060. Ghostlings

He always left the lights on.

He always left the lights on. I was always against it. I disagree on the amount of energy wasted throughout the night, but moreover, of being able to see because of it. Of being seen, too. I have always disliked both. I like being in the dark. Being born a woman, in particular, means always being seen, wherever you go, in anything that you do. And as a result, whichever breeds which; always noticing, always doubting, never at ease, rarely just be.

But I realized, even against the dark depths and barriers of my mind, there are still things I just can't escape. There are projections, feelings, visions, personal manifestations that I would see, suppose that I need to see them. But the real question would be, are these sightings absolutely indispensable? Is there any pattern, any reasoning at all, any sign that the ones haunting you could possibly or supposedly alter something in the future or simply or future reflecting back to the past and a glitch in the nonlinear sphere/fabric of time?

And this, is why Haunting of Hill House was mad & beyond scary for me.

057. I guess I'm good at making a haven out of defective memories.

I knew a person who is really good at making homes out of other people. He's not an architect, although his field of study sort of concerns elements of architecture, in a sense. He also doesn't make homes for living. I don't know how he does it, but next thing I know, there we were late at night, in a rather deserted parking lot somewhere, me, somehow sitting on the driver's seat and him next to me, splurging out shambles of words, pouring my heart out - something I have quite forgotten how to do, lately. He said his consolation through silence, and his warm hands rubbing the back of my neck. Moments later as I was calming down, we went outside again, hand in hand, passing by a flower shop on our way out and coming back to the car with a bouquet in my hands.

I miss him sometimes, but I hope he doesn't miss me.

23

Was about to write my ninth birthday post here on this blog when my mum notified me of an incoming package from gojek. Wasn't really expecting anything, but a literal box of flowers came, along with a scented candle and a jar of cookies. Friendly reminder that flowers are always always wonderful.

Birthdays always had a horrible effect on me, somehow. To put it simply, I had a certain idea of how birthdays should be like, and even after knowing certain things and adulting and the nature of people as we grow up and becoming adults and time and the banality of trivial ceremonies also known as birthdays or special dates or such, it's still quite hard for me to let go of those expectations. Even though they no longer apply to the person I am now.

For example, for the past two months I haven't been able to have a proper rest: weekdays are arriving home at approximately 8 p.m after a pretty draining busway ride, and weekends are spent fully outside with friends. I have a habit of having this social profile where I put on an exterior that seemed to numb my subconscious into enjoying things and making things seemed not so bad. Only when I came home, alone in my room, did the profile vaporizes, and I was able to breathe again, this time gasping out of breath. The metaphor is really that dramatic. It went as bad as even my physical body couldn't take it.

I guess part of me was scared of losing friends because I feel like the lesser I talk to people the harder it is to remain friends. Lately it's been really really hard to talk to people and I'm getting really really comfortable of being alone. The last time I remembered being truly happy, was at The Libertines' concert. My friend was super excited and kept gushing forward even though the crowd was mad violent, and I decided I'd just wait in the back. So I went away, bought a cup of chatime and sat on the grass under the stars, alone, starring at the stage from far away. That was a single moment of pure, perfect happiness. Moments later I realized Swim Deep was already playing in the other stage, and I arrived to this very chill and dancy crowd. Was so so fun. My friend joined not long after and it was nice too (because WTHAW was our soundtrack/survival pack back in highschool) but it was just a different type of nice. Anyway.

Regarding birthdays, I'm not a huge fan of ceremonies either (especially the being under the spotlight part), but I grow up brainwashed to always cherish these ceremonies, these milestones one has to go through in order to properly 'live'.

I do realize that the older you get the lesser these dates (are supposed to) mean. Anniversaries, birthdays, deaths, perhaps. They're just numbers. Humans are the only species to live by the idea of time and able to construe and give meaning to them, but in return are the only ones bound by it.

It's still quite a hard thing to do (even when you're twenty freaking three), shaking off one's supposedly 'core belief', but is something one ought to go through to. Mindfulness is such a great help to overcoming things, even if what I have now might not actually classify as such.

That being said, my only wish is to live lesser and lesser and lesser in the minds of others.

See you on the 10th post next year.

056. The life of a stupid man

In the sunset of dissolution, everything is illuminated by the aura of nostalgia, even the guillotine.

1. Thursday, July 19th. After work at around 7 p.m., with an empty stomach and an emptied out brain (and feelings) we made our way to visit our colleague's mother who was very, very ill. She was housed in an ICU room and only allows a maximum of five visitors, despite us being six persons. In the end, three of us including myself stayed outside, while the lesser rigid and more expressive emotional persons among us went in.

2. She was described in a rather pretty grave condition: starting with a stomach cancer, presumably, that spread to her liver and ultimately made her intestines impossible to process food and even suffocate other organs because it was filling up with liquid. The doctors had to operate her despite her not so best condition in order to prevent it, and resulted in her being too weak to even function, or so I was told. Her face was darkened, her eyelids half closed, no longer/barely responding except for small nods.

3. A few months ago I also visited the father of a friend of mine who was also dealing with an advanced stage of lungs cancer. I've met him several times before, and one look at him that night I immediately thought, he's not going to last long. Turns out it was his last day; he died the next morning.

4. I was really terrified today: part of me wanted to see her, how she was holding up, but part of me was terrified that I would find the exact sight, the otherworldly gaze that I found in my friend's father. Part of me is also still healing, from being somewhat attacked while watching Le scaphandre et le papillon a few days ago, and I guess I am constantly reminded of how much blessed, how I was spared.

5. In regards to the opening quotation from Milan Kundera, somehow I find an acute sense of peace, of being in a hospital environment. Of course, to be the visitor and to be the actual victim is almost completely different, with myself sometimes feeling like, perhaps being the sick one is better than the one who needs to do the tending to, the worrying of the sick. I, on the other hand, was always accompanied by silence: in the waiting room, during the process, inbetween, after. During the time I was always told, you have to change after this, this will alter you forever, and it often got me very worked out. I hate being conscious of how wrong you have been of being yourself the whole time you were yourself, and on the constant turmoil to change for the better, however elusive the word means.

6. Looking back now, I did actually change. I guess in a way I could never retell or paraphrase into writings, I have peeked inside my soul, conscience, being, and spoke with her silence (or perhaps, His). It is easier today to desensitize my vices, to silence my anxiety, and actively, consciously disassemble my somewhat toxic thoughts and counterproductive behavior, should I call it that. I've always lamented on how I desperately need a mute button for my brain, and lately I could spend minutes (not yet hours, but) in total silence both outside and inside, and in return am able to write more little writings than ever before (as I am doing now, if you can even call it a writing instead of snippets of an incomplete narrative).

7. Of course, it's easier for me to write because I'd only have the lesser hard-to-heal and the highest & longer chance of survival rate cancer, but it truly truly is a very discouraging, soul crushing disease. And the worse part is it doesn't only affect you during and after, but also those around you. A cancer is a cancer, it spreads. One look at my friend's father who was drained and so much stripped of himself that night and it almost broke me; I could only imagine how crushed my friend were. At his funeral I remembered my friend's brother talking about how grateful they were that his pain remained brief and he didn't last long, and indeed in a way he was right; he was no longer him.

8. To be alive now that I'm somewhat spared from that is indeed very humbling, but also heartbreaking sometimes. Your carnal being is never the same, and your life is divided into pre and post: it is inevitable. To think that I felt somewhat better before, and today I am constantly reminded of how wrecked I am, now that I survived the carcinogenic substance that was used to battle my cancerous self; it is a battlefield. My skin reeks of a blood storm, an arbitrary arrangement of red spots under my darkening flesh. Eyelids the permanent shade of purplish brown hue, a pair of hands that won't stop trembling, tiny earthquakes on every inch of surface.

9. I am still myself, that being said, and that's all that matter. I am myself. I will not die only because my flesh rots, as all flesh will someday. I have lived and (parts of) I will continue to do so so as long as my words are alive. In a way, my being lived or living doesn't really matter, and will not mattered, as by the time come I will be long gone from this world; wasn't made for this one anyway. I will be okay. 

10. And this, is how I cope with my fear of death. I don't fear it so much as I fear of how I will go out, really.

054. Excerpt except

"You know, sometimes I feel as if I really don't belong here."

"Don't we all?"

"Right, I guess you're right."

"Sorry, that was a dick move wasn't it."

"It's okay."

"What about it?"

"Hm?"

"Where or what is here?"

"I don't know, just the whole idea of existing and being, I think."

"Hm"

"I guess this is due to overly immensing myself with too many beautiful, intricate stories during such a limited period of time, but instead of them inspiring me, being the supposedly uplifting kind of stories they are, I felt a definitive opposite."

She let his words hung thick in the air. He always gets worked out talking about his thoughts and dreams out loud, she thought, and this knowledge somehow brought her comfort.

"It's like, I don't even know what this feeling is, can't even call it existential despair or dread or whatever it is Sartre wrote about. I just wish to be concise and definitive in determining the things I feel. Right now its a whirlwind of dust and faded lights and-"

"I guess I kind of envy the characters in Murakami's books, how lightly they determine that this, this is the moment, the inevitable plunge, the irreconcilable gap of whatever it is they are experiencing, the infinite inescapable uneasable pang of guilt, doomed to it recurring for the rest of their life, the edge of civilization before voyaging into a thick dense forest devoid of meaning, the last sound of humanity before drifting aimlessly, senselessly into the void beyond. Never to return."

"Instead of wondering for the rest of my life when will it will happen and how, or will it ever, or if its already done;

this,

is this?"