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?

Nothing in particular.

I have Christmas lights and possibly the smallest but cheeriest tree set up in the corner of my room, where the laundry basket used to go.  I don’t know where to put the laundry basket anymore.   It doesn’t matter, because now (at any time of day, thanks to the amount of natural light this room gets) I am cheered by the soft glow of multicolored lights scattered about.  I still can’t decide if the pink one’s actually purple, but on to things that matter.

Did I mention the tree has tinsel and a gold star that swallows the top of it whole?

I am cheered, and I am homesick, all at once.  I just realized the day I slapped these things all up that I don’t get a real Christmas this year.  Walking outside, it’s bright.  It’s hot.  Things are green everywhere.  I thought I’d like this.  I miss white and brown and grey, sweaters, boots, the whole thing.  At least we’ll be in Chiang Mai at Christmas, which is at least cold this time of year.  But oh, the significant lack of pie, of odd Dutch desserts I can’t actually spell, of a tacky fiber optic color changing tree, and as I’m reminded right now by a tickling on my knee, a significant presence of mosquitoes.

Yeah, I know it’s early for this, but if you had exactly the setting I do you wouldn’t quite realize what time of year it is either.  Don’t worry, I’m not listening to my collection of Frank Sinatra’s Christmas songs yet.

In fact, I’m listening to 游戏 by 張棟樑.  Nicholas Teo.   I wonder if I can just study Asian languages for the rest of my life.

Thai is finally working with me, on the hearing and reading, at least.  How does one speak a language well?  I can’t quite seem to grip that (or the colloquial, either, damn it all).

Anyway, what I meant to get to is that I am homesick, and yet, I can’t imagine actually being home.  (Where’s the adventure in that?)  I can’t…imagine going back to how things were.  A lot of exchangers want things to just be the same.  Normal.  When they return.  I desperately wanted that when I left, so badly I imagined not leaving, preserving everything just so…

I want everything to start over.

Not everything.  Just everything around it.  I want my best friends there still.  (I want some of them to be much happier.)  But I want the situation different.  I’m not an Academite anymore, I’m not timid and veiled, I’m not content with waiting in any form.  I hope this means I won’t procrastinate anymore, but who am I kidding, I should be doing laundry right now.  I’m a stronger person now than I’ve ever been before, and I don’t believe in the same things anymore.  Life is getting easier.

Which is why it’s okay.  I’ll be going to Japan soon enough–this is, of course, sometime after I get a job and another job and some grant money; we’ll work on that later.  After I’m back in my home country.  Yes, sounds perfect.  Now, when do I go to South Korea?  To Taiwan?  To Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, China?  I have a lot of money to earn.  And then I have to go back to Thailand, and pretty much everywhere else.  It only makes sense to move to Asia, with this itinerary.  …Two seconds later, I remember where I am.  Too bad my visa’s so restrictive on the leaving the country thing.  Meaning I can’t.

I read not that long ago a proposal to drive disease carrying mosquitoes to extinction.  They must all die.  I’m all for it.  What are they doing in my room?

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.

Found it.

Oh my God.  That’s what it is.  I’m…

I’m happy.

Writing more seems pointless (but you know me).  It’s just so simple.  So easy.  I could be five again, I could be pure and whole and the truth is I am.  Some distant war has been won, and I can’t imagine being anyone else.  I can’t imagine having anyone else.

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.

Back again.

I picture you in the sun
Wondering what went wrong
You’re falling down on your knees
Begging for sympathy
And being caught in between
All I wished for
And all I seen
And trying to find anything
You can feel
That you can believe in

Deleted for purposes.

Everyone’s Doing It

Because I have seen this more than five times in the last five days, I’m doing this.

Once tagged by this entry, the assignment is to write a journal entry with six random facts about yourself. Then, pick six of your friends and tag them, no tag backs. This explanation should be included.

Tagged? Me? No. Bored? Me? Yes.

1. I love being surrounded by a big, knitted sweater. I consider the right sweater to be of utmost importance in life. But I’ve never found mine. The sleeves are never long enough, the waist too high, too baggy…

2. I never remember the obvious details about anything. I will remember what the font and placement of a piece of information looked like on the page, and the size and feel of a book. But I won’t remember the title, the author, chapter, page number. (Good thing I remember about where in the book the passage was.) …For an example. This happens with general memories. I might not remember the argument, but I remember the brochure on the top of the desk.

3. I want to read about everything. Most of the time my work takes too long because I keep reading, about everything I research/look up/etc.

4. I’m pretty much everything I wanted to be, when I thought about being my age. I haven’t thought much before about beyond now. When I was little all I wanted to be was here. I’m okay getting older, but I still agree for the most part with five-year-old me. (Coincidentally, my golden birthday was my fifth.)

5. I hate social occasions, for the most part. Loud parties, or places where you know too many of the people and can’t get away for a minute. (Good-bye, lounges.) I don’t like oversocializing. (Funny that I’m an extrovert?) But I love being with two or three people I love, surrounded by huge amounts of people I don’t know. (Foreign countries, Chicago, etc.) Basically, I need a sense of closed intimate, “this is my life, not theirs” sort of sense. And alone time, every once in a while. Especially beautiful at the Academy, where basically quiet doesn’t exist, most times of the day.

6.   Ah, six.  I hate the number six.  (Apparently…maybe I’ll just start now)

For real?  I.  Hate.  Spiders.  I don’t mean it in the, eww, spiders are gross, I’d rather not have them by me.  I mean the get it off me get it off me oh my God I’m going to die and suddenly I’m on the other side of the house type of don’t like them.  Completely irrational fear, but hell.  I just don’t like the things.  Applies to most types of bugs.  I’m completely not shivering right now.

It’s all been {re}done

Getting older. I’m getting older.

By no means am I old. On no account am I wise.

But every year is, well, another year. They go by faster, and they have more within them than they ever have before. Days fly by, weeks slink past, months disappear–time moves at a pace that suggests last Thursday never happened, but at the same time it’s because it feels so long ago. I’m starting to understand a little what people do to waste time, or keep it.

It’s strange to hear people talk, people barely a year or two younger, and think how obsolete that already is. For instance, the conversation about religion across the hallway. (The excessively loud conversation about religion.) I remember that conversation. It used to keep me up at night, talking the hours into oblivion trying to find a point of view amidst the collective. Now, we’ve found positions. They change, but subtly. Conversations don’t occur until a year after you’ve been living it, because with time flying and yesterday never existing you don’t even notice you’ve changed. Reflection is what life is starting to become. And I’m not old yet.

Ah, I know now why communication is so important in relationships. Sure, I understand it abstractly, but the gist of it lies in this theory of mine. Reflection happens when there’s nothing new, right? So then you want to find someone who can show you that other side of life. What’s behind the glass without the glare.

I just figured out why I write. For real, why I write.

I have the other side to someone’s story.

I don’t have to mean something romantic (though heaven knows I do that sometimes), but–I have something important to say. And someone has something important to return. Even if it doesn’t seem to mean much, it’s life. I want to learn what I can when I can. And life already started, forever ago, yesterday, so it’s about time I caught up.

I might not be posting tons more poetry. I will be writing, and like my title implies people might not even want to know. But I’m confident that somehow, just tossing out the idea might make a difference, in whatever way–and there are a lot of valuable things left in the world to discover in return. Though poetry can be quite pretty and pleasant, and thoughtful as well. I’m just not that good at it! –Always worth a try.

(EDIT! I said this in a moment of, weakness, maybe? But lately…it’s been getting extremely hard not to write poetry. Looks like there might be a change of heart here. Still don’t know if I’m any good, but I love to write it. And I’m [re?]discovering the awesome conveying properties of poems.)
…Actually, if you wanna know someone who is fantastic-amazing at poetry, check out the Boy pages over at Classic Act. Leave lots of love so Code Writer Val can show him and prove to him how smart and insightful he really is. He needs the good smack on the head.

Mata ashita.

Just another post on relationships, with no *hearts*

Except for that one, of course.

My Theories of Human Nature class has struck again. Poetry will continue tomorrow.

I’m not entirely sure what we were talking about today. Marx, mainly, not communism entirely. I floated in and out and tried to keep out of the politics. Sometimes I think it would just be easier if I were liberal like everyone else here. That just wouldn’t be me, though.

The class was discussing Marx’s theories, I was writing in Japanese, what time did I go to bed? I don’t know.

Alienation.

That’s what got me. The sentence was spoken, in plain and pure English, “People naturally alienate each other.”

I thought about my group of friends–both my groups of friends–and began a map, linking person to person. Dark lines (make your mark heavy and dark) between the people I believed were truly friends with each other. Dotted lines between those who pretended they were, and not even that hard. Dotted and dark lines, when one person in the relationship was actually convinced of its existance, even though it was known better.

It was depressing, yes, and it confirmed it: People alienate each other, even friends, for whatever reason. I can see it everywhere. An honest to God friendship is rare, and I can’t help but imagining that’s the way it’s always been.

Of course, then you take a step back and wonder, is this just how I see it? Just because I believe that to be true, doesn’t make it so for everyone. Does that mean I’m right? Certainly some people really are deceived, and it hurts to think I might be one. I might. I have no idea.

That’s the thing. So much of this relies on pure faith. We’d discussed it before: does blind faith really exist? Well, if you ask me, it sure does. I have absolute faith in at least seven people in this world, and I need it. I can’t imagine life without it.

Mata ashita.