Sunday, December 11, 2011

Brewed Beauty


You should date a girl who reads.
Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.
She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.
Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.
It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.
She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.
Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.
Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.
If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.
You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.
You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.
Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Rosemarie Urquico (via hustle-rose)

Sunday, December 4, 2011

Papercuts

I can't tell the difference anymore. Between my dreams and reality; what's real and what's not. It's scary, to wake up from my stupor and not knowing wether what just flashed in front of my eyes was concocted by my over-achieving imagination or the real deal.
I can't take it. The never-ending workload, the pressure that doggedly follows me everywhere. Sucks. I sincerely hope my marks make up for all the crap I'm going through. And most importantly, I don't want to repeat any of the wretched subjects for a second time. I'd rather shoot myself in the face.
The dreaded pre-reg has come and gone. Lo and behold, the number of subjects I managed to register is no where near what I spent so many hours fantasizing about. Real life sucks big time. No kidding. Next step, repeating the whole dreaded process of manually registering for my subjects. Like old times. Just the thought of it is making my state of mind border on suicidal. Urgh.
Look lively. Tomorrow's Monday. Monday is History. History is joy. (Or so I hope.)

Please let it be a case of mistaken identity. Please.

Thursday, December 1, 2011

Hellogoodbye

If I had a way to see this straight, I'd run away. 

Sniffles and Sneakers

So I found out that it's normal to feel broken sometimes. But like I said, sometimes, not all the damn time. Confession: I feel down most of the time, and I may or may not show it, either intentionally or otherwise.  Then there's this faint ray of light that bravely cuts through the storm and the rain clouds, giving me fresh hope and a rationed dose of happiness. And these moments have a nasty habit of being short-lived. Then back I go, lost at sea, rendered helpless on my little dinghy, being mercilessly beaten and tossed around by the waves of my insecurities, darkness and despair.
What happened to me? At what point in life did I lose myself? Okay so my life isn't totally spiralling out of control, it's just that I don't feel anchored. There's not one exact thing that I can hold on to, to know deep down that when I need it, it'll be there for me. Well, maybe not a something; a someone. Logically, a thing wouldn't be of much use since it's lifeless and all.
I need a someone to hold me by the arms and sit me down when I go crazy. To look me in the eye and know just what to say to calm me down, to reassure me that everything is going to be alright and that this shit pile in front of me isn't so big after all.
And after slight deliberation, I've come to a conclusion that there is no such thing as good grief. The person who coined the term must have been a real moron. Yes, it would be either that or his permanent address is in Lala-Land. That would explain a lot. I mean, think about it. No one is happy when they're sad. Maybe my theory isn't universal and can't be applied all the time, given. But almost all the time it would fit the situation. There's only bad grief, come to think of it. Say and think whatever, it doesn't change the fact that it's true.
At least one thing went right today. Norshahrul's picture came out in the newspaper, kissing his awards. *melts* Supermokh sial! Gomo, Kelate, gomo!
I want to start over. A new name, new address, new identity, new life.
Good God, I need to be rescued.  :(

Monday, November 28, 2011

Infinitesimally, por favor.


Where ever you are,
whoever you might be,
 I just thought
I should let you know that
I'm here.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
Come quick. Be safe.
My prayers be with you.
To guard you
and keep you warm.
I need a hug.
I think I'm in love.

The Kid with a Thorn in His Side

You say that you love rain,
But you open your umbrella when it does.
You say you love the sun,
But you find a shadow spot when the sun shines.
You say you love the wind,
But you close your window when the wind blows.
That's why I am afraid, you say you love me too.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

We? Oui.

"I think he likes you."
I most certainly hope so. I can't stand the stolen glances, sloppy hidden smiles, the slight fear in your eyes, the rigidity of your body and the language it conveys when I hit your radar. I'd like to believe that I'm making things up. It's almost like a cruel joke that seems to drag on infinitesimally. I'm not laughing. Well, sometimes I can't help myself so I do. On rare occasions.
Time is running out, like the grains of sand that beach-goers pick up and hold vainly in their hands, hoping to get a minute feel of stability and majesty but hoping otherwise at the same time. In the end the sand spills from between their fingers, to be carried away with the melody of the wind, to settle back down on the ground, only to be kicked up and scattered by passers-by.

 I tried to give you up but I'm addicted.
You're  something beautiful, a contradiction.
I'd never dream of faking this fixation.

The hands of the clock are incessant, persistant, stubborn. Another page is about to be ripped off from the face of the calendar, leaving it bare naked with only a solitary piece of paper for company to last for 31 days.
How time plays tricks on you. How it carefully and artistically deceives you, lulling you into false security, whispering little assurances when needed. A small word here, a graceful peck there and you're under it's spell. Good luck getting out from it's sticky web of lies. All those times spent with the people that hold paint brushes and color your life with their effortless strokes of happiness, working together on the potrait with furious intensity until one day you wake up and BAM! They're gone. Just like that. No, actually they're out there somewhere, just out of your reach and jurisdiction to make them be at your beck and call again. Then you start over, painstakingly. Strangers at square one. And you realize that all the hard work put into that masterpiece accounts for nothing because the potrait is only half-finished.
Deep down I realize that nothing might transpire. And this might only be this, nothing further, nothing else to fill. But I wish differently. An envious-conniving little bitch, that's what time is. And what is up with never-ending holidays that conveniently fall on Mondays? I may not see you again after December. And there's no point thinking the opposite, given the gargantuan proportions of the campus and the impossible class schedules. What are the odds that we'd be stuck in the same class again? Let's see: ZERO. Le sigh.
But in my dark corner of isolation, I'm silently praying for a miracle.