, a world you may never find yourself in. You cast a few looks behind your shoulder, taking careful note of the abandoned bike on the footpath. Its twisted red frame, and you turn your head over some angles to better adjust the image before your eyes. Maybe if one squinted, its outline would represent that of an injured individual curled up in a foetal position, frozen in time. The lost memories and livelihood of this outline shakes you, and you stop looking back towards it. You turn a corner and think to yourself, I have not seen a single drunk person on the streets tonight, yet it is a Friday night. Perhaps you are on the quieter side of the city. You pass a bar playing live jazz or country – the notes confuse and bemuse you – and you observe middle aged men and women clustered together, nursing drinks you most likely have not yet had the privilege of tasting. It is time to refrain from engaging in heavy drinking, staying sober, being the best version of yourself without the haze of alcoholism to guide your loosened tongue and limbs. Today you have discovered the terrifying beauty that is hot coffee, enabling you to run on the odd few hours of sleep for the whole day. It bothers you that you could spend up to thirty dollars a week on coffee, so you make a mental note to convince your dad that now you are an adult and can take on responsibilities, it is only fair that he teach you how to operate a coffee machine. The sea of fatigue and exhaustion seems to set in as you sit on the bus, recording your memories, your feelings. You are so thankful for the privilege of sight, sound, taste, movement, smell.

How empowering it is to be young, but how wasteful it is to enjoy it without the preservation of the moment.

 

~Serendipitous

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455: It Has Been So Long

455: It Has Been So Long

It has been so long since I wrote something for my blog. It’s almost like I abandoned it. But I have to keep to my quota of at least 5 posts a month. Even more of them next year, but still. So here it is. Even though I am writing on my phone, and not really thinking about what I would normally write if I had been sitting down in a “romantic” place.

The posts become more and more intermittent, and with each new one once in a while, they deteriorate more in quality. I feel sorry for myself that my writing skills may have dulled a little, but my ability to make new memories and preserve them with photos, stories, dreams…they are still as sharp as the first day I set up this blog.

One day I hope to write a book. I am trying to follow the train of thought that came before this, but one day I hope to write a book that is a culmination of my experiences, of the human experience, a celebration of human lives, our lives, all unavoidably intertwined with each other. I want to preserve the experience, the privilege, the power of our five senses that we take for granted everyday (yes, I know we have more than five, but I’ve always written with the main five in mind). I want to preserve every memory, the joy, the happiness, the melancholia, the pain, the phantasmagoric realisation of how simultaneous the presence of mundanity and beauty in our lives is, how gorgeously romantic yet grossly misunderstood and misrepresented our own memories and nostalgia can be to others. I keep speaking of a novel, but how can I be writing a novel if all I do is work in the daytime and party when the sun sets? It is difficult to say. Inspiration comes and goes. Perhaps the most difficult thing to say is that I have, in a way, almost forgotten about my desire to write. I feel the shame in me rise to extraordinary heights, the self-beration, the spiritual self-flagellation, for how could a torn and lost soul misplace the need for preservation, the need to be heard, the need to be read, the need to be beautifully appreciated in an almost bemused yet serene way? Although now that I have finally admitted to myself my wrongdoings both in writing and in thought, I only feel but a lingering residue of remorse. One day they will, no, we will technologically advance to the point that we can have a dictaphone for our thoughts, a private dictaphone for which we can record and play back these endless streams of consciousness, save the potential blockbusters, groundbreaking bestsellers, tap into wells of creativity that have-more often than not- dried up with forgetfulness. One day I’ll be able to stop forgetting my dreams while I’m awake, recall them in perfect clarity rather than reciting summaries of summaries, rather than reducing these cinematic motions to nothing more than a few shaky frames, rather than letting thick cobwebs of fallibility shroud them in forever lost archives in the endless recesses of my mind. One day, one day…I think this, I walk home in the semi-dark, thinking of typing the words as they come to me, instead of waiting for the perfect opportunity to sit down and let the creativity flow, because there is never a perfect opportunity, just as there is never the perfect moment to break up, just as you can never be fully ready for what is to come, but ready enough. Walking, thinking, bus rides, train rides, they will be my “ready enough” times. The next time I unknowingly board a train of thought, I’ll run with it. Up and down the corridors, cross each car, bump into strangers, mutter empty apologies under my breath, chase the words as I think them, as they pop into my brain, as they run away from me as soon as they appear.

Now I listen to the crickets chirp, the breeze blow gently, my slow music, walk slowly home, about two minutes away if I continue at this pace, and I feel this insanely lucid rush of creativity stagnate just a little, a car rushes past, it is the eve of the eve of New Year’s Eve, when I cross the road in about twenty seconds, the magic will be lost, the Fantasia that plays in my ears and my mind, no cars come by now, the street is quiet except for my footfalls and the crickets. Now I am five seconds from home, and the magic dies as I exhale. When I look up from my screen, it’s as if I teleported here, having not caught a bus or train home, or whatever it was. Like I’ve been in a trance, and must return to the obligations that occupy my life when I do not pursue the hedonistic lifestyle…

~ Serendipitous

427: Kemple (Recovery)

427: Kemple (Recovery) 

Not his real name. Took it from a movie script I was reading a while back.

Kemple is a sweet and genuine guy in my grade who goes to the boys’ school. I met him in coaching school in junior high (?). I can’t remember, but he was in my year 10 classes at one tutoring place I used to go. Anyway I recently started speaking to him again. What a fun guy! Ambitious, genuine, knows what he wants, inspirational, the lot. What a good friend to have. Kemple also takes French Continuers, so occasionally we’ll text each other in French.

So wholesome. He has sweet music taste, too. Old school.

Hmm, I’m speaking too much for one day. I like Kemple. Kemple is a good guy.

 

~ Serendipitous

416: Heize

416: Heize

I discovered this wonderful Korean rapper Heize through a Youtube mix playlist of Keith Ape’s It G Ma which is one of Alex’s favourite “leet” songs, so I decided to give this genre a try although I usually like listening only to Beenzino or Zico. I can’t listen to Beenzino for a while because of the sentiment I’ve attached to the songs from before, way back when, so yeah…

She’s so lovely and pretty! She has good songs too. I’ve been playing her songs non-stop on Spotify. I wish I could go to her concert event on July 1, but who’s preparing for trials then 😦

Hahaha

 

~ Serendipitous

And July is my favourite song right now.

409: Intoxicated

409: Intoxicated

I think I am drunk, but I’m not sure. Maybe a light buzz. While I was taking sips I was feeling these warm tingling feelings in my ears, in the soles of my feet, blossoming warmth in my chest, my throat on kind of embers. I had a big glass of wine. My sister said it was two standard drinks.

I took a shower afterwards and I think it’s worn off. My family is mostly made up of people with high alcohol tolerance. So I think I kind of have high alcohol tolerance but after calling my honey maybe not and my fingers are shaking typing this. Maybe it’s because it’s freezing and I don’t have enough clothes on.

Honey was laughing when I was drunk off my ass. I could hear him laughing but I just couldn’t do anything but spill out all my thoughts and yes I remember everything I said I told him how I feel about him and everything that happened in my day in full detail and I love him but he probably doesn’t love me as much as I love him but I’ll fix that I know I can hahahaha I am a drunk fool for believing that

I am so fragile. I just turned eighteen. Hello adult world. This is going to be tough to navigate. Please don’t give me a hangover. I got school tomorrow, full day and two periods of maths. And I am not even seeing my honey. He’s got that science project he’s got to finish. Call me back honey I love you! I’m not even that drunk anymore. My heart is just pounding some furious, but that’s about it.

White wine. I tried white wine. Tastes weird and disgusting but the feelings it gives me, man…give me more of that. I’d drink the whole 4.5L carton if I were depressed.

 

~ Serendipitous

Tl;dr good birthday. No one sang happy birthday to me but I don’t care. Most of my friends didn’t even say happy birthday to me until way after school. Whatever. My honey said it first. Well technically, Angela said it first, but she was 6 days early. So my honey said it first. I love my honey! Love me too. Love it. Eighteen is going to be a bittersweet ride. No more alcohol until after HSC, I guess. Eeek.

Ohhh yeah and who’s that fucker who keeps commenting on my posts (you can’t see them because I didn’t approve them).

poiuytrewq000 – you fucker come out I don’t know who the fuck you are but show yourself. I tracked your IP address and apparently you’re in Chifley, wherever that is. But IP trackers are terribly inaccurate. What’s with the throwaway email address savonna77@c7fk99.com ? Who are you?!?!?! What do you want from me?! There are only two guys I’ve ever kissed. And it isn’t either of them. Own the fuck up. Norman? I don’t even know. How can I leave someone and how can I think of you if I don’t know who you even are??? Confused.

Yeah I should sign off. Eighteen is lit. So is alcohol. Don’t drink too much. Good grades are important. I still want to get into dental school.

11.33 pm April 27 2017

Yeah what the fuck April 27 is really mundane. No one really has this birthday and no one really remembers what happens except for me because it’s my birthday and it was just a normal day of school and everyone went about their business and you know what the only good thing was, coming home to a cake my dad slaved over and alcohol and my family gathering and my honey calling me and laughing when I was drunk. People are fun. You’re fun. I love people. But in all honesty I was just glad there wasn’t a lot of attention on me. All good. I should stop drunk ranting.

Oh man what’s that Hemingway thing, write drunk, edit sober. Fuck yeah. I should do that. I fucking love Hemingway. I love literature. Honey let’s read together. Come into my world, and my crib. I’ll show you everything. I’ll open you up to life. Fuck yeah. Ok I should sign out for realll

 

407: Carousel

407: Carousel

I would be lying if I said that I didn’t feel like life was just one big carousel, going around and around on a wooden horse and feeling alive, but also feeling dead at times.

Today I want to go on the carousel. The music, the lights, the painted horses. With my honey. His smile, his laugh, his whistles make the carousel just a little more enjoyable. I fear that the carousel will accidentally malfunction and shut off or throw me, blindside me, but the thought of him there to rescue me, to rescue ourselves, is all I need to keep riding on the carousel.

 

~ Serendipitous

Fucking 6 days left until school starts fuuuuck

405: Helplessness

405: Helplessness

There is this lake that I know of. That we know of, actually. Sometimes I visit it alone, sometimes he visits it alone, but over the last few days I’ve accompanied him when he pays a visit. I take a lot of walks, but sometimes I stumble upon the lake when I least expect it. Not today, though. We come to the lake together and I beg him not to go too deep because the last time I did alone, I almost drowned. He barely registers my words as he dives in, still clothed. I don’t have time to strip or hesitate, so I dive into the water, too, and it’s damn cold but so is he, and I feel like today I might lose him forever. I told you I’d love you like I’m going to lose you, but today that’s what it is, that I still love you so ardently but you always want to find out what is at the bottom of the lake, even if it is at the cost of your life.

Honey, you swim so fast that I can barely keep up. My vision was blurry to begin with, but the gap between us widens and soon you are nothing but a blur in what seems to be a far off distance. I know you’re still going down to the bottom, but why? I came with you in the hopes of convincing you that you didn’t need to swim all the way down, that there is nothing down there except death and the bones of those who sought the bottom but received eternal sleep instead. You escape my vision and my swimming speed slows and slows until I feel like the water is overflowing my lungs and the bubbles are filling my sight instead. I grab at my throat begging for the air that will never come. I beg for us. I’m not ready to die. We still had so many days left together.

I don’t want my last memory to be of you abandoning me so you could wallow in your pit of sadness. I feel so helpless, knowing I can’t reach out to you and help you, because you refuse my help, because you don’t know how to fix it, but I’m trying, and you won’t let me.

Honey. You’re not the only one suffering in the lake. We’re both running out of oxygen.

 

~ Serendipitous

Please. Let me help you.