i think its more than about time for a new blogpost, and rant out my thoughts, though it wont be a rant so much as a quiet and desperate groveling with the gods of fate to make sure im not on the path to a destitute life of living on bread and peanut butter for the remainder of my existence.

the thing i like about this blog is that hardly any people know about it. even then, i look at the stats on my page (i don't know why), and today to my absolute horror i realized TWENTY TWO people looked at my blog on the 9th of january. first, this seems like an obtrusive invasion of privacy. sure my blog is on the internet, but STILL. the internet is a big place, why are 22 strangers reading my blog? secondly, the source of all the traffic seems to be from some dating site. curiouser and curiouser. maybe the blog seems like a safe haven for people sad enough to be on dating sites. market niche? or sign for some major inner reflection?

right now, i think im in that phase of life in my 20s which every Buzzfeed article prepares its readers for. honestly, though, how many lists for 20 somethings can that website publish on repeat? yes, Buzzfeed, i don't know where my life is going, the financial situation isn't looking great, im living with my parents again after an exodus that lasted four years, and i'm not sure what career choices to make.

the thing with those articles is, is that they always somehow make you think it will all be okay. in fact, most movies and books and quotes and stories tell you the same thing... that it will turn out okay in the end, that you're meant to be on this path, and it will take you where you need to go. what worries me is the fact that we know this is not true for everyone. there are poor people, and people who struggle to make ends meet, or end up at deadbeat jobs that turn them into bitter, dull people. yes, yes, the future is in our hands blah blah, but it takes so much energy to be proactive, something i just don't have. energetic people make me feel so uncomfortable whenever they're in the vicinity. especially those "morning people."  this goddamned laziness will spell the end of me, i swear.

well, it is the new year. even though this means absolutely nothing. but. fresh start and all that, not the time to become completely devoid of optimism. 

just upsetting.

A letter from August 15th, 2012.

Dear FutureMe,

So like a wimp, you've set the time on this to only one year in the future, because for some reason you're really scared right now. Oh cmon, you know why you were scared at this time. Life seems like it's falling apart and you don't really know who you are anymore.

Well time heals all wounds. It's cliche but I hope, for both of our cases, it's true. I hope that you've learned some things though by now and implemented them. I hope you had fun in Newcastle. I hope you lived happily with as little drama as possible. I hope you found the best of friends in your dorm mates. I hope also, that you didn't fall in love, or if you did, you did with the right guy. Your trust issues? I hope you worked on them. And I hope, for me, please, that you never let someone treat you like that again. Remember that you deserve to be treated well. Please remember. Don't forget that. Don't repeat things. And appreciate the ones who do that for you.

I hope that you gave it your all, and got some really good marks! This is your future after all. And hey, remember your dream of doing some good for the world. Don't let go of that, it's what keeps you apart.

I'm so jealous of you right now. I wish I could be where you are now. This place here sucks. I've turned into something I really wish I wasn't. I hope time helped fix things. And I hope you've grown into an even better person. And hey, going through all of this. I'm sure there were some lessons. And some good things about it. You learned to cook, for example! Please God, be able to cook better now that you're 22! It's time consuming and you're lazy I know. But by now you should have atleast learned how to make a decent cake. And cheesecake. Actually it's okay if you didn't learn the cheesecake.

There are so many things I want to say. Right now, I've taken sabbatical from the most aggravating thing in my life: my now over relationship. I hope I don't disappoint. I promise I'm not complaining to my future self :P Do you still overuse the colon p? Are you getting teary eyed? Is your hair finally long!!!!? Oh oh! Also a pact. To not cut your hair for a year! And yeah, I hope after this experience, you became stronger and a better person. We have this problem of victimizing ourselves. We should stop doing that.

Oh and, I hope that on your 21st birthday, you had a blast! And I hope you've made out with a couple more people. Is it strange that I'm enjoying talking to myself so much?

And I know you're on the brink of your career. Remember what I said. Work to make the world a better place. Work in a happy environment. Be proud of your work and yourself. And reach out to old friends, tell them you missed them a lot.

Be there for your brother, and for your parents. God knows they need you.

And I do love you, maybe not then but definitely now.

Oh, and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! Here's your gift :) In case this 2012 world ending apocalypse thing didn't actually pan out.
Your still 20 year old self

"She had always secretly reproached him for not loving her enough. Her own love she considered above reproach, while his seemed mere condescension. Now she saw that she had been unfair."

Milan Kundera.

Going back home from the university to the Bigg Market at three at night on a weekend is like living in a badly made remake of Dante's Inferno.

The first circle of hell - the 24 hour McDonald's at Haymarket, without a doubt brimming with emotionally wrought couples fighting over the betrayal of the night. In the midst of their sordidness, the drunken busker croons love songs on his guitar. I cross the showers of tears, screams and Geordie abuses and make my way forward.

The second circle of hell - the Monument. Swarming the square are groups of Lads, leaving havoc in their wake, whilst I try to avoid their advances with deft, Matrix style moves. Basking in the yellow moonlight bouncing off the medieval stones in the square, there is always a lone man, sitting quietly amidst the turbulence as if in a bubble, under the Monument, charmed by the fantasies of some faraway world.

The third circle of hell - Bambu. The squeals of women in irrevocable pain from wearing freakishly high heels (the illusion of height seems to be the greatest pathway to redemption here), and the drunken slurs of men who intoxicated themselves into a stupor so they would no longer notice their vixen like high pitched sounds of death. I make my way through the suffocating maze of bodies and sweat, the chaos of ambulances and engulfing fumes of vodka and cigarettes, onto the very last circle.

The last stretch of the journey - the fourth circle - the final frontier - my street. I am greeted into the alley by arches of men facing each wall, releasing the intake of vast amounts of liquid. I must cross this raging river of urination, and like a ballerina, make my way to my door. Finally the quest comes to an end. I am safely ensconced by the embrace of my refuge, my home.

As my journey comes to an end, I can still hear voices of the lost, inebriated spirits, singing disenchantedly, slurring loudly, beckoning. I shut the window, climb into bed and breathe a sigh of relief.

I hate bank holidays.

voices

"I think we should stop talking."
"Okay. Why?"
"Because I'm scared."
"Scared of what?"
"Scared of holding on to the past too tight and not being able to accept new things."
"Fine then, don't talk. Bye."
"Wait, don't go."
"Make up your mind, woman!"
"I'm trying. I'm just confused."
"About what?"
"About us."
"What about us? There is no us. You have other guys now."
"It's not the same."
"What am I supposed to do about that?"
"I don't know. Nothing. Tell me, what are we?"
"Us? We're nothing. You got rid of me remember."
"Don't say that. How could I get rid of you?"
"You didn't love me anymore. Simple."
"But I did! I do!"
"You don't. Otherwise you wouldnt be with other people."
"My heart hurts."
"What now?"
"I don't know. You're going."
"But you left a long time ago."
"But you're going now."
"What difference does it make?"
"It feels weird. You were supposed to stay. We were supposed to meet again."
"You weren't going to come back anyway."
"Of course I would come back. Now you're going to leave. And start a new life."
"Well, now you feel how I felt."
"I know. I want you to be happy. I don't want you to think about me anymore."
"If you don't want to talk anymore, you should just say so. Don't put it on me."
"No, you don't understand. It's hard moving to a new place and still thinking about the past. Living in the past."
"You live in the past?"
"Yes. Always with this hope that we might work out some day. But I know it won't work."
"And why is that?"
"Lots of reasons. You want to marry someone Christian. Then there's all the fights, the jealousy. Would it go away? You used to bring out the crazy in me."
"I didn't think you were crazy."
"You didn't?"
"No man. At least, most of the time I didn't."
"I can't live in that constant jealousy anymore. I feel like I'm drowning. It makes me gasp for air."
"Then you should stay away from me."
"But I can't. I tried so many times. I don't know what to do. I'm so tired."
"That's great to hear."
"Please don't be mad."
"I'm not mad. You just never realized how much I loved you."
"Maybe."
"Jesus christ."
"I did know. But then other things happened. They blocked everything else out."
"This again?"
"No, no. I don't know what to do."
"What do you want?"
"I want for you to move on."
"Really? That's what you want?"
"Yes. No. I don't know. If you don't move on, I can't move on. I keep hoping for the future."
"But you moved on!"
"I tried."
"Didn't succeed?"
"No. Kept them all away."
"Why?"
"I don't let people get too close now. It feels uncomfortable."
"How come?"
"I don't know. I just don't feel like going through the crazy again. Not for a while."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes. I'm getting better, I swear."
"So what do you want?"
"I want you to live your life, and not be hung up over the past. I don't want to keep you from new things and new people. I want you to be amazing in your new world, and I think that won't happen if we keep talking."
"It will be alright. Breathe."
"Okay."

liquid state

Lately, I've been crying a lot.

Over tiny, small insignificant things, like emotional moments in cartoons, or the thought of my parents far away, or my inability to connect with some people or the fact that my brother is growing up or my past self or the impossibility of the future, or just because of the fact that I've been crying a lot. I don't know why little things bring tears to my eyes these days. It feels like years of rage or troubles are melting out with every tear. I cry for humanity (too heavy?), although I'm not a saint or wise or omniscient in the least. Or am I? I could be. I do have a knack for.. well okay maybe I'm not omniscient.

There's just this sadness. It's not depression or anything. I feel sad that I am changing. That for the first time in a long time, I'm not dependent on anyone. That I must live up to my mom's expectations of being strong, and brave. Years ago, whenever I used to break down in front of her, she would tell me, "Be brave." And I guess, now I associate bravery with that feeling of desolation.

I'm scared that I will not achieve any sort of greatness. It's not my dream to become a global icon for change or anything. I don't expect myself to become the next Mandela or Suu Kyi, but I'm scared I will never be able to fight for something I'm passionate about, because I still don't know where that passion might be ignited. Nothing excites me, except for writing sometimes to an imaginary audience. Where I feel I can take the floor and own the stage and all of that.

I'm scared of being mediocre. Of having no opinions. Of not being able to bring anything new to the table. I think that would be the biggest waste of a life.

I'm sad for what the past me had to experience. What my pre-teen self was put through. It wasn't pretty, and it definitely wasn't fair. I don't feel sorry for myself, but I do feel sorry for that little girl.

I'm sorry for that life that was extinguished before it could begin.

I feel like my being is going through a metamorphosis, and that shedding tears is like shedding off my old skin and putting on a fresh new one.

It might be that.

Or, more likely, it might just be PMS.