A story about a funeral in the dead of the summer. With the relapse of summer on its idyllic deathbed, I once again draw nothing with the close. It is the same feeling that follows me with every untimely visit to living mortuaries in the outskirts of city, bordered by red district lights and the wick of laden candles. Where concrete becomes an overture to a short-lived piece that we drag on and on.
Prospects of a middle-class seventeen-year-old growing at the pangs of a falling country that has forgotten what its children look like.
I thrive on writing. It’s freeing, and it feels as if that since the very beginning, my imagination has been running on the spill of punctuation and the doting tilde of analogies and similes. Coming more naturally to me than anything else and a forever love despite not being the most avid reader; I’ve taken it upon me to push forward with this mess. An angsty teenager with a pen and the Goodreads quote section for Chuck Palahniuk or the HelloPoetry collective of Allen Ginsberg is recipe for crisis. So, I published a chapbook that contains a collection of my poetry and am in process of continuing a winter novel that has become so much more than I initially anticipated. Read more to find out about them, and stuff.
Like a crash course on reversal, this is my story. A year has changed me in so many ways, and the years ahead of me (whatever may be left) become figures to ponder. I wonder what has kept me going, but a better wonder is to seek how I have begun this trailblazing journey that seeks infinity. Slowly, I get left behind and come in once again, on a rapid blizzard, a perverse blind game to becoming names on paper. This is a summer reflection on the person that I had become, and the person that I will be. Divulging everything out in little blog posts that no one reads but me in the dead of server malfunctions and better-forgotten nights. And god, indeed — have I changed, have I become so many new people and learned that the world is kind of my plaything. And god, what a living ghost will I rise from as I transcend so ethereal that you won’t know how real everything I will become dares to be. So to …
Approaching the inevitable dull of the summer, I find that I am losing reason and meaning in everything. You can tell by how I have resorted to writing once more. This is the cascade of sorrow, of drunken days toasting forgotten sobriety, cloud nine high at the glimpse of yourself in the mirror, morning sunlight fights against the dusty carpet with the shadows, husks, and living dolls strolling around your home. This is the rekindling of my god complex; an earnest screech of life tracks against the drone of forestscapes, an avalanche of the world that surrounds me — a girl in the dead of the night playing games with her fatigue and mental instability looking back and recounting the months that had passed. In other terms: this is the most that I had ever done. I live a haze, a beautiful, distorted, warped reach towards so many things that I label off as driven and passionate — learning how to speak (figuring out that I actually quite like it), still figuring out how to …
A living ghost is a moment’s grasp from the underworld. Sheathed in writhing emptiness; an abyss that everyone has made of her along with white lace, intertwined dandelions on the holes and darts (the only remnants of the love that she once bound). The dead cannot love — it is upon the cataract time-stop beat, the drawl of the flat-line and the rapid walk unto the “bad wing”. She is the reason why her dying breaths consisted of “keep loving” — why the paper airplanes she folded with bone poking out of skin were etched with “keep living,” why she was smiling, pursed lips and all, your softness against her own. An old discman next to water-filled speakers like a joke against the revolution of technology. During those final hours where she played music and spun brittle yarn emerging from her throes. I danced with the daughter of the moon on the infinity evening of a Tuesday night. She counted down, like an old grandfather clock — the continuum ring until a new inception. We were ethereal …
I’ve always clouded my thoughts. I drown them in verbose descriptions of pedantic moments and scenarios. Little murmurs in time that mean nothing to be but late-night visions and blurs that make me shudder in fear for what I had left behind. Every thought here existed in time, even for just a moment. I relay my fears onto drunken rants with the computer screen rather than eye-to-eye. That’s how I was raised, after all. A child of blinking lights and the whirring of fan blades. I. Love is a fucking farce. And I am endlessly contriving new reasons as to why it is.
ie: something that we have come to be familiar with in so many ways. We are used to the dawning of hope, inceptions of promise — something bland and stupid like love or things that last. Let me tell you that we have seen little bits and pieces of the end, captured the procurement of nihilism and antagonistic self-hatred. We are the beginning of the end, in the stories that should have never been told. i. in the coffee shop. her name is scrawled on, it is generic and placid — just as the life that is reaming within the lines of creamer. her order was taken wrong but she doesn’t say anything against it; the apron-donned mass serves it with apathy, accent ridden from the dwellings of a hundred miles over. stir, the window is tinged with a hue of emerald. stir, the marbling of the floor reminds her of the corner tile she had grown to memorize in her mother’s home. stir, the eyes of the lone student in the corner are as brown …
I went to Australia for a robotics competition. It was simultaneously one of the worst and best experiences in my life. Here’s a video or something about it.
I was supposed to join a spoken word event called Words That Matter, but other things got in the way. I wrote these pieces by asking my friends — “what’s your favorite word?” and having them expound on it a little bit more. They were all pretty much penned on the day of the event itself, but never got to leave the confines of my phone and the almighty internet cloud. Your favorite word speaks volumes about you. Your favorite word, out of all the other possibilities in the English language — just thinking about how you can isolate a single one and deem it as your own is kind of mind boggling. There are stories. Promises. Memories. All placed behind these words, that people just dare toss around — not knowing how much it can inflict on you, affecting you, taking you. Language is something that I’ve always taken for granted, but have learned to love in a new special way the more I’ve aged. Language is a gift, and to come with words …