tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77020761043349039242024-02-26T16:24:46.367+08:00Chasing VansJoannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.comBlogger302125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-51160442002461859662014-08-12T00:17:00.001+08:002014-08-12T00:17:31.786+08:00The luxury of having you by my side.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>This moment felt like it was never coming, even though we
both knew it was. It was just a faraway dream once upon a time, when I asked
you why a nomadic soul like you was so cruel to make me fall in love, knowing
that one day you’d just end up leaving.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>But here we are, and it’s realer than ever. What do we have?
A month? Two? Three, tops? You don’t even really know yet. All we know is that
soon you’ll be gone.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You always said you wanted me with you, no matter where you
went. You’d play it as cool as possible, throw in some “maybes” and some “if
you wants” but we both know that your smile after I played along with your
fantasies was often bigger than usual.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Life without you is hard to imagine, and we both know I
don’t want things that way. But who am I to stand in the way of your dreams, to say "please, don't leave me"? I’d be blocking the road I helped pave. If there’s anyone who deserves his
dreams to come true, it’s you. But life without you? I couldn’t even paint life
without you. I’d stand before the canvas for hours, wondering where to begin. I
don’t want you thousands of miles away, twelve hours in the past, feeling like
an entire lifetime ago. I don’t want to lose you to music, to New York, or to
distance. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I imagine life will be like a TV screen split down the
middle- me on one end, curled up and lonely in bed, and you on the other,
walking through city streets, euphoric. Every joy, every disappointment, every
moment of pride will be looking for you. But you won’t be there to find in the
crowd, or to hug at the end of the day. You’ll be a person I once knew on the
other side of the screen. You’ll be a message that shows up a few times a day.
You’ll be an occasional photo that fills me with ache.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And though I know you want me to follow you when I’m ready,
the fear cripples me. It tells me that it wont work, that I’ll lose, that
nothing good can come from choosing love over my own ambition. And it calls any
flicker of hope foolish. I’m paralyzed, lost, trapped in a dark box at the back
of a closet, suffocating beneath “what ifs” and “who knows”- the cotton filling
up my mouth, impossible to scream.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>But what if following your dreams means choosing to be with
the one you love? Being lost and confused in New York can’t be worse than being
lost and confused right here. I’m twenty-one, with a foggy future, and I know
that’s OK. Your presence is the only certainty I want for my future. But I know
even that, I can’t have. I want to share every joy, every disappointment, every
moment of pride. I want you to be in every crowd, and at the end of every day,
but I won’t know until the last sun has set and you’re standing there beside me.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I love you here, I will love you in New York, and I will
love you across time and distance and space.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And I will still love you when you are an entire lifetime
away.</i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-73042019770297571822014-05-02T07:29:00.006+08:002014-05-02T07:29:53.074+08:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Maybe I’ve been watching too much Breaking Bad but all I
can think of is that our relationship is like terminal cancer. We can try
to buy as much time as we can, do what it takes to make it worthwhile in the
meantime, but inevitably, it’s going to end. You’re going to go do your thing,
and I’m going to do mine.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You can tell me as much as you’d like that I’m a factor in
your decision. But it gets clearer each day that the more you learn about your
opportunities elsewhere, the less of a factor I become. It hurts me terribly to
think of the more realistic outcome should you be faced with a real opportunity
that could launch your music career. The time, money, and passion you invested in
music, the fact that it’s your biggest dream, and the pressure you feel to get
the ball rolling … it makes no sense to lose that to a girl you’ve dated for a
year or two. And I know that the only way I’d stay in the picture is if you
could have both. But if you had to choose one, I know it wouldn’t be me. And I guess
I make it easier by telling you that I wouldn’t want it to be me. Because I couldn’t
be the thing standing in between you and your dream. And who knows, maybe we’ll
break up before you even reach that crossroad. Maybe you wont have to choose at
all. </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>(Thoughts at 2AM)</i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-37260678092106911042014-04-11T03:40:00.001+08:002014-04-11T06:11:13.614+08:00Vienna<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">If someone had told me that by the age of 21,
I'd be in an apartment in Vienna, drinking and talking until sunrise with
people I had just met the day before, I would never have believed them. I
would've said, "I can only dream of such a thing" and dream, I would.</span></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #666666;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">But there I was, 21 years old, buried in a
jacket and thick leggings and socks, crouched by an open window and moving onto
my 7th beer, laughing at the crazy life stories being shared in my new little
circle of friends. We were drinking every last drop of alcohol we could find in
the house, chain-smoking cigarettes as if they didn't cost a fortune, and
raiding the refrigerator for midnight snacks. The apartment was a den for us hedonistic lions.</span></i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;">We had only known each other for 24 hours, but
we talked without inhibition. We poured out stories of love, mistakes,
dreams, and fears, holding nothing against one another and raising our beers to
the sky every 15 minutes, praising how lucky we were to be young and alive;
drunk on life and love and the thrill of meeting people we never would have expected to encounter. </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;">The clock moved from 12 to 2 to 4 to 6, and
slowly, the sun was rising. I shivered on the windowsill and watched the town
wake up and thought of how it was one of the best nights of my life. It almost didn't feel real, but a lucid dream that I didn't want to leave. It was
extraordinary, but so bittersweet not only because I knew that would I never get it back, but
also that I would probably never see those people again. I would never meet them for coffee and laugh over the fading memory of a perfect night, or walk by as strangers and smile politely; I would never even be given the chance to be reminded. </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;">Inevitably, I would forget. </span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;">Forget how it felt to share painful details of my life because my company didn't know anything about me. Forget how it felt to answer a million questions about my country, feeling my heart soar with pride. Forget how it felt to shiver by the windowsill as the sun rose over baroque architecture.</span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;"> </span></span></i><i><span style="font-family: Georgia;"><span style="color: #666666;">Forget how it felt to wake up in Vienna, to an apartment littered with evidence of well-spent youth. </span></span></i></div>
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Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-28804013321280029702014-04-04T04:49:00.002+08:002014-04-04T04:49:23.402+08:00Tu me manques<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I walked the streets at twilight, a small map in my hands, glancing at the signs but so sure I was lost. I was convinced that the city was most beautiful at this time- a soft blue glow that melted into purple washed the walls and people with a fairtytale romance. Couples were kissing on the park benches, birds were flocking to the fountains, women were walking their playful dogs. Everyone had somewhere to be but me. I walked onwards, hands in my pocket, wondering why I was alone in such a beautiful city.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This was the time I thought most of Zach- What he was doing, what he was thinking of. My being was physically aching to have him with me. </span></i><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I missed him terribly. I dreamt of the day we'd reunite, with the world in black and white, the romantic stone streets skinny and empty, I'd be choking back tears, inhaling every scent and sight of him to fill the spaces behind my eyes. I counted down the days until we could hold</span></i><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> hands and stare at each other and do anything that annoying lovesick couples do. I wanted the slap of his feet against the stone to echo mine, and his laugh to be the only language I could understand among the buzz of strangers. I thought it was beautiful that the city reminded me of the person I love, that I could feel my longing strongest when I admired its architecture, street musicians, and bright red strawberries being sold on the sidewalks. </span></i></div>
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Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-13471860702776461022014-03-29T23:24:00.001+08:002014-03-29T23:24:10.649+08:00Look Both Ways<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAdvbPC424KF6AopjCDU_WLtcMIE8Fsixiz6Ex-ywALkxV6ixzrQcVL-i4H3wDGUOGXvZZwOTxA5FkdUjqsQs0PJ3EMhxvgyx3nce_56tQTjfct9l712VqWBHfcmFZVTZaOEzSzM5b2w/s1600/DSCN0249.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXAdvbPC424KF6AopjCDU_WLtcMIE8Fsixiz6Ex-ywALkxV6ixzrQcVL-i4H3wDGUOGXvZZwOTxA5FkdUjqsQs0PJ3EMhxvgyx3nce_56tQTjfct9l712VqWBHfcmFZVTZaOEzSzM5b2w/s1600/DSCN0249.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
Everything I've ever written about longing to escape and explore has come crashing down on me in the form of an airplane ticket three months apart from its return. In a different bed, in a different city, in a different country, in a different part of the world. The voices speaking different tongues, and me understanding nothing. Finally away from everything I've ever known, but instead of feeling found, I felt more alone than ever.<br />
<br />
Homesickness came in waves in the morning, when I awoke to the sound of a bell tower reminding me that I was not home. Homesickness came in waves in the day, when I looked around and had no idea where to go. Homesickness came in waves at night, as I clung to the blanket wishing for someone who felt like a shelter in the abyss of unfamiliarity.<br />
<br />
I would cry my eyes out, questioning if I had made the right choice. Why was I so desperate to get away? And what was it I was running from? I seeked support from friends from around the world who were as scattered and alone as I was, and they held my hand through words and told me that the four walls were my enemy. The secret to enjoying the drastic change is to go out and embrace it. Explore the city, taste the food, meet the people, and find that although they are different, they are just as amazed by you as you are by them.<br />
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Like a newborn baby, I collapsed into a fourteen-hour sleep and decided that the next day I would wake up different. No more crying, no more fear of this strange land of cobblestone streets, bell towers, and beer. This will be home for the next thirty days, and I will speak their tongue and love their people, and by the end of it, I will be found.Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-19583040072562526872014-03-05T21:54:00.001+08:002014-03-05T21:54:17.050+08:00Wide Eyes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A kiss. A nibble on the earlobe.</div>
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Two worlds colliding.</div>
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A tidal wave of goosebumps</div>
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every shiver.</div>
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That laugh, the wrinkle of your nose.</div>
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A thousand years of rivers folding</div>
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over their beds,</div>
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my lifeline.</div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-29081514095440355652013-12-10T21:52:00.002+08:002013-12-26T18:46:40.135+08:00Pyro<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The days we stayed up until 2AM in my car, listening to Kings of Leon. Your eyes closed, fists clenched, chest rising and falling with every twist in Caleb's voice. I want that. I want to watch you sing Pyro at the top of your lungs again. Your forehead wrinkling as your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows rising with that pain in your voice. That pain must come from a place that only a broken heart and a broken home could ever know.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to hold your hand tell you it'll be okay, give into reckless abandon and stupid feelings and say I'm going to be here forever, no matter what our odds are. I want to kiss you in the dim blue light of the radio and lose my fingers in your hair, kiss you until I'm out of breath and out of my mind.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">That smell of your perfume, that burn of my stubble against your skin. I want to get as close as possible, bone to bone, breath to breath, and feel the soft moan of your strength caving in. I want that sad background music and our eyes recognizing each other's pain, that silent understanding we'll always have, and that comfort knowing that I have your lost soul to accompany my own.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want that undeniable heat building between us until you pull me out of the car and into the elevator, down the hall and into your bed. I want to dance clumsily around our bodies, feel the indents of your waist fill the corners of my arms, watch your clothes fall to the floor and your eyes glimmer in the dark.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #073763; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I want to believe that we belong together, give into love and not think about the future, or the past, or anything except you and me in this crazy world and how we fit together like two pieces of a puzzle we'll never understand. I don't want to question time and place anymore. None of that. I just want to feel alive with you, talk about dreams, sing sad songs, and hug you until your bones tremble in my grasp.</span></i></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-69769079666077401582013-11-12T20:46:00.002+08:002013-11-19T20:58:33.688+08:00Travel Diary: Mt. Pulag<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We left Manila near the dead of night, sitting on hard plastic chairs in a grey bus station, waiting for the next bus to take us to the mountains. I held his hand and rested my head on his shoulder, the only comfort I could find among the sullen faces of people yearning to go home. We wondered if every person with a tent strapped to his back was going where we were going, if we would meet them along the way and share a quiet connection that yearners often do.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>6 hours later, there were still busses and waiting, but this time in a different place, 6 hours closer to our destination. The novelty of smoke escaping my lips with every cold, spoken word was enough to distract me from the few hours of sleep I had. We sat on wooden benches and listened to the pigs scream as they were slaughtered, and the buses roar into life as they carried the people miles away. Zach fell asleep, head rolled back against the boarded up shops, and I paced around the parking lot, searching for our bus. I ran to Zach when it finally arrived, and shook him with Glee, "It's here! It's here!" I squealed, ready to kickstart the adventure.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It was a flurry of people and dialects, unfamiliar towns and breath-taking mountain views, we raced past valleys and evergreen forests and white-wash rivers, and all Zach could say was "one wrong turn, and we fall to our deaths." I thought about this the whole ride through, and figured that there could be worse ways to go than into the bowels of nature. </i></span><br />
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span><span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>13 hours had passed since we left our homes, but there we were, still in transit. The view was even more spectacular as we raced up the mountain - emerald trees and a radiant sun glowing over an entire valley. There are few things more breathtaking than the fading view of a sunlit mountain from the back of a motorbike. We went higher and higher until we were speeding through the clouds and the sun was nowhere to be found. I shivered in the rain and breathed in the fresh pine. As I clung to a stranger for dear life on the back of his motorbike, I felt strangely calm.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Far beyond that beautiful view was a small wooden house known as "the ranger station." It was there we met our guide and started our three hour trek through the forest. It was like a scene from a horror film, but set in daylight- the dark pine trees surrounded in fog, the cold, crisp air that so quickly filled your lungs. The forest floor was scattered with acorns, foot-long worms, abandoned cabbages, and a muddy trail that led directly to another forest- a vibrant green one home to miracle berries and humidity. I walked and walked and walked, short of breath, bright behind the eyes. I felt exhausted and dizzy, but I knew there was no turning back. I was saved by spring water, straight from the mountain and into our mouths, the freshest water I had ever tasted awakened me from my slurry fatigue.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Arriving at our campsite was the sweetest victory I had ever known. That cold, hard, ground was the only bed I ever truly earned in my life and I embraced it. The air was painfully cold by the time we reached the site, and four layers of clothes were not enough to protect me from the winds bite. My feet were wet and stinging, my fingers threatened to fall off, but the view of clouds rolling over the mountains below me was a reminder of how far I had come, and no pain could ever match the desire I had to go even further.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It was a sleepless, starless night. Tossing and turning, shivering, and desperate for any form of comfort. The wilderness holds no promises for anyone, nothing but the pitch black night and a song of crickets. I counted down, 12 hours until the sunrise, and then 10, 8, 5, until finally, I fell into an undisturbed sleep, balled up and clutching my feet to save them from freezing.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>4AM and it was now a race against the sun. Barely eating anything, we set out for the last leg of our trek- to the summit. It was a narrow path in dead of the night, surrounded by grassland and looming hills. Weak from fatigue and hunger, I felt my body falling in on itself, and cried to my companions that I couldn't do it. They sat beside me and urged me on, poured ice cold water into my lips and stroked my hair. "You can do it, you've come this far," Zach whispered, crouched beside my aching legs. Chest stretched and lungs dry, I stood up and powered through. He was right, I had come this far and it wasn't for nothing.</i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>5AM and there we were: </i></span><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">29 hours, 335 kilometres away from home, and 3 thousand metres into the sky.</i><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The only two people on the highest point of Luzon, at the crossroads of four provinces. I sat, embraced in Zach's arms, exhausted from our journey. I held onto him, burying my hands in the warmth of his corners, saving them from the cold. Before us, there were only clouds, and behind us, there was only grass. We couldn't believe we had walked the entire journey, it felt like we were in a whole new world, one of the Philippines' best kept gems.</i><br />
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Watching the sun wake through a flurry of clouds, silenced by its morning elegance, I kissed Zach's lips, happy to be holding his hand and watching the day break from the best seats in the world. </i></span><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thought that being on the highest tip of luzon would make me feel miniscule and insignificant, but it did exactly the opposite. </i><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </i><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The whole world was under us, around us, above us, the Earth was turning and the stars were disappearing and the sun was rising and we were breathing, and thinking, and loving. </i><i style="color: #741b47; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I felt like the most royal of Queens, laid out on grass carpets under the pale blue sky with my curly-haired King. We were giants among men, in our castle in the clouds.</i>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-6374423545810971792013-09-09T17:53:00.001+08:002013-09-09T17:55:57.589+08:00It's the life I always dreamed of living<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've always found myself yearning to be an explorer, but never had the funds, time or company to venture off into the wild. I used to quench this thirst for adventure through my writing- I'd find words to weave my dreams into, and maybe feel a little bit happier at the end of it all. But a few months ago I met someone who taught me that life is full of possibilities, and I haven't been the same since. </i></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>With good fortune, we travelled to the country's final frontier- an island glowing green and blue, guarded by limestone cliffs and the friendliest locals. Days were fun, yet admittedly as ordinary as trips tend to be, until a storm decided to grace us with it's presence and leave us stranded in paradise. It was perhaps both the worst and best part of the trip. Nobody wants cloudy skies and rain while they're surrounded by glittering sand, or cancelled flights that threaten their exams, but it forced us to get out of our comfort zones and left us with the most adventurous days of our lives.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We knew we couldn't last a few more days in paradise drunk on the sun and running out of islands, so we searched for new adventures in the form of boats breaking down in the middle of the ocean, calling for help from fishermen who knew the seas like the pathway home, and sailing for ten hours into the dark, searching for any sign of land to ease our troubled minds. Hostels filled with mice and walking through the city in the middle of the night, looking for a bed that was willing to house us. Scuba dives into ship wrecks, beside cave walls, on lakebeds made of ash and into communities of catfish and shrimp. The vast blue ocean and all it's mystery will always be one of my favourite things on Earth. </i></span><i style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Motorbike rides through the pouring rain, soaked to the skin like teabags, clinging onto each other for warmth and dear life. Horseback riding through sixteen hectares of hills and catching the last rays of sunlight radiating off our beaming faces. Going home under a cloudy sky that couldn't have been darker than it was then, starless and lonely, looming over the mountain. Pressed against your back, arms around your body, shivering in the freezing wind as we rode back home. I was full to the brim with love and gratitude, whispering to the universe, "thank you for giving me the best person I have ever met."</i></div>
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<i style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I couldn't say goodbye to the place on earth that made me so happy</i><i style="color: #38761d; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Blood pumping, lungs breathing, brain pulsating and spirit singing with a swollen heart and arms open wide, I was finally Alive.</i></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-72061285045209912592013-08-04T14:16:00.000+08:002013-08-05T20:50:55.831+08:00Sometimes silence guides our minds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We used to sit on the edge of the bridge, legs dangling over the muddy water, holding one umbrella each. Rain soaked and pruned our feet into white chunks of slippery skin. We always let them shrivel up because that meant we got to go home, soak our feet in warm water and feel all the heat creep back into our bones. That slow, inching feeling of blood running back through our veins, we lived for that.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We spent most rainy days there. On that bridge, where the trees were extra green, and the air extra cold. It was simple things like throwing rocks into the river, finding reasons to wear our favourite jackets, and talking where no one else could hear that made us happiest.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We were complete opposites. Her in white frilly socks and pink umbrella, and me not wearing any socks at all under my tattered brown shoes. We were so different, but we knew each other better than anyone else. We held hands when we walked home, we called the other in the middle of the night if one of us couldn't get to sleep, and we weren't afraid to get mad if the other was being stupid.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I was so foolish to think that life would give someone to me so generously. And even more foolish to believe that it would last.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I sit alone on the bridge, legs dangling over the muddy water, holding one umbrella. I let my feet shrivel up and feel the chill seep into my bones. That slow, inching feeling of blood disappearing from my veins, I wanted it to take over and spread throughout my body, and never feel warmth again.</i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-34757599590863661632013-06-27T20:43:00.004+08:002013-06-27T20:43:53.513+08:00Desire eats you up and leaves you starving.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDIcpyBh18RcuZ8zrAIKsDn973GxXSCC81j0QR5qJEZWVQWLm9LHJjwFUUeKhEUfNEpKnfCx6WMpiyBRTO6bhTscEqt_0I5Hx9e9Gsa9YYOTINWmVKlK8kIAlwKyb5Tcn3fKpOI0HuxI/s652/apple.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIDIcpyBh18RcuZ8zrAIKsDn973GxXSCC81j0QR5qJEZWVQWLm9LHJjwFUUeKhEUfNEpKnfCx6WMpiyBRTO6bhTscEqt_0I5Hx9e9Gsa9YYOTINWmVKlK8kIAlwKyb5Tcn3fKpOI0HuxI/s640/apple.jpg" width="490" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
They stumbled into her bed after a night out. Shoes kicked off, clothes tossed across the floor. He was so drunk she had to carry him into her bed and pull the sheets over him as she drank her cautionary four cups of water and two tablets of aspirin. They reeked of smoke and alcohol and the sweat of a hundred people raving to flashing lights and sounds. Her heart was still pounding and her ears were still ringing, and she had a smile plastered on her face because she could have sworn she had never felt so alive.<br />
<br />
He lay half-naked between her sheets, breaking out into a vicious sweat as they waited for a midnight breeze to chill the room. She felt so sorry for him, obviously one drink too far gone, unable to keep his mouth closed or his head up. It was cute in a helpless puppy kind of way. He mumbled sweet nothings about loving her and wanting her to use his last name, but she laughed and dismissed them as drunken rambles. They say that a drunk mind speaks a sober heart, but sometimes a drunk mind can also be painfully obnoxious and daring, and terribly regretful in the morning.<br />
<br />
She shushed him with a finger over his lips and stroked his hair until he kept quiet. She knew that he wasn't planning on staying here much longer- it was just a few weeks ago when he mentioned that there were bigger things out there, and his time in this city was ticking away at an uncertain speed. She was so sure that he was going to leave some day- leave his job, leave his friends, leave her. Yet he didn't seem to hold back with his heart at all. He loved as if they'd be together forever.<br />
<br />
She looked at him, half-asleep, but still stuttering sweet nothings under his breath. She loved him so much it made her sad. How could life be so unfair? Delivering you the best person you've ever met, then slowly poisoning your brain with the idea of him leaving.<br />
<br />
"If you know that you're going to end up leaving, why are you letting yourself fall in love?" she asked, an almost-inaudible whisper between tears she didn't mean to cry.<br />
Her question was like a slap of cold water on his drunken face. He sat up, eyes clear. He reached for her hand and squeezed it just a little bit too hard. Obviously still a bit drunk.<br />
"Why are you thinking about this?"<br />
"Because you're going to leave eventually, and I'm going to stay here, and my hearts going to break but you'll be off enjoying the world and it won't be fair," she cried, knowing how selfish she sounded.<br />
He pulled her closer into the nook of his body, and held her as she weeped, praying that it was simply the alcohol making her emotional.<br />
"Why should I hold back on a love so great for something that might not even happen?" he asked her, kissing the bare skin of her nape and the goosebumps along her shoulder.<br />
"You're always going to be a factor," he whispered.<br />
"I don't want to be a factor. I just want to be selfish and keep you here with me."<br />
She held back on telling him how terribly she wanted to go with him, wherever he went.<br />
<br />
She knew that's how their story would end- he would leave to explore the world, and she would be left behind. They'd probably try to keep something going over emails and Skype but eventually they'd both grow weary- he'll tire of the responsibility and she'll tire of waiting. She wasn't ready to have her heart broken, but it was just so easy to love him. No matter how badly she wanted to protect herself, she wanted to love him more.<br />
<br />
She swallowed her tears and wrapped herself in his arms, nodding in silent agreement with all his assuring words, falling back into the comfort of his kiss. She hated herself for loving so carelessly, but she could never put up her guard, and decided it was time to embrace the crazy love they had for one another without worry. At least at the end of it all, the broken heart will be worth it.<br />
<br />Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-61171040264045989172013-05-16T22:59:00.001+08:002013-05-16T22:59:40.391+08:00Headlights pointed at the dawn
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSLGhjN_8L3oGKkUe1Yl9_Wxn8igtZhlLYVOAnaz0AXL_RTO4GgXb1Y17QhyphenhyphenKAhUiw4sxqvD4w8sxEDmzpZGQTsjhggikR7mOSsTVcqjNVBlkgDeIpx7xWhr5DNe1d6Hl9c3h7zIWu48/s1600/tumblr_mcnwdae76Z1r1y0sdo1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkSLGhjN_8L3oGKkUe1Yl9_Wxn8igtZhlLYVOAnaz0AXL_RTO4GgXb1Y17QhyphenhyphenKAhUiw4sxqvD4w8sxEDmzpZGQTsjhggikR7mOSsTVcqjNVBlkgDeIpx7xWhr5DNe1d6Hl9c3h7zIWu48/s640/tumblr_mcnwdae76Z1r1y0sdo1_500.jpg" width="516" /></a></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You wake up to an intolerable summer heat, a thin layer of
sweat filming your skin like dried up glue. A dusty ceiling fan lazily spins
overhead, threatening to break down any second now. You don’t know what day it
is, but you know it’s July. It’s the pinnacle of summer and you’ve spent the
last three weeks driving cross-country in your car with the beautiful girl
sleeping beside you. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It’s been a blur of old towns, cheap motels, bland dinners
and cold beers, but it’s the most fun you’ve had in possibly your whole life.
How did it start again? You drove to the end of your city, and decided that you
were bored and didn’t want to turn back yet. And now you’re here, one hundred miles away, sweating and
dizzy from the heat, but unbelievably happy. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Today will be the same as every other day, but completely
different in itself. You will lay in bed until she decides she’s slept enough-
sometimes you wake up to her all dressed up, itching to
get out of the motel and go on adventures. On other days, she lies in bed until
4PM and needs to be dragged out from under the sheets. Once you’re in the car,
you drive north until you reach another town, a new one. And you look around to
see if you like it, and if you do, you stay there. If you don’t, you keep on
driving. </i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>You’ve been to too many sleepy towns through dusty roads. You want beaches and she wants forests, but you never seem to reach them no matter how far you drive. That’s how it’s been for the past 3 weeks, and that’s how it’ll be for the rest of the journey. But what does it matter? You don't need salt air or warm winds to prove that you're having the time of your life when you have a girl who's willing to run away with you to explore the country. There are no conversations quite like those in a car, there's no sex quite like that in a motel, and there's no love quite like one in the summer. And this is it, definitely, this is happiness, and you will feel it even </i></span><i style="color: #274e13; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">until you reach the end of the country and have no choice but to turn around and go back home.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-45503039075343460522013-05-11T16:09:00.002+08:002013-05-11T16:09:25.178+08:00You live by the train station.
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You live by the train station, you told me in idle passing
one gloomy afternoon. It was all I could think about as we sat on your bed,
looking through photos of your childhood. The rumble of the mechanical snake
that runs through the city shook your walls with each flip of the page, and
obnoxiously bellowed out its arrival- disrupting your sad, reminiscent smile
that asked for it all back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked up in fear, half expecting aliens or bombs or rabid
animals let loose throughout your house, but you must’ve grown so used to it,
you didn’t even notice your bedroom trembling. As the glass bottles of sand
rattled away among your travel collections of little volcanic elephants, you
kept naming out each face in the old photographs, introducing me to people from
your past, injecting short stories in between the pages. You were the eye of
the storm- perfectly centered and oblivious to the chaos around you.</div>
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You’re all I can think of now, whenever I wait patiently in
line for the train. I wonder if at that moment you are happily absorbed in your
photographs of yesteryear, sprawled out on your bed, smiling sadly at all the
faces that are no longer here. I wonder how I can time my departures, so you
feel that it’s me bellowing past, making your walls shake, making your bedroom
tremble. Do you think if you try hard enough, you could recognize me in the
chaos?</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-60472353217407847592013-04-11T20:56:00.000+08:002013-04-11T20:56:03.414+08:003 Years<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GS8ty6heu5xkg2zto8LbqkGw_kEEv2c0kcWyCjR7wjT9sH_gVsY8wvSoCir43WvNOLhyZ-wkak9O2lGRXH15Y9KTqxThmfEafQSBa84pVDxZTROyjNBx-OSQNWnLB4KGKdxe1Cpbinw/s1600/tumblr_mf76d13Oqv1qlywlko1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4GS8ty6heu5xkg2zto8LbqkGw_kEEv2c0kcWyCjR7wjT9sH_gVsY8wvSoCir43WvNOLhyZ-wkak9O2lGRXH15Y9KTqxThmfEafQSBa84pVDxZTROyjNBx-OSQNWnLB4KGKdxe1Cpbinw/s1600/tumblr_mf76d13Oqv1qlywlko1_500.jpg" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_2015278450"></span><span id="goog_2015278451"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Three years have come and gone and I still don't really know how to feel. I think about your face and thank the gods that I still remember it. The pulsing, zigzagged vein on your left forehead, how you joked you were Harry Potter. The shaggy white hairs of your eyebrows and how they made you look like you were constantly in deep thought. The slightly purplish lips that were so thin, the simple shadow of your salt-coloured beard would conceal them. Every crease along your forehead, cheeks, and neck. And most of all, your eyes. Those piercing blue eyes I always wish you gave me. Sheltered behind the shine of your glasses, they were pools of the most tropical water. Gemstones found in the depths of African mines. The kind of sky you only find in the countryside.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It has been three years but I still choose to remember. Not you in your glory days- I keep few memories of those suits and office chairs. I choose to remember your simpler times. Your jerseys and jeans. Your never-ending urge to fiddle. Your habit of taking things apart just to put them back again. Your silhouette in the living room whilst you watched football in the dark. It was hard to wake up in the mornings, thinking that you'd be downstairs to greet me as I fetched a midnight snack. It was like being hit by a bus, or being awakened by a violent shake. I still see the chair at the head of the dining table, empty, with no placemat or arrangement of cutlery before it. Now, the table is set for two, and lonelier than ever.</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I didn't always choose to remember. At first, I was forced. I would lock your face in a box, and pray to god that nobody would ask me about you, but it was inevitable to see you everywhere. I saw you in every white man. Every golf store. Every telescope. Every football match. Every red polo with a white and blue collar. Every glass of beer. Every Chili's restaurant. Every news network. And every single object of the night sky- the planets, the moon, and most especially, the stars. How could I ever run away?</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: #76a5af; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It's been three years and the biggest thing I've learned about grief is that it is not a slow-healing wound. It is a permanent one that comes and goes as it pleases. Some days, you don't cross my mind. And others, it feels just like day one, and I forget that you are even gone.</i></span>Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-86617185699799328632013-03-10T15:46:00.001+08:002013-03-10T16:05:47.016+08:00As old as your omens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieimVZcd9QnIma0Hk7nbsRCVW1Y6tmaNEJpkSughUdVWx5_0FPItB4jRtl3XnnjfOG3HSucZGo1pt1iv2_V4CZPepqCgJhEIWN8zQL04_QjPG_IBOZT5ULnHMU5IA8IL9oBOm94sGHkNE/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieimVZcd9QnIma0Hk7nbsRCVW1Y6tmaNEJpkSughUdVWx5_0FPItB4jRtl3XnnjfOG3HSucZGo1pt1iv2_V4CZPepqCgJhEIWN8zQL04_QjPG_IBOZT5ULnHMU5IA8IL9oBOm94sGHkNE/s1600/blog.jpg" /></i></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>The sweet smell of coconut tanning oil and sight of brown legs sprawled sticky over the white sheets made them relish the mountainpeak of summer. The girls lay in a lazy heap, snoring softly, curtained by the white nets that hugged the windows and warded off the bees. Sunlight cut into the room like a zigzag bringing good news of the great outdoors- slivers of velvet palm trees peeked through the cracks and basked in the tropical sun. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>It was an Indian summer like no other, with days spent crashing into turquoise and emerald waves, sweat fogging up the bare skin of their backs, and striped bikinis blurring in the motion of their cartwheels on the beach. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>They spent their nights locked up in their bedroom, three bronze girls crowding into one bed, holding hands beneath the blankets, telling stories in the dark. Their freckles mapped islands scattered across the pacific ocean and their hair hung loosely, smelling of seafoam and salt. They were full of life, dancing to their father's records in the living room, and singing at the top of their lungs. They howled into the night to create a symphony of distraught dogs, breaking the peaceful reign of crickets and distant waves. </i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>They had their singing, they had their howls, but it was their laughter that filled every crevice in the room and shook the souls of lonely men.</i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-90664286976983267662013-02-07T07:52:00.000+08:002013-02-07T10:42:16.623+08:00And who can say what we are?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>There
are so many things I want to tell you right now over text to make you realize
why I want to move on now, but it just doesn’t feel right to commit them to a
digital screen. You wouldn’t understand, and the words deserve much more. If I
had the strength to say them in person, I would recite them like a well-versed
poem, and have you tear at the end because of its sheer honesty and raw beauty.
But my memory is terrible, and I panic quite easily. So I’ve found a way right
through the middle, to do what I think I do best: write it down, right now, as
my emotions are strongest.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I
shudder at the thought of you sharing our story to strangers and making me out
to be the villain. You probably tell them how I ripped your heart out and
stomped all over it by dating someone else a month after our breakup. But they
don’t know. You don’t even know.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I
never told you this; I never got to tell you much, given the abrupt
circumstances of our breakup. But I was dissatisfied weeks before we ended.
When I try and recall all the reasons why we broke up, it branches far deeper
than the other girls you’d constantly check out. We had so many issues, both
individually and collectively. Trust, playing a big role. I never trusted you
fully after all the shit you put me through. Which is why, I realized, the reason
for my constant paranoia. Is it any way to live, keeping the person you “love”
on a leash? No, of course not. You deserve to be happy and have fun, which is
why I’m glad you’re enjoying your time with friends now. You deserve to enjoy
your youth. Three years with me, you never danced. Four weeks without me and
you’re fist-pumping at clubs. It’s bittersweet, but I’m happy you’ve finally
found it in yourself to let loose. It makes me realize how stupid I made you
feel. How I’d belittle you and pull a face at the little things you found cool-
like your new haircuts, and even your attempt to dress in a more fashionable
manner. I guess I wanted to keep you beneath me, the same way you tried to keep
me beneath you by feeding all of my insecurities. I’m sure you never intended
for it to be that way, but it started from the very beginning of our
relationship. You made me feel like I was never enough. What did those girls
have that I didn’t? Was I not your type? Was I not pretty enough? Not hot
enough? I didn’t like the right things? A million questions of insecurity
racing through my head. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I
was always so lonely. Being lonely and insecure is never a good combination. It
made me live in fear. Fear that I would never find anyone better than you, and
fear that I would never be happy alone. I clung to you in fear. I spent every
day with you because I was afraid of being alone. My issues about having no
family and no friends, you were all I had. And so I made sure you filled up
every crevice of every day so I would never have to be alone. It wasn’t fair to
you- for me to cling to you, to make myself such a big part of your life, and
then suddenly leave.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>As
time went by, I realized how much I was growing up. Slowly, my self-esteem was
rebuilding itself because I was finally proud of myself- I was doing more than
most people my age, and I was making some great friends in the process. Unfortunately
for you, it made me realize my worth. It made me realize that the conversations
I was having with these people were so much deeper than the ones I was having
with you. I loved spending time with you- it was silly, it was fun, but it was
so childish. I look back now and realize that I can’t remember a single
conversation that really struck me deep. Whenever I’d have problems, you’d tell
me how you were there for me, but you never really told me anything that
stimulated my mind and made me think. Our happiness was shallow, and I just
stopped being satisfied.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Don’t
you remember? I’d be silent in the car and tell you how you were starting to
sound a bit dense, and you’d blame it on the people you hang out with since
their humor was dense, too. You didn’t realize how important it was to me that
we had good conversation. You didn’t realize how much I need someone
intelligent enough to argue with me about things like religion, humanity, and
other abstract ideas. I would always notice how much you cared about what other
people thought of you, and it bothered me so much. I could never understand why
your eyes were always searching for people you might know, why you were just so
goddamn concerned. I loved the you who had holey boxers and bad morning hair,
who would make churros with me in his kitchen and carry his dogs on his
shoulders. That was my favorite version of you, skipping plans so we could
cuddle under the blanket and watch Ryan Gosling movies. But that version of you
wasn’t enough for me. You can’t play forever. You need to grow up sometime and
prove that the past years are actually going somewhere.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I
guess that’s another problem. We were together for three years by the time we
were nineteen. We were insecure, lonely, and lacking trust. I honestly think we
were doomed. The more I think of a way to put it, the more my mind goes back to
the phrase “our relationship had run its course”. It was just time for us to go
our separate ways. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>And
now, I hear stories about you going out every weekend, getting really drunk,
meeting loads of new people, and it honestly makes me a bittersweet shade of happy. I’m happy you’re
finally cutting loose and enjoying your youth. You deserve to stop being so
straight edge and actually have fun with your friends. They say that this is
the most they’ve ever liked you. It hurts a bit, to know that there are so many
girls around you now, that you're deteriorating your health, but you deserve to be young. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>That
night I talked to you; I realized the depth of my loneliness. It’s the product
of being so far away from family, and the reason behind my suffocating grip, my
aloofness, and my suicidal thoughts. I realized how important it is that I fix
it before it ruins me and turns me into the type of girl that falls for any guy
who spares her a compliment- before I get into another relationship and ruin some
poor boy’s life by forcing him to dedicate his days to me. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>We’ve both grown so much, and we’re such different people from who we
were when we met. I can’t say thank you enough, for absolutely everything
you’ve ever done for me. I hope this answers some of your questions and makes you realize all the problems we had, and I hope it makes you realize that we’re
both better off apart.</i></span><!--EndFragment--><br />
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<!--EndFragment-->Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-38853660913562573022013-01-25T19:01:00.002+08:002013-01-25T19:01:57.793+08:00Home is wherever I'm with you<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWp_uSy7gaRTDZZEUWZ1Y6gIiDdYb4fhifLYrwWSA75PZSehOv0Tnlk-Rg0YRwaZGHVrXZlGqP8qhfXpj9oLTrNpVPGgoiaMW6X3xvioLFVll8kw2VCX14Fl4glpKLGlMtNcu-mwixKM8/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWp_uSy7gaRTDZZEUWZ1Y6gIiDdYb4fhifLYrwWSA75PZSehOv0Tnlk-Rg0YRwaZGHVrXZlGqP8qhfXpj9oLTrNpVPGgoiaMW6X3xvioLFVll8kw2VCX14Fl4glpKLGlMtNcu-mwixKM8/s1600/1.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"She got sunset on her breath now, I inhaled just a little bit. I got no fear of death now"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Candy red nails, chipped around the edges just how she likes it. She bites onto her thumb, showing just a little bit of teeth unwrapped by her lips. Thin and pink, they stretch out into a smile as her brown eyes catch me catching my breath. She bats her spider-leg lashes and winks with one quick almond crease. I grab her hand and kiss it flat on the back, mapping out her veins and cartilage under my lips. She pulls free and rolls down the window, a tangerine light blinds me momentarily, and then all that's left are her denim shorts and red sneakers, the rest is outside the window, reaching for the bloodred sky.</i></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-9701918825000047742013-01-13T19:47:00.005+08:002013-01-13T23:36:07.172+08:00The Letter I Owe You.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT71mlesXxiMEcmfqsfElomBg0prYVrs7reNlQQ359A_qT7U2MgZZR2dgfv296FaM8ZEwpIMNRedMuoc4RYq3zheoBzp8UgqnRnQIeH9UTjCVzemF22iKvw-aFYRhjaeL637A4-gKNsLo/s1600/explore.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT71mlesXxiMEcmfqsfElomBg0prYVrs7reNlQQ359A_qT7U2MgZZR2dgfv296FaM8ZEwpIMNRedMuoc4RYq3zheoBzp8UgqnRnQIeH9UTjCVzemF22iKvw-aFYRhjaeL637A4-gKNsLo/s640/explore.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
She remembered the first time they fought. Not even a year together, but she fought like a rabid animal who was struggling to survive. Blinded by hot tears, indecipherable curses chattering teeth, choking down air in between screams. Her fists attacked him with such strength that he had to grip onto her wrists and shout at her to stop in between his own ashamed sobs. He knew he was wrong, but he was a bad person then, and chose to lie to cover up what he had done wrong.<br />
<br />
She remembered the days that came after The First Fight. Daily lilies, milkshakes, turkey sandwiches, some of her favourite things. Her materialism and young heart betrayed her and led her straight back into his arms. She wished she could have warned herself of what was waiting for her in 4 months time and the year of fighting that would follow after.<br />
<br />
Exactly 2 years and 3 months later, she realizes that she hasn't spoken to him in eleven days, a new record. It was clear to her that he had given up, too. Maybe it was because he was sorry, and knew that she deserved better. Or maybe he realized how serious she was when she said she was done. She liked to think that it was because of her ... but he probably just grew tired himself, and didn't want to drag it on. She wondered if he was happier now, with the freedom to do what he likes and not hurt anyone.<br />
<br />
She refused to reminisce more about the pain and thought of all the reasons how she knew she had done the right thing by saying goodbye, finally. There were no flowers outside her door this time, no more flood of apologetic messages and phone calls, or little gifts as there had so abundantly been in the past. Not even an attempt to say sorry. Just silence. And although she wanted to see him fight for it, she also liked how easy he was making it for her to realize she had made the right decision.<br />
<br />
Yes, she missed him. But all good things come to and end, especially when they're corrupted by mishandled trust. She didn't want to be mad at him even though he hurt her terribly countless times, but she thought of all the things she still had yet to say to him. L'esprit de l'escalier, the French called it. How she would tell him how stupid she felt for letting him treat her like that so many times. How disappointed she was that he promised to change but still did the things he used to. How scared she was that she wouldn't be able to get over him and move on. How angry she was at him for making her feel like she was never enough. And how much she still loved him. How they had 1130 days together. How the past 365 were the best days of her life.<br />
<br />
It wasn't all because of him, she admitted to herself. She caught herself looking outside the car window more times than actually talking to him as they drove through the city. She caught herself asking him for more and more favours, until she just expected him to be there for her, waiting for orders. She caught herself thinking "is there even a future here?" while he spoke he to her. And worst of all, she felt so many urges to ask "What are you doing with your life?"<br />
<br />
She thought about writing everything down in a message to send him. Make him realize what he's done, make him feel the gravity of his actions, but the words just wouldn't make sense on that little digital screen. She must have composed at least 30 different messages to write him, but none of them made sense. None of them held even a fraction of the feeling she was trying to convey. So instead of sending him that long message where she would declare all her feelings, she composed a much simpler one, instead.<br />
<br />
"How are you?"<br />
<br />
After all, they hadn't talked for eleven days.Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-4537508288058871622012-12-21T15:13:00.002+08:002013-01-02T00:53:14.902+08:00I don't really want to know what's good for me<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ_fArikjvPXpHM1QWn0oMM6UN3gIFfcQzQ138h6BR4EQUY6Lb0ooRKO9x-l43xnGnmTApjOnqPQCiTIFXn9V_AAzC3a74PsbmwWUAclCURl3Yp6XUSzrELDCs7ox8IlppLc8l0n-K0A/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ_fArikjvPXpHM1QWn0oMM6UN3gIFfcQzQ138h6BR4EQUY6Lb0ooRKO9x-l43xnGnmTApjOnqPQCiTIFXn9V_AAzC3a74PsbmwWUAclCURl3Yp6XUSzrELDCs7ox8IlppLc8l0n-K0A/s1600/1.jpg" /></i></span></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"We're all going to die anyway, what's the point?" she said, hair sprawling over my notebooks, cigarette burning between her skinny spider-fingers. "Work, school, family ... can't believe those things still exist"</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I hated her cold, controlled way of laughing at things that are supposed to matter. Her strange life of living with no parents in her messy apartment was fucked up to say the least. An apartment she barely sleeps in, for that matter. I used to ask her why, and it was always a shiny story lined with glitter that started with her getting high for free and ended in that empty apartment. Of course, she would always be too drunk or high at the end of the night to realize she was all alone on her bare mattress. She would just fall into a heavy sleep, numb beyond control, wake up sober, get ready as quick as she could, and rush out of there as if she didn't want to realize that there was no food on the table, or someone to greet her good morning. I knew that as much as she joked about family not mattering, it hurt her inside.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>"I don't understand why you won't let yourself be happy,"</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>She simply sighed, as if I was not worth the breath she could be using to inhale her cigarettes, and smiled. A pitiful, condescending smile that made me feel like a five-year old who had just been scolded. She pulled out her extra cigarette from behind her ear and lit it on the edge of the one she was already smoking.</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>She turned over onto her stomach, faced me dead-on. "God and I just don't get along," she whispered, staring at me with those vicious brown bear eyes. They were old, and experienced, and welcoming death. So out of place on her young face and so obviously witnesses to something I had never seen.</i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-18002361763017844822012-11-08T23:58:00.000+08:002012-11-09T00:05:49.135+08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNZcF1FU6NGibvpP-HqWeS0C5tsUdSpTppnbT3OnqOA5O9wcI1dEVme4Ma-OUAnT7grEZDELdzZ1SOJdFh_1Z4Q9wDOm_lOHWCt4IhikUomqSYI3MaUMrCNR1wHyci43A4HSRiXDBwLQ/s1600/hug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNZcF1FU6NGibvpP-HqWeS0C5tsUdSpTppnbT3OnqOA5O9wcI1dEVme4Ma-OUAnT7grEZDELdzZ1SOJdFh_1Z4Q9wDOm_lOHWCt4IhikUomqSYI3MaUMrCNR1wHyci43A4HSRiXDBwLQ/s1600/hug.jpg" /></span></i></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He was gone.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After years of chaos, the storm finally left along with him. But even the stillness was corrupted.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He didn't have a place here anymore, so I scratched him out of my life, like tabletop graffiti when you didn't do your best. There was a problem, though: His leftovers. The memorabilia that sloshed through our three years and spilled over the brim of our breakup like contaminated water. I couldn't take seeing them. It was like he labelled his name all over my life- especially my bedroom.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I ripped the notes and photos and letters from my walls, the clothes from my hangers, and the bears from my bed, leaving a spray of thumbtacks, clawed closets and lonely pillows that still managed to salt my wounds.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I grabbed his remnants and stuffed them in a shoebox- also from him, collaged in polaroids and pink crepe paper. I laid them to rest in their cardboard coffin and buried it in the farthest, darkest corner under my bed, away from sight and mind.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I thought that I would be okay, but they haunted me still.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">4AM nightmares of nostalgia: Our ghost scratching my bed frame. A skinny finger tapping the back of my head as I try to sleep, calling for me to take one last look at the life I was attempting to erase from my memory. Your hand on my knee, your kiss on my neck, your laugh in my air. It was like a corpse under my floorboards- rotting and stinking, and so evidently there. I squeezed my eyes close, tighter than the grip you said I had on you, and evaded the thoughts like I was running through reckless cars on a highway.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But it was impossible. Sooner or later, I knew I was going to get hit.</span></i></div>
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Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-59613863788840019502012-11-02T18:32:00.000+08:002012-11-02T18:32:23.976+08:00Nightcall<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSE6V-JVTb5rRPjxJaSR7I4CC5GqK3OCT8BKw0pD2RsvPqRGvbPVTSwU0954YR9SoBUBYOoaYw-29nUfDTMqmaZoLMdNLE6nrppgSCjlC1ChrxbfTg4JUjGyBjPnfUB3jrs2vtGEnCQU/s1600/tumblr_mcmhljC7bP1qghl49o1_r1_500.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtSE6V-JVTb5rRPjxJaSR7I4CC5GqK3OCT8BKw0pD2RsvPqRGvbPVTSwU0954YR9SoBUBYOoaYw-29nUfDTMqmaZoLMdNLE6nrppgSCjlC1ChrxbfTg4JUjGyBjPnfUB3jrs2vtGEnCQU/s1600/tumblr_mcmhljC7bP1qghl49o1_r1_500.gif" /></a></div>
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<br />
He was silent, both hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead into the orange glow of the city streets. I held onto my elbows, kept my head straight, but couldn't stop my peripherals from watching him. Silence, a game of second-guessing and over-thinking.<br />
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I could smell his cologne faintly under the thin blanket of cigarette smoke embedded in his shirt. A simple silver watch gleamed on his wrist, ticking louder than the vicious rain outside. I wondered where we were going, if he had something planned or if he just likes driving at night. We were getting farther from the city, and I wished I hadn't agreed when he asked me if I felt like heading out tonight. I was perfectly happy in my bed with a book, when he mentioned a "drive" I expected conversation and maybe some scenery. Not a silent escape to God-knows-where.<br />
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I felt nervous, like we were going to rob a store and throw the money out on the highway, or get sickly drunk and sling the bottles into Church windows. I pictured us, casually walking into a convenience store and asking the cashier to give us everything he's got. Intimidating, but sexy. The cashier wouldn't take me seriously at first, but he would pull out the gun and lay it casually on the counter. The cashier would probably get a little angry, but we'd keep our faces straight, maybe a little smirk here or there, and ask one last time before we shoot one of the liquor bottles on the back shelf- that would teach him.<br />
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I snapped out of my daydream. Was I the only one noticing the thick silence? I wanted to slice into it and set free all the conversations we could be having. Why was I nervous? How was he doing this to me? I hated his cool composure and his stupid jawline, and I hated my mind for wandering and thinking of stupid robbery daydreams.<br />
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Finally, the car slowed down. The bright lights of a convenience store portruded the darkness like blood from a fresh cut. He stopped the car and looked over at me.<br />
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"Lets go."Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-74207240357806666302012-11-02T18:00:00.000+08:002012-11-02T18:00:04.768+08:00Someone else's idea of perfect.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I knew a long time ago that I wanted to be a writer. Well, I thought I did. I know how easy it is to change what you want to be in the future- one minute you want to be a doctor, but then you realize it's too difficult so you decide you want to work in business instead, but business has no soul so you decide to be a teacher, but it doesn't pay well so ... the list goes on. I can recall around six professions I felt so certain of when I growing up- a doctor, a forensic investigator, an archaeologist (I blame Lara Croft and the Discovery Channel), a restaurant owner, a writer, and now, I want to work in Marketing, Advertising, or Media production. The ideas still aren't certain, but they're much more realistic and aligned to my goals now, at least?<br />
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As uncertain as I am with my future profession, I know by now that it will never be stuck in stone. As long as I enjoy what I'm doing, I'll be fine. However, there's this small voice at the back of my head and I can't help but feel guilty as I ignore it. "What about writing?" it asks.<br />
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Writing, for a long time, felt like my first love. I would dedicate so much time to this blog, I would use notebooks, even. But as I grew older and got busier with college and life, all the time I usually spent sharpening my sword (or pen, in this case- haha lame) was was dissolved. Now, I'm not even sure if I'm good at it. I can't commit to an idea long enough to write an actual story, nor can I just leave my blog blank.<br />
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I read a lot of blogs, usually among the lifestyle genre, and they're always so good. I think to myself, "Wow, she's witty!" or "I really like how she writes," and then my little dusty blog pops into my head and I just feel crappy, knowing that I haven't been writing in it as often as I want to. I want to be able to write blogs like them. I want to be able to talk about a life lesson in such a profound, insightful way, so I can blow all my readers minds and make them come back for more. I'm going to start practicing, that's for sure, but right now, I just can't do that. I can't write about the lesson life just taught me, but I do think I'm skilled at something else- I can write about feelings. I can write about the little moments in the heart, and I can dedicate three hundred words to those moments. Hey, three-hundred is a short blog post, but those are a lot of words for one little confusing feeling.<br />
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<br />Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-90969002847778902192012-10-30T03:10:00.003+08:002012-10-30T03:10:41.922+08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWkZN1y5W8rVREtqR1AGPJGAt5ilBpxmij50Gy84bGrHJPzIE_UCf15LawaxqBj6kKhnpU8JDhRUwFyfevt1ICuzN6DYjObMpbj316LJHy7DJhxsDiGmJqG9-z9d_cD7oWq-iOfudLTWc/s1600/403710_10152209157140078_146565565_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><i><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWkZN1y5W8rVREtqR1AGPJGAt5ilBpxmij50Gy84bGrHJPzIE_UCf15LawaxqBj6kKhnpU8JDhRUwFyfevt1ICuzN6DYjObMpbj316LJHy7DJhxsDiGmJqG9-z9d_cD7oWq-iOfudLTWc/s640/403710_10152209157140078_146565565_n.jpg" width="640" /></i></a></div>
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<i>I don't really have anything to say about this photo, but for some reason I feel so drawn towards it. This is me, in my messy apartment because my classmates and I were doing a project for a class. Well, I was watching a documentary as they worked on the project. My laptop is broken there, but I've already bought a new one. My room has clothes and books sprawled across the floor, and my shelf is so cluttered. My hair isn't as long anymore, but I trust it will grow quickly. There's nothing particularly interesting about this photograph, but I'll just leave it here for you to see.</i></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-61333112047909545642012-10-23T23:22:00.004+08:002012-10-23T23:22:46.811+08:00Seeing, but never feeling.<br />
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Here I am, once again. Another late night, sitting on the edge of my bed after a long day of work. Clothes, shoes, books and papers scattered across the bedroom floor but they're just sacraments of reality to me. They're anchors, just like the rest of my home. The grey couch, the grey carpet, the grey walls- anchors that constantly wake my daydreams of Macaroons, white dresses, and bicycles in Paris. They steal me away from New York, city skylines and beautiful people, and force me into a routine so depressing I could slit my throat right here on this bed. Who is the culprit? The fantasy or the reality? Who is to blame for my yearning?</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>I blame the books. The black-and-white lined pages that composed majority of my childhood. They're the ones that educated me, that told me about places far away from this one, where even boring old meadows held the sweetest of surprises, and a boat in the sea meant only one thing: adventure. Books, they are the ones that ruined me. They brought my mind so far away but kept my body spotless and thirsting to be transformed, to follow the imagination into wondrous worlds of lives I'd never live.</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>What good is seeing the unknown but never feeling it? </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i>Those pages, they're dangerous. </i></span></div>
Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7702076104334903924.post-83889702524868878772012-10-11T19:54:00.000+08:002012-10-11T19:54:02.132+08:00Maybe tomorrow I'll find my way home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Do I stay? Do I leave? Where do I go? What about all these faces I'll probably never see again? Is this a phase? I don't know. I've been itching to get up and leave, fulfill my gypsy needs and just leave it all behind me. Find a new life. I know it's not that easy, but oh, how I wish it was. The people around me are no longer the people they used to be. They're nothing but anchors, dedicated to pulling me down and making the struggle even harder. What are they good for, what are <i>you</i> good for? We used to laugh, we used to play, now all we do is argue and all I do is find you annoying. I don't see myself being here much longer. Why continue drinking the poison? For hope that it turns into wine, I suppose. And that everything will go back to normal and I will be happy with the faces I know too well and the small city with no adventure.<br />
I long for dirty windows of metal buses, chattering along dusty roads. Strange places, strange faces, nomads wrinkled with the wear of travel. I long for different cities every week, different people to dance with, different dogs to touch. I wish I could pack my entire life into a suitcase and just bid this one goodbye.Joannahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13498992973054230917noreply@blogger.com2