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.

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.

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.

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?

A for Apple.

I was talking to a girl in class last week.  Somehow we were talking about apples.  I don’t know how someone starts a conversation about apples, nor do I know how the conversation is kept.  Despite my lack of knowledge, we were talking about apples.

She circled her hands over a part of the counter.  The apple.  One hand sliced through.

“When you cut an apple in half, you see a star.”

I looked, a little confused, at the black spot where the fruit wasn’t.  “Really?”  I paused, imagining it.  She waited patiently, wondering what I was struggling with.

To show her, I drew out with my finger the shape I had always seen–really, just an apple.  Two odd half-circles that went too far and were too stretched to actually meet.  Just lump together.

“No, I guess it’s with the seeds.  You’re supposed to see a star in the seeds.”

My finger sketched those out, too, leaving small traces of oil, barely there, where the strokes were.  Little dash marks.

I couldn’t see it, and I’ve never heard of an apple being compared to a star.  (“Only when they’re cut in half,” she assured me.  I nodded and smiled.)  But I wish I had seen it.  I wish I could see the star, hidden in the apple.  There’s really not much to that, except I really like stars, I guess.  I’m glad people see things I don’t.

I’ve got a plan, by the way.   A real plan.  You’ll catch on very quickly.  I promise.  But this wonderful plan of mine should get me posting pretty regularly for at least the next month.

Mata ashita.