expLODES BECAUSE I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT TO DO W MY EMOTIONS
*jokes about making out with you until it actually happens*
Write something true. Write something frightening. Write something close to the bone. You are on this planet to tell the story of what you saw here. What you heard. What you felt. What you learned. Any effort spent in that pursuit cannot be wasted. Any way that you can tell that story more truly, more vividly, more you-ly, is the right way.
So holler. Tell it loud and tell it bright and tell it slant and tell it bold. Tell it with space whales and silent films or tell it with quiet desperation or tell it with war or tell it with dragons or tell it with tall ships or tell it with divorce in the suburbs or tell it with dancing skeletons and a kraken in the wings."
― Catherynne M. Valente (via lets-start-a-riot-)
When my brother was fifteen, he started driving. My mother taught him how, slowly and slowly each and every day until he reached a part of our neighbourhood.
But the thing is: my brother is never scared. So he became a little bit more daring on driving, as he always was with everything else in his life and sometimes, it feels like he’s trying to challenge whatever it is in front of him more than he’s trying to challenge himself.
He got a car courtesy of my half sister: a secondhand Perodua Kancil that was almost falling apart then. He started driving himself to school every morning, going in late (he always went late) and parking a couple blocks away from school grounds — there’s a flat and a whole neighbourhood around the school, it’s pretty easy to make it inconspicuous, hidden away just like the rest — and then drive himself back home.
In no way it was a walk in the park (pun intended); he had gotten in trouble both socially and legally through numerous accidents on the road (nothing big, although there was one particular accident in one lonely, slippery road years ago). Some of his teachers knew that he drove to school without license and more than a large number of his peers knew, too, and the latter wouldn’t leave him alone by trashing his car when they could, and they always found a way.
He had friends who were wayward, and I don’t think my brother ever was, really — he just fell in the wrong friend group, and got into trouble with the wrong people. I could be wrong, I never really knew him and I don’t know him now. He always kept life to himself. But I remember: he had (has?) a friend who started smoking and taking (light) drugs back then, who would fight with my brother over only God knows what. They still keep in touch, I think, because I know by the first year my brother had gotten out of high school he tried to make amends with other people — my father included.
It’s funny to me because the friend now sells e-cigarettes to some pretty big names here in Malaysia.
The first time I talked to Zeska, a Filipino girl I got to know through Twitter while we were trying to trend something, she was fifteen going on sixteen.
God, I’ve been staring at this for about an hour already trying to find the words and figuring a way to piece them all together because fucking hell, getting to know her might be the best thing that I have ever done.
But: when she was fifteen going on sixteen, eight months before her birthday, she met me. And we talked, she told me about her depression and her smoking and her drinking. She told me about her friend groups from school and about her time doing Moo Duk Kwan. She introduced me to Trisha.
I remember one video call on Skype when she showed me her magazine collection with Selena Gomez on the covers. I don’t know why I remember that so fondly, maybe because of how innocent it was?
We both made friends together through megapixels and static noise, but it felt real; it was real, every single moment of it. From every talk we ever had and every single argument we’d started over silly little things and the spark of jealousy — we were real. She showed me a different world, and we made ours.
If it weren’t for her, I don’t think this blog would have been here at all — I don’t think I would even have a story to tell. I wouldn’t have Trisha, or Bilal, or Sue, and the bond that I have with River Song might as well just be not there at all.
She’s still in the picture, by the way, nineteen and kicking and very much alive — last week we had a video call via Skype when both she and Trisha were drinking, and she took drags of her cigarette in between playing Here Comes the Sun on guitar.
They like to do that a lot, too. I call them Skype serenades.
(That one time she almost touched and grasped on Death’s cold grip three years ago was one of the first times I truly ever felt helpless and terrified.
And it continued, on and on it goes.)
But I love her. I truly do. I love that she flew over to Manila to live on the fourteenth floor of her apartment to study pre-med (Physical Therapy, I think?). I love that she pierced her ears herself, and got tattoos recently. I love that a year ago, she pressured me to ask her questions about smoking. I love that a year ago, she talked to me about my father’s death.
It feels weird typing this all out when I haven’t told her this in a long time. I love you, I really do.
Two years ago, three to four months before I started this blog, and just about a couple hours after we had gotten the news of Tohoku earthquake and tsunami - I got a tumblr message from Elia.
It was our first ever interaction, about the Imogen Heap lyrics that I put on my blog sidebar (trains and sewing machines, they were here first) and then we became fast friends when we found out that we’re both equally excited about that one kiss in that one episode that happened in that one little show called Glee.
I can’t remember much of the timeline here, but I think it was before April even approached, she posted a personal post about the situation she had at the time with her family — particularly with her father. So I messaged her, and told her that my experiences are more or less the same, and we talked, a bit. Then somehow and some way, we exchanged contacts.
Don’t laugh (actually laugh all you want), but we exchanged MSN screen names. I didn’t like using Skype at the time.
We regularly had MSN group chats - or as we like to call them, MSN parties. I remember one night in April when Anna, Elia and I were on a group chat window and we talked about the weirdest fucking things, and I laughed and laughed and felt light. We all stayed up until four in the morning, just making fun of each other (I remember we talked about Livejournal roleplaying communities, specifically the Harry Potter centered ones, and how Elia joined them) and making fun of bad Harry Potter fanfictions that roam free on Google searches.
We had our own group of friends, too. We had Sabby and Phia (who were twins), Anna (who went to school with those twins), Emelia (who was fourteen at the time), and Bea (who also went to school with those twins + Anna). I think there were others, too, like Sierra and who the fuck else — but they’re not mutual friends with Elia. I think they talked a couple times, but they’re not close, not like Sabby Phia Anna Emelia Bea and I were with Elia.
But I liked that. I liked having a group of people.
She was fifteen, who lived in the city and I never knew someone so close yet so far away. We talked about a lot of things; one night she recommended me a bunch of songs because I asked her to. She told me about how she misses Mel and how she thinks Mel is her soulmate, no matter what; about some her friends that she has (had?) and her PMR preparations, things like that.
Along with Lina, Elia would shout at me in all caps to study and I did and there are times I didn’t, and when I got my exam results she told me she was proud of me and I cried. I still remember it, I remember how she wrote on twitter about how worried she was that I was in the school hall waiting for my slip and she was in her bed at home.
She talked about people she loves a lot, and the stories that they have. I know she talked about me to a bunch of other people that she knows/knew (tenses, man) because she introduced me to her friends, they start to follow me on twitter and tumblr and all of those things.
I don’t know if she still talks about me. She probably doesn’t.
When she was fifteen and when she got her PMR results, she told me to one up her. We don’t have PMR any more, but I’m going to try anyway. When she was fifteen, she told me about the scary dreams she had about her parents and about how she missed her sister who was studying all the way in London. She told me about the brunch date she had with Mel when she was back in town, and when she went ice skating with her friends after her exams ended.
She told me to ‘Gryffindor the fuck up’. As if I’m ever going to forget that.
I almost wrote about all the times when she was sixteen and how the things she had wrote to me the days after my father passed felt a bit like a balm to the soul, and how all those times I felt so so grateful. I wanted to reminisce it all out, fully, about the night we found out our music taste is compatible and how we both go through a lot of the same things.
But: now, she’s seventeen and is already finished with SPM and secondary school. Her father passed away almost three months ago, if I’m correct, due to lung infection/cancer or something of that sort. She once told me that if something were ever to happen to her or her family, I would be one of five people that she wanted to be told first.
She told me that she worries (present, because I know her - or I used to, anyway) if I won’t be able to know, when and if the universe decides something bad to happen to align itself. She also worries that if we ever grow apart. Well, she knows we would and we will, eventually. Just when it does. She worries about that.
I don’t know about now.
Elia kept her father’s sickness to herself because she didn’t want to burden me — I dunno, I suspect it’s because it wasn’t even a year after my father died, and she didn’t want to pile that up on the shit I’d been feeling. But I told her no, just tell me. Grief is better shared.
One day I will feel bad for showcasing a story that isn’t mine to showcase.
(I feel sort of bad already, actually. Heh.)
But today and as of this moment, it’s three months until my birthday and I am still fourteen. I will be fifteen in less than a hundred days, and all I am is sad.
What kind of shenanigans will I pull in these days to come? What will people think? What will I think? Lots of people are growing up already. I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know why I feel so behind everyone else. At a time and step by step or whatever, I know that. But I feel… dumb. I feel like I don’t know anything, not at all, not really.
I know that two of my ex-classmates smoke because I could smell the nicotine on their shirts and ties. I know that one of them fakes the good student image. I know Aida has a boyfriend. River Song has a girlfriend, and she wants me to meet her. As if I want to be a third wheeler in a combination of no and fuck no.
I don’t know how to dress or what to do in the snow, but next week I’m gong to visit Turkey for five days and spend some time in the snow anyways. Wish me luck, or whatever.
But I also know this: No one stays fifteen forever. No one stays where they are forever; everybody leaves home.
pls pray that i meet new people
things i told the internet, but didn’t tell my mom
35mm film scans
some pictures about my backwards concept of privacy.
i. it’s getting bad again
ii. this week i am struggling with self doubt and the transition from iced coffee to hot coffee
iii. i want to puke and sleep for six days
iv. i still can’t sit on your couch without shaking
v. i need other people to validate that i am important because i can’t do it for myself
vi. no one else has ever told me that i am desirable with the lights on
―Thought Catalog (via exoticwild)
"we should talk more really"
it’s four in the morning and people are sweet.
also: “i’m going home. the long way round.”
toxic ass fucker who treated me like trash can get the fuck out of my life
i’ve never felt more free without you and i’m so glad next year we won’t be classmates any more