... one of the most awesome things you could do when boredom strikes (:

Click, click, my loves.

... soundtracks to my life for the past 5 years:





All the more reason to keep my eyes closed, fade into obscurity.

... what I mean to say, is that I think of you in the most romantic ways.

... never felt so good.

... this song were a person, I'd rape him. Or her. Or it.



Props to E.

We Brisbanites, we cool like that.

... younger self was fascinated with the pedestrian necessity that is breathing. I would try to figure out what "normal" breathing should feel like, should sound like; but my own body would seem to defy me by never truly giving me what I deemed to "normal" when I gave the notion more than just my subconscious attention: it always felt too shallow to sustain me, too deep to be comfortable, anything but what I thought I actually did feel like when I was blissfully unaware. There was that thin line of attentiveness you could pay yourself [the specific whereabouts of which I would constantly attempt to figure out], where you could trick your body into thinking that you weren't trying to figure it out, that it could act as normally as it had for whatever sum of years it had been forced to propel itself in the world.

I'm not completely certain whether this was like one of those "original" "epiphanies" I had during those silent moment before drifting off to sleep, but it seemed certain at the time that the vessel I've abused more than respected the past 15 or so years was very much self-conscious when being observed [by an extension of itself, no less], the realisation of which made me wonder if self-consciousness was even more deeply-rooted in everyone's nature, more innate than any leading psychoanalyst could even hope to convey. Only after five years down the road I suddenly remembered to look in the rearview mirror, and noticed how much crap had been flung out the car whilst I was enjoying the wind [picture a classy convertible, if you will].

I've recently started keeping an empty book next to my bed to jot down the mess of words that flood my mind (a void I used to fill with this blog, actually, before my laptop died, as did the desire to write as I contemplated the 2-minute walk I'd have to take to get to the nearest Internet source), and what a mess it was, a far cry from the robotic handwriting that danced daintly (as robots are so wont to do) across the lines of 15-year-old-me's diary. I embrace the messiness; it's pretty much who I am, literally and figuratively.

Having just finished reading a book written from the perspectives of a mother and daughter (Certain Girls by Jennifer Weiner) has me wishing I had kept a diary in my adolescent years that had less "hehe I saw him by his locker today, I think he noticed me!" and more of what was actually going through my mind besides pubescent boys and their luck in the genetic lottery. The mark of an author, I assume, is the ability to convey a character's emotions, and have it be relatable; it would be doubly easier for one to relate to the character when it is your 15-year old self. The occurrences my 15-year old self had dismissed, however, are the very ones that nearly 6 years on, still baffle me. It was much easier to relate to the younger protagonist and the thoughts that plagued her; as I haven't had a child out of wedlock, nor am I forty (despite some hopefully overly exaggerated comments I've gotten), it was difficult to place myself into the psyche of the mother without the use of projection or my imagination. Being not as close to my own mother as I would like to be, I appreciate the importance of the bond between the two women the author had stressed. I can only hope that my forty-year old self would have known years before, or at least remember, exactly why my mother did or said what she had, that beneath that hard exterior, the tough love and bitterness, is someone who had probably gone through all the things I had, and then some. Everyone goes through the same cycles in life, I suppose it's just the way you deal with it that determines what kind of person you become. And she's the strongest person I know.


Love you, mama.