Twenty Fifth 25th.

I suppose, I felt like for the would have been 25th 25th, I wanted to thank you a little. Because I feel this is special, somehow. I don't know. That might just be me being oddly sentimental again. You know how I get. You've always known. So here it is. A thank you post.

Just for the beauty of the world you brought, both wonderful and tragic.

So I guess I'll just be copy-pasting old verses I've written that I feel ring true with everything I've ever felt. Through all of it. My favorite verses from each poem I've ever written. Somehow, I feel like it'll capture and explain all the words I always end up stumbling over. A summary, I suppose. If you ever wanted to know my own side of things, though it'd be pretty strange if you didn't know by now.

Here it is, the story of you and me. As told by my poetry through the past more-than-two-years.

"And I'm not the angel,
that you seem to think I am."

"Because I know that the truth
is you're driving me crazy.
And I've fallen for you too."

"You're insane, and unpredictable.
Insecure and full of pride.
Impulsive and far too rational.
And you're a crazy contradiction.
But I wouldn't have you
any other way."

"It was more about that smile
which you couldn't help but give
whenever we talked
about the next 20 years
of pillow forts and cookie jars
and hunting down the ones
who'd try to take the kids."

"Because you were always more
than just my standards, love.
You picked them up
and threw them at my face.
Looked back with your
defiant stubborness
and kissed away
the doubt.

Because it's [you]
I chose, love.
Not the mirrored ideas
of whatever I might have wanted
[you] to be.
It's [you] and not
whatever the standards
told you what you should have been."

"But darling, you rushed right in
and promised me the [universe]
   until the end of time.

[Made me believe you,
and grasp onto that shard of hope.]

And did, just as you often do.

You proved me wrong."

"That underneath the insanity
   and irrational defiance
      and theoretical niceness,

the jigsaw puzzle of [you]
was never anything short
of beautiful"

"Darling, we were blinding
with the brilliance we had
and no one else
could quite compare
and we were young,
and we were foolish.
And we had dared to [dream.]"

"We scattered the stars
and marked the sky with [us].
And it was a story
that could only ever finish
with one, unexpected,
untimely ending."

"And you were the rush of stardust
that I needed to breathe in my life,
when you rushed right in and taught me
just how to feel [alright] again."

"Darling, you had always been
my best source of hope
that I could change the world."

"And you always knew just how terrified I was,
but fought your way through,
and destroyed every cover I had set up,
even when my thorns tore at you"

"and I could make believe I had something
to say that was utterly beautiful
and that maybe the [universe]
could care,
     and that someone would hear."

"with your effortless ways
     of making me smile again,
     and this time, I could almost bring myself
          to mean it."

"when all you ever wanted to do
was kiss every scar
     and make me make-believe
     that I was [beautiful]"

"you, my dear, were real
and didn't need wings to try to help you
          because you were always brave enough
to try to fly [without them.]"

"We scoured the skies
and found a story for each star.
Breathed life into the flowers
and cracks in buildings we would see.
When we took the world apart
through each other's eyes
and put it back together
until we couldn't see the lines
between your world and mine.

And all you ever wanted to do
was save the people falling off rooftops
while I would kick them off again
to teach them how to fly.
And when the rooftop cleared
we'd sit and talk for hours
until the skies went through every color.

Because dear, you made the world explode
with laughter and sparks and wicked dreams
and life became my favorite artform.
Where we'd laugh about their sanity
and smile when people called us crazy.
Flip off every single one of them
who didn't believe we could change the world."

"We knew characters and plots
and made verses out of nothing.
We talked in symbols and metaphors,
and made stories out of all our days.
Our love was a [literary] happening,
sprinkled with glimmers in its cracks.
We scribbled oaths into the earth,
in days I still believed all that."

"when they took each other hands
and dared to scream their love out loud."

"We streaked through the night skies
and left cracks to fall through
for each and every one of our stars."

"Because I never really got used
to sleeping in the dark.
But I didn't have much choice
when you took back all our stars."

"Waiting for the familiar path
your battle-stained fingers
used to trace along these veins."

"I was grasping for the metaphors
and the little details of you
that had made you something inexplicable"

Merry Christmas, I suppose, Dumdum. No idea if you still check this blog, but meh~

Happy would have been 25th 25th.

Starting Over

Author's Note: I'm tired of writing depressing poetry, or only writing good things when I'm sad.

From now on, I'm going to start writing just for the fun of it. Or well, writing well. And this will take much practice. But I want to do it.

Therefore, I'm going to start by exporting very, very old scraps that I've converted into short poems. They do not have my usual rhythm, whimsy, emotion, or rhyme. But looking back at them, I don't really mind. I like them a little more now. And they're hope that I can develop something a little more for my poetry. Because at the very least, these poems still sound like me.

So here's to starting over.

That is all.

///

never again.

She came home with blood
dripping from her severed finger.

He told her to go
clean up the carpet,

not noticing that her wedding ring
            was gone.

(10/09/11)

lovely fabric, dear.

She danced in her dress that night 

and people told her it suited her. 

She laughed, thinking of all

the hearts she took to make it.

(08/28/11)

fault lines.

We drowned out 

the noise of the world 

with the beat of hearts 

and footsteps 

in the effort to dance 

on fault lines. 

Nobody quite expected 

          the tsunamis.

(08/21/12)

burning strings, again.

People thought liquid fire 

that you could drink 

was useless. 

But it was the best thing 

      to burn 

all these butterflies with.

(05/04/11)

disney.

And so they lived 

happily ever after. 

At least until 

they got married. 

Then they couldn't 

stand each other. 

But fairy-tales 

never show that.

(04/27/11)

curiosity.

And when you said 

you were bulletproof, 

I just had to test it. 

Apparently, you're not. 

Curiosity killed you, 

          I guess. 

Oops.

(05/06/11)

flaw.

He wanted to love her. 

But she had that one flaw. 

Then when he finally got over it, 

he just had to say; 

"I love you, Mole-y. 

     I mean. Molly."

(05/19/11)

cell.

He looked at the petri dish 

           and smiled. 

He had gotten 

what he wanted from her: 

          her cells. 

Here they were, 

neatly dividing themselves. 

Soon he would have 

a "her" that loved him.

(06/22/11)

weight.

You put the weight of your world 

on my shoulders, and took my hand 

so we could run through the earth

and show them how happy you were now.

(10/09/12)

breath.

So you took my breath away 

and trapped it in a bottle, 

for the greatest theft 

          of your life. 

You put your ninja mask on 

and hopped off the window ledge 

to throw the bottle into the sea, 

and told me that maybe 

I'd be lucky enough 

to get it back one day.

(09/28/12)

fudge.

So she stole my heart. 

At the time, she thought 

it was a brownie.

(12/03/11)

A Letter to my Future Husband

Author's Note: I got bored, and after reading my friend's version of this, I got curious to see how mine would turn out.

///

To whoever you are (and whatever stupid pet name I may or may not have chosen to give you),

I have spent the first 13 years of my life with a clear picture of who I wanted you to be. I had a set of standards that I felt that if somebody met, then they would be perfect for who you would be.

Two experiences in my life have proven to me that the best things come unexpectedly. That's the wonder of it.

Therefore, I'm going to begin this by saying that I will honestly have no idea who you will be, or what you'll be like. All I know is that in a world of infinite possibilities, it will be a wondrous thing to have met you amongst the thousands of choices and little moments that all led to this future.

A lot of people might say they want to meet the perfect guy, and that's who they'll fall in love with.

I don't want you to be perfect. That would be boring.

In fact, if there's anything I'd ask of you, it's that you won't be afraid to be flawed for me. I want to know you for who you are, for all the little details and bits that make up you. Because I wouldn't have loved you if you were anything other than who you were. I want to help prove to you that you're a thermodynamic miracle, and that you were an improbability that still sprung up in the world.

Therefore, in advanced, I wanted to thank you. Firstly, I want to thank you for putting up with me. I know how infuriating I can get. I know how I can be strange and not very easy to understand. But I guess the fact that you've chosen me means that to some extent, you do understand. Thank you for appreciating me for me.

I hope that whatever we have will make it. I hope that we both understand that it's not just about this giddy feeling of butterflies we get. Because by now I'm sure you understand that I'm a huge mess between a cynic and a wild, crazy dreamer. So part of me is terrified that one day you're just going to get up, walk away and say quite simply that the magic is over between us. That part of me is also terrified that one day, the one walking out the door might be me. So I hope that we can remember that what we have right now is also a commitment. It's a promise that we've made to each other. And if there's one thing I'm proud of, it's my stubbornness to keep promises. Hopefully you believe in the same thing, as well. But this marriage is obviously about two people. So we'll always need to compromise. And that will need honesty. So no matter how many fights we might get into, I hope we end up fixing them before we go to bed. And that will need the honesty and getting over the fear of hurting each other.

I'm apologizing in advanced for the days I'm going to be off. Even more off than usual, anyway. I really have no explanation for you to make you understand why there are some days when everything just feels so wrong. Maybe it will be those days I'm going to be more isolated and just write. Please understand that I have a passion for writing, and sometimes writing will mean I have to be alone. It doesn't mean I love writing more than you. If I could share that part of my world with you, I would. But I have no idea how. And I'm sorry for that. I'm also apologizing for the times you may find yourself in my writing. Even if it won't always be blatant: maybe you'll find one of our moments recreated in a story, or a character that salutes everyone goodbye the way you do. Sometimes, I won't be able to help it. You have, after all, become a huge part of my world. And I can't help it if I subconsciously end up proclaiming how wonderful those quirks of you are to all my readers.

So here's to hoping the best for the rest of our lives together. I look forward to all the adventures we're going to share: and please note that as a writer and a reader, I've come to understand that even the smallest moments can be adventures if you look at it right. This means that you don't have to feel pressured to always emblazon the times we spend together: I'm not picky when it comes to where we are while we're on a date, or what we're doing. 

Even if we just lie in bed all day and talk about nonsensical things and play with each other's hair, I wouldn't mind. It's you, specifically, that I've chosen. Not the places you took me out on dates. 

Although, a small hint, but I'm sure you know this by now from the time before we got married: I love toy stores and book stores, and maybe making random commentary on things while we're in them.

That doesn't mean I don't want to try new things though. If you ever get tickets to an awesome play, or to a new country, I would love to go with you. I guess all I really want is to be able to say I've made memories with you.

I'm sure I love you. And I'm sorry for the times I'm not exactly physically affectionate. I try my best to show it in whatever way I can. But I'm not cheesy or sweet. At least, not in the conventional way. I hope you understand that.

Also, I'm sorry for always taking your cookies.

Love,

Me(or whatever stupid pet name you may or may not have chosen to give me)

The Last

Author's Note: Maybe, probably, most likely the last.

21 poems all in all.

Goodbye, Dumdum.
///

I wanted to write you an eternal congregation
of embedded words and woven intricacies
that could come close to the poetry
that was so unapologetically you;
perhaps to convince myself
that I couldn't bleed out all over the words
until not a single of them was true.

I was grasping for the metaphors
and the little details of you
that had made you something inexplicable;
but lost them in the scrawl of ink
and the stains on crumpled paper
so I could bleed out all the poison
and formaldehyde your heart
had pumped into my system;
hoping eventually the trace you left
all over my veins
     would be forgotten.

And the stemmed flow of words
and the ink that won't run fast enough
to catch up with these echoes
only serves to remind me
that all those worlds are gone,
and their lights are flickering out,
dimming our universe down one by one.

So my dear, the door at the end
of the world is waiting
for you to go through
Until the keeper locks it up for good.
With the welded key as a reminder
that our adventures didn't last forever.
Our stars, our lightning, and our magic is gone
and it's time for us to take a bow:
     goodbye, my dear;
          it's all over now.

Lightning

Author's Notes: The most recent poem I've written that I'm exporting over here. There are a lot more I decided not to transfer, they're over at my deviantart gallery.

This was written last August 22.

///

And you, my dear, were lightning personified.
You burst through the night skies
and outshone all the stars.
And there wasn't a scream in the world
that could outmatch your thunder.
We destroyed the earth we trod on
as we slowdanced across faultlines
and raced through raging raindrops.

We couldn't bear to let go
and dug our nails to form crescents
across each other's palms
as we shot through the gates of hell
and declared we had bulletproof hearts.
And darling, the demons took that call
and were drawn in by our music.
We thumped out drumbeats
and strung heartstrings with our sparks
and left behind quite a ruin
for the gods to clean up after us.

My dear, our wings were on borrowed time
and it wasn't long before
they crumbled into ashes
while we were in mid-flight.
Sunsets shattered across the universe
and hourglass sand started up a storm
as we tried to scramble for a cloud
that we could grasp while falling
but the heavens didn't want
to let either of us in anymore.

And so here's the world
we left behind in our pride.
We told ourselves we could take it
and maybe change it for the better
but we were blinded by our madness
and told ourselves it was our brilliance.
We streaked through the night skies
and left cracks to fall through
for each and every one of our stars.

We'll try and say it was the wars
that tore our very beings apart
and left the world's corners
without the stains of our colors.
But darling, what hurts most is the truth-
this was no one's fault but ours.

Story

Author's Notes: Written last July 19.

///

We knew characters and plots
and made verses out of nothing.
We talked in symbols and metaphors,
and made stories out of all our days.
Our love was a [literary] happening,
sprinkled with glimmers in its cracks.
We scribbled oaths into the earth,
in days I still believed all that.

We were heroes in our own right,
with the nerve to try and prove
that the rest of the world was wrong.
When we showed all the readers of our story
that we would end it in the stars.
It's just a shame that you and I both
couldn't appreciate what [we] are.

So take our pen and count the words,
embedded with all we didn't do.
When our tragedies collided
and didn't agree with all our smiles.
Chisel out the memories in the pouring rain,
when our intricacies were meshed
in the corners of our world.
And unravel the story
of when I was once your girl.

Collisions

Author's Notes: Written last May 22.

///

And while they might say,
we were dots in the universe,
no one could quite deny
there was a universe in [us],
when we took each other's hands
and ran through the gates of hell
until we couldn't breathe.

We scoured the skies
and found a story for each star.
Breathed life into the flowers
and cracks in buildings we would see.
When we took the world apart
through each other's eyes
and put it back together
until we couldn't see the lines
between your world and mine.

And all you ever wanted to do
was save the people falling off rooftops
while I would kick them off again
to teach them how to fly.
And when the rooftop cleared
we'd sit and talk for hours
until the skies went through every color.

Because dear, you made the world explode
with laughter and sparks and wicked dreams
and life became my favorite artform.
Where we'd laugh about their sanity
and smile when people called us crazy.
Flip off every single one of them
who didn't believe we could change the world.

Darling, sometimes our collisions
will be uncontrollable, and clumsy.
Without any semblance of grace.
Sometimes they'll be explosive
or they'll fly
and stain the clouds with stories of us.

But they'll always,
always be whole
When you reminded me
how we connected so well.
And our collisions will always
always be breathtaking.

The Story of Us

Author's Notes: I've finally decided to start transferring poems I wrote during the summer over here. If, by some strange stroke of luck, you actually wish to follow my poetry, you've better luck getting faster updates from my deviantart, which is linked in my sidebar.

This was written last March 26.

///

We never really had
the makings of a fairytale,
or an epic story
of ninjas and dragons.
But darling, we were
a reckless and [fearless] beginning.
We scattered the stars
and marked the sky with [us].
And it was a story
that could only ever finish
with one, unexpected,
untimely ending.

I used to believe
we'd be a legend, darling.
And the [bards] would sing of us.
And everyone who heard
would wish they'd get
[half] of our leftover stardust.
But they were right, you know.
About me and you.
that we were unbelievable,
and it was too good to be true.

You used to say
we were like lightning,
and I guess that metaphor
should have let me see it coming.
That it would be blinding,
and beautiful:
powerful enough to kill with.
But it would be rare,
and dangerous,
and gone before you know it.

So sadly the story of us
was apparently just a [tragedy.]
And it hurts to know
everything was written
by no one else
but you and me.

And so it goes,
the tale of two foolish,
and young,
and naive [would-be] heroes.
Who tried to prove
that the world was wrong,
that maybe something
could last [forever.]
But it's not what we thought.
We're not a happily ever after.

Remory

Author's Notes: For English class, for our third essay, we were assigned to write a short story or some form of creative output based on the recent monsoon flooding during early August. This is the story I thought of, and I enjoyed imagining and writing it because of the surprises that came along the way. For example, Sir Roswell was a surprise character who just made himself show up. Sir Roswell, is also a little salute to one of my closest friends out there. Pretty sure you'll figure out who you are, if you ever read this.

I challenged myself to be as surreal as possible in this story. Whether or not I succeeded, I've no idea.

///

I.

I used to like the sound of raindrops against the rooftop. Now I can’t stand it. I remember what it was like when she was still here; home was a lot more bearable.

It’s been three years. I’ve finally reached my third year of college, and I’m closer to a dead-end corporate job my parents have wanted for me than I’ve ever been.

School was cancelled today, and I’m lying down here remembering the words that still haunt me from that day my entire story changed:

The magic of the world is dying.

II.

I used to have a sister. This is our story.

---

Fuck. Oh god. CRAP.

This wasn’t good. I could feel her hand slipping. I dug my nails into the roof’s gutter and tilted my face away from the waves lashing at me.

“Hang on!” I gagged as water rushed towards my mouth. The current was too strong, and my arm was beginning to ache. I could see my knuckles turning white. We needed a way to get on the roof, but right now Harri was being pulled in by the currents and my other arm wasn’t going to be able to hang on to her much longer.

The water had risen too fast. It had felt like one minute we were trying to evacuate the house, and the next the water was at our roof and the current was pulling us with it. And now we were trapped with no way out. Somehow, I had always imagined a much more boring way that I would die; it seemed to fit in pretty well with every other thing our parents had planned for me.

But I couldn’t let Harri die. Her story was meant for greater things.

I found my footing on the top of the one of the window frames, and tried to pull myself close enough to the edge of the roof.

AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

All our screams were drowned out by the noise of the storm as both of us were carried away by the floodwaters.

I’m not sure at which point I had lost consciousness. I just know I was hanging on to her hand for dear life.

III.

September 26, 2009. That was when it had happened.

I had finally found a birthday gift for her. I was more than a month late when I gave it to her that morning.

She squealed when she saw that it was a transparent umbrella, and took me by the hand so that we could play in the backyard by dancing in the puddles under the pouring rain.

Eventually, our parents saw us and demanded that we go back in. We got in trouble, but she took the blame for it. Our parents backed off then.

It had always been clear they cared about her more.

We went back to our room and she started sketching out the landscape of the rainy streets. She was also drawing unicorns pulling a carriage made of clouds through the rainwater.

“It looks wrong.”

She looked up, her eyes taking a while to focus on me from her drawing. “What does?”

“The unicorn. It doesn’t look proud or majestic enough.”

“Hmm. Well, I guess you’re right.” She laughed before adjusting her drawing.

We spent the rest of the morning talking about where the carriage was bringing the fire-prince.

Today had started out as one of our usual Saturday mornings.

IV.

Whatever I was lying down on, it felt cold and wet. It didn’t help with my discomfort. Everything hurt and my muscles were screaming at me as I tried to stretch. My eyes felt heavy and it took a while for me to adjust to the light when I finally opened them.

I could see Harri across the rocky ground and my eyes moved to what I was resting on. I scrambled away from it. I wanted to scream, but the sound got caught in my throat.

“MaEn?” Harri pushed against the ground to try and support her weight and peered at what I had moved away from. “I-is that a-“

“It’s a corpse. Oh gods, it’s a corpse.”

We were surrounded by corpses: bodies covered with mud and twisted in wrangled forms. There were also debris and scattered items – things like watches, soaked journals, and open photo-albums.

“Where are we?”

Harri stood on shaky legs and started to walk forward, peering into the darkness beyond the cave mouth.

“Hello?” Her voice echoed.

“…Did you really expect someone to answer back?” I walked over to her and tried to avoid the sight of the corpses.

“It could have worked! It’s what happens all the time in movies.”

“…Fair enough.” I guess I couldn’t expect a better explanation. I mean, she was 10, and had experienced most things through the movies and books we breathed in on an unhealthy basis.

We froze when we heard the sound of something approaching us. It almost sounded like footsteps, but more mechanical. We could hear turning and creaking, and the noises were getting louder.

Harri held on to me, and I was absolutely terrified as the footsteps came closer.

I tried not to let her know that.

V.

“Oh, hello there! It’s very rare that we have travellers who end up here. Welcome, travellers!”

We both looked down at him.

“Aww, how cute! It probably has a speake-“

“If you’re under the assumption that what I’m saying is all a recording, you’re wrong. I can see that you two are both young girls; I’m guessing a teenager and a child. We’re in a cave right now, filled with an assortment of trinkets and junk and some corpses. You probably came from the convergence of floodwaters, which is one of the known portals that travellers end up going through to get here.”

“WHA- did he just- You’re a-”

We were looking at a tiny wind-up toy designed as a knight. Parts of his armor were rusty, and every movement of his wind-up key and his joints made a creaking noise.

“Yes, m’lady, I’m a knight! Sir Roswell, at your service.” He bowed.

“So, erm. Hello, Sir Roswell. Are you…real?” Harri crouched down and tried to poke him.

“Real? I’m just as real as you! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because…you’re a talking wind-up toy. Where we came from…wind-up toys don’t talk.”

“Well, your world is vastly different from mine.”

“I still don’t believe this, Harri. Maybe there’s a speaker connected somewhere else. He can’t be real.”

“Pfft. Can’t be real she says. Come with me, travellers! I’ll show you just how real my world is.” He turned around and began on his awkward journey back into the dark of the cave, before being stuck frozen mid-step. “Oh dear, this is embarrassing. Erm. Travellers, would you please do a good sir a favour and wind me back up?”

“Uhh…I guess…” I wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. A part of me was thinking that maybe we were still unconscious in the flood, and these were all very vivid hallucinations. Maybe the psychological trauma of our near-death experience had driven us both mad.

Those were both complete possibilities.

VI.

We were in awe when the mouth of the cave extended and we could see the tops of buildings. They were crumbling and the highest ones were only two-stories high, but the entire street was filled with faded colors. It made me feel nostalgic.

It was only when we looked down that we noticed all the little toys walking around. An off-white stuffed bunny hopped past us and I noticed a line of green army men hobbling along the sidewalk.

“By the way, travellers, I don’t believe I caught your names. It feels awfully rude for a dignified knight like me to not refer to one without a name.”

“I’m MaEn, and she’s Harri. We’re sisters. Can you tell us…what this place is?”

“Occasionally, the currents of floodwaters can meet at a certain point and things are carried off here. That’s one of the portals I know to get here. You see, this is Remory. …The land of stories and memories and dreams that have been swept away, forgotten, or abandoned. Travellers like you sometimes find themselves here.”

Harri nudged me and pointed to some nearby stalls, where it seemed like all the sellers and customers were engaged in deep conversation.

“What is everyone doing in that marketplace over there?”

“Ah, I see you’ve noticed. Here in Remory, we understand the value of stories, since we were all parts of stories, once. They’re all we have and thrive on, and storytelling is our main method of exchange. I believe in your world this was called currency.”

“…That’s…”

“…Amazing.” Harri finished for me.

“Yes. Remory is quite amazing.” He beamed up at us, and puffed his chest out a little more.

“So where exactly are we going, Sir…Roswell, is it?”

“We’re going to see the man who keeps Remory alive – the clockmaker, the taleweaver, the collector of dreams – pardon me for quoting here, but we’re off to see the wizard.”

I couldn’t help it – I burst into uncontrollable laughter, and he had stopped to turn around and tilt his head.

“I don’t believe that was a very funny reference. I appreciate that you like my humor, however.”

“No, I’m sorry. It’s just – It just occurred to me that right now, we’re with a wind-up toy knight who enjoys Wizard of Oz.”

“Yeah. We are.” Harri smiled. “Now let’s follow the gray broken road.”

I ruffled her hair as we continued following Sir Roswell. “Not you too.”

She started singing to the tune of The Yellow Brick Road, and I joined in after the first verse.

VII.

“Mr. Wizard! I bring travellers!”

A bell rang when we entered. The place was cramped and filled with the smell of musty books. The books were gathered in piles around the floor, and it took us a while to navigate the miniature maze.

We heard someone passing through the beaded curtain that covered the archway in the corner of the room. An old man with a gray beard wearing a tattered wizard’s cap stumbled into the room.

“My god, Roswell. Next time, send someone to warn me beforehand.” He rubbed at his scalp before replacing his cap. “Hello there, travellers. I’m sorry this place is a mess. Come, let’s have some tea. You look awfully distressed; you probably ended up here through the Floodgate.” He gestured to the beaded curtain, and we took slow steps towards the archway.

We sat on the crates around the area and mumbled our thanks as he gave us our tea.

“Thank you for escorting these travellers here, Roswell. Now please, would you excuse us for this discussion?”

“Very well, Wizard. I bid thee farewell for now, m’ladies.” He bowed and left the room.

“I’m sure this must have been a very tiring experience for both of you. You both look quite young. I was around your age, I think, when I ended up here. I can’t really remember anymore.”

I couldn’t help but ask. I still needed to know. “I’m really sorry that after all this time I would still ask but…how exactly are all those toys outside walking around?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Magic, of course.”

“So it’s true then?” Harri looked up at him with gleaming eyes. “You’re really a wizard?”

The old man laughed. “No, I’m afraid that’s the title all these toys have decided to give me. Magic, you see, is not necessarily what everyone thinks it is. This world relies on the magic of the real world. But the magic of that world is dying. It’s fading.”

“…But why is the magic dying?”

“Because people are dying. Many of them already walk around dead half their lives. Remory is kept alive by the life in children, but even lately they’ve been growing up faster than this world can support. Ruthless cynicism. Apathy. Lack of passion. Life is the very essence of magic, you know.”

Harri sipped her tea. “That’s what magic is, at its heart, isn’t it? It’s not the sparks and the impossible we imagine it to be. It’s life.”

He nodded. “You’re a bright one. That’s exactly what magic is, traveller. Wonder. And hope. The ability to see life’s beauty beyond what might be obvious. That's all it ever was. So think about that, the next time someone goes up to you and tells you that magic isn’t real.”

VIII.

After we discussed more about Remory, and stories and laughed about some of the misadventures Sir Roswell would get himself into, I knew we needed to talk about something else. Something important. I took the chance at the next silence we had.

“Erm. Wizard. If you don’t mind me asking … how exactly can we get out here? We need to get home.”

“There is only one way out of Remory that is known to us. You have to sign a contract, to give up an important part of your story. Something that you brought in here with you.”

“But we didn’t bring anything with us.”

“That’s what you think. But both of you brought something in Remory that means more to you than anything else.”

IX.

Today is August 7, 2012. It’s been three years since then.

She didn’t ask me. We had talked about it, and we knew what the wizard was talking about giving up. And so she, like the person she always has been, decided to take the offer and sign the contract while I was asleep that night. I could go home.

The wizard had told me that once I left Remory, I could never come back.

My parents were glad when I found my way back home, but it was like Harri never existed. She was gone from photographs. My room had just all my stuff. No one remembered her.

I had tried to find my way back. I really did. Those rising waters had given me the hope that maybe I could come back and see her again. But the current wouldn’t bring me anywhere. At some point I decided there was only one thing left I could do.

I would never know if that letter reached her or not. I just knew it was almost her birthday, and I couldn’t forgive myself for having missed two of them already.

My parents found me soon enough. I had run outside and into the waters, and they asked if I had gone insane, running into the flood like that. They brought me back into the house.

---

Maybe I really have gone insane.

Or maybe the magic of the world really has died.

Epilogue

Visiting the grounds where the new junk gets swept to was one of her favourite things to do. There were always new things to discover. She’d been going here for as long as she could remember.

She made her way through the junk and shuddered away from the new corpses which catastrophic floods usually brought in, while a wind-up toy knight took creaking steps behind her. Something caught her eye – a rolled up piece of paper in a glass bottle.

“Hey look, Sir Roswell! It’s a message in a bottle!”

“What’s it about?”

She opened it up and her eyes skimmed the words. “…It’s a letter from someone addressed to her sister. Apparently, some time ago she and her sister had ended up here, and in order to get home the other had stayed behind. …and she misses her. It’s as if the other sister doesn’t exist anymore, because her parents don’t remember ever having a second daughter. And it’s almost her sister’s birthday.” She paused. “That’s such a tragic story, what happened to those sisters, don’t you think?”

Sir Roswell adjusted his knight’s visor and for a while his eyes bore into her; he pursed his lips.

“You’re being awfully quiet. What’s wrong?” She tilted her head.

“You don’t remember, do you?”

“Remember what?”

“…Nothing, it’s not important. Anyway, I’m sure that story will be good for a week’s worth of food.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Off to the marketplace then!”

She started to run off back down the alleyway and stuffed the paper into her pocket, laughing as Sir Roswell called after her, running as fast as his rusty legs could take him.

They were all parts of stories.

Once.

Carbon.

I know that I've already learned some of the things that we discussed in my lit class today, but somehow I feel like reflecting on it and writing about all these things today. Today was quite a wonderful day. It's been a pretty great week, actually. And tomorrow, me and my sister are getting our puppy, Nox. A Siberian Husky. <3

Today in English, we had a brief discussion on religion, and then afterwards we had a game where we acted like zombies chasing after a human being. It was ridiculously fun. XD Then in Lit(which is, so far, one of the best English classes I have ever had in my life. Although of course, I've had a pretty good history of getting not just good, but absolutely brilliant teachers for English.), we talked about the meaning of life.

In third year science class, for chemistry, we once talked about a photograph of a blue dot in a big black photo of sunbeams. That blue dot was the Earth. In the end, everything that has ever happened, and everything that will ever happen on Earth, is just a goddamn blue dot in the grand scheme of things.

And yet, today, I still remember what it's like to feel wonder at the world. On that tiny blue dot, there were billions upon billions of stories. There was so much life just bursting through. And it makes me think that if the universe is that grand, then there's even more things out there. And it just makes me feel even better about the fact that I like to look at seemingly insignificant things and try to find stories in it.

Maybe in some ways, it also makes me feel sorry for everyone who belittles their life. I honestly will never believe figures like grades and salary matter much. Maybe somehow, they're kinda needed, but I honestly pity people who make it their life. In a world, or maybe to someone else, a fucking dot, that could burst into so much more than just that, people will choose to keep their world a dot. And maybe that's one of the worst ways to live life.

I remember reading about multiverses around a couple of months ago. Yeah, I guess I really am just a crazy idiot, who bought a magazine just for the single article that was featured on the cover page about multiverses. And apparently, each individual condition led to the earth as it is now.

And fucking hell, that's bloody amazing.

Everything that has ever happened. Everything that will ever happen. Could have only happened in this particular universe, the way they did. Because of the mesh of stories. Because maybe, a story isn't just composed of one single arc. It's composed of an infinite amount, all merging at that one particular point which we're reading or experiencing or viewing.

And then, there was the talk about humanity. That while some people say science and logic can take the poetry out of everything, I find that there are some parts of science that I just find so goddamn artistic. The fact that we're carbon-based lifeforms, and that we're made out of the same things diamonds are made out of.

The fact that we're all remnants of a past star. That everyone is made of stardust.

And that just makes me appreciate all the amazing people I have ever met. It also got me wondering about something, since I saw a post about not giving palancas to people.

Maybe in some ways, I feel that it's a shortcoming on someone's part if they feel heavily obligated to give a palanca during a recollection. Because it just shows obligation. Because this is a kind of person who wouldn't let his or her friend know just how valuable they really are to them, or how wonderful they are as people, unless they have an open and easy opportunity to.

I think part of the challenge of friendship is to make it beyond just when it's easy to make someone feel loved.

I guess that's why I like giving random gifts more than gifts on birthdays. Why I like making random thank you tweets at the most random of late nights. Why I make blog entries like this or make seemingly passing comments about how much I actually do care.

Maybe in some ways, people despise me for that. Maybe for some people, traditions and obligations and days where I'm SUPPOSED to show how I care should be the most valuable.

But if people aren't showing things in the little moments and making the most seemingly insignificant days of their lives the ones that really matter, I think that's a failure on your part. And maybe, just maybe, people who expect too much on those obligatory days like their birthday or recollections are a bit full of themselves. Because you shouldn't be friends with people just because they'll make you feel special when you need to feel special.

I'm not sure if this entry made any sense.

I just felt like releasing some random pent-up thoughts right now, and I'm trying to blog more. This is, after all, a blog.

Weee.

In short, I like to believe I've seen where my cynicism and crazy dreamer's side have met.

I believe nothing is a miracle.

And therefore, everything is.

That is all.

-SeMi

Artwork

Author's Notes: This was an essay I was assigned to write for English class. I felt like posting it here, for some reason. I guess eventually I realized I mean every word. So we were assigned to make our own version of "You Should Date a Girl Who Reads/Date an Illiterate Girl." So I decided to go with "Date an Artist."

///

You should date an artist. It doesn’t matter what kind of artist – if they’re a painter, a musician, a writer, an actor, or a storyteller. The important thing is that they create, they see the world around them and present it in a way that no one else can. All that matters is there’s a passion in their heart for that kind of creation. You should date that artist because their passion in creating means they’re honest and can change the way you see life.

Some people think artists are crazy. They probably are, but where’s the fun in love if it’s ever sane? Some consider art abstract, that only the concrete things matter, and that music and paintings are only a luxury. Artists will believe otherwise, and occasionally they’ll be highly impractical. A writer may stay up all night to finish writing the next chapter of their novel because they genuinely believe their character is alive and they want to know what happens next, a musician can spend hours practicing their piece until they feel the music inside them. However, understand that even if art may not seem like the most practical thing in the world, their art is probably more real and more honest than most practical things in this world.

The expression they unleash shows just how honest an artist can be. You will see just how much an artist can feel, and how alive they will be when they’re inspired. And if you date an artist, you might be lucky enough to know how wonderful it feels to know that you’re the one who’s inspiring them. You might begin to see yourself in their art. Maybe it won’t always be blatant, but if an artist falls in love with you, you will become a part of them. They will want to share how wonderful you are to the world. They will share the heartache you cause them. They will share your most mundane and seemingly irrelevant habits. They will share the memory of you, because if you date an artist and he or she falls in love with you, you can never really die. Bits and pieces of you will have found their way into that art. An artist in love, quite simply, can give you immortality. They will refuse to let the memory of someone like you slip from minds and hearts.

But above all things, fall in love with the said artist as well. They deserve it, because artists are beautiful, in all their passion and dreaming. Learn to see the world through their eyes because once you do, you may never be able to see it the same way again. Listen to them and watch the fire dance in their eyes when they talk about the intricacies of their art. If you let them in, maybe you’ll begin to see the stories behind cracks in the wall, the mix of colors in a sunset, and the music of a restaurant’s mingled conversations. There will soon be more to life than just what everyone thinks of it, more than what is concrete and tangible, and more than what you can see.

They can do this because artists imagine. They dream. They hope.

But unlike others who might simply stop at that, they will create. They will always strive to find ways to create life with what they do.

Fall in love and date an artist because that is a wonderful thing to be a part of.

And if you get it right, you’ll realize that living life with the artist you love may just become your favorite artform.

Glamour

Author's Note: More of a free-write for character interaction than anything, really. Also, I wrote this at like. 2:30AM-3:30AM. =)) So it's more of random brain farts than anything. Forgive me for typos, my brain doesn't function the same way at this time of day. This is also my first piece wherein I touched on sex, kind of. But not really. I don't really think this counts as mature...? But I'm not sure, it might. Depends on you.

Also, random trivia! The girl's name is Charlotte. Is it relevant to the story? No, not really. Just wanted to share.
///

It was strange, seeing her without her glamour. Well, of course she did carry her own aura of it, but now that she was just in a simple dress and flats, she looked more human. I found that more appealing, somehow.

“And I suppose you’re the fine gentleman that’s been dying for a meeting with me?” Her laugh was gentle, and her hair fell just right. But I wasn’t going to let her control me. I readjusted my necktie. Suits always make me more powerful. I stood up to shake her hand, before pulling her chair back and reseating myself.

“Your performance last night was…exquisite.”

“…Exquisite? That’s the first time I’ve ever heard someone use that term for what I do.”

“You have a different way of executing it, from the others. They do it out of desperation, for money… for you, it’s artistic. There’s life to your dances.”

“Hmm. A client who thinks.” She took a sip from the coffee they had served, and crossed her legs. “So you’re more than just a good suit and what’s between your legs. That’s good to know.”

“And you’re more than just well-treated hair and an excellent body. I’ve gotten bored of the automated routines most clubs have.” I noticed her staring at my watch. It’s my favorite watch, leather with a dark, red face. I wonder what she thinks of it.

“So, why exactly did you talk to my boss just to meet me here, today? I don’t accept offers for other services, I only perform. Professionally.”

In all honesty, I don’t quite know why I invited her today for coffee. Sure, she was attractive, and yes I would have very much liked to make her writhe under me after watching her last night. But that wasn’t why I was talking to her right now.

“Because you’re fascinating. And I don’t want to buy you, I have more pride than that. I’ve decided I want to get to know you better.”

“And in the end you’ll want to sleep with me. Or am I being too direct for you?”

“…Well, admittedly, that would be part of the plan.” Plan? What plan. I have no plan. “But I’m hoping for more than that.”

Her expression was a mix between disbelief and laughter. “More than that? And may I ask, what basis do you have for wanting something a little more serious than physical contact? You’ve only seen me once, and that one time I… wasn’t exactly meant for anything personal. You know my name, you know my line of work. That’s all.”

Arrogance. Cynicism. I liked that about this girl. I met her mocking gaze with a calculated one, and spoke slowly. “People reveal more about themselves in their art than they realize.”

“You seem awfully sure of yourself. Then tell me, what exactly do you know about me?”

“You’re broken hearted. Recovering from…something, I’m not entirely sure what.” I noticed her hand slow down the stirring of her coffee, and she let a lock of hair fall across her cheek.

 “You’re a dreamer, and I suppose that even though you don’t need this job, you do it because it’s the closest you have ever gotten to a Broadway show.”

She raised one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows, and smirked. “…Not bad. I’m impressed. But that might have just been lucky guesses. Is that all?”

“Before I answer, I want to know. Why did you agree to meet me? I’m sure you were just expecting me to attempt to buy you.”

She winked and raised the mug to her lips, and took a long sip of the coffee. I think she enjoyed the little squirm of impatience I couldn’t help but show. This woman is used to manipulating people this way. This is a fun game. “I always like to personalize my rejections. Although to be fair, I wasn’t expecting you to be intelligent. Most businessmen, even though they are successful, are only good with books and figures. Your colleagues last night, I’m assuming. Their drunken laughter got on my nerves.”

“Oh, they get on my nerves everyday.” I realized we were leaning against the table, closer to each other now than we were when we had first started. I took in her scent. Spicy.

“So, for someone like yourself who can appreciate art, why are you in a corporate job?”

The neckline of her dress had lowered slightly, giving me a clear view of red lace underneath, but I quickly looked back up. “Excuse me?”

“Doesn’t it get dull for you? Going through the figures, all your life? You’re someone who can understand art as more than just display, it seems. Surely you can’t tell me you do it all just for the money.”

“The money is what makes sure I have no hindrance to enjoying fine art. If I wasn’t rich, I wouldn’t have been able to go to your club, I would have had to settle for a far cheaper one, to fill my needs.”

We were both done with our coffee. “Touché. So, I go back to my original question. Is there anything else you’ve figured out about me?”

“I also figure you’ve got a bit of an exhibitionist streak, but that’s pretty obvious.” Okay, so I tried for a joke, and I’m not very funny. Oh well. Now for the serious bit. I looked her straight in the eyes, and lowered my head. “And you’re afraid. Of something, I’m not sure what. But dancing is your escape. It gives you courage. I’m also assuming you’re lying a lot about who you are, to your superiors at work. I’ve seen your so-called public biography. I don’t believe any of it. I think you’re running from your past. I’m not sure what it is, but you’re ashamed of it.”

“…An hour’s worth of a routine and you’ve got me figured out better than most of the people I’ve known for years. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for.” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice. “I think I might take you up on your offer.”

I noticed that her eyelashes were long and thick, and her breath smelled just like the coffee we were just drinking. She was trying to turn the tables, the best way she knew how. Luckily, I’m experienced too. I quieted down to meet the volume of her voice.

“Which offer are we talking about? I thought you only performed professionally.”

She chuckled and shook her head.

“Are you trying to tease me? It won’t work.” I felt her leg brush against mine for a brief moment as she uncrossed her legs.

“I’m going to be straightforward with you. You’re an attractive man, and your intelligence only adds to that. I’ve got a few things to do for now, so I’ll have to go. But I get off work later at midnight.” She leaned back and stood up gracefully enough that I could have sworn she was trying to do a little dance right then. 

“Maybe you can catch another one of my shows. I’m center stage for tonight.”

I stood up and she reached out her hand as if to shake mine again, but I gently took it and raised it to my lips instead.

“Thank you for seeing me today. I’ve had a lovely time. Rest assured, I’ll be there at your show.”

We held each others’ eyes for a while, before going off in our own directions.

***

I woke up in bed the next day, feeling alive. That was amazing.

She had gone off early to finish some things at her workplace. That’s one advantage to being one of the heads at the company – I didn’t have to get up so early.

I reached for my bedside table to put my watch on-but I couldn’t find it.

And then I realized it.

Damn it. How could I have been so stupid.

I had tried to call the club again for several days after, but they told me she was gone.

That girl was clever. I can’t deny that. But I was right. She was a coward. Always running away from her past.

And it was strange, seeing her without her glamour.

Cheese and Apples

Author's Note: Random idea that sprouted in my head. Semi-inspired by this bit of prose: http://anouni.blogspot.com/2012/04/how-it-ends.html

So I decided to rush writing it. Lacks polish, refinement, and better execution, to be perfectly honest. But at the very least, I'm struggling through my writer's block, as compared to just surrendering to it. And writing, about ANYTHING, makes me feel better.

So yeah.

A random conversation between Love, and Death.

Make of it what you will~
///
Today was one of her weaker days. It had started ever since people became more selfish, and less understanding. She pushed her wheelchair forward, and looked up at the fruit tree. She wanted that apple.

It was a struggle to lift her arm, and her breathing became more labored as she tried to stretch out. Another couple had just broken up, another child had been abandoned. This day wasn't getting much better.

"Need any help there, Cheese?"

Cheese. It was one of the strangest nicknames her older sister had given her, but it had gotten endearing.

"What are you doing here in these parts? Aren't you busy collecting those from that war?"

"…Sometimes, I like to take a break from those to help the ones down in the more quiet parts. Death in solace is the most meaningful." She brushed her hair back and sat on the nearby wall, and plucked the apple her sister had been reaching for, before tossing it towards her. "So, how have you been?"

"Not good. Everyday, humans get more selfish. That war that's keeping you busy is killing me slowly."

They both laughed at the idea of them dying. They were set for a fate much worse than that.

"It's in their last moments that they aren't so bad, you know. It brings out the best in them."

"I know, I can feel it. It's strange, how both of us go together. It's tragedy that brings humans so close together. Those are my more powerful days. You're lucky. No matter what, you're constant."

"Lucky?" She shrugged. "They all hate me, you know. Most of them run away from me. Their art always paints me to be the evil one."

"…People are afraid of me, too. And that's why I can never be as powerful all the time as the rest of us. Barely any of the humans want to be so vulnerable." She wheeled herself closer to the wall and leaned against it.

"I've been here since the beginning of this earth, and I still don't fully understand these mortals. Funny thing, huh? I've seen all of it. Their regrets, their fears…and the things they didn't want to leave behind. I suppose we'll never understand that feeling, being immortal and all."

"It's their mortality that makes them who they are." Another promise had been made, somewhere far into the distance. Little did she know he was cheating on her. Poor girl.

She tossed the apple from one hand to the other, having lost her appetite.

"Anyway, I think I've lingered a bit here too dangerously long. I've got a couple of appointments lined up." She jumped down from the wall and ruffled the hair of her younger sister. "Five year old girl, and a father. He drowned trying to save her. I saw that little surge of health in you, for that brief moment."

"'Til next time. And try not to be so intimidating."

She let out a scoff and flipped her hair. "I try to be as friendly as possible, I'll have you know!" She paused for a bit before starting to walk out of the park, and turned back with a bit of a smile and a wave. "I hope I'll see you in better shape next time, Cheese. I've seen you in some of your good days. …You're the most powerful of all of us, when you're healthy."

The image of her sister slowly faded away with the sound of crunching leaves.

To her left, an old man was walking towards one of the nearby graves and had left another bouquet of flowers. He sat down and started to recall the events of his day. 27 years ago, they were happily married.


Across the street, a twelve year old boy was nursing his puppy back to health, after a surgery. The dog had puked all over his hands, but he cleaned out her mouth as patiently as he could.


Not so far off from the town, two people, best friends who had been fighting for over 3 weeks now, finally saw each other again. And apologized.


It's not always so bad, she thought.

She bit into her apple and stood up.

Because We All know Squares Aren't Shapes

This is a blog entry dedicated to one of the most important people in my life, who's been there for me through the most retarded shit in my life, both in the fun sense, and in the actual shit that life always throws at me.

She trips constantly, and I guess if there was any way I would describe how I got to know her and became friends with her, I'd probably say we both stumbled into each other's lives and laughed our way into almost 10 years of knowing each other, and almost 6 years of being best friends.
***
I'm 17. And tomorrow, you'll be 17 too, you klutz. 9 years. I've known you for more than half my life now. Wow. ._.

Thank you, for everything that we've been through together, for knowing when to say nonsensical shit and knowing when to be serious. And thank you, for never giving me reason to feel afraid that we were going to become distant from each other. We're awesome like that.

It feels weird how much things have changed, but what always makes me feel happy is that despite everything that's different from before to now, it's that the constant was you. From the different people we've known that aren't there anymore, from grade school to high school to college. Damn. We have stories to share about all those things. We have so many random inside jokes and the strangest sense of humor that I honestly believe no one else in this world will ever be able to understand.

So yeah. There are few people who I imagine still with me in the future. I can honestly imagine us hanging out like the characters in FRIENDS do. Skipping work and hanging out or something and still acting like immature kids getting into trouble half the time. XD Because we're awesome like that. So we're another year older. But screw that, because that only means we'll be more free to be the kids we are.

From making fun of windy vegetables, to writing collab fiction we will never finish, to pouring glue all over my extra beds, to making burn books of people we hated as kids, to stuffing journals fat and diabetic with random things, to getting lost in malls and refusing to ask for directions or look at maps, flipping off rude guards and making fun of that dying guy in McDo, from failing at Little Big Planet levels and failing to make our own, there is no one else I would have chosen to do all those things with throughout the years that could have made the experiences as retarded as you.

Happy birthday, Padfoot. You're another year older, but not an inch taller.

But you'll always be my best friend, and we're going to face the future together! XD

I rhymed. YAAAY. 8D

LEGAL WIZARDS WHO CAN APPARATE NOW AWW YEAH! *HEXES AND APPARATES AWAY*

NOW YOU HAVE TO WAIT A DAY BEFORE YOU CAN APPARATE AND CATCH ME. HAAAA.

Mischief Managed to our 16th year.

~Prongs.