Smells

Well, well, what do you know? I actually posted. I feel like retching onto my computer, though.

1) Someone sprayed Axe all over the house
2) To counteract the Axe, I opened this bottle of "Lavender Scent". It's odor more closely resembled "Baby Wipes".
3) A couple of fat sea cucumbers are currently marinating in a pot of water in the kitchen. Venture near, and I find myself bombarded with a very strange odor.

It's really not that pleasant.

Nose aside, Happy New Year!
Yup. 2010. Yay! Now on to less discussed topics.

Like New Years' Resolutions :D

I have none. Do you?

--Update-- 10:28
I think I'm getting a rash from the lavendar scent.

-11:06--
Opened a bottle of Aloe Vera. Feel much better now.

Beep. Beep.

You gasp and draw in a breath of air. My smiling face fills the entirety of your vision.
"Hello!"
"Hello..." you're puzzled, you have a faint throbbing headache over your left eyebrow, and my chipper voice has only made you more irritable.
"It's okay!" I babble, "I revived you, my dear, cuddly blog!" I smother you in a big hug.
You manage to whisper "help me," to the bemused nurse in the doorway. Then you pass out.

See, this is why second person generally doesn't work. Unless I'm mistaken, you're not passed out, and you certainly haven't been in a coma. But I hope you enjoyed the bubbly me, because I don't think it's going to happen again.

I said I wouldn't name names in this blog, but I guess the person who I'm refering to will usually know that I'm talking about him/her. I won't be long, because I really should be working on that story whose owner's fake name I can't remember. But yeah, that story.

So why did I decide to blog after a month and a half?
I had a conversation with a friend who I haven't talked to in a very long while that cheered me up very much, and so I felt like writing.

So yeah. I won't chronicle my winter holidays here on this blog.
1. because after obsessively recounting every detail on paper of certain events for a few years, I've noticed that it is very tedious and it leaves very little room for creative impulse. Plus I try to write everything that happened in chronological order along with any side thoughts I had on the event, which then connects to another thought/memory, and another, and another, and then my journal entry is a hopeless mass of pages. Eventually I'll get the hang of chronicling, I hope. I've always wanted to document life. Except maybe not quite as a dusty irritable old person who lives in stacks of his [yes, his is gramatically correct.] own writing. I'd keep a cat or two. And occasionally play Apples to Apples or Mao with a friend.

See, I was talking about reviving my blog, and I was supposed to list the reasons why I wouldn't document the occurences of winter break. And then now I'm suddenly talking about cats and Mao.

Anyways, I'll probably refer to the winter holidays later anyways. And this blog here isn't for documenting [that's what my journal is for...and all the loose leafy papers that I may or may not have organized and stacked under my desk.] It's for ranting. It's for impulse. It's for blogging. :D

I think I'll end here. Eventually I'll try to do a blog entry without backspacing ever. I'll strikeout everything I want to get rid of, so it'll be like...well, you know what I mean, right?

10:04, signing out.
Oh, and happy New Decade.

I never truly know people. There are parts of their existence, parts which I share in or they divulge that I know. There are worlds upon worlds that they touch on. The only thing that I know is my own. I don't know anything else. I don't know if I'd want to. It's all too different. Sharing happiness is one thing, but sharing pain takes courage I don't have.

It's 10:39. My eyes are burning. I don't want to sleep. My heart itches. I do not know how else to describe this. This restless, irritable feeling I harbor here. I feel like pacing and screaming and banging away on the piano. But those would make too much noise for my brother, who is asleep, and my dad, who has not told me to go to bed. So I write. And I appologize for any typos or grammatical errors. My fingers are shaking too much to type properly.

It's too hard to be quiet. It does not pay to be silent. I don't care that that wise Greek once said that "I have often regretted speaking out, never that I remained silent." He must have lived in the antithesis of my world. To keep your opinions to yourself, is like condemming yourself to nonexistence. People don't notice you. You don't notice yourself. I can't keep saying nothing, doing nothing. It contributes nothing to the world and helps no one. Yet I cannot speak out. The mechanism that keeps me quiet is automatic. Anything that might motivate me to act, to help people, to do something active in the school or the community is shut out by fear. It is that simple. Fear. It's haunting me and I can't get away.

Sometimes it's best to stay inside your bubble. It's safe there. It's an easy indifference. You never know when that volatile mountain will spew forth a deadly stream of poison.

I haven't written here in a while. I have been busy on my journal and writing random rants on loose sheets of paper.

It seems to me that the words of my ninth grade english teacher and the Greeks could never be truer. Moderation in everything is the key. When you tip the balance, when you decide, or are unwittingly forced into a situation when you simply have too much, life begins to shift, taking away bit by bit until you are forced into medium.

This isn't about me. So I won't say anymore.

It was partially because of that that I drew a picture last night. I had wanted to draw one thing, a collective symbol for the past four years. I came up with a tree. That old, nostalgic tree. I remember drawing it, many years ago. I also wondered if I should draw in leaves, or sketch a likeness of all who had a part in planting that tree. But then I realized: the tree is dead. I am probably the only one who still clings to it.

I was always the last one. The last one to still want to play hide and go seek at parties. The last one to play on the playground. The last one to give up on a story idea. The last one to let go. I think it's because I am so firmly rooted in the past. I am a packrat. So I remember.

I wish my friends shared this perspective, but I'm mostly glad they live him the present, looking forward. Still, the past is what we were. So this is for them.

September 11th, Part Two

I know I just made a post about ten minutes ago, but I felt the urge to blog again. And really, when I feel like I want to write, I just have to run with it, because I know I usually don't wanna.

A quote, an important one: We all start out with the same alphabet. We are all unique. Talent is not the most important thing --- discipline and dedication are. Craft can be learned but desire and longing are innate. Despite the demands of school and just being young, try to write SOMETHING every day --- a description, a captured emotion, a simile, a metaphor. Read, for crying out loud! A writer must read the way a ball player must go to the ballfield every day to practice. Everything is possible in this world of ours--- and so's publication.
- Robert Cormier, answering the question "What advice do you give to young people who want to be authors?"

And I don't even have a voice.

Despite the previous rant on essays, I didn't (completely) forget what day it is. I know. And it's sad. But at the same time, I don't know, because I was more than half my age at the time, and frankly, it's on the other side of the country. So while I do recognize the tragedy that occured on this date 8 years ago, I don't quite know what to feel.