Don't think I can stand it, seeing your name

I realise I write in this blog because I just can’t speak to most other people this openly. For some reason I can have other people talk to me, and it’s easy, but I can’t talk to a lot of other people, or really any so far. Maybe it’s just stubbornness, maybe it’s fear of being judged, maybe it’s that in the end I just don’t want anyone to feel close to me. And for the rare occasion that someone who I can actually want to talk to comes along, I just don’t know what to say anymore. Maybe I just care too much for the situation, for the circumstances. Maybe I have this need for such things to be perfect. Or maybe I’m really just afraid. In the shower, in my sleep, in my dreams it all becomes so easy. But such isn’t the case in real life.

I’m so scared of growing up. I want to grow up. I’m so confused about it really. If in my mind I “grow up” then maybe I can finally not care so much about, not emphasise so much on things that are so “childish”. An adult can have no use for sentiment and purity of memories and feelings. And yet if I were younger then I can focus on just the happiness simply through my naïvete,

I’m expected to take care of people. I take care of children. And as such I can’t be a child myself. I’m not allowed to be. And suddenly I realise that’s all I ever wanted to be.

Except I want to grow up. I want to become someone who deserves things, is worthy of things. And if I grow up I will slowly forget.

But if I grow up then I will slowly forget.

Growing up has much less to do with age than it has to do with how people feel about that age. Being twenty doesn’t matter, but feeling twenty does, and feeling and knowing that you are twenty can be devastating.

The older me is too afraid. The younger me is too hopeful. The result is that they both end up lying to me, intentionally and unintentionally, respectively, and succeeding.

if I'm an idiot, then I'm a pretty remarkable idiot.

I look downwards to the side. I scratch the back of my head and ruffle up my hair.

The thought "man I'm kinda pathetic" passes through my mind.

If these were medieval times, I'd probably make a pretty decent jester. Really, I'm just here to provide entertainment.

Sometimes I feel that the best entertainment would be to not be there, however. If there was a peak, and it already passed, then maybe it's better to have that remembered, instead of my trying to smudge that memory by doing anything more, regardless of what I would want.

I'm kinda jealous of those who don't know what they want.

The truth is I bruise too easily.

Some times I just can't shake off this feeling of constant scrutiny.

And that's probably because it's not just a feeling.

I'm some times kinda jealous of those people who can post what they really feel on their facebook statuses, or say what they need to say through their gtalk/aim away messages. And it's not because I want to share it with anyone. I don't. I just want to right it somewhere that I know won't be erased, which would mean online. But I know that if I did, everyone would ask me what's wrong. And this is the only place private.

They'll be concerned. They'll try to help. And they'll be sad for me. And that's so messed up. Really, it's sad when they put themselves in a position where they think they can care about what deals with me. I'm not saying I am in a position to look down on them or care about them, but at least I know that I could actually help them. And quite frankly it's because they are helping themselves, except they're doing so indirectly by making me help them. The only people that can help people who need help are those people themselves. We only believe otherwise because we choose to have the help come from an external source, or at least tell ourselves it is so.

D told me that during my 5-hour deliberation, and I know for a fact those deliberations are mostly sessions where people try to either shit-talk or feign a superior portrait of sympathy, J had actually cried for me while talking to K. Cried for me? I was so amused. Especially when she's the one for whom I had to provide constant stabilising support and assistance? Maybe I'm sounding a bit bitter, but I was just uncharacteristically amused at the thought. It's almost as though because I never complain, never say I have problems, never bring up worries, that people think I am troubled? But I digress.

There are those people: they ones who care, and think they should, and think they are good because they do and saddened because they feel they can't do anything. Then there are those who are happy because they think that if they try they can do something and believe it. Then those who care and do but then care more about how they would be affected--how if I would still be one who can be credible as one to sustain people's unity and shared images.

"I just want to be let alone for a while. At least for a little while for once."

I thought about exactly what can let people be happy. And it's actually simple. Not easy, but simple. And it's just the world. It's to be the world and to have the world. To be known by everyone throughout the world, or to be loved by one. To have every thing there is to have in the world, or to have one. I don't know what's easier to achieve, but I honestly now think that the former is the easier to work towards, while the latter, well, I have to actively try to not think about. I shouldn't be naive, too hopeful. It seems so much smaller and so much closer. But it's not that the flip-side is it is actually far--it's that it was never even there. Actively being realistic means being free from fear.

Every once in a while I'm terrified.

"Thursday Afternoon"

Verse 1:
I woke up on a Thursday afternoon
and found myself with nothing left to do.
Maybe I'll just let myself wander.

I took a stroll down memory road.
I'd like to see where this street goes
as it led me straight to you.

Now I can't help but wonder-

Chorus:
Will you miss me?
Will you miss me?
Will you think about me after tonight?

Will you hold me?
This may be the last time
that I will see you face with my own eyes.


Verse 2:
Thinking back to 'fore my graduation,
there sure were some funny situations.
But my laughs all come out in sighs.
Now I'm stuck on this one-way street
sidestepping for the bittersweet
memories as they drive on by.

And I can't help but wonder-


Chorus:
Will you miss me?
Will you miss me?
You know I'll be thinking about you after tonight?

So won't you hold me?
This may be the last time
that I will see you face with my own eyes.

Keep these memories open wide.


Tag:
Lalala


Verse 3:
To the countless heartfelt goodbyes,
to the future and the rest of our lives,
to perhaps someday meeting again
when years have passed but you're still so lovely
and we can smile sincerely
Here's a toast to everything.

Almost two years.

Yep, almost two years.
Sigh...

Amnesia and indigestion

What happens when an amnesiac regains his memory? It's not as simple as suddenly remembering what was forgotten and everything's all fine and dandy. For the longest time the mind just stays in a state of confusion, unsure of what is what anymore. Through the metaphor of writing a song, it is like composing an intro, the first verse, the chorus, et cetera. But when you are somewhere in the second verse the intro suddenly gets erased, and after you finish that verse the intro is rewritten, but in sequential placement. And so once you play the song, it sounds rather eccentric, with the introduction being heard after two verses and a chorus.

In the same sense, the cure of amnesia induces the experience of the past after the present, warping the logical continuum in the sensing of time. You transform into a person you had once been but no longer are, live a life that was once yours but now belongs to someone else entirely--someone who doesn't even really exist anymore. You relive a past that is gone. I don't mean you re-experience some memorable happening; it's more like you are who you once were, undergoing some insignificant, inconsequential event, such as taking an afternoon nap or brushing your teeth, except in the past. More simply, it's like finding a jigsaw you had once solved years ago and rebuilding it. Nothing changes, but you sort of feel as though some part of your mind is how it had been back when you were first trying to solve the puzzle. Like having a daydream or fantasy in which the scenario is your own past, but you don't remember, or rather, don't wish to consider the "future" which is in reality the present.

And that's all fine. Except in the back of your mind you feel a slight pull from something that's trying to drag you back into reality, or in this case the present. And even though in this daydream of yours you obviously would not know what lies in store in a future relative to said fantasy, a rational sector of you brain warns you against continuing into that future which you had already experienced. Therefore you unknowingly try to stay in the relative now, though that is simply no longer possible.

I guess what I'm trying to say is I just had a pretty vivid dream. Or can I even call it a dream? It's not exactly "bad" per se, but still having the effect of inducing an undesirable feeling in my gut. I think I'm gonna write a song about my gut now. Though I can't shake off the feeling it'll wind up being some ditty about indigestion. Bleh.

Exodus 3:10

As I stroll into a
local bittersweets cafe
I sweep a glance across the boards
I notice a nostalgic phrase

Sitting in my chair
the chills from outside I bear
as the doors open and two's come in
still at those simple words I stare

For a limited time try our "Vanilla Kiss"
I imagine the recipe must be

Take one part forgotten memories
Add in stubborn personalities
Mix in youthful naivete
And a dash of mint to keep the flavour cool and sweet

Walking down the road
my nose bitten by the cold
my heart is numb from before
yet my soul now warmed by memories so old
its bittersweet taste is still on my lips

Crs

Do you remember the taste of how we used to be
Do you remember the aroma of the cool grass beneath
Our backs as we lie together you and me
drifted off to sleep