453: It’s Been a While

453: It’s Been a While

Truthfully, I haven’t found the time to sit down and actually write something. If I briefly pass over the twenty-three odd days that have come and gone since the end of exams, it’s difficult to summarise with anything other than indulging in hedonism, and losing myself in dreams that seem too real, that seem to blur that fine line between reality and the realm of imagination. Coupled with having vivid dreams and excruciatingly clear memories, it does start to be a bit difficult to distinguish between the two. Of course when I’m not outside with friends or just outside in general, I’m probably either sleeping or aimlessly wandering on the Internet. Usually lost in my own thoughts, wondering about other people, the nightlife, my future, other worries, succumbing to the pleasures and pains that life offers me, boring things, silly things, strange things. Unfinished thoughts, sentences, lost thoughts, grappling with figments of imagination, broken fragments of slippery dreams lost in translation because of the miscommunication between the conscious and the subconscious. Engaging with my unconventional dreams of looking like a young and employed writer sitting in a coffee shop or a public dining area, not blending in and just being myself. Something that maybe I have done too much, yet too little of. I wish I had engaged more with my memories on paper. My biggest regret is not recording every single moment of my life, or every single thought, but rather that I neglected to take the time out of my day to preserve the threads of the tapestry my eyes weave before me, the forever moving picture that never really stopped or started; it was just there, I guess, but the longer I leave it to decay in the deep recesses of my mind, the more I forget, muddle up, embellish.

Is that not what they say about nostalgia? Going down memory lane, tripped out because everything is the way you remembered it, but coming back to it now, it kind of feels different, like thin, glossy film veiling your vision, or your memories, or both. Actually it’s difficult to know, but the more you trip, maybe the more you notice the bad things, the little, stealthy motions your original eye missed because you were so blinded by love or your constant pursuit of approval that ends up being a fault. Withdrawing from nostalgia trips are difficult because you don’t know, well, sometimes you don’t know how to feel after it. Renewed, displeased, hopeful, ashamed, wistful? Really, it’s difficult to know. For me, though, nostalgia trips aren’t really what they’re meant to be. For me, it’s a mix of the past and the future, peppered with snippets of the present. I prefer to call it being on artificial psychedelics 24/7. It’s easier that way; it’s easier when I don’t have to distinguish between reality and dreams because I am always dreaming, always living in my own world, controlling what I can or cannot do beyond the confines of the education system. If there ever was a time where I did not shit on how god awful the system was to me, to many of my friends, to many other young and younger strangers, that time is now. I have never been more grateful to possess and continue to develop a love for the English language, literary works of art, an acquired taste for thrilling and moving films.

Speaking of which, I went to see Goodbye Christopher Robin this morning. Such a moving film. Anything that focuses heavily on familial relationships, the desire for approval, love, marginalisation (is ostracisation a word??), those really resonate with me. I cried during the film, towards the end. I guess you could say it elicited a strong emotional response from me if we were still in HSC English. That also reminds me, I should probably get a start on my novel. I found it incredibly challenging (or maybe I was just lazy or preoccupied with other things to write those fifty thousand words). I’m not sure. I came here, to where I used to study often and alone, so that maybe I could write something for my novel, but I only ended up writing my next blog post. Whoops.

 

~ Serendipitous

I want to write an alcohol ballad, for my blog. It’s been a while since I rhymed words and wrote a poem, but I guess I’ll give it a go when I get home.

 

344: Jacaranda Bells (written Friday 11 November 2016)

344: Jacaranda Bells (written Friday 11 November 2016) 

-originally there was no title-

It is a fine spring day. The sun shines, a zephyr blows, the clouds shimmy across the sky, the plants are alive and the jacarandas are in full bloom. The zephyr sings in the trees. A bird tweets, perhaps calling its lover. The jacaranda tree is my favourite. It amuses me. It inspires in me a sense of freedom, of enlightenment, of passion. They line the sides of West Street close to school. Bits of purple heads are littered across the ground. Internally I weep for the little heads who have become brown from being stepped on. I weep for which becomes a part of the pavement. Should a shower or gusty wind makes a stop in town, the pavement will be clean in the morning.

I recall when I was younger and spared the fallen by walking on the side of the road instead. In my haze of petulant ignorance and disregard for the world as it was then, I realise now that I was, in some way, attempting to preserve their beauty, to prevent myself from ruining such a fine thing. Jacarandas are such fine trees. They mark the imminence of summer, and the final echo of winter dies with the blossoming of an infinite amount of delicate, lilac, purple flowers. Those lopsided bell shapes that I have come to love, their impossibly short lives, their unique perfume. I remember collecting some on my way home from school as a little child, clutching them in between my little fingers. My fingers are not so little now; perhaps I could hold more now, if I left to pick some up. I carried them home in the warm grip of my hand, and I put them in the dish holding water for a pot plant I owned. I placed the pot plant on the windowsill. I adored the little jacaranda bells.

Maybe it was a few days, less than a week before the jacaranda bells began to wilt. The smell of flowery death permeated the room, engulfing me. In my haste to dispose of the dying heads, I had forgotten the little brilliant beauties they once were. It is a moment of my life I cannot care to reflect upon on a day to day basis, but when I do, I think about how symbolic that is, symbolic of my identity, of who I am. Somehow that makes me fear me even more. I admire beauty in its young form, in the form it is most beautiful, trapped in the idea of its false immortality, only to fall bitterly disappointed as a victim to reality, the possibility, inevitability of death. I did not hold onto them even in their dying moments. Perhaps I am overthinking it, people throw out dead flowers all the time, that does not mean they are bad people. I don’t know. I’m not sure. The way I cast them aside so readily in its final moments…but for now, I sit comfortably alone, admiring little purple bells that have not yet detached from the twigs that hold them high up in the tree.

 

~ Serendipitous

I wrote this while I was waiting for you to come, honey. Hope you like it.

330: The Simplest of Heartbreak

330: The Simplest of Heartbreak

“I waited for you, but you never came back.”

This morning, I was in a lot of pain. All my nerve endings were on fire. The carpet of my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. The peanut butter toast I usually have for breakfast tasted bland and dry. Sadness washed over me, for crunchy peanut butter is supposed to be rich with the nutty flavour that wakes my brain. Our hearts were broken, but it would mend. Eventually. But that’s not what was on my mind this morning when I was taking the bus to school. What am I doing with my life? I stopped breaking hearts the moment I met him. But I suppose my dark side is always finding ways to invite trouble into my life. Even in the haze of sleep, I understood that something terrible had happened, but maybe it was because I had overdramatised it. I guess I did.

I fell asleep without saying goodnight.

 

~ Serendipitous

I’m so sorry honey. We’ll go to sleep earlier tonight, I promise.

Okay.

195: Who We Are (Crazy Gradient) [written Friday 13 May 2016]

195: Who We Are (Crazy Gradient) [written Friday 13 May 2016]

She thinks of who we are. We are fifteen-, sixteen-, seventeen-year-old girls in our second last year of high school. We have our heads bent down, crunching numbers, algebra bashing, plucking fancy words from thesauruses to accentuate our essays, to push them over the line between a band 5 and a band 6. We spend our days in the library now, occasionally in the sunlight if we seek the banterous company of our mates. Our youth is not immortal, and yet here we are. Here we are with our heavy books, loud music and our empty questions. Here we are, some of us with lifelong dreams, others with binoculars to see into their future, others with no dreams as of yet.

She thinks of who we are. What we want to do when we leave this bubble, this prime stage of our lives. What we want, even though we have no one’s permission. What we secretly desire, things which would make us outcasts. What we hate, all these things make up who we are, as individuals in a cohort of girls. The experimental grade, the guinea pigs of our state government’s education system. Let’s bring in the NAPLAN and get rid of the Basic Skills Test when they enter third grade. Let’s make a new online science test for them when they finish eighth grade. Let’s give them an online science exam worth 40% of their yearly grade when they end tenth grade. Let’s tease them with a potential promise of abolishing the area of study when their HSC rolls around. And so on and so forth. Yet as a cohort we have persevered, survived the tests thrown at us by those who are not on our level.

She thinks of who we are. Our unique attributes, our varied handwritings, our different voices, our different hair colours, our different tastes, hobbies, music, passions, lives. Everything. She thinks of all of them.

Who we are now, these images, memories, feelings, they are all so important to her, yet she is so detached from them all. These are her perceptions and memories. Why? She doesn’t know. The human experience? She doesn’t hope to unlock any of the secrets. For now, she quietly observes, thinks, reflects, wonders, dreams. These people, part of her life now, but what about in a few years’ time? Everyone will go their separate ways, released from chains that shackle them to academia, pursuing dreams now made chaseable (omg it’s not a word!?!?).Who is she, what is her role in all of this? The observer becomes the observee, becomes the one, part of all the action. She will either succeed or she will fail. She tries not to think of either outcome, there are a few more days, weeks, months…until there won’t be anymore. She thinks of how much she will change. What she will find that will become one of the many major turning points in her short life. Who she will meet. Who might be able to soothe and warm her emotionally detached, empty heart. Who might be able to make a significant impact on her. Who might be able to direct her onto her righteous path all along…

She thinks of who we are, who we were, and who we will be when we part ways and meet again years down the path.

 

~ Serendipitous

In brackets is Crazy Gradient because I started writing with a new grip and slant, which has either slowed me down or sped me up a few times over the last day. I’m still not sure if I should write like this. I will upload a picture soon…

 

192: Firsts [written Wednesday 11 May 2016]

192: Firsts [written Wednesday 11 May 2016]

I’ve been too busy to write. Assessments and whatnot. Sorry, dear.

A little girl of seventeen years of age sits in a desolate classroom with the sweet whispers of the wind faintly calling to her as she sits with a mixed taste of ashes and oranges in her mouth. The tangy orange sits on the carpet of her tongue, but she holds a wad of ash in the cavity of her mouth. A bitter disappointment, a bittersweet loneliness, a sour envy. The only source of disquiet is her own thoughts, disturbingly negative, borderline suicidal.

She has grown out of that phase, the early, confused teenage years allowed for teens to discover themselves. It is not her time to go. She thinks frequently (at night) of the time she goes (or forces herself to go). She thinks of the people she will leave behind, the writing she will abandon, the memories she will erase, the emptiness of her bedroom, her families’ lives. She thinks of her unfulfilled dreams, wishes, accomplishments. The worst favour she could do herself would be to leave at such an untimely stage in her life. A list of firsts she hasn’t really crossed off. In no particular order: the first book, the first kiss, the first boyfriend, the first taste of coffee, the first full marks on an exam, the first love confession, the first apartment, the first time being away from home indefinitely, the first child of her own, the first university degree, and so many more firsts. At this rate, it would be impossible, always an inopportune time to seek the afterlife, or lack thereof.

Hmm.

But she doesn’t really think of leaving that much, not really. Only when she’s alone, when the only person she can talk to and let her personal thoughts be known to, … is herself. Of course, however, there will be some things that a girl not unlike herself will even keep things a secret from the very person she is (i.e. she will keep secrets from herself). The subconscious, others call it. Two years of philosophy are lost on her; so are two years of French, her junior years, awkward conversations and interactions with people who are not like her. They are all lost on her. She is a lost soul. She will only write short stories, poems, letters to no one in particular when she has the time or when a mountainous pile of academia is beckoning to her with their menacing blank expressions. She sighs when she thinks of the eight or more exercises she is behind on. But then she thinks of writing a letter to her future husband, whoever he might be (or not be). Her palms shake when she thinks of who he could be, of the words she might say in the letter. What shall she say to him? For a while she forgets about who she is now and thinks of who she wants to be and how she will be like when she meets her future husband, perhaps at university. For a while she abandons all her responsibilities and passively takes on the responsibilities of the future. She wants to be that lady, the woman who finds her future husband at university and then before she’s twenty-eight she’ll be happily married, and she’ll be that lady who has children she loves and a man she’ll love and she’ll have the career she has always dreamed of (none of that corporate ladder climbing) and…

When she thinks of these things, she bursts out in laughter mid-thought. She knows she is being absurdly ridiculous, yet she continues to think in this way, hoping for a miracle (?). No, not hoping for a miracle. Maybe she enjoys the thrum of her heartstrings as she allows herself to fantasise. To be honest, it’s all a joke to her. Her mother unknowingly set it up for her, set up by the society, it is the way they want it. But then, if this is not what she really wants, what is? She doesn’t know. She has illegitimate, illegal thoughts, desires, impossibilities. She never talks about them.

The little girl runs away to write a letter.

 

~ Serendipitous