Living.

Breathing isn't all I do nowadays.

There were some moments in the past that would have loved to make me believe that all I ever would be is them. That they would encompass everything beautiful I would ever feel, that they were all I had to live for.

Love.
It's not a lie but it's not everything. There's so much more.

So much more I could want, that I do want. So much more that wouldn't be so complicated to attain.
So much more I could do with my previously sorry existence.

There's nothing as immensely...satisfying...to the soul, I suppose, than feeling that way, yet I find myself rendered incapable of ever feeling that deeply again.

All those cracks that have finally filled up seem to have blocked the entrance to that corner of my heart that I fear, even after all the...fixing, will forever remain broken.

But there's the rest of me, not just that stupid aching beating organ, which can do so much more than pine over what is forever lost.

And even if it comes back to me, I could never take it back. I just...couldn't.

Maybe I've been rendered...romantically impotent. The good news is that I don't need this in my life.
Not in the here and now anyway.

I'm going to sweep these pieces under the rug and not enter this room any more. Leave it bleak and empty, wait for the dust to collect. Maybe when I turn the knob again after forever and push the creaking door open, these pieces would have also crumbled to fine nothingness.

And until then I'll have music and friends and...everything else I've simply neglected, when I was staying true to the hopeless romantic in me.

Let's dream again, and about things I can actually have.

The book I'm the most thankful for.

I realise that I should have done this ages ago. The reason that I even have this blog, that I've written the things I have written till date, is Harry Potter.

No, the boy with the over-popularised scar never put a spell on me, except in the figurative sense. And technically that was Rowling's doing.
I got into HP pretty late. When I got myself the first book the sixth one had already had come out.
But when the seventh one came out, I was up the night of its release, holding the blue-red-yellow-splashed hardcover in my hand, heart thudding in my chest, till 5 am. After which I couldn't sleep. I mean, that ending.


JK Rowling is definitely one of my greatest inspirations and role models, and God knows how many Harry Potter cracks I get through on a daily basis. Whether or not people get them is entirely a different issue.

But yes, I did this post because this competition reminded me to. Reminded me to be thankful.

http://bethrevis.blogspot.com/2011/10/show-gratitude-for-booksand-win-19.html

Wish me luck! :)

New beginnings.

'Beginning' is such a promising word.

It's not even a 'good beginning' or a 'successful beginning', no. Just...a beginning.

The prospect of shedding old skin and 'starting something new', as our dear Troy and Gabriella would say it, sounds very...invigorating. (Reference to: High School Musical. Because why wouldn't I?)
It's like the whole 'Breaking Dawn' thing (URGH I'm talking in CLICHES)...the sight of a rising sun is the promise of a new day. Does it matter that you still have to actually be up in time for the sunrise and drag yourself to classes called Quantitative Methods and Analysis for Business and Management? (I mean, really.)
No.

What does matter is that in that one moment when you see the sun rise above the horizon and shatter the glassy blanket of darkness, you smile and feel ready to take on shit like Quantitative Methods and Analysis. You know that you have it in you to take on every blasted college lecture, yappity-yap-STFU-friend, lonely-bout-of-tears and heartbreak.

What doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

I've had that quote in my head for a few days now and well, it works.

Sorry, digression.

But yes, in the beginning of the beginning (hah! Convoluted. At least a little.) you feel alone, anxious, jittery and constantly look at your past for shelter and comfort. Even if you've been dying to dive headlong into a new world to escape the very same past. You're poised with one foot over the threshold.

WELL, if you've got the guts and audacity to get to the threshold, just grit your teeth and get the hell out!

You know it'll be worth it.

I'm the kind of person who always carries around her emotional baggage. Letting go is an unfamiliar concept to me. I cling on to the last, barest thread of things that actually matter to me even if they've hurt me so bad that I've had to make myself let go. It's never actually fully done. It'll always be there at the back of my mind, like lyrics to my favourite songs.

I don't really know if that's the way it works for everyone, 'cause I've seen people forget, so so easily.
But then, maybe those are pretences for the benefits of others, or maybe even an attempt at trying to fool oneself. God knows, we're good at pretending.

But then, this time, I'm just going to keep telling myself, "NO!" in this firm voice I never actually use outside my head, and keep looking forward. There are twilight moments when the memories snake into my mind, of course. But that's when I jump up and say, "Hokay, time to get to...(insert whatever is to be done here.)"

Because that's how it should be.

I deserve to be happy...right?

Doesn't...doesn't everyone?

Snapshot of Me.

Ever wondered what you look like on the outside?

I'm hardly what I'd call a camera-savvy person, but I can't deny that sometimes, I wonder what I look like. When I'm battling things inwardly, does it show? When I'm being fake-happy, is it obvious? When I want to burst out into very noisy tears....?

Maybe having a camera on me 24x7 wouldn't be such a bad idea.
Temporarily only. Otherwise I'll just go nuts.

And we don't wanna know what that  looks like.

On so many levels though, I wonder what I look like. What kind of a person do I appear to be? At first sight? When you get to know me a little better? When you know me inside out?

Right now, I know I feel exhausted. And two nights of restless sleep aren't why.

But when I look into the mirror, I just isolate things. Dark circles ringing the expressionless eyes. Mouth corners turned down, unsmiling. I don't know how they come together, what they say.

I feel like I'm drowning in myself again, trying to escape from something very specific on the outside, that I'm barely avoiding running smack into.
Which..I kinda am.


Why do I have to run away every time?

What do I look like when all I want to do is run away? Far, far away.

Fear. So much fear.

I'm tired of being afraid.
Of having control, but still no control.

If only I could
take snapshots of me
put them up
for the world to see
I'd point out how
I was made to feel
since I never show
the real deal
Closet in 
on what's left of me
while they express
their sympathies
'cause they don't care
even if they know
not knowing was
just an excuse, though
They'll go on
leave me home
maybe it's better
being on my own.


Rhyming isn't my forte. Neither are nursery-style poems. (Limericks? Not technically. Those are supposed to be funny, right?)

Signing off.

Echoes.

I lean over the railing that separates me from the gushing, frothing water below. Drawing my jacket closer and hugging myself, I breathe out white in the clear still winter air. A dancing flickering reflection of my black-and-white swathed form peers back.

A black covered figure appears behind me in the reflection and puts her hand on my shoulder. Smiles. Kisses my neck. I gasp.

The cold wind whistles through my ears and the bite in it brings me back to earth. Echoes of music are drowned out as my misty eyes gaze at the water in focus again.
High notes, low notes. Smiles and tears and a lot of hurt. My heart on the floor, stomped over. I have to keep reminding myself of that.

A cold, desolate desert, and the water that was below me has vanished. The barren, frozen wasteland that seemed to be my life after you left me. Impossible to navigate. To survive.

Deserts and endless oceans later, I come to myself and see what’s left. Wounds and scars slit open again. Very little left to salvage.

Slowly, very slowly, learning to smile truly again. Smiling into a mirror to make sure it reaches the sad empty eyes.

Fake and real smiles later, going through a night without dreaming about you. Having silly dreams about cartoon characters again.

Dreams, nightmares and sleepless nights later, finding it in myself to talk to other people. Without grieving you at least once in every conversation.

Many conversations later, making new friends. Trying to look forward to the lifetime I’d overlooked in my childish stubbornness to remain sad about you. That I am still young, all of seventeen years and six months old. Not ancient, not here since the dawn of time.

Very little had been left to salvage, so I built a new self.

Reconstructions and recoveries later, looking into a mirror and feeling truly proud of myself.

High notes, low notes. Smiles and tears and a lot of hurt. My heart on the floor, stomped over. I still remember that.

But I’ve left it all behind.

Malinda Lo and Veronica Roth.

She's one of 'em.

One of those writers you just get obsessed with, because reading their stuff isn't reading the same thing over and over again. They always give you something different.

J.K. Rowling was the first on that list, and then there was an embarrassing Stephenie Meyer phase (in my defence, I know FB like a page called 'Bella Swan is the biggest setback in the feminist movement since the sandwich'), and also Holly Black.

Malinda Lo caught my eye with her novel Ash, which is supposed to be a retelling of Cinderella, with a twist.

Rephrasing required.

It is a twisted retelling of Cinderella.

Strangely enough, I enjoyed this novel. A lot. Her almost ethereal writing style just holds you in a place which is but one town and one forest, yet a magical dimension on its own.

Now she's got out Huntress, which unlike the previous novel which had the Cinderella happy ending, this one didn't have a happily ever after. Even better.

The lead picked a destiny over love.

And embarrassingly enough, I couldn't find the book online and was simply dying to find out what happens...so I went to this 'Library On The Move' blog and just...read...the synopsis. Ending and all. *cringe*

In my defence, I have no idea if the book is even available here, and since I couldn't get an ebook...first and last time. Promise.

Anyhoo, the lead in Huntress can abandon her destiny as a sage (which requires celibacy as a vow) for the girl she loves (yes, Malinda Lo seems to have a...thing for lesbianism, in both her novels) or she can give up what seems to be the love of her life.
And contrary to what we would all like to think, 'Love conquers all' accompanied by a roll of our eyes, she gives up her love. She becomes a sage.
I don't know why I find this ending satisfying, since I'm generally a silly hopeless romantic at heart (try not to show it) but I do. Makes you feel like there are more important things. Something I knew before and have to reconcile with - again.

Veronica Roth, on the other hand, seems to have brought in a completely different element to fantasy, because I can't put down her book to any other genre. It was beautiful. Just, ohmyGod addictive. I dreamt about it.
Amazingly crafted, you can't for a second doubt the world they live in, though if I ever suggested it in real life I would be risking getting locked up in a padded cell myself.
A world where we're divided based on our qualities and choices? Not race, religion, gender. Based on whether I'm honest (Candor) or brave (Dauntless), selfless (Abnegation) or inquisitive (Erudite), or just peaceful (Amity), I have a faction. And my faction is more important than the family I was brought up in - "faction before blood".

(Read the book for the rest - believe me, worth the three hours. I could just provide a synopsis, but I just finished it and I would've HATED it if someone told me the whole story.)

Of course, I could immediately relate to the chief character - that's the difficulty, establishing a lead we can all understand. And there's the hunky lead guy - mysteriously named Four. (yes, he is my new fictional-character-crush. I haven't had any in three years now, and thought I was over it. Thank you, Veronica Roth.)

But he's just so...
(No no. Don't get started.)

Aaaaanyway, the book was a massive success, staying on the NY Bestseller's list for ELEVEN WEEKS (Man!) and the sequel, 'Insurgent' is still being written. The tentative release date has been set as May 2012 (oh noez. Countdowns. And I thought it would end with Harry Potter.)

And there's Four...

Right. Signing off for now. READ THE BOOKS.

Black Swan.

I feel evil.
I feel it becoming a part of me.

If there was one thing I knew about me, that I liked, it was that I'm not evil. I may make mistakes, I may be wrong a lot, but I wasn't evil.

Evil is bad that thinks it's good.

Am I bad? And living under the delusion that I'm good?

What is good and bad?

Good is certainly not thinking "muahahaha" when someone is crying on the phone with you.
Especially not when the someone happens to be a person you care about. Or did.

I feel hideously guilty sometimes.

I feel like it's not my fault sometimes.

Sometimes I feel like I've just grown up.

Is this irreversible? I know the answer to this one.

Someone put it pretty well for me: I feel capable of hatred.
Is hatred evil, or bad?
Only when it isn't self-righteous, or reasonable.

I only know that some part of me has changed, that I now have a personal demon to train and control.

Sigh.