Moving On

Have you noticed how everyone always makes a big deal about moving on?
Really. Every time you leave someone behind, you fret that your life won't be the same without them. They are important bits of your life.
But the truth is, most people find it easy to leave most people behind. Being on the verge of separating from, well, everything I've ever known, I realise that I'm contemplating everything as a life-and-death matter. There is nothing to be scared of, as such. I mean, sure, there are some people and things that will always give me a stomach-ache of longing every time I think of them (which, I'm guessing, is going to be a lot, especially initially), most things, places and people are like the old dusty boxes lying in the attic. My life could go on just fine without them.
In fact, I'm certain that there are some things that I'd be better off without.
But that's always what it's like, isn't it? Histories are never fully good and worth remembering.
I guess what I'm saying is, moving on isn't really the issue. The issue is moving on while holding on to the best of what you've had. Most people tend to live in the past because they are afraid of losing their happy memories. But there's beauty in the future, and the present, not just the past.
And as it's already been decided that the only thing constant is change, moving on is completely inevitable.

So next time there's something or someone you have to leave behind, don't say goodbye with tears. Give them a smile, let them know you'll be fine. Anyone worth caring about will want exactly that.


Disclaimer: This is not for the Bella-Swan-types.

Clones

This one's for the so-called clones.
Very often in life you come across certain people who, well, remind you of yourself in ways that you would've preferred to think you were perfectly unique. But we all come across one person who, in my words, steals our individuality. Whether or not you have much respect for your individual personality and how different it is, there will always be one person who makes you want to scream: UGH!! Stop reading my mind!!

Because, well, they can't help it any more that you can. Sometimes, you find people who may actually be very different from you on the outside, but the way in which both of you think will be freakishly similar. There must be some logical explanation for these similarities, but I have yet to find it.
Until then, well, I will just be very close to scared every time my mind is read by a person, who, in my case, I have met all of one time.
That is all. Once. So it's not even influence of any sort.
So, until the scientific explanation for why some people can be so weirdly similar even though they've lived completely different lives comes along, I'm also going to secretly enjoy the fact that there is one person in six billion that I can completely and honestly relate to. =)

Time's A-Wasting

Well, they don't say that, exactly. A normal version of it.
Have you noticed how everyone has a completely different notion for what a waste of time is? According to my teachers, it involves:
1) talking on the phone: Oh yes, my Chem teacher makes a stand against this at least twice a week. No one has heeded to it. Yet.
2) Facebooking: I don't think they get the whole concept of it. Well, neither do I, but it's fun.
3) Movies: I actually agree...except for when stuff like Inception comes along. *pleasant shudder*
4) Books: You have got to be kidding me.
5) Music: I repeat, you have got to be kidding me.
6) Anything that doesn't involve studying, actually. Even sleeping.

And for me, a waste of time would constitute:
1) Studying Physics: After all the assumptions, I can only assume that the answers are all faaaar off the mark.
2) Studying Chem: Equations. Equations. Equations. Pointless Equations.
3) Studying Math: Not that much, actually. It's the only Science subject that makes some sense.
4)Tuitions: I take them anyway. I can't be expected to do a good job with the crap we learn at school that amounts to less than nothing....not that I'd count what I'm doing as learning in the first place.
5) Listening to teachers: After everything I told you they say...really? This can't be questioned.

So what is NOT a waste of time??

Blogging. =)
See? I'm not wasting my time, mom!

Leave Them Alone!

Entertainment magazines are not good for me.


Having said that, I am fully justified in raving and complaining about them.
I mean, really. How much of offscreen entertainment do we pull out of these people? They must earn a lot from these antics as well.
Because if you think about it, no teen actress would screw around with her career by posting controversial photos online. No actor would encourage rumours about his sexuality by acting in a decidedly odd way.
I mean, think about Miley Cyrus (or don't. Just don't hate me.) That girl has become more famous...or rather, infamous, after her photo scandal and her controversially Britney-inspired musical pursuit. She was a role model for kids...but hardly acknowledged on MTV or whatever, until her pregnancy rumours, and her single '7 Things', came out simultaneously. Make what you can of that.
And we, like idiots, spend an appreciable part of our time and energy thinking, talking, debating and, in male-star cases, even fighting about them (I am only referring to the female half of the world's population right now).
I mean, sure, you can look at them and want to be as good at their art as they are. You can look at them and wish you owned jeans or boots like those. You can even look at them in scorn and think that they are way overpaid. That's it.
But that's not enough, is it?
I actually happen to have heard of people who, apparently, are married to certain people in their heads. That is my definition of obsessive.
Did I mention stalkerish?
Oh, well.


I guess my point is, we have enough to worry about in our own lives and also those of people close to us, people who are real and solid and flesh-and-blood. People who actually matter. Why would you want to care about people that you probably wouldn't even recognise in person if they weren't wearing makeup? Why care about people who need glamour and glitter to cover up the real scars on them?


Really. It's their life. Leave them alone.
Or ignore me and continue speculating about Jennifer Aniston and her continued heartbreak over Brad Pitt. It's not like I care.

OTD: Over-Thinking Disorder

Having had had a highly poor night's sleep because of this particular syndrome, I decided that it deserved at least a blog post.
I've always been more or less aware of the fact that I overthink most of the things that constitute the dreary tale that is my life, but only yesterday (or rather, earlier today) did it become something of a burden, an overworked brain that I couldn't turn off. I eventually had a sensory overload of sorts.
The good part of ovethinking everything is, well, you see stuff. A lot of stuff that most people don't see, or see and don't consider much. You read into details, the small sort, and it gives you insight about things that most people look rather thrown about when you mention it to them. And it takes them a few seconds to say in a rather dazed way: 'Hmmm.....I guess you're right.'
But then, some things are just not to be mentioned, so you end up keeping a lot of your observations to yourself. That is just a side effect of this disorder: you don't usually like to disclose your observations.
Unless you're trying to freak out the subject of your attention, that is.
The bad part I've pretty much already spelled out. Your brain never truly turns off. Stuff churns in your head until you get positively annoyed with it.
The best part is: I have no control over it whatsoever. =P
Like it or hate it, if you have an overactive brain, you have it.

Welcome to My Home, Mr Turtle

My mom walks into the house, all excited, her eyes glowing at me. I sit up and ask, "What happened?"
"We're getting a pet turtle!"
"WHAT?!"
"A pet turtle!"
It turned out that one of her friends was going to India forever and didn't have provisions to take along the turtle which she'd had for over a year.
My reaction wasn't of joy or surprise, or even shock. It was just dismay.
So later that night, the turtle showed up in a plastic box in my dad's hands. My mom stared at it in wonder and joy, and I stared at her with the hope that she wouldn't go through with this, because the sight of the little thing made me sure of one thing I'd been afraid of all my life: I would never be able to keep a pet.
Not because of the responsibility it presented or because I was some sort of a nature freak and ran away if I caught an animal so much as blinking at me in interest. No. Because the sight of the little turtle, thrashing about in an unnatural (for it anyway) plastic box, gave me the creeps.
Imagine being shut away in a glass room for the rest of your life. You're just walking around, discovering your own life, an amateur at the art of surviving your natural surroundings. And suddenly you're scooped up in a net with your fellow, um, beings, and chucked into a glass room where everything around you is so obviously fake, and others outside your transparent haven are staring at you with googoo eyes, as if you are the best thing that ever happened to them. You'd just end up wondering, er, if you like me so much, why'd you put me here?
That summed up the thoughts that ran through my head as I peered at the little thing.
The chances of keeping the turtle reduced with my sister's reaction. It was a short, high squeal, and then she ran right up to me and started sobbing about how scared she was.(Hey, she's just seven..and yes, kind of a crybaby).
So after we put the little thing in a bigger box, and I convinced my sister that it would not crawl up our blankets in the middle of the night, we went to bed.
Everyone stayed up late in bed. My sister because she still wasn't entirely convinced, me because I couldn't stand the sound of the turtle splashing about in a small plastic box, my mom because she was excited, and my dad because he was concerned about whether or not we'd be able to take care of it. That night, given my sister's unreasonable, yet helpful fear, it seemed highly unlikely that we'd keep it.
Unfortunately, as the turtle did not climb into bed with us that night, my sister got over it and decided the next morning that she found it cute. I probably should've left it creeping on her leg or something.
And so, with my sister's permission (thanks a LOT, sis) the turtle became a permanent part of our home.
We got it this weekend, and it has already been christened Jolle (which stands for something like cute or something in some language), and everyone already wishes him good night.
I don't want to get attached. I can see what 'affection' can do us. We overlook the fact that those creatures don't need to be imprisoned to know that we 'adore' them.
So now the turtle sits in its glass tank, alone, probably lonely, but with three pairs of eyes surveying practically it's every movement. I prefer to look away.
I tell you, human beings are just evil.

Too close, too far

I was just reading up one of THOSE articles - where they tell you how to maintain a collapsing friendship or relationship. And one of the key points mentioned was: Maintain a comfortable distance. Don't smother them with closeness, don't be too distant for casual conversation.

That set me thinking (as always). What is a comfortable distance? Is there a measure, some particular quantity, or some sort of formula to calculate what exactly would be comfortable between people? Not really, no.
So then, how are you supposed to know if you're smothering someone? I know I've gotten really closed to some people in a surprisingly short amount of time. Would maintaing that closeness be suffocating? I have no idea. It isn't yet....but then people work in different ways.
So where does that leave me?
With a lot of questions, that's where.
 But then, surely you'd know. You'd know when a person thinks you're much too close to them, if they think they don't have enough space. If you don't get it, surely they'll tell you.
And besides....none of my Happy friendship hills is collapsing.

Note to Self: Stop reading articles by psychologists.