"Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

(I am going to live by this line from now onward)

lazy to give titles

Really need to break the habit of using the computer at home after school. Computer -> sleep deprivation -> unproductive the next day. And like today, -> bad mood -> break under small tensions -> class disruption.

I feel bad for the teachers who had to put up with me. The only lesson I actually attended today was Math, and only half of it. Skipped PE and Assembly, spent 3/4 of Bio practical crying + sleeping in class.

If I see someone whose work I perceive to be superior to mine, I must not wallow in self-hate. I must not act on jealousy. I must take their work as inspiration, as study material, scrutinise it, learn from it--ultimately work towards reaching their level and then towards surpassing it. Instead of mourning my incompetency and the fact that "I'll never be as good", I must practise to "be as good"--I can.

Stop taking these liberties. We aren't friends.

I understand it now--you hate rebels, I hate conformists.

I guess it's true you join the dots

So I wrote on science and religion and got myself a 39/50. Not a big deal to many out there, but I'm pleased for a number of reasons, one being that I finally broke the 38 barrier (believe it or not, majority of my essays have the exact score 38/50).

I begin to wonder if writing novels is invisibly training me for Literature and GP, because I don't remember being anywhere near decent in Lit or English at the Sec 2 level. Maybe. Writing Umbrella for example has forced me to contemplate current affairs, media and politics, topics I found too dry to trouble me in the past.

It might also be the sudden glut of slightly-political novels that has attacked my reading list as of late (if late be three years). I never would have touched those before. But then fantasy and the YA style helped make the vast topic palatable--even delectable. Particularly Flora Trilogy set me on that path.

Am I crediting young adult fantasy for elevating my scores from bare near-passes to pleasing numbers? It's strange, but I think it's the only thing I can attribute the trend to at present!

I hate when people make me part of a pattern

When they take my behaviour as evidence of an overarching trend.

and forward

I feel quite sad.

The world is cruel and I never let myself believe it. I feel an agonising loss for things I never had, an empty craving for lies in a long-past time. I remember a forest in the school courtyard, broken cement slabs where we played, people I might meet again someday.

I know I cannot return to that haven; I know the journey's been too long now to reverse and forget. Love has withered to foul, bitter hate, and like the survivors of the generations that died with the cold, I must learn the new ways of the world or be swept from existence by the red queen's carpet. I must pretend the past never was the way it was.

What's wrong, ego gotten to you too? Another one?

i do wish

I very much envy those who are satisfied by simple things, easily-won things. I want to be able to have a good meal and feel blessed for it. Buy something I want and celebrate rather than drown in guilt.

Those who treasure the physical must live in a world of pleasures; for them joy is as simple as a sight or a smell. Anchored, in a sense.

My happiness is never anchored. I lose it when I'm looking away. But then perhaps my happiness is more sublime. I would not know, really.

THE NIGHT CIRCUS~~~~

Let me just go sit in catatonia for a while. Or squee a bit. Okay, I already did, but I really do think this deserves a reread. On paper. It just doesn't deserve the inferior treatment I gave it, of reading via ebook.

The Night Circus, debut novel of Erin Morgenstern, is another story from a long line of similar ones, about rival performers who fall in love. They are bound to their enmity by a force outside their sphere of control, something started by their fathers, and must continue to hate each other. To do battle till a victor is ascertained. Those tales have always been sad, in the sense that their love is either doomed to fail, or must destroy the confines that contain it, often warranting the sacrifice of something else in return.

And in this story, the setting is a place least likely to harbour a story so bitter--a children's entertainment ground, a locale with connotations of wonder and joy--a circus.

This begins to clue the reader in just how far all deceptions go here. Images for the sake of them. Words for favour, words for control. People going disbelieved, disbelieving; the star of the show disguises truths as lies. Parades lies for glory. And people will see what they wish to see, truths masquerading as lies, lies they wish were truths.

I really do have something for Victorian-esque fiction. Especially fiction like this, centred around a circus that breathes with its inhabitants, dances, metamorphoses, sees insidious infirmity. Stories about shows and displays--beauty for its sake, beauty to bring the spark to the eyes of another, beauty that costs some fragment of the heart. A black and white circus--white flames, black corridors, costumes that do not break anywhere into colour--the chessboard for this battle between bound enchanters, whose endgame terms remain a secret. The bonfire is like its heart, and this heart is linked to the man, but the woman is the performing illusionist, and the flamboyant contest keeps the circus growing, keeps the two competitors attempting increasingly extravagant installations--all in the name of proving the victor.

Then red is brought by the rêveurs, on scarves and in roses, the fanatics who would shed their blood to watch this show. And then in murder, when blood stains the black-white ground so the pristine image is disrupted for moments. And red is brought by the twins born about midnight, in the curls of their hair, when the bonfire-heart is first lit.

Colour themes and images are a centrepiece in this story; they're a substantial part of the plot and sometimes crucial to one's appreciation of events. Some events are detailed for nothing but the poignance of the image that forms, and takes hold, solidifying into a second-long tableau and lingering like a photograph on film.

It is a love story, and those whom I've told know that I adore how the romance was developed, more than ever I have for any other fictional piece. The love story is carried, necessarily, by remote gestures and their symbolism--the couple separated by a thousand miles and a mercurial schedule--and not by look or appearance, not by speech even. Developed upon a series of tricks and illusions that are a grand, expensive form of flirtation--the new tents at the circus becoming introductions, challenges, love letters--magical spectacles seen and exchanged from afar, through which the characters decipher each other's natures and stories.

This is done so well that I can believe in love after two conversations. Because it's not the conversations that matter, and I suppose that's a lesson of the story itself--that the word is worth little in truth. We see what we wish to see, don't we?

I think this book is magical. Meaning that in both the most literal and most figurative of senses. Four hundred pages of it, devoured in a single night, morning and afternoon (unfortunately in digital format, which I regret and must remedy shortly). It was that captivating, mesmerising, enchanting. A lingering spell that seeped through the pages?

The images and the force of creativity behind them are transcendent--not almost, but completely and consummately. We don't imagine white-flame candles adorning trees, or bottles that smell of pirate stories, or  labyrinths of vastly differing environs strung together.

And then again there seems an endless iteration of fourth walls, numerous stories within the story told by a character in this story.

Oftentimes, the book itself serves as an example of what is expounded upon--Mr. Lefevre understands audience response, titillation. According to the Burgess sisters, smell and sound manipulate ambience. Widget knows a story is seasoned by the teller's own flavour and biases.

And that's how it is with this book, one that stirs extreme sentiments of both sorts, that employs the strangest and most beautiful of sensory cues in forming the atmosphere, whose words are so distinctively touched by the author's linguistic patterns.

It's going to be so very long till I can find a book that fills the hole this one left in me when it ended. A warning I'll have to give is that the ending is bittersweet and somewhat piercing, for all the love and hope Morgenstern engendered from the start. Though the words of the storyteller, as always, soothe the wound into something almost sweet. I hope I will find some way to vent my sudden and fierce passion for this piece of literature, this gem that will be for a long while my favourite standalone book in the world.

And I'll definitely have to reread it. On paper. When I'm not reading, I'll get to ogle the beautiful cover design.

I WISH she'd just stop singing with that fake American pop star accent. And her singing. Her attempts to sound deeper and sexier, to rasp as if her voice were mature. The fakeness. Even in normal speech her voice takes up that poor quality imitation of an American accent. Is that what she thinks is cool? Does it help her feel a little more like her equally pretentious friends? Does she hate her personal voice and identity that much?

It grates on me so bad. Why in the world is she pronouncing "s" as "sh" in songs? SERIOUSLY.

I DON'T WANT TO SPEND ANOTHER DAY IN THE SAME ROOM AS HER. SERIOUSLY. GET HER OUT OF MY ROOM.

I also wish she'd not act like such a purist, saying "uh I hate autotune" and the like when 100% of what she listens to is autotuned. REALLY.

What's respect to this household? My sister, four years younger, seems to think herself my commander. She thinks it her right to define the tenets of my behavioural code.

She seems to hold herself in such high regard--my superior? She thinks herself the Defender of Good, some high-standing moral signpost when she spends half her breath spiting others. I'd like to start insulting her physical attributes at this juncture as any normal blogger would, but that'd be descending to her level.

As a result I never last a day without a thought of murdering her, with my bare hands, or with something that will have her entirely helpless moments before death. It has come to the point where I'd rejoice her early death. I'd love for her to die gorily. Helpless. With someone laughing at her, would be best.

Thinking about my relationship is suddenly getting me very uneasy. Without the high of infatuation to fuel me, the thought of intimacy is continually scaring me. It has been for the past months or so...my natural self resurfacing, I suppose. I always was averse to physical closeness; there's a reason I don't hug my friends or even dare touch them.

I feel myself wanting distance. The thought of being alone with him makes my stomach squirm, as if I'm afraid of the things he'll do to me, the boundaries he'll cross--intimacy in itself. It's all wrong...or is it just this long absence? Is it just that? I hope so.

I always knew I wasn't meant for real life romance; I never could handle responsibility, obligation, commitment, or even simple care......

I feel as if I love no one in the world. I don't. Maybe I've had to admit this to myself for the longest time.

the story

There's so much that hasn't been said yet.

There's something about every year that reads just like a novel with beginning and end. The year almost seems structured to be story-like: the climax always comes at the end, and the freedom afterwards is the falling action.

It's dizzying to imagine how far back that scripted beginning seems now.

It was a February morning at the top of the spectator stands: one of those days that feels like dawn in more ways than one--like a beginning. A friend came to me, to ask if I had met you. I was glad to inform her that we had, and she went on to mention how strikingly much we reminded her of each other. Something about telling stories about the stars.

"You must make good friends with him, okay?"

I remember the thought I thought in response to this. Is she trying to matchmake us? Does she think we're compatible or something...?

It made me curious, what she saw in you that made her think that way. I suppose I could tell from the day she said it; we were more similar than I was with most others--outwardly at least--in mannerism and speech and maybe smile.

Our first private conversation came rather later than I'd have imagined. We walked to the station together. It was slightly stunning--all I had heard about you before had been long lyrical praises over the awards you had to your name. And so I was slightly afraid to seem uncouth around you; I spoke cordially, and we discussed the girls and guys and the differences between us--and I told you how much the RI guys amazed me. I was formal, and I pretended an interest in current affairs, because I felt as if that was your topic.

I remember two very clear thoughts that came to me as I heard you speak and my replies came surprisingly easily--so easily, for a first-conversation:

1. How funny, you seem to want to make sure there are no awkward silences.
2. Given enough time between us, I know I'll fall in love with you.

And I was right in both cases.

I still remember those days in April, the year so tall and complexly-branched and blossoming. I remember watching from afar, wondering: what are the chances that he'll see me the way I see him? I remember worrying, about how there were girls you saw far more frequently than I, and how I expected that you'd take interest in one of them long before you even realised I existed. I remember worrying that you'd never know I was there, always, however often.


Is this too early? Is this too soon?


I held onto that paper crane. That was the first day I gave up denying, and admitted to my heart that I liked you. I still have it with me. In my file. Right where it was that one-odd year ago. I only told one person the truth, but tell it I did, and instantly it grew worse.

I used to comfort myself by saying: Just another crush. Just one of those short things that last a month and then fade without any trace. I'm not unfamiliar with them.

But I waited it out, and I realised this was taking too long.

Late April, there were tears I hid from everyone. It was like nothing I knew--watching everything happen so fast between you and another while I sat helpless and pretended to enjoy it just like everyone else did, though it hurt my face and hurt my heart even more to do so, to pull my lips into that laughing smile--so much I'm certain it showed.

I remember the struggle, of knowing how you were so blinded to me because you, just like me, had found someone wonderful to hold your gaze upon. I tried to tell myself, for sure, that my chances were zero and that I should just save myself all this suffering by giving you up. But then you led me on and also my friends led me on and hope led me on, and I wanted to believe so badly, and I grew myself a sparse and straggly, blossoming, garden--

--that was destroyed by the deep frost of unprecedented winter, flung from the high precipice by the claws of cold that were neither your fault nor mine, but the fault of the engineer who constructed the human heart and the way it learns to feel...

I never thought you'd save me. It was the last thing I expected, you cruel thing with no inkling of how bad you were making me die inside. I was certain you were a monster, a monster with guilt; I was certain she was too, and all my friends, and I was certain that the engine of evolution was the greatest monster of all. Perhaps you should never have spoken anyone's name on that night.

2 a.m., I remember how late it was before the ceiling stopped seeming like it were made of ice, the world through my window a wasteland stripped bare by wind. Do you know how it is, to stare at a blue ceiling, and feel an empty shell of yourself, a husk without the substance that makes it special, makes it worthwhile for the world? I was cracked open by thought and regret and hate.

But save me you did, as I always wished you would. Yet you did, yet you did. I didn't think it so easy for a mind to change. I feared, and my friends bred that rightful fear in me too--that it was a lie for my comfort, a lie meant to set me straight before you vanished without a trace, again, to pursue prior dreams.

I can be sure now that it was no lie. I owe you; we owe each other. Prices we can never pay, hopes we could work lifetimes for.

blade

That opening gap, the hollow fills with night wind. That half-guilty irritation, that unsettling discomfort, when you want to sever a connection, but the other party persists--for veritable years--in his/her pursuit of the long-dead friendship. Teeth on the cards, still playing on the gamble that the lack of definitive word on the subject, on your part, is acknowledgement of its continual life.

I cannot as of now bring myself to say it straight--but I've lost all desire to speak to you. Verily, it agonises and imbalances me to have to remember everything I associate with you, your words, your intentions. I thought I'd bypassed that frame in the reel, but you seem to keep stamping your presence upon the present, reminders of a time and a world I'd rather forget.

Can we say our goodbyes and pretend we each never knew the other? Pretend our faces left no imprints in each other's memories? I want to forget the section of my life that you are chained to in my mind. I want you to stop returning. We were never close to begin with.

I'm latent death

I just don't like to please people, I guess? It might be an instinct for my personal freedom, freedom of fate.

Sometimes, I find, I disagree with others or specifically avoid following their advice just to show them they have no control over my decisions. I hate being predictable. I do not want others to pre-empt my decisions; I'm not a machine running commands, not a function processing variables to produce calculable outcomes.

I'm a free person, an outcome of the fundamental chaos of my molecules, of the molecules of the lineage that begot me, sparked in a broiling sea of lightning billions of years ago.

(...how did my small rant about hype aversion and hate for advice turn into that?)

semi-related ideas orbiting a nebulous central issue

My brain chooses all the wrong times to bestow inspiration upon me.

It's random, but I've realised all it takes to make a popular romantic lead is to make him/her nondescript and then have the main character fall for him/her. Reader-insertion does the rest of the work.

I'd like to write another story after Umbrella and OTDOTS, in a world that runs by different rules. Maybe the 12-panel revolving door world. Each universe will have a different level of technological advancement. The main character team will include a person who keeps the world in motion and must be protected at all costs. Also, one with the ability to leave invisible markers in the terrain that can be triggered to explode at will (posing a threat to allies if he/she can't remember where they are), one who must close an electrical circuit with the target in order to attack, one whose type of matter/energy control depends on mood. It'd be very nice to write about rarely-used powers...

An idea that just popped in by looking at the "custom" button below this: there could be one who can customise the physical rules within a certain radius of him/her to his/her preference. Potential need to nerf this person via plot device.

I realised fictional works don't just inspire me by being wonderful. I might simply rue that the story handled a brilliant premise or element terribly. It might merely be something about the work that left a bad aftertaste. In any case, the work gets done and inspiration is always for the better.

Pretty word of the day (not because I learnt it today, but because I've been thinking about it a lot recently): agnate. A relative sharing a male ancestor with the subject. Most often used to describe two people of a common lineage, especially a royal one.