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.

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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

109: Thank You (written Sunday 10 January 2016)

109: Thank You (written Sunday 10 January 2016)

Thank you for being there for me
Actually, I don’t know why I’m saying this
But I think soon, you shall see
Why this is something you don’t want to miss.

Thank you for being my best friend,
For being, I suppose, a reliable rock
Because you’d always help me see through to the end
Even if it was a bit of a shock

Thank you for making me smile.
Seeing your new words on the screen
Always made me feel like I made a new file
For me, your words are like a dream

So I guess I’m just saying thank you
For everything you’ve done for me so far
I enjoy seeing the things for me you do.
To me, you’re just like a star.

 

~ Serendipitous

P.S. This is the first poem I’ve written in my notebook rather than on my computer, and it is a lot harder to compose a poem since there isn’t a backspace key. But I enjoy a good mental workout 🙂

107: Lone Afternoon Walk (written Saturday 9 January 2016)

107: Lone Afternoon Walk (written Wednesday Saturday 9 January 2016)

Didn’t want to write too much about the chaotic episode that ensued yesterday, and so squished it at the end at the bottom of the page.

You decided to take a late afternoon walk today, based on yesterday’s inspiration, and it was very rewarding. Your own walking pace, with your notebook clutched tight in your hand, listening to soothing music on a loop, lost in your thoughts and watching the view pass you by. You’d very much like to call your neighbourhood a quiet suburbia, but is that truly an accurate and appropriate description?

You took your sweet time walking to the park. It is a fair distance away from your house, but the air of serenity that surrounds you while you sit in the deeper end of the park soothes your mind, takes away the harrowing nightmares of your academic life and covers the ever-growing continuum of time. You are quite lost in your own thoughts, the tranquillity of nature beside and all around you. Away from the prying eyes of immediate family, away from the Internet, away from the self that you are when you are at home. But tomorrow you’d like to try taking a walk to the Plaza to sit and write. It will be a lot noisier, but there will be more things to see, feel, hear, observe.

 

~ Serendipitous

P.S. I’ve been so lost in these beautiful summer holidays tearing among my various personalities trying to find my real self to enjoy what’s left of the summer holidays (only 19 days left! I was still under the impression that there were 26-28 days left??). In fact, I’ve been lost to the point that I thought today was Wednesday (why, why) even though today is actually Saturday O_O I’ve lost all sense of time 😦 but I love it 😀 emoticon overload ohh

106: R&R – Repentance & Remorse (drabble) [written Friday to Saturday 8-9 January 2016]

106: R&R – Repentance & Remorse (drabble) [written Friday to Saturday 8-9 January 2016]

Thought I should get in a few words before the time of day passed into the next, which would have left me to think about the promise I broke.

The little girl of six-and-ten years will hear the quick and angry slamming of the front door. She will wait the ten or fifteen seconds before she hears her sister stomp up the stairs in her usual after-work fashion. She will wait to hear the thumping of her handbag on her sister’s bedroom floor before the inevitable footsteps she will take to see her younger sister. Five and almost six months is the age difference.

The older girl, of two-and-twenty years of age, will ask her sister where the parents are and what will be for dinner as she notices the closed and locked door of the parents’ bedroom. The younger sister will say, “Mother and Father are out, at the grandparents’. Mother said that we shall have to discuss the arrangements for dinner.” Although, in reality, she will say that, just not in so many superfluous words. Her older sister will sigh and jangle the keys in her hand. According to her, dinner will consist of foodstuffs from the local convenience store. The little sister, having been confined inside for the past week, will have decided to come with, but only after the older sibling will have proposed the suggestion to her. She will look in her wardrobe for a casual outfit, to be seen as acceptable in the eyes of the external world. Not even twenty mere seconds will have passed as the little girl tries, will try to pull a favourite t-shirt over her head. Her older sister will huff in impatience and toss at her little sister the sundress, the second-hand sundress she had personally given to her to own. She will say, “How hard is it to pull a dress over your head?”

The little girl will get confused at this. All she wanted was to look nice before going outside, but she will become slightly annoyed with her older sibling’s impatience. She will say, “What’s the deal with you? There is no need to be mean or mad for no reason.” Immediately, that will seem like enough reason, enough cause for her sister’s impatience and overall sour mood. Her sister, the one who is madly frustrated, will threaten to leave her at home. Both of the sisters know there is no real consumable food at home. The little sister will say something else now; she forgot what it was later on, but it must have been a weak jab at her older sister which she took offence to very quickly because she will now descend the stairs in a moody fashion and declare that she will be leaving the house now, without her. The little sister will be still barefoot when she hears her sister arrive at the bottom of the stairs, briefly change her mind for a tiny millisecond and stamp slowly up the stairs, as if it were in her the remnants of an instinctual need to care for her sister, but then she will turn around and go back down the staircase, and this time she will not stop until she is out the front door. By the time the little girl will have gone down, she will be just in time to see her older sister close the door on her. Time will allow her only one thought to cross her mind and it will be one word, “Bitch?”

Much later, however, her sister will pay for her cup of noodles and a beef pie, and they will walk home together with a heavily uncomfortable tension between them. On the way home, the little girl will think, “What a beautiful day to take a walk outside. There are things of the natural world that I have missed out on, and I shall not miss out on future things like these.”

Promptly after dinner, she will scrape together a few coins, six dollars in total, and dump them on her older sister’s desk along with the double Twix bar she will have found sitting at the bottom of her plastic bag while she was walking home. Then she will take an evening walk without notifying the older, which will inevitably infuriate her.

 

~ Serendipitous