Sheer Love, Sheerios. :)

All my senses come to life

When I'm stumbling home as drunk as I have ever been

And I'll never leave again

'Cause you are the only one

And that pretty much sums up the first experience of my first concert. 

A choice I'll never regret. Ed Sheeran.

Sheer magic.

So I'll apologize in advance if I'm not entirely coherent throughout this post as I foresee bouts of fangirling in between paragraphs.

*squeals*

***

Right. From the very start. Here we go. 

I wasn't really excited about the concert at first. After all, I'd bought the ticket on a spontaneous decision on a very unusual, very brave urge. I was simply walking down St Stephen's shopping center past the small Ticketmaster booth and thought, why not?

After all, Ed's a pretty good singer, unlikely to go all yucky in live performances. And his songs are pretty great. Look at Give Me Love. All Of the Stars. Kiss Me. 

So I bought it. Alone.

My First Concert Ticket!

And then started to hit myself over the head for it. Nobody was going, from what I know. Like, I would be going alone. 

Something I'd never done, nor had plan on doing. 

Not a really exciting prospect now.

I guess the experience would be a bit more terrifying -- going to my first concert alone-- had the day been nicer to me. Don't get me wrong; it was still pretty daunting finding out how to get to the arena in a mass of strangers. But I was already so bummed out by the lousy day I was having that the fear and trepidation wasn't really so intense.

See how the rain totally destroys EVERYTHING?!

It was so rainy that day, and nothing went right. I was angry, frustrated, slightly depressed; I was everything but happy or excited. I thought I was gonna go watch the concert like one would go to the movies. The rain trailed me like a crazy stalker would, splashing me with every step, getting into my hair, my shoes, my socks. I was like squishy Spongebob, minus the happy smile.

I got to the O2, otherwise known as the 3Arena now. No idea why they changed the name, but not a very important point. 

I guess it was typical of me to identify the Malaysian accent amidst a throng of Irish. Excited to have met at least someone, I turned to the two girls behind me and did a bit of the 'that accent' dance. ( *Infostall : the Accent Dance : You Malaysian? Yeah, how you know?! Aiya, I Malaysian too leh! Your accent too Malaysian d!)

Le Me in front of the O2

Properly introduced now, we entered the arena and promptly found ourselves in front of the souvenir stall.

This is the part where I patted myself on the back when I got home. Things were horrifically priced at the stall. 10euros for a rubber wrist band. 15 for a mug. Naturally, I deliberated for the longest time before settling on buying a tee with Ed on it. After all, I was convincing myself, it was my first concert, and it'd be a bit stupid not to have something to commemorate it, right?

I was such a genius. I'd be banging my head on the nearest wall if I hadn't bought that tee with his face on it. XD

                    

I shall now skip ahead to the opening act now instead on harping about all the tiny details about how bored I was waiting for stuff to start and wondering why I'm not more excited or roused by this. 

...
This is going to be a leeeeetttlllleeee cheesy, but bear with me there, okay? Fangirl moments should never be restrained.

And I swear I really did felt like that.

Right. Onwards!

...

After hours (well, more like minutes, but I was so bored), the lights finally dimmed. 

The music started. Softly at first, and then it started to swell, with the basses and the gradual pounding of the drums beating out a rhythm my heartbeat can't help but follow. And just like magic, all my previous frustration, anger, rainy mood dissipated, leaving me with a slow swell of mixed emotions, building and building until it feels like I was gonna burst from the intensity of it. 

And when you think it'd reached its peak, it brings you further, higher. 

It was amazing. 

And it was only the opening act.

Plenty of time for selfies with the stage

It's funny how music heals. Not that I didn't know it before, but previously it was more subtle than this. Like, more lyrics than just music. 

But this is just... Magic.

*infostall : This happens almost every time I hear a live band. Not at this intensity though, but it happens. And I gush every single time. MUSIC IS MY BESTEST FRIEND!

The opening was by a band called Saint Raymond. Though I had one of the best seats (in the middle of the arena, thus a clear perpendicular view of it folks. GAH. My luck is awesome) I couldn't really make out their faces, so I can't really say they are more hotties than cuties, or if they had cool hair-whips or really weird ones. 

But their songs are ... not bad.

Then again, they had a British accent, so they win. Hands Down.

BOOYAH.

There's the saints. can't really see anything though. better if you were there. BOOYAH!

I shall now skip ahead to when my *squeals* darling came out. There were drastic increases in the decibels of the cheers, but not really that much in my own head (not yet). Like, oh hey, there he is with his guitar. I was still wondering about his backup singers and musicians to be honest. Like, they had rearranged the stage so that the previous band instruments were all lugged and kept away, leaving four very weird rock like objects on the floor with two mics. 

Scratching my head at that point. 

Is he not going to have drums? What kind of concert doesn't have a drumset? This is not an acoustic session is it?! Are there no lead guitars? Keys? Drums!! I mean, I don't expect awesome visuals for 42euros, but at least have a band...?!

The stage with the four weird rocks and two mics. 

Then he started singing. 

OH.

That was the moment I discovered he didn't need all those. Just his voice alone can pull my heart around like no man's business. And don't even get me started on the guitar. Flying. Fingers. 'Nuff said.

If someone serenades me like that there'd be no question who I'd marry.

I never did expected this. It was as if he was playing back his albums. There were absolutely no differences between his live performances and his studio recorded albums. His control over his voice was so damn spectacular I wanted to die. His falsettos went all thin and thready and sodelicateineedtobreatheicantbreathcauseitssopretty and when the songs went up and up and cried about how broken-hearted he was his voice went up together and wrenched my soul out. 

Missed notes, trembling voices, shaky guitar playing? 

NADA. 

It was a one-man show; just his voice, and his guitar. 

GAH HE IS WITH HIS GUITAR AND SINGING MY HEART OUT OF MY MEDIASTINUM

He started by playing I'm A Mess (very appropriate considering my state at the time), Lego House (yesyesyesyesyes) and One (blubbering mess). By the time he finished One and Thinking Out Loud, I was so deeply in love that I didn't know how it felt not to be in love. 

I did notice that he did have drum beats, and like, background music. I was a bit meh; Don't play music from the speakers -- make it in front of me. Give BIRTH to it. 

And then I saw it.

*knocks myself over the head for thinking bad of Eddie* 

*increase fangirl level*

The man was a freaking genius. 

I hadn't noticed the weird keyboard thingy at his feet. I though he had this weird thing for stomping erratically when he's in the flow; I have weird movements when I sing too, okay? Music don't judge.

But I guess I was a bit of an idiot for not realising he was actually controlling something with his foot, and it turned out to be this weird keyboard thing which can record stuff he plays or sing. 

Thus, the need for a second mic.

I was impressed beyond logic. There he was, singing, and playing the guitar, and arranging layers and layers of music to all of his songs on the spot. With just one guitar. 

There were drumbeats he banged out on the body of the guitar (which he recorded), and riffs he played (which he recorded as well) and harmonies (recorded) and backup vocals (ditto) and so many many many more that he did with that keyboard. And while he was singing he was controlling all of these -- which one to playback, which ones to combine; all that jazz.

Even when he was singing rap.

Like, I lose my head when I need to play and sing at the same time. He was freaking doing four or five things at the same time.

#mindblown

Mild rapping state - me like the symmetry of this shoot. Blurry thanks to the awesome zoom on iPhones cam. Still awesome, iPhones. <3

Thus came the swooning.

He had that cute accent, which on normal days is enough to make me swoon. He smiles bashfully into the mic every single time when he sings something awfully romantic, like he's remembering what made him wrote that. He had a very cute boyish charm around him when he sings and speaks and the way he runs around the stage when he's rapping makes him all the more cuter. Like an overexcited boy (though he's older than  me by two years -- gah just two years and he's achieved international stardom while I'm still here living off leftovers and rotting in basically nothing.)

He did confessed too, that he'd developed a cough or something though, which made all his control over his voice all the more amazing. 

Singing like that with a cough. Man's got talent, man. 

His many expressions when singing. *swoons*

And during the concert he involved all of us. He divided us into different groups and had us sing different vocals and made us do harmonies and it sounded simply brilliant to have so many people singing together and waving lights around and about and he roused the crowd up so much and  ohgodiwanthimrightnowsomuchithinkimgonnaspontaneouslyburstintoflamesandjustdie

I really can't form coherent sentences right now; his brilliance is overshadowing (or rather, blinding) conscious thought. 

My favourite part though, was when he sang his older songs, the ones that brought him to me. The ones that initially tugged on my chordae tendinae.

Give Me Love.

The A Team.

Little Bird. (He even told a little story about how this song was when someone convinced him to rescue a little chicken but it died. It was so cute.) 

And it was when he sang The A Team that I felt that initial swell of emotions inside me peak. He'd had us whip out anything we can find that emits light - lighters, flashlighs, phones; anything. And we waved it all around while the stage went crazy with white lights as he crooned out The A Team. It made me feel as if we were doing a small version of our wish-you-well to some of those poor souls the song was talkin about.  It was spectacular, and it hit really close to heart.

You get how awesome it was now? See all the people there. See what he made us into. HEAVEN. 

The sheer brilliance of the lights does not show up on film right. 

I didn't really want to go when he finally finished his encore. We were all still singing and high on music when we made our way out. But what else could we do? And it was still freaking raining outside. 

I went home that day a newly converted Sheerio.

He invoked in me the same feeling TSwift used to invoke in me; his and her lyrics were similarly awesome, except that he's a guy, and his lyrics are amazingly unguyishly (yes, that's a word I made up, and no, I'm not saying he's weird or anything; just that those lyrics are so sensitively romantic and hits all the right spots) romantic, though not in a totally dramatic way like most of Taylor's lyrics are.

*infostall : Yes I do love how Taylor's lyrics are - all those drama and extravagant gestures of love and all the crashing and burning and spontaneous combustion. But Taylor's lyrics did slowly develop a more everyday-life feel to it, and made me even more in love.

Dramatic Red and Black And White. Yippee kay yay!

BUT.

Ed's were more simple; there's a certain softness to his declaration of love through his lyrics. Like love was something that requires delicate handling, but still could withstand some of the chaotic music that goes along with it.  It was simple, light, delicate, but it evokes the same strong emotions that comes with being in and out of love. Like the Chinese poems I love so much. 

And it's not just the lyrics.

I don't know why, but his voice had always been soothing to me, especially when it's crooned through headphones. Every time I have a test, or exams, or just generally feeling down or angry, his crooning voice calms me like a lullaby calms a baby. Like the calm of the ocean weighting down the turbulent sand beneath it, making it settle. And his old songs were my go-to songs every single time when I need to calm down, or when I'm walking home after a particularly hard day.

Damn you, romantic Ed. 

yesithinkimgonnagositdownandcryandlistentomoreofhissongsthroughmyearphonesbecauseicanthavehimsingtomefacetofaceineedtonsoficecreamrightnowimsolateforschoolbutidontreallycare

Gah. I don't think I can form anymore coherent thoughts as my fangirl side is desperately shoving her way out. I just wanna go back to listening to him crooning into my ear, and really really listen to the lyrics. :) 

I shall share with you my favourites for now though. 

* One (this is a total heart-breaker)

All my friends have gone to find

Another place to let their hearts collide. 

I listen to sad songs, singing about love

And where it goes wrong?

* Photograph (this one tells long distance like nobody's business)

Loving can hurt, loving can hurt sometimes.

When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes

It is the only thing that makes us feel alive

We keep this love in a photograph, 

We make these memories for ourselves

Where our eyes are never closing, and hearts are never broken

And time is frozen still

So you can keep me inside the pocket of  your ripped jeans
Holding me close until our eyes meet
You won't ever be alone

While i'm away

I will remember how you kiss me

Under the lamppost back on sixth street

Hearing you whisper through your phone

Wait for me to come home

*  Tenerife Sea

We are surrounded by all of these lies and people who talk too much

you got the kind of look in your eyes as if no one knows anything but us 

* Thinking Out Loud

* Wake Me Up 

Basically all the lyrics of the above two songs 'cause typing these lyrics has fully awakened the fangirl beast who's trying to fit everything in here. 

So. I shall sign off now. And wait calmly for the music video of Thinking Out Loud (which is releasing TODAY at 3pm).

Toodles.

:)

As long as you whisper you love me. :) Sorry, can't resist a final Ed.

你不知道的事

当你的眼直视着我，

我在你面前，

心

乱。

窒息。

而你的目光依旧，

我闭上双眼遮挡不切实际的渴望。

当你的眼直视着她，

我在你身后，

心

痛。

窒息。

而你的目光依旧，

我闭上嘴巴护着不可告人的妄想。

当你的眼直视着远方，

我在你身旁，

心

酸。

窒息。

而你的目光依旧，

我闭上耳朵模糊着震耳欲聋的寂寞。

当你的眼紧闭的时候，

我在你身边，

心

跳。

窒息。

而你的倦容依旧

我轻碰二公分里太平洋的距离。

当你眼里的善意微笑，

轻轻地，

抚

摸

我的心灵

安息。

我明白；

最利的剑背后可是双最温柔的手。

当你的眼默默地送我离开，

我在你前面，

心

不见了。

挽回了心吗？

却已伤痕累累。

曾经，你说

曾经，你说，静坐其实是种浪漫。

曾经，你说，陪伴比浪漫更实在。

曾经，你说，浪漫无需夸张表示。

而，

现在的我，

只能在你那绿灯亮起时，

默默地守着，

陪伴着，

等待着…

直到你那绿灯熄灭的时候，

也让自己的心，

带上守护着的浪漫，

轻轻睡去。

Leave

-Heartache-

You know how people sometimes describe heartache? That deep, dull, throbbing, empty space where your heart should have been?

Like something --  or someone -- had plunged a sharp-clawed hand deep into your chest and plucked that cherry-like organ from its branch.

You know what's worse than that?

Knowing it'll hit. Knowing it'll hurt. Knowing everything about it, but never knowing when it'll start.

There's nothing greater, or more significant than the occurrence of a heartache. It's soundless, signless, merciless, yet it reduces one's world to a chaos of deafening pain; made worse by no outward appearances.

No signs that you're suffering inside. No physical pain to distract you.

Just you, the silence that surrounds you, and the pain that screams inside.

-Fear-

You know how people sometimes describe fear? That helpless, vulnerable, debilitating, terrified feeling when you are faced with a situation you have no control over?

Like something -- or someone --  had plunged a sharp-clawed hand deep into your chest and squeezed out whatever remnants of rationality left.

You know what's worse than that?

Knowing what you fear. Knowing why you fear. Knowing everything about it, and knowing you can't really do anything about it.

There's nothing greater, or more significant than when you're forced against something you fear. It's endless, breathless, merciless, and it reduces one's world to a chaos of thumping pain; made worse by no control over it.

No way to stop it. No way to prevent it.

Just you, the dread that surrounds you, and the pain that screams inside.

-Leave-

To depart, exit, disappear.

To leave.

....................

It's come to a point in my life when all three things are to be combined together by a single, rather uneventful journey. It's strange -- ironic even-- how most of the time the most common things can evoke the most uncommon emotions.

Stranger when, on repeated exposure to these common things, the emotions evoked can change.

I know, this is not the first time this has happened, nor will it be the last. But it is one of the rare times that I feel such conflict in myself.

Leaving home. I've done this countless times over the past few years, leaving for gradually longer periods for gradually further destinations. And every time it evokes extreme reluctance, with only extreme anticipation for the next time I shall return.

And every time before this, there was only heartache. Never fear. Not in this way, anyway.

I don't know why, but this impending journey brings both reluctance to leave, but not much anticipation to return. Of course there is some small measure of eagerness to return, but not much. This time though, there's the very strange feeling of looking forward to leave, however small and insignificant it is compared to my reluctance to leave.

But this eagerness is bound to grow (as it is the case with me and my experience with myself this past 21 years or so) once I'm removed from my reluctance. And I will be removed, for nothing can change this impending journey.

And that's what different this time.

I'm changing. I fear this change, but I cannot do anything about it. I fear this subtle, unnoticed change will somehow affect the ties and bonds which keeps my world the way I know it, and turns everything topsy-turvy.

I have come to realise that fear and heartache aren't necessarily different things. At the very least, they are interconnected in such intricate patterns that trying to separate these two is near impossible.

Leaving showed me that. 

 This time, leaving brings along the usual heartache. That I shall leave and not be able to see, or hug, or breathe this familiarity on a daily basis. That part of me shall be left behind in a gradually changing world that I'll not be able to see simply because I'm not there physically. That I shall be living away from my safe haven and not have immediate access to my safety nets.

But this time, leaving brings along fear. Fear that I have changed, and will have even bigger changes as more time and miles are put between me and my home. That my disinclination for any exertion (also called more popularly as laziness) will allow large chunks of time to pass by with no records, leaving most of my youth unmarked and eventually lost.Fear that I shall allow more distance to grow between me and my home, my family, my friends because I'm not in close contact with them and the 'out of sight, out of mind' part of me will reign freely.

Fear, that I shall come back to a completely different world, and things and people have changed so much that I shall not regain that familiarity and be reduced to a bobbing buoy in a vast expense of crashing waves.

Time, really, screws everybody. And this disinclination of mine to let things go isn't really healthy. But I just want everything to stay the same, for nobody to leave, for nobody to age, for my sister to stay that little toddler I used to know (which she still is, just not physically anymore), for the interaction between my friends to still be that comfortable and effortless. These changes aren't significant -- until you leave. 

I don't want to leave. But I know, that once I'm there, I won't be counting the days till I return too. My inertia is strong like that. And I feel awful for that. 

And that, is why I hate leaving. 

Well, that, and the fact that the luggage allowance is never enough.

Not really relevant, these lyrics, but it is One Day More for me right now. :(

打仗

不知怎么这图片让我想起一个人 *哈哈哈*

.....

最强的敌人莫过于自己。

和自己打仗 --

以脑里最强的矛攻打最弱的盾；

还是，

以心里最弱的矛攻打最强的盾？

.....

打着一场没胜算的仗。

该把大脑捶醒，而让自己的心冬眠去。

当黑夜降临的时候

当黑夜降临的时候，

一个人的天空似乎阔大很多很多；

我想展翅，飞到无人的地方，

发现，

其实那地方正在身旁。

当黑夜降临的时候，

被世界随意践踏那伤痕累累的身心

在黑暗的安抚下，慢慢地缝合；

曾经，

曾经的痛随着微风飘去。

爱尔兰的黑夜，

被白天的无情慢慢侵蚀着

我一个人的天空，身心的归宿，

被如同癌细胞般的白天一秒一秒地腐蚀

我还剩下什么？

踏出门外那傍晚九时正的白天。

莫名的无助。

莫名的伤感。

莫名地想回到黑暗的家。

Writing Therapy

To pick up a pen, to feel that smooth sleek texture beneath your fingertips. To grip between your fingers the almost non-existent weight, to slide the cylindrical body in your hands till it rests comfortably upon the grooves and calluses formed so long ago. To bring down the pen with the slightest of pressure, to aim it with long-practiced precision.

And put it on paper. 

The first stroke; the friction against the paper generating a slight scratch, the satisfaction of feeling the paper push back against you,  and black bleeds unto white like a papercut : thin, precise, clean, yet marked and dirtied forever, pure white stained by heartless black. 

And you start to write. 

Minute swishes, vicious slashes, controlled looping motions. Dot your 'i's, cross your 't's, loop the 'y's, stab the periods. A pattern slowly forms, random lines joined together to tell a story that may have never existed except in your imagination. 

And your soul bleeds unto the paper as you watch in satisfaction; finally, something tangible to represent all you feel inside. 

I used to write all the time : before I could hold a pen properly, before I could speak properly, before I could mumble jumbled-up sagas; before computers and smartphones hijacked the world. I used to hate writing -- my thoughts ran like the river, never slowing down for my hands to catch up, never running out till my hands tire and burn out. My fingers weren't agile enough to keep up with those flying thoughts, and frequently, these thoughts slip through my fingers and disappear into the land of forgotten moments. 

And then came computers. Keyboards. I learnt to type, to read and use QWERTY, to love the keys, to enjoy the satisfying clacking as the keys come bouncing back after you depress them with all your strength. Typing allowed my thoughts to be immortalised in words before they slip away like the annoying mosquito you always can't hit; my thoughts never had to slow down -- this time, my fingers could keep up. 

I became more competent at typing, and in turn, loved it more. And the more I love it, the better I became. Soon, my pens and papers were deserted in the darkest corner of my room, forgotten and unwanted, like the toys I'd abandoned while asserting my independence. 

And then typing became more of an essential life skill rather than just a mode of expression. You type assignments, you type notes, you type whatever you hear without having a chance to process it because the lecturer might say something important and you do NOT want to leave that out. Computers and laptops became enemies of your state of mind -- yes, they do still bring joy, but now that joy is tainted by the guilt of not having finished your assignments. 

Typing became a stranger. Typing became impersonal. Typing became that friend you used to hold close to heart, who slowly changed over time without you noticing until one day you take a close look at him and realise you don't know him anymore. It wasn't therapeutic anymore, typing. I could sit myself in front of a computer and my mind shuts down, unwilling to reveal anything to this stranger that I used to love. 

There are rare times when we could still get along though; sometimes I can overlook the detached look in your eyes and spew my heart out through you, to you. Sometimes I am so distressed I don't even notice that indifference; I just wanted--needed--an output who could keep up with me, with my mind. And writing was definitely out of the question. So I typed. And typed. And typed. 

And today, out of nowhere, a dark wave of clouds just rolled by and settled upon me. And without noticing it, I'd picked up a pen and started to write. While what I was writing were simply quotes, copying words out of others' minds, the repetitive strokes, the continued motions, the slight scratches as each stroke was made, the satisfaction of watching each letter bleed out, none of them in anyway similar to the other, I calmed down. 

In the midst of the chaos (my penmanship is terrible) I found calm. In the repetitive motions and clean cut lines I found a sense of belonging. And slowly, the dark clouds dissipate as I wrote and read what I was writing, and found the beauty in the language, in the individual words, at the unrestrained alphabets. 

In writing I found a sense of calm. In writing my thoughts unscrambled. In writing my courage is reborn and I can face the world again with a lighter heart. In writing, everything makes sense again; everything is worth something again. 

And in writing, I can always find myself again; as tangled, as broken, as jumbled-up, as teary, or weary, or chewed and regurgitated and spitted out, or screwed over and over again, writing builds me back up again, bit by bit, piece by piece, until the 'ME' (or a semblance of it anyway) is back in the game. 

To write, is to live. 

And what is the use of living, if you don't write it down?

Write your story. :)

Bad Day

As if being so completely out of sync with lectures wasn't bad enough.

I used to tell myself, everything happens for a reason. I believe it sometimes; sometimes though, I just can't find a good side, a good reason that explains stuff that happen. Shit happens, and without reason sometimes.

I'd looked forward to this weekend. I'd finally have a chance to catch up with lectures right before the quiz, I'd be alone, I'd go buy sweet crunchy apples and carrots, I'd play ball; I'd have the time of my life. It was going to be legendary.

It was supposed to be. Legend....waitforit...dary. I guess I was stuck in the wait-for-it part. 

I set my alarm for eight. To rise bright and early, with a fresh mind and a cup of fragrant coffee to start the day.

And that was the first thing that went wrong.

For some reason, my phone shut down and the alarm didn't go off. And me being me, I'd slept until the sun was in my face -- SUN! SUN IN DUBLIN is a miracle! If you haven't already experience it ( you lucky little thing) being shocked out of bed is NOT a good feeling, especially when you promptly fall out of bed because the sheets were all tangled together.

I pushed on. Being late doesn't deter me from the much-awaited shopping trip. Grocery shopping gives me such joy. All those fresh vegetables labelled with phenomenal prices. Meat, bread, milk. Fruits. Walked for thirty minutes to get there. Found out that apples were twice the normal price. Grapes were small and brownish. Leafy vegetables were leafless.  Carrots were broken into pieces.

My heart was broken into more pieces.

I'd imagined much more pieces than that. 

But I pushed on still. I bought what I could salvage, which turned out to be quite a lot. I ended up with more weight on my back than I'd expected, so naturally that led me to the decision to take a bus back home instead of just dumping everything at school. I wasn't about to walk 30 minutes back at night with the added weight of a laptop! And since I was taking the bus, why not go to Tesco as well to finish the shopping list I had instead of waiting for another day?

Naturally, the minute I decided to take the bus, my phone shut down again (what is wrong with the stupid thing?!) so I had to rely on my memory for the bus route. Of course, my memory being what it is, I walked for fifteen minutes before giving up and started searching for the bus that would bring me home instead of Tesco.

Tthe second I decided that, I stumbled on the appropriate bus to Tesco and promptly missed it. And so I waited for another 15 minutes, all the while wondering how I thought I would get any studying done.

Oh. Did I mention it started to rain somewhere along the way?

It was sunny two minutes ago. :(

Lugging two bags full of groceries back home was torture. Especially when you're tired, and frustrated, and so near to tears that you want to just sit down in a corner and bawl until someone offers you a ride home.

Got home at half twelve, and told myself that there was enough time for a quick lunch before the much-anticipated badminton session. I knew I had to move out before half-one to meet my VERY-KIND-HEARTED-FRIEND-who-offered-to-show-me-the-way-to-the-court-because-I-was-terrible-at-directions.

I totally should have expected that stomachache at exactly 1.30pm.

Halfway through the badminton sesh (that free pizza was the highlight of my day though. PIZZA RULES! ) someone mentioned it was the 5th today.

Yup. Mom's birthday.

I'd lost track of the date amidst today's adventure that I'd forgotten Mom's birthday!  I could definitely be nominated for the daughter of the year. Rushed to my phone to call or text or whatever and got a message telling me : hey dude you're out of credit.

I wanted to throw my phone (or basically anything) on the floor and smush it to pieces then and there.

Got to library after that and started studying-- a semblance of it, anyway. Expected library to close at 1am, I was so getting in the mood, the drive of understanding stuff when the girl came in and rang the bell. Library's closing (because the 1am thingy only starts on the 8th of April) and just when I was getting the drive to study!

And so I ended up here, 'cause I can't focus anymore. Too many things happened today that all I want now is to rant. To yell and scream and bawl my eyes out at my own stupidity, at the unfairness of it all. I wanted to pull all my hair out and curl into a ball and just fade out of existence.

And now I just want to escape into my sheets and get all tangled up inside.

I had a bad day.

And I hate it.

I hate that I did nothing productive today, except for all the food I brought back -- which isn't really a good idea.

I hate that I had to pretend to be oblivious to it all when all it does is hurt -- it pokes you constantly in the side, in the arse, in the heart;everywhere.

I hate that stuff makes me feel this way but I still throw myself into it like a foolish moth attracted to fire, all the while helping to build the fire, digging my own grave.

I hate that I could never master self-control, and that my heart does whatever it wants despite what the brain tells it to.

I hate that life sometimes throws lemons at you and they get so crushed and mushed up that you can't make any lemonade from it. And there's no sugar.

I'm still trying to find a reason today happened. Maybe it's just here to remind me there are good days I should cherish. Maybe it's just here to tell me, hey, life ain't a bed of roses; you need to deal with the thorns as well.

Who am I fooling? Today was just bad luck. Period.

Let's just go back to the safe haven. 

Insecurities

I'm afraid that I'm no good at all. 

I guess it's firmly ingrained in me, this habit of only writing when I'm in need of comfort, usually late in the night. Perhaps it's the comfort of words that I seek, the comfort of knowing no matter what, they'd be there for me, helping me to say things that are too deeply entrenched within.

I should write more, and on things on a happier tone. But how can I express myself with mere words when ecstasy and euphoria are threatening to take over my body? Happy emotions can't be released with mere words; they are often accompanied with erratic movements, tachycardia, tachypnea and all those sympathetic stimulated responses. (I'm a Nerd, and proud of it)

I generally look cuter when doing this tho. =)

And often, happiness is shared. With friends, physically, emotionally, psychologically; it is shared, because happiness last longer, and is more tangible with more hands holding on to it, sustaining it. 

But sadness. Sadness and moodiness and general absence of happiness. 

You don't really share those. At least I don't. I don't really want to share those. Maybe it's got something to do with me wanting to present a strong front all the time, to not show weakness. Maybe it's because I never know what to do when others are in a similar mood, and I try not to put them in the same situation. Maybe it's just me being me, and these bouts come and go like the hurricane -- strong, but abrupt. 

And I don't usually get these irrational bouts of unhappiness. (Though it's getting more often now, and worse.) But they come fast, and they come strong. Sometimes I just don't wanna talk to anyone. Sometimes I just wanna be alone. Sometimes I just wanna be held. Sometimes, though, I want to talk, to rant, to just spew verbal diarrhea about nothing and everything at once. More often than not, sometimes I just want to be isolated.

I'd cuddle a banana right now.  Yeah, that's how desperate I am. Deal with it. 

And I have no idea why this happen. 

Nowadays, these happen even more regularly. Perhaps the workload is larger, and there's more to handle, and there are times when I feel so alone that even Tommy can't cure my loneliness. I used to pride over the fact that I don't get stressed out easily, 'cause I really don't. But now I wonder if I've always been stressed out and never actually noticed it. Distractions don't work as well as they used to -- even singing and general craziness doesn't work -- and I have to keep myself goinggoinggoinggoing all the time; every free minute is a potential threat, every idle hour a potential trigger.

Oh no. Does this mean I'm going
to turn...GREEN?!

And it's hard walking that extremely thin line -- keeping yourself so busy so that you don't drown in unhappiness,  the the guilt you feel for not studying. I've been keeping myself busy with attending dances, practices, even cleaning out my pig's den room. I dare not even read any books or fanfiction these days ; I fear losing myself in those books and never finding my way out again, thus adding to that tower of guilt. It's a vicious cycle of fear and guilt, and I, being the coward that I am, ignores it.  

Studying has become virtually impossible. It's getting harder and harder to concentrate on the subject at hand; instead, my brain insist on pondering upon other things, things that makes happiness seems so far away. These moments when I sit myself down to read through lectures are the times where loneliness becomes a terrible unwanted companion -- it follows me wherever I go, and strikes when I'm idle, even when I'm surrounded by people. Especially when I'm surrounded by people. 

I'm not going to be a hypochondriac here (at least I try not to) and diagnose myself with some psychological problem. I know these bouts are normal (at least for me; I've had them, handled them, kept them at bay for a long time. Pretty sure everyone else has them at some point.) and I know I can handle them. I just... I just want to rant. To be a coward for once and hide away in the comfort of words, to relieve myself of this burden so I'm not alone in keeping this. Keeping things to yourself requires such massive amounts of courage and strength that it compresses everything within you and takes away your breath.

I know, and I really do know this, that I'm terribly lucky to have a bunch of really really awesome friends who never fails to cheer me up, especially so far away from home. I'm lucky that I know whenever I need to talk, or a shoulder, a hand, they'd be there for me. So lucky to be in the midst of a home away from home. To be with them is to be home. Sometimes I wonder what I did in my past life to be so...blessed with everything I need and more.

Oh so that's how we look all the time. 

So luckyy. And so cute! (just like me)

But sometimes, it's easier to sink.

And being the coward that I am, I take the easy way out, more often than not. 

And when a person is sinking, they usually sink alone. Well, for me, anyway. I don't want others to sink with me, and I don't want others to witness me sinking.

But I don't mind being alone. Really. Truly. Being alone is a luxury. I won't say I grew up in a huge family, 'cause I don't. I won't even say I have a large group of friends, 'cause I don't. It's just....we tend to be so closely knitted together that I balk, frequently.

Being alone gives me the time I need to unwind myself, to sort out this mess inside me. It gives me the time I want (but don't need) to do what I want to do without fearing what others think of me. People expect things, things that I might not like to do, and it's so exhausting being in their company sometimes. You're a girl; you can't fart in public. You're a scholar; you sure have good results all the time. You're twenty-one; you can't throw a temper tantrum and not think things through rationally. So what if I want to fart--loudly? Everybody needs to. So what if I don't have good results all the time? I'm human.  So what if I'm twenty one? I don't wanna grow up; I'm still young inside. I still wanna cuddle Tommy and that smelly pillow of mine (I don't think it's smelly. People just expect it to be, and label it as such) to sleep every night.

Leave me and Teddy alone. 

 Sometimes I think expectations are overrated. We grow up with more and more expectations piled upon us that we grow to expect ourselves to meet these expectations of us. And I have become a slave to these expectations, trying to please as many people as possible.

And that's why I really really don't like socializing.

People tend to think I'm socially-competent. A lot of friends have commented to me that I'm so lucky to be so comfortable in crowds, and at making new friends. I'm seen at group events, society meetings, house gatherings. I'm told I'm talkative. I'm told I talk too much. Sometimes, even, I'm told to shut up.

But they don't know the truth.

I struggle more often than not in socialising. I never know what to say to half strangers. It's easy enough to go up to a stranger and say 'hey, I don't believe we've met.' A moment of courage; that's all you need. And I'm good with forcing courage into myself. But what then? What happens after? Do you ask after their family? Talk about the weather? Gesture wildly (read : awkwardly)  into the air trying reenact some scene at some party she wasn't even there?

That deeply ingrained desire to please in me impedes a smooth and relaxing conversation more than you know. 

Even with friends sometimes I'm not entirely sure I can converse comfortably. Large groups of friends are okay; I can easily pick up on a previous topic or elaborate on a friend's thought. But when you're one to one... what then? I hate awkward silences. I hate that I become very conscious of where my eyes should look when I talk to you. I hate that I have to rack my brains to string sentences together that makes sense. I hate that I never know what to talk about because I don't know what you like or dislike, and I hate that I never know how to find out what you like or dislike. I hate that I love looking at others' eyes when talking to them, then realising I'm doing that and avert my eyes awkwardly. I hate that I never know where to put my hands, and I hate that simply talking becomes so hard.

And don't even get me started on crowds. Huge pulsating mass of people with you trying to fit in while avoiding sloshing beer over your head. Beer-soaked hair is NOT appealing.

I only go to parties or clubs to lose myself. I don't want to talk. I don't even wanna say Hi to you. I just want to lose myself in the throngs of people; lose track of time, lose all the lectures slides, lose myself. It's incredible how alone you can feel surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of people. 

And it's even more incredible when you find out how much you actually like that. 

Maybe I'm too uptight. Having a conversation shouldn't require that much thought. I never do think about what I need to say to my close friends; words, ideas, analogies, panalogies all flood my mind and I just say what I want instead of fretting over what to say. Those conversations that lasts for five to six hours, with no fixed topic, and probably ranges from toenails to lecturers' noses. And if you ask me what did you guys talk about I would just laugh and say 'everything' because I don't remember what we chatted for six hours about. 

*sighs*

Reading everything again to edit and disgusted at how whiny I sound. But I don't want to care now. Label me, judge me; Right now, I'm alone, but I'm alone and free. (ooh! Lyrics from Frozen!)

On a side note, Frozen was a really good movie, and I can't help but relate to Elsa. Growing up with beautiful magical powers but having to hide it because it's what everyone expects her to do. Suffering under the weight of all the expectations. I don't blame her from running off. I would do it so much earlier, and much more violently. I guess that's why Let It Go appealed to me so much.
But alone time cannot last forever, and reality calls. And it's time to don that mask again and disappear into whatever role I'm expected to be. But sometimes, what you call masks are actually who you really are, for who else designed that mask but you?

To end things on a relatively happier note, writing has really helped put things into perspective. If these are the only things that I have to deal with, Thank God. :) At least I have someone to help me through it, and at least I have words to help me deal with it.

Wow.

Feeling whole again and ready to take on the world.

p.s. Sorry for being a total Gemini and going all Jekyll and Hyde on you poor souls (and by poor souls I mean whoever's reading this blog -- which probably is just a cooler future version of me.)