Twilight series…

Okay, two seconds ago I mentioned this.

Twilight series.  Stephenie Meyer.

Do it.  Read it.  I can’t imagine not enjoying these books.

PS.  Edward.

PPS.  Don’t read too much of the info if you’ve not gotten through the books first, especially not the FAQs.  Despite the clear warnings, I still managed to skim over things I didn’t necessarily want to know about the third book…

But do check her website out for some more on the books.  Especially helpful during times of withdrawal, unless you’re a glutton like me who managed to read every single outtake and special chapter in one night.

Stephenie Meyer’s site, Twilight section

The fourth comes out this next fall.  If you have any good ideas on holding me over until then, feel free to suggest.

A fairy tale’s silver lining.

Once upon a time, we were happy.

Whether I say it because I have to believe it–we all do, sometimes, whether the underlying is truth or not, and I quietly wonder whether it’s more true than false, or vice versa–is not the point.  We do believe it; we were able to smile then, and we’re able to smile now, looking at pictures of smiles, remembering words from smiling faces.

We were happy, and it’s bound never to be the same.

Nothing stays the same.  That’s stagnant.  Anti-progress.  Things have to continue on, and voices have to fade.  Smiles are renewed.  Is the twinkle in the eye?  We change.

Just as I’ve changed now.  I peruse through my iPhoto memory, letting it whisk my true memory back, and I appreciate the times for what they were then, and think of the difference between me and me.  I am essentially a whole different person from who they know, and as I keep wandering back into myself and who I probably should’ve been this whole time that girl gets lost even further into the distance.

Will they ever forgive me, or is it really such a matter?  After all, I’ve nothing to apologize for, since this is no intentional wrong-doing.  But I do know that what will feel to me like an improved version, a beautiful regression into something more pure and essential in myself, I will disappoint them.  I live life more purely now, and I sound like a stuck-up prat to even claim it, but it’s true.  I smile more easily than even those smiling pictures could tell.  I flit happily from friend to friend, undeniably in love with every step along the way, in love with the way life is, in love with the way I feel.  I’m actually able to write again, though I have this sharp tendency to want to mirror newly beloved characters more often than I wish.  (Read the Twilight series by Stephenie Meyer.  If you’re smart, you’ll buy all three before digging in.  If you can’t find the next book soon enough–don’t blame me.  I’ve officially warned you.  Bookstores aren’t open at 2 am, after you’ve finally pried yourself from the closed back cover long enough to remember my brilliant advice and curse the next six hours of sleep.  Likely much deserved sleep, but you won’t want to.)

Parenthesized book review aside, I’ve moved on to something new.  There’s no changing back.  What’s next?  And how much of my past gets left on the timeline?

You won’t like me when I’m angry

Well, I’m not angry, really, just frustrated.

Group of people at old school all knew me, were halfway friends with me, but none of them acknowledged that along with each other, that they had this in common.  They could have, might have chosen to get to know me better, let me in the ring, but they didn’t.

I’m halfway grateful, because some of these people ended up causing mild tribulations in my life.  But I’m halfway pissed, because instead of crying in my dorm because I was alone, I might have at least had someone to call.

Though, now it’s no longer worth the angst, as I’m better friends with the ones I still need and love, and I don’t mind the others going their own way.  Some, I don’t mind if I never have to see again.  I will probably have to, and I’ll behave in a manner becoming of a young woman, kindly and cordial and nothing more, because I’m a good functioning member of society and don’t think hurt feelings are worth my own satisfaction.  And I wouldn’t be satisfied anyway.

I don’t understand the notion of revenge.  I have never felt gain from it, nor do I think I really could.  There’s nothing better, to me, than coping and quietly moving on and away.  Past is past, don’t you think?

The point is this:  lonely nights suck.  But I’m willing to bet that no one knew I was alone.  That’s worst.

My fault or theirs?  If it was mine, I’ve changed.  It won’t happen anymore.  That’s a promise.  It’s already stopped.  Theirs, then I can stop thinking I screwed up.  I don’t really mind anyway, either way it’s fine, but I’m just, for this fifteen minutes, curious.

Traveling (motto, traveling…)

Eh, no one gets that reference.

It does stuff to ya, though.  For me?  Makes me sick.  Food poisoning, then I lose my voice?  No one said anything about fair.

I’m thinking I might end up with a life somewhere down this road.  I don’t mean that I’ll move to Thailand.  But something’s happening.  I’m just finally picking up and getting ready for it.

I’m nothing like what I was three years ago.  Two.  One year ago.  Nothing.  It makes me sad that there are people out there who think I’m still that me.  I didn’t like that me.  If I met me of three years ago now the only thing I’d want to do is hand me some hot cocoa and tell me to get over it, that I would, and that I have to be stronger.  Time to grow up, I’d say.

I like me now.  I don’t like that I’m shy.  I can’t talk to boys I think are cute.  I can’t always find something to do on weekends, but it’s okay.  I don’t need to.  I like me anyways.   So there.

Scared.

I edit because I care.

It seems to me that I am about to relive the pain of jumping without arms to fall into, all over again.

How can there still be things to be upset about?

And for what is not the last time, I surrender the fight.  Can she be happy?  Can he?  Then let them.  I can make logic from this, and eventually I will believe it.  I’m strong enough to handle this, and I’m well aware that in this situation, I have the least to lose, no matter how I might feel while I let it go.

It’s just…how to avoid the regret, I’m not so sure of.

Oops?

Okay, classic overreaction.  Mejor Amiga makes sense, thank God for that, because I can run off with something and completely lose a grip.

I do still have colossally bad timing, though who knows.  Maybe it’s all right.  Maybe it’s not.  I’m willing now to let that one figure itself out.

実は、私自分には信じないから。あたしの事が忘れに優しく出来ると思うって、だからあの人はあたしが忘れる。バカみたいなあ？あの人忘れないよ。

希望があるよ。それが人生には一番大事ない。でも希望がある。

I’m not translating that.

seasons

We all think we’re so grown up
So experienced
We know so much
And I’m so afraid
Of the day
We all find out we’re wrong

The world of seventeen
Gets more broad by forty-three
Seasons change
In a way
Where fed up
Was years ago
And snow falls
Before the sun
Gets its chance to go down
Before leaves
Even get to let go

Like the blooming
Of so many flowers
Taking place
Over so many hours
And the color
From another sunset sky
With the age
People change

Innocence fades

A to Z, or maybe Y.

So much of my life just happened.  Did you see it?

No more waste of time.  No more enduring.  These days are what I’ve got, don’t you see?  I can’t just wait for them.  I have to live them.

I worry about the day I lose this feeling.

Can’t I just be this naive forever?

Look, look, a post!

I know, this is…unbelievable.

But I had some information of interest, and since it’s something I’ve posted about at length, I thought I’d share.

Next year, I am spending eleven months in Udonthani, Thailand.   I leave in five months, and though it may not be Japan, I am completely excited and nervous and predict complete amazing-ness.

It’s getting harder and harder to think about leaving, though, with one boy becoming increasingly sweet and wonderful.  My mantra stays: take life as it is.  Enjoy what you can while you still can, because regrets aren’t my sort of thing.  And I would regret passing this boy by.

Well, D’s next, isn’t it.  I plan on divulging a little about the unknown Dutch-American culture.  Trust me, it’s more interesting than it sounds right now.

Mata ashita.

C for Calendars.

In my Japanese class, we occasionally play some memory games with kanji, just for the relief of playing games in class.

Frankly, I rock those.

I have a mildly photographic memory, so identifying pictograms is pretty thoughtless.  I haven’t lost once yet, and Japanese sweets are good enough to motivate me not to ever.   On occasion, though, the prize isn’t just amaimono.  I have two pieces of very pretty wrapping paper and a calendar, won from three separate games.

The calendar is ancient.  1968, made by the travel bureau; each month has a corresponding painting from prominent artists of the time.  I started cutting out the pictures, and I’m thinking I’ll make a collage for the extremely blank span of wall above my bed.

My favorite is one of red flowers.   I’m a sucker for red flowers, but not roses; I remember how sad I was that poppies had to be used for drugs.  Suddenly, I felt like I couldn’t like them as much since they were used for bad.  I think the red flowers are poppies, though I can’t find the picture right now.  If they are, if they aren’t, no matter, they’re going in the middle of the collage.