Happy Birthday, Best Friend!

SHOUTOUT TO MY BESTEST FRIEND IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD:

"I remember you like yesterday, like yesterday"

I've known you for 10 years, can you believe it? 10 years. That's a decade. Best friends for a decade, and we haven't even actually fought. I wanted to write this because this is my online address, it's where I write everything, it's like the home of my emotions. So, best friend, what can I say? Add another notch to your bedpost, we're making it.


You know, you're probably the only person who can make me feel on top of the world when I've been stepped all over, make me feel like a fairly decent person when I've done something terrible, make me feel gorgeous in my moments of insecurity. I know i can always go to you for anything, because you never judge anyone, and your advice is always realistic and it actually makes sense.

I remember all those retarded moments, like Totally Spies ;) and our mini-cake fight, and when our umbrellas got caught in thorns. Remember Mrs. Yu-Yo's, and our Why Not dance? All those practices at my house. Camp in Malacca, our home-made videos, Camp in Summerset, when we were pretending to be Lewis and laughing like hell because of the words we used. I also remember this one time, we had Pet Day, and we both sat behind some random persons hamsters and pretended they were our own :P And when we used to go onto the field to try and catch dragon flies. Remember cheerleading? OH GOD, what a catastrophe. Well, we're growing up now, and I know we've had differences, but that's the only thing constant in life; Change.

I miss you so much, while you're off in your schmancy-fancy, London-Boarding-school, playing tennis and enjoying the.. rain? I'm in my Filipino Catholic school, reading the Bible and building houses for the poor [oh yeah, heaven here I come!] KIDDING =D but you get me:

We're worlds apart.
That doesn't seem to change things, though, we're still close, `cause 10 years of friendship is no match for the thousands of KM between us.

Love you, Bloo. Have a happy Birthday :)

Feel your heart beat in and out of time.

Hovering on the edge
of newly found depression
teetering too close
to the endless pit
a haze of blue
slithers into my mind

Impromptu threats,
tainted with anger
and lust for excitement
I'm afraid.

The sadness, fear,
fills me up
til i explode
into tears

fat, salty droplets
of misery
coming more frequently
this is like the last time
a place I dont
want to revisit

empty existence,
a feeling im new to
no purpose, no meaning,
to my days.

i feel the urge
to try and cut,
seek answers in
a metal blade

Counting down
the days til
I can
escape.

Red carpet, Rose bouquets, Crowd waiting backstage.

Yesterday, I watched High School Musical 3, I'm not a fan of the series, but I enjoyed bits and pieces of it. My favourite part, however, was definitely Ryan & Sharpay's duet in the canteen. It added sparkle to the film, what with the Broadway-ish choreography and props such as the pink-haired vixens and Statue of Liberty replica. Sharpay's character reminds me a bit of the miniature diva within each and every one of us girls, the one which wants the world in the palm of her hand, the one who would love to have die-hard fans situated all over the world. The one who has a little theme song in her head which simply exclaims ego centrism and self-love. I have that diva within me, the one that wants to be a Broadway/Theatre triple-threat. How can I not, I love acting. And every actress is a little bit of a Drama Queen. But you don't have to love acting to want fans across the world: Tokyo, Moscow, Bollywood! All of us idealize that kind of life, fame and fortune, our names immortalized on Hollywood Boulevard, being called out to receive our awards on-stage, a lit star on our doors. Why do we want this? Simple. To break free from our mind-numbingly normal lives.
I want the world, nothing less, all the glam and the press, I want it all ;)

20.10.08

Last night, I wrote a passage.
Around 600 words, about 3 emotions:
Despair, Worry & Fear.
True feelings about a recent event.
And last night, that passage was unintentionally destroyed.

Now I wont be able to get the words back,
or that moment of emotion.

---
I remember when I first met him, I felt some sort of connection. Like we were two travelers in a world unknown, a world we were new in. We were different and alike in so many ways. But it wasn't just me, he sparked this connection with everyone, he was on the same level as the kids below us, and on the same level as the teachers above us, all at the same time.

The day of revelation came, I was surprised to find out I was not one of the chosen few who knew before the curtain dropped. Maybe I saw our friendship as more than it really was, maybe I made myself feel too close because of our similarities, maybe.

I didn't like the way she had made it sound so final, as if there was nothing anyone could do. I always chose to believe in hope, in that slim chance of the unlikely actually happening, in miracles.

But the day came, it actually came. And the hope I held onto so tightly faltered, withered in my hands, slipped through my fingers. I suddenly felt so much fear for what was going to happen, and my tears fell straight to the floor, not even bothering to rest on my cheeks.

If my Guinea Pig could speak, what would she say she has seen?

As ridiculous as it may sound, the objective of this essay is for me to explain what my guinea pig would say she’s seen, if she could talk. I asked Monisha to give me this task because, sadly, I feel as if my intelligence is slowly descending. Anyway, I wouldn’t be able to explain what exactly my guinea pig would say, but how I think she would react to the different things that meet her eyes.

In my opinion, she would be eating her words trying to explain all the colours and imagery she’s been experiencing in our urban residence. Unlike her ancestors, she doesn’t live in burrows or mountains, doesn’t experience the common predator, and doesn’t know what it’s like to see members of her colony ripped to shreds by those predators. She has, however, seen me naked.

Placed right outside my bedroom, only separated by a floor-to-ceiling glass window, she has inevitably witnessed me leaving the shower, water drops running down my bare back, and my hair lying tousled wet and tangled. She knows every scar, every stretch of skin, where there’s not enough meat, and where there’s too much. She knows the rawest parts of me; she has seen what even the sun has not.

Of course, she has seen other things, but how can things like the colour of the sky, sapphire blue speckled white, compensate with the image of a life-form, so different from one’s own, in its moment of truth? It can’t. And that’s what I think my guinea pig would talk about first, if only she could.

Inspiration Boards.

This is my cork board. It's not that big, in fact, it's pretty small.
It's pretty cramped, but that's what you get when you combine a small cork board and a big dreamer; You lose space.

I never fail to find things I can put on it, whether it be a photo, or a piece of fabric, or simply, a shade of a certain colour. Anything that sparks hope, or nostalgia.

My friends are on that cork board, the one's I don't see everyday, the one's I miss the most.
Sayings are on that cork board. Some appearing meaningless, but I'm weird like that: my eye can meet the plainest thing, but my mind can unravel a world unknown.

Cards are on that cork board, some question objective reality and provide no answers, some remind me of my favourite things, some simply teach me.

I'm on that cork board; my past, my dreams, my loves, and my thoughts: Me.

Rapunzel

Here she lies, after years of isolation, she finally dies.
Her golden hair neatly braided and coiled alongside her.

An unfortunate twist of fate as a child, sold to a witch for some lettuce. Did her parents not care at all? She often wondered, as she stared out her tower, if her parents ever wept over the mistake they had made, if they had ever wondered how she was doing, if they ever imagined the colour of her hair or eyes. If they even allowed themselves to think of her.

The adoptive mother was crazy, locked her in a tower "away from all the world's evil", she didn't realize she was ruining Rapunzel, taking her away from the very things she needed, and chaining her to brick walls high above society. She didn't want to become part of a fairytale told to little children; she wanted to dwell among them.

There was some happiness, though, there was the prince. Handsome, he was. But all good men die a good death; He was stabbed to a pulp by the witch, he was considered one of the world's evils. He was her only guest aside from the witch, but after some time, the witch stopped visiting, too. Then she had no one. Rapunzel learned to feed off the birds hovering around her tower, learned to enjoy them raw: Blood, guts and all.

Eventually, she aged. Her hair withered but remained golden, always golden. Her skin cracked, yellowed like paper, her teeth dropped out, one by one, and the colour of her eyes faded, pigment by pigment.

Here she lies, Rapunzel, a forgotten maiden who lived high above society, away from the world's evil.

Kiss the way we were goodbye; Goodbye & Farewell.

I miss Malaysia.

I really miss it. I miss the people, opinionated and care-free. People who didn't get mad, people who knew how to laugh and cry at the appropriate times. I miss the friends I grew up with, the places I drove by everyday. I miss small things, like how the sun rose and set and reasonable hours. I miss how you could hear children playing outside at twilight. I miss how I looked forward to my days, I miss going for a swim whenever I wanted, and going out at random times. No need for prior notice, no need for prior permission.

I witnessed, once again, how much I'm missing out. How I'm no longer a part of what I used to be part of. How I'm out of the picture. For someone who has been in the picture for so long, I'm not used to this. Maybe it's selfish, maybe it's fair. I don't know. All I know is that I'm no longer there.

The moon is the only light we'll see.

Light spills into her half-open eyes. She's waking from sleep, the medication wears off and she's brought back to consciousness; such a grim place. She doesn't take in her surroundings just yet, but it won't be long until she does, and then she'll kick and scream and cry, and our hearts will break and we won't understand why we perform this ritual, but we won't stop.

Her arms are raw and specking blood; friction caused by the ropes used to hold her down. They wind up until her elbow, one wrong pull could yank her bones out of their sockets. Her arms are spread wide, feet pulled apart. She resembles a star, a fallen star, lying upon a stone circle, limbs tied to pillars. The red satin draped around her makes no difference, not enhancing anything but for her decency. Another square of fabric is pinned to the wall, among the hundreds of others. She is just another little girl used for the tradition. She is no different.

The rest of the people like me stand by their stations. Masked and solemn, they are too used to the tradition to be appalled. They know it is a requirement of the ancient prophecy, one girl each year. The same time, the same date. One girl, that's all it needs. Just one girl, and ten members of the order. Members who are too numbed by death to be afraid of it. Members willing to kill young girls. Members like me.

She tries to sit up, but the ropes hold her back. She whimpers and calls for her mother. We move closer towards her, saying our chants, holding our candles. It's my turn to hold the knife; my turn to complete the ritual. The four members beside the pillars start their work, they pull on the ropes.

The girl screams right on cue, her limbs stretch outwards, the gripping ropes pull them apart, breaking them, joint by joint. Each cracking sound is amplified, each bone dislocation is magnified. Her shrieks don't fade, they get louder. Her tears don't stop, they come faster.

Her arms and legs have finally broken apart from her body, this is where I come in. I raise the dagger above her, it doesn't matter anymore, her screams died out, the tears stopped flowing. Her eyes are still open, black pupils stare at me, asking me how I could commit myself to such an Order.

I hate her for making me question my devotion.

Plastic flowers never fade, but we all turn to grey.

The interrogator's beard hasn't been shaved, a few days at the most. His eye bags droop, layered skin pulled downwards. The white of his eyes yellowed with age, the nerves are like red rivers which stretch into nothing. He asks me different questions, absurd ones. I have no idea what he's talking about.

We know you did it, your fingerprints were all over the scene, all we want to know is why. So let's cut the crap and get it out, shall we?

I deny any knowledge of the situation, the guy get's mad. A vein throbs on his forehead, purple and pulsating. It bothers me.

What exactly did I "do"?

I think you know well enough, mister. Why don't you admit it, ey? Just spill it. Tell us how you murdered that innocent, pregnant woman. Tell us how you slaughtered her daughter and mutilated her husband, go on. Entertain us.

I would never do that.

At least, I don't remember it. The fingerprints match mine, or so they say. But i don't remember anything. Nothing at all. I can't be a murderer. I'm not crazy, I'm not tormented, not a broken soul. It's not possible. I had a good upbringing. Well, okay, a few mishaps here and there. But an abusive, murderous father and a sick, twisted sister shouldn't affect me. They're the ones who should be interrogated, not I.

They've kept me in here for a while, it's hard to keep track of time when you're confined in the same space, it's as if there is no time. It's like the world outside has frozen, and all that exists is this little room, with the big mirror, steel furniture, this man and I.

_________________

I awake from slumber, such spare moments taste so sweet. My body aches, as if I have undergone a tedious activity. I can't lift myself up to see my surroundings. But I know I haven't left the steel room. The interrogator is no longer pacing around the room or pounding his fists, no longer threatening me, no longer accusing me. He is lying on the floor beside me. Stretched out in a pool of blood. He looks peaceful, as if it's the first rest he's had in years. The blood seeps through his clothing, I notice his face is bruised, so are his hands. He must have struggled to the death.

I wonder how that happened.

If I'm not back this time tomorrow, Carry on, Carry on.

The following passage is a true story, it's not a call for pity, it's just how I release my emotions. These are the thoughts that raced through my mind, these are the words I felt.

The nurses hands were a shade lighter on the colour scale. The sun could not reach them where she was, they were hidden beneath rubber gloves, a necessity to keep blood and other unwanted substances off her skin; they were foreign, they were dirty.

Was that why they were lacking colour? Or was it possibly because of nights spent scrubbing her hands in her kitchen sink, bottle of bleach turned over beside her, rag in her hands; scrubbing until the skin peeled off, doing anything to get the stains of depression off of her fingers, to give her a new slate, clean of all the imperfections of hospital work, clean of the misery, clean of the guilt that came along with being unable to save people.

I notice her hands, of all things, as I wait, unwilling to look past the green curtain that separates my father from the rest of the world, as if too keep away disease and terror. It's not working, never will. Privacy? With screams coming from behind those curtains, there's no such thing. A man walks over to mop up the blood on the floor, my fathers mess. He moans words indistinguishable to my ears, cries for his mommy. A little girl from across the room cries for her mommy, too, and her little brother calms her down, telling her its over and there's no need to cry.

I wish somebody would tell me such sweet words.

I'm driving out of control; getting ready to crash.

We blow out the last light in hopes of darkness. But we never find total darkness because our eyes always eventually manage to adjust. Any form of light seeping through illuminates in even the darkest room. We end up seeing, eliminating the point of blowing out the light. Yet we still blow it out, because a dim figure in the dark is better than seeing the complete image in the light.

Are you ever driven to do something so out of the ordinary, you don't even know why you want to do it? Why does the teenage mind push the body so far, sugar-coating every sinful intention, making it actually consider the temptation? It feels like I had a clearer mind at 10 years old than I have now, I don't know why am I interested in experimenting when I know the consequences to these things. One of life's tests and trials, perhaps. "Push the teenagers into such temptation so that their lives become even more complicated than their dramatic confusion".

Nobody knows how deep the water is, until they tread too far.

We all have people in our lives, masked and armed, ready to bring us down. Sometimes they appear harmless, hurting you in small ways, like insensitive comments or actions, possibly unintentional, possibly intentional. Then there are those who go out of their way to ruin you, trying to break you into little pieces, beyond repair. In hopes of what, exactly? Nobody can fully understand the minds of the delirious. But you know better than to break, right? We know that the whole world is waiting for the first tear to fall, and we know not to give them that satisfaction.

My mom told me to.

If anybody ever dares steal material from my blog, I will hunt you down and slit your throat.

Okay not really, but my dad's into a law and I have friends who's fathers are lawyers and they know mannyyy BAD, BAD, people. And stealing from here is a CRIME, because from now on, EVERYTHING I WRITE/HAVE WRITTEN IS COPYRIGHTED! [except for the snazzy quotes and lyrics, but you get my drill ;)]

So don't break the law.
`Cept when it comes to limewire.

Gay Friend-- WANTED.

What makes it feel?

Capture the essence of your being?

What makes it good?

A concrete form of an immaterial language;

Emotion

What makes its capable?

Of translating warmth

From the heart

Or the chill of fear;

Emotion

How do you transform, when

The strongest weapon

Only scars the paper

With ink and

Emotion?

How do you write poetry?

BFOSJGNEOUGNKDS.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is Joanna getting frustrated because she can't write poetry. I mean, come on, how do you do it, people?! How do you transform your emotion into such meaningful (and pretty) words?! My emotions always seem so much more intricate when they're untouched. Put them onto paper and they become overrated or cheesy :|

Anyway, wanted to apologize to my lovely blog-band [thats a neat name for the people that actually read this crap, kinda has a ring to it, hey?] for not posting anything recently. I swear, inspiration is at its peak during summer. When you're doing nothing but sitting on a computer chair all day and possibly forming an early case of sclerosis. [That's the back thingy, right? correct me if im wrong]

So yeah, I havent been having a good week, something's come up and no, i'm not gonna tell you what happened here, just email me if you consider yourself cool enough to be told :D IT'S JUICY, PROMISE.

You know what I want? A gay friend. I've been going on about this for so long, and I'm serious! I want one! One that I can look cool beside when we go to Starbucks with one or two other girlfriends and sip or macchiatos, or on frap's, or whatever the hell people like to drink at starbucks. OHH and it'd be soo wicked if he could tell me what I look hot in and not, in a totally non-uncomfortable way, you know, like in the movies? "ehh ma gawd, you look SO fetch." and I'd be all like "Oh my god, nobody says fetch. But i do, don't I? ooh mwah mwah mwah" and we'd get manicures and maybe get a little dog and carry him around everywhere! Okay, Im getting all excited! So all GAY, HYGIENIC, FASHIONABLE, FUNNY AND CHARMING GUYS, CALL ME. We'll arrange something. :)

I'm putting that on my birthday wishlist. Or Christmas, birthday's too far :)

Okay byee for now!

xx