Romance

Something has been tugging at my heartstrings as of late. And it absolutely does not help that I wish to listen to Disney love songs (with a few favorites from KOST 103.5) and to watch Shakespeare In Love. Pathetic, I know. But tell me, who are you to judge?

I've reached several revelations that I may have stumbled upon in the past, yet have not yet deeply considered them until now. Not until now did I just accept that there is something desirable in this thing called Love. How can one not? Looking around, watching couples exchange bodily secretions with no respect to the eyesight of an innocent passerby may make anyone who is (in)sane enough vomit. Unfortunately, it is this display of grotesquerie that common folk label "love." To make things short, this supposed "love" will end the next night once the poor girl finds the apple of her eye exchanging unmentionable fluids with another of her sex. But enough of that. What I speak of, and inevitably seek at this moment, is something that I define (with good intention) as Disney love.

Call me an idiot, call me insane, call me a child. I want that one person who seeks nothing more of me but my presence in his life. It is this realization that I try to avoid, try to hate. Growing up to abhor everything in the attempt to avoid silly views did nothing else but lead me in the opposite direction: to seek the unattainable ideal. To seek that prince.

But now I ask you to tell me what exactly is wrong with that. Perhaps I do set myself up for disappointment, having already realized that it is an unattainable ideal. Keep in mind, you speak to a realist who already pushes aside all emotion, only to realize that the lack thereof is what is making her grieve all the more. It is only her mere wish to feel some sort of passion in her life once again.

To be on a romantic rendezvous where the boy attempts to woo her with his gentlemanly manner, only to achieve his goal with his naiveté as his most charming aspect that night, is something short of very endearing. Perhaps his attempt to entice her with sweet ballads on the guitar, piano, or sax proves almost disastrous with her chuckles at his crooked jacket. Yet in the end, the sweetness of silence against his humming your favorite song while the two of you dance to a backdrop of darkness blanketed with stars is enough to stir the coldest of hearts.

Hell, the mere tabs of Endless Night and Beauty and the Beast are so damn well-formulated that tears trickle down the faces of many lonely girls out there. What more when a certain boy names a star after you? One may argue that men are just far too daft to think of things that can match the romance that is fed so early on to us of an oh-so-gentler nature. However, Landon Carter, graced to us by a certain Nicolas Sparks, was fictitiously capable enough to take Jamie Sullivan to two places at once. Sure, it may not be real, yet the existence of it in literature proves the impossibility of its impossibility.

In turn, to finally end this inane entry, there is nothing wholly wrong in wanting, in asking for that old-school type of romance.

Tell Me Why

That is all I wish to know. Why can I no longer feel as passionate as before? Why can I no longer find it in myself to care? Why can I not reach into my soul and draw out words that mirror the rawness of my being? Why?

All these questions push against my existence, forcing me to believe that without the answers to them, they remain beneath, a festering sore in my soul. And with that, I am left searching for solutions to cure me of their constant nagging. That constant need to know how to set myself free of... anything.

Yet here I am, sitting in my room with what many would like to believe to be a calm exterior. Perhaps it will be easier to believe myself "fine" and unencumbered by care. I will then be free of the "why" factor of my life. However, my very placement in this room, in this chair, desperately clawing my way out of this metaphorical stage just to know the "why" nullifies the ease of finding a solution. Ensnared by my thoughts, I continue my unfruitful search.

Here I must express my absolute anger at the idiotic suggestion of "just not caring." I don't doubt that it has worked in the past for other people, however, such is not the case here. I am not nor have I ever been those people and they have never been me. Of course it's easy to not care, but who other than a self-righteous bastard would find themselves above and beyond human care? I am certain that they are not God.

So here I continue to sit, no longer in my own room but in a wood of uncertainty and confusion. And it is there that I beseech you to tell me why.

And I'd like to bring this entry to a close with a "Happy Birthday" to my dear older brother, Kerwin. Cheers, Kuya.

What Happened?

I remember a time when there used to be such a strong urge to cut, to paste, to create.

Allow Me My Moment of Procrastination

To the right of my laptop is one of three Philosophy readings (Pascal's Wager, James' Will to Believe, and Chapter 9 "Death" in Making Sense of It All) I must obliterate before 8 o'clock Wednesday morning. Under my desk is an English notebook containing several outlines and a prompt sheet, scribbled with green ink, ready for when I undertake the task of writing my paper, due at 10:30 that same Wednesday. So as I contemplate the actions that must be carried within the next 29 hours, I type contentedly away at this blog, musing on musing about momentous activities. And yes, that clause is irritating to repeat.

With my cousin nonchalantly chatting away with her boyfriend of several hours, I find myself idle, unwilling and unable to read about what Pascal has to say regarding the existence of the omnipotent God of Christians. The subject of it is irrelevant in this context, but perhaps it would help to mention that the presence of a bright green post-it on the first page leaves me helpless and incapable of continuing on with the assignment. Ah, woe is me.

But now I am curious. Why does procrastination choose to attack at a moment when time is free and generous? Why are my work ethics and motivation inversely proportional to the hours left before my figurative academic hanging?

Blah. This must end. There are essays that need invasive analysis.

And if you did chuckle at that last sentence, do know that I appreciate your existence.

When the Thought of Arrogance Made Me Vomit

It's been a while since the mere musing regarding the male sex (or any of the three) sent me into a fit that would rival all the bottled-up vexations of teens and young adults worldwide. Now that, my friend, would be a hormone-filled scream to remember. Certainly not a pleasant one at that.

No doubt there are several people out there who shake their disheartened heads at this poor girl who understands naught of the world around her. It's quite alright. I am not one to say that my momentary indignation is completely justified. However, one question rings loudly through my mind, bothering me as I continue through my day, attempting to find solace in anything that may distract me from it. Still it finds me.

Why must there be those who believe themselves to be superior to, as it seems, everyone else?

I would spend time to ponder upon this question and its several possible answers. But... why waste my time, right?

Right.

It's times like these when I hope with all my might that there exists amongst the heavens a vengeful God.

Somebody Loves Me; This I Know

I love getting packages and letters in the mail.

That's all.

Untitled

It's 2:16am and here I am, unable to close my eyes no matter how desperately they wish and beg for rest from seeing. My legs seek leisure from standing and sitting, asking me to just lie down and sleep. My arms are tired from writing, driving, typing, and moving; they only want repose for a few hours. Yet my cruel mind, my restless mind, refuses to give my body the downtime it so desperately seeks.

I want to sleep. I need to sleep. However, at this very moment, it seems as if relief from this fast-paced world into that of tranquility and peace is the farthest from me than it has ever been.

Please... give me rest.

Karma: Out To Get Me?

Oh what a question to be asking when one is anticipating the regretful beginning of the menstrual cycle. Dear.

Being, in essence, a mere 18-year-old girl of a (variable) mild temper, I only wish to question Life and her mistress, Karma, about why both of them are out to get me. Did I really do something that horrible to feel happy despite the several, albeit minor, catastrophes happening daily (with valid evidence to back that claim up)? Such unusual up-beat behavior will not sink me lower to a state of mock-depression yet will send me into a frenzied session of fretting of hours on end. Life, Karma, will you both be all that cruel to one who knows naught of what or who she wronged?

I EVEN HAD MY PARKING PERMIT HANGING ON MY REAR-VIEW MIRROR.

I'm To Wake In 2 Hours

Trying to take in the main points made by John Taylor Gatto's lecture and article, I also ponder certain things that I recently realized.

Next to the obvious "mass schooling is something dreadful" (thanks to Gatto), I find it easier to breathe and live now that something I cannot have truly is something I absolutely cannot have. I haven't been able to smile like this in about 4 months.

All I ask is that no one apologize unnecessarily to me.

Yet I think 2 hours will be a sufficient nap for me before my first quiz. Hurrah.