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Hey. I almost missed my first entry today but I woke up and remembered to. It's been a long day and I feel drained. Sleep. Strange, isn't it? That scientists have all sorts of theories about sleep and unconsciousness and all that is only a tiny fraction of what death's like, and they‘re clueless there. And when you're asleep with all these dreams in your head… what kind of dreams would you have… when you're dead? Dreaming in death would be like the purest golden sunset rose, the sweetest taste of emotion, the darkest midnight sky. Kinda makes you think.
How is it you can, with no more than a glance, let it all go like so much sand through your fingers? The memories shared and the days we spent together are ours and ours alone. No one else in this world will ever remember the laughter, the joy, the times we spent with one another. How do you let them go so painfully easily? I don't want you to leave. But take the memories with you, if you go. Spare me the pain of lying awake at night missing every second of you and remembering what heaven was like.
There's a pocket of time everyday between the time you switch off the light and climb into bed and the time you fall asleep. The time when you're lying in the darkness, slowly dozing, your mind subconsciously wandering and sifting through your life. It's a magical time, that. All sorts of dreams and old memories come to you. Last night I drifted, staring at the ceiling, when I suddenly remembered a book I read when I was very young. I managed to scribble it down before I lost myself again. I wonder if, one day, you'll come to me then.
It's an interesting, wearying thing, having a pastor for a dad. When he talks to me about anything he just goes on and on and on like in a sermon. This can be good sometimes, but usually these talks last at least forty-five minutes long. I've learnt not to bring up points while he's talking, or he spends half an hour rebutting my statement. Like today. He spent an hour telling me a story about one of his visits to an old person. I had no idea what point he was trying to make. Oh well. I still love him.
I've been watching movies like Romeo + Juliet lately. And there's this thing about romance stories, that they talk of the tragedy of love lost when one of the characters die, leaving the other grieving. But I guess they have to end the story in death, rather than talk about the even greater tragedy of watching the couple drift apart, slowly, painfully, never talking all that much anymore, each having to live with the grief of the once-dream falling apart. Because, all too often, life IS more painful than drama. Where do you go, when all the tears have dried?
And there was a park and a willow tree under the stars and the two of them holding one another. And he held her close and she kissed him on the cheek and he felt his heart move as he stared at the sky. "Stay by my side forever?" She only laughed, then picked up the fruit knife he had been using to cut the apples and thrust it into his chest. And his eyes stung with tears as she wiped her bloodied hands on his shirt, then left, never looking back at the dying eyes that watched her leave.
Been thinking lately. I have memories, see. Memories of beautiful things and memories of painful things… My memories. Yup. It's been fifteen years… and I already have so many things I'm holding on to. People… places… Times… A lot of these will never happen again, and exist only in my memories… I fear to think about what will happen when I'm old. Think about all the memories, all the passions, emotions, joy, bitterness… all the feelings I'd have. Memories of now, even. But memories hurt… they make me remember and long. I want to forever remember the way things are.
You know how they talk about how loving does not require having? That if you really love someone, you don't have to have the person? Well, bullshit. Everything we do in life revolves around us, you see. Love… everyone wants to reach into someone else's soul and touch it, leaving a trace of themselves behind. Who doesn't want to be remembered, loved? I think that's what love really is. Being accepted from the bottom of the heart… Being important to someone. When someone comes along that needs you, accepts you… that person should become the most important person to you.
Stay in the present, stay in the now. Sleep. Dream of the past, of the things that could have been and of the things that were but will never be again. Dream, knowing that if I wake up you won't be there anymore. Sleep. Tears do nothing but wet my pillow. There isn't enough time, in life, for sleep. I guess that's where death comes in. To make up for all the lost time. So many days I just feel tired bitter world-weary resentful lacklustre cynical worn-out disparaging shattered disillusioned devastated embittered crushed lost angsty discouraged lonely. Look, no ‘jaded'.
I do know, what all of you think of me. You think I'm too caught up in my own selfish world to know what it means to feel. But I have. I'm not as shallow as you think I am. You're not the only special person around here. I know what it means, to love. Love is not magic. Sitting your ass down waiting for princes and princesses doesn't get you anywhere. I had dreams, once. I thought that my one love was the one love. I thought forever was forever. But you see… you learn to avoid the disappointment.
Let me be sad. I have a right to, you know. Let me grieve, let me heal, and maybe one day I'll be back. It's true, I guess, that when you're lost no one comes to find you. But for now… maybe I don't want to be found. Let me wander, for now. Let me mourn and let me cry and let me find myself again. I need to find my purpose in life… or it'll be no different if I'm dead. I found that reason, once, but it's gone now. So please. Let me grieve. Let me be sad.
Stars shine. I whine. Pine. Wine. Whatever. All I really want to say is that I want you to come, come back. Whine. Whine. But really. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure I want you back, after all's been said and done. Strange. I miss you, though. Is it possible to miss someone and not want that person back? Because I miss every depressingly careless beautiful move of yours, every sound of your breathing, every clichédly wonderful part of being with you. But having you back would be emotional suicide. And I dream of loving you again.
Love is a gamble. You play and you think you're winning and everything's going well until you get that "oh shit" feeling and realise the dice's been rigged and that you've been gambling way more than you intended to, and you lose and you get that irresistible urge to go back and redeem yourself. It's pathetic. If I'm going to lose anyway just let me lose, don't bring me up to that terrible, beautiful point of view before dragging me down again. Pah. I really should stop going over this topic. But, you know… you're all I can think about.
The depressed rain fell and sloshed romantically in the cold streets, feeling particularly dejected at the couple so blatantly ignoring its fall. The dripping wet boy was staring at the girl, also somewhat drenched. He tenderly brushed a loose strand of wet hair from her face. "Do you love me?" The girl slowly smiled and nodded. Then the boy grinned like an idiot in sheer wonderment and joy, broke away, stared up into the sky and yelled, "She loves me! She loves me, she does!" Somewhere up there, someone threw a lightning bolt at him, and he never spoke again.
Obsession is a strange thing. What is it about us, we human beings, that sometimes we get so caught up in this strange passion, and long after and desire a particular object… or person? We crave possession… the joy of having. Power. I guess that's what it all boils down to. Doesn't everyone wish they had control over what went on in life? I used to wonder why evil villains in cartoons always wanted to take over the world. I guess this is it. If things don't work for me, I'll make them work… This train of thought scares me.
The Internet is a dangerous, dangerous thing. I mentioned last entry about power and stuff. The Internet is power, in a sense. You can't buy music cds, download the songs. You can't get laid, download pornography. Hmm. They say power corrupts. Well, I guess it does, but there's so much more you can do with power… I suppose you could rephrase that to "power corrupts corrupt people". Everyone has the potential for evil. It's just the barriers you create to prevent yourself from living out your dark fantasies. I think too much on these things. Should write about deeper stuff.
When I think about it, I've never really been alone. I've always been able to fall back on my family, my friends, hell, even school. There's always been somewhere to go back to. But to be utterly alone… with no one, no one recognizing your existence…. That's pain beyond what I dare to imagine. It would be stealing away your very reason for living… Why do we exist? That answer might be closer than we think. See, we exist for the people important to us. As long as there're people who'll mourn at my funeral… I'll try not to die.
Everyone has a story to tell. When you look at the people around you… every one of them has gone through something, every one of them has known pain and grief. Some at an earlier age… some later… but we all go through these things, these fires that either burn us or temper us. And that's life… woven intricacies of stories, of memories, of people. And every one of these lives, these people… is a story in its own. The time given to us is like pages in a book. You have written in my pages. This is my story.
"A guy like you would never understand that!"
"… I understand. So what about it? Stop acting cool. You're not the only special guy here."
See, people who've been through shit don't have to look like they have. So what if you've been hurt before? Is that why you're acting like the main character in a tragedy, and like you know better than anyone else? When I make a fool of myself, and laugh, and act like a total idiot… It doesn't mean that I don't know pain. Rather, I drown my emotions in this cheerful, outer face of mine.
I have a feeling that sleep would feel really, really good if I could actually get to it. Strange. I used to remember dreams, when I was younger. I can barely remember my sleep now. Rather than rest, it has become a mire… clinging on to me, never wanting to let me go. Sometimes I wonder whether I am truly awake, or if I am dreaming. Because sleep seems so much more real, than life. I cling to sleep with a greater tenacity than I do to life. But sleep, in a sense, is merely temporary death… dreams of death.
I have this little ideal tucked away in my mind. Of living alone in an apartment, in a place with reasonably cool weather, walking down busy city streets, buying food off convenience stores, writing when I find time to, finding the love of my life, watching the rain fall, sitting in comfortable silence with the girl I love, watching the day turn to evening, and the evening turn to night, doing that old cliché of lending her my jacket, kissing her goodbye, missing her, loving her, waking up next to her in the morning when she's all warm and sleepy.
I'm beginning to understand the odd Savage Garden's song,
Two Beds and a Coffee Machine
. All I really need in life is two beds, a coffee machine and someone to be by my side through this life thing. Screw politics, screw money, screw fame. My guess is that if I had those three things… I'd be able to get through most things in life. Rest, stimulants and love. What more can you possibly need? I'm not living just to make my own life hell even before I die. Just give me my sleep, my coffee, my life, and I'm set.
Sometimes I just want to run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run run up to a cliff and look down at the sprawling skies and let myself fall.
I have found the ultimate non-alcoholic stimulating relaxant. Mix two heaped spoonfuls of Milo with three heaped spoonfuls of coffee powder in a large mug, add two spoonfuls of condensed milk and stir with hot water before topping up with milk. Works for me as the kind of drink to drink when I come home exhausted and still have ridiculous amounts of work to do. Kinds of takes my mind off the day, relaxes me, then gives me motivation to actually do something. Works well with a cheese-and-onion sandwich, except that the latter gives you bad breath. What the hell.
Sorry I was late, guys, but when I woke up today I tripped over my duvet trying to get out of bed, and nearly broke my shin, so I rushed out of the house hastily dressed, when I saw an old lady crossing a road, and I knew from primary school that I was supposed to help her even when late, so I tried to help her but she thought I was a thief, and kicked my already-sore shin, so I fell and almost got ran over, but then I saw a cute girl, so I got up and danced.
The clouds float gently over my head, like birds, but unlike birds they don't shit on my head as they float gently over it. Which is why I like clouds, I suppose. All they do all day is to drift here and there and watch people from that privileged point of view; laughing, I suppose, at the stupidity of the human race. I wish I was a cloud. Hmm. How can you be a cloud, anyway? They're all made of little drops of water… Must be a dreamy feeling, that… coalescing and separating from the other clouds in the sky.
I want her to notice me. I want her to talk to me like we used to do before. I want her to be able to talk to me without treading on broken glass. I want her to confide even a small piece of herself in me. I want her to need me like I need her. I want her to know just how much I think of her. I want to tell her how beautiful I think she is. I want all sorts of stupid, selfish, impossible things that won't happen because I screwed up, as simple as that.
It's during times like this, when I read or hear something, and I start feeling mildly depressed, that I really wish I could have shared some memories that I don't have. Maybe it's a pathetic attempt at trying to feel important to somebody, but I figure that maybe if I were there, with the people I hold important to me, maybe they'd remember me more, think of me more, and hold me as important to them as they are to me. just let me be there, just let me share that same timeframe, just let me breathe the same air...
"I suppose it's like that... But I have this ideal, as you get to know people… that soulmate thing. Someone who you feel perfectly comfortable with, someone who you can always talk to, listen to, and never get sick of. And even if you do get sick of them, loving them anyway... I don't know if that happens in life, but it's an ideal. I guess what you live for matters more than what you actually live…"
"Wouldn't it be nice if life could be so perfect."
"It can be, I suppose, if we don't expect too much from people."
Then there will be a sunset, and I will be running across the golden-hued grass. The sky will be overflowing with rose and gold, the sweet scent of wildflowers will be in the air. You will be lying in the grass, watching the sky, waiting for me. I will run to you, make a stupid excuse why I was late, and collapse next to you in the grass. Then we will laugh, then watch the sky and talk about everything under the sun as the golden dusk turns slowly to dark, covering our sprawling sky with the purest night stars.
So. I've come to the end of this month. It's been a wild time, recovering from all that happened in the first two months of the year, trying to micromanage my life and smile for people. I've written a lot of rants and whines in these 3100 words, and I hope you'll forgive me. Maybe sometime, when I'm a better person, I'll be able to write another month of words… Until then. I'll try to live well, for those who are important to me. There's still a long road ahead. But I'm hoping to find something good at the end.
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