I’ll meet my Artist, someday

An excuse not to continue revising my research proposal and resort to making a blog entry: I lost my usb flash drive and I’m getting a little too lethargic on times I shouldn’t be.

So I start imagining things again, trying to create a world within my world, a place which I envision to exist. There, I will meet people. People I hate, people I love, people I will live with forever.

People I will live with forever. There will be, I know they will come. I know he will. That one person.

We will do things together. Walk along the city streets, under the extreme heat of the sun and under the city lights. We will hold hands, as if we’re one and the same.

We’ll listen to each other’s playlists, enjoying our weird taste in music. From the classics to indie, maybe some hiphop, a little RnB, garage, punk, a lot of all the different rock genres, and back to our time – the 90s. Listen to Abba and dance to our mums’ Dancing Queen era. We’ll sing to our favorite Beatles’ tracks, M. Jackson, Bob Marley and the Wailers, The Smiths, Noah and the Whale, Up Dharma Down, local and foreign groups, individuals, we won’t mind. We’ll enjoy the music from our vinyl player as we sip our tea.

We will smoke weed together, get high and let our innards fly, create our world. We’ll do it in our house or at the back of the car or maybe in the bath, just like how Gibson and his dead twin Jamie did it, like brothers.

We’ll run laps in the morning. We’ll skate, he’ll teach me with his skateboard. I’ll watch him showoff his tricks and get a broken ankle (heehee). We’ll swim in pools and the sea.

We’ll have an exchange of vows. Get married. Have kids. And grand kids.

That one person is an artist.

He’s a painter.  I’ll watch him paint our ceiling like the Sistine Chapel and later transform it to a starry night. He’s a van Gogh wannabe. He’ll make a painting of me like that of Mona Lisa, and paint our memories like Guernica. He’ll be my Donatello and Warhol.

He’s a musician. He’ll sing me songs I love and never heard of with his old black guitar.

He’s a poet. A songwriter, a scriptwriter. A writer.

He’s a digital artist. He’ll show me his drawings, from his sketchpad to his pc + tab illustrations. He’ll make comic strips about life, our lives.

He’s a filmmaker and we’ll watch his films together.

He’s a lot of things I want him to be, with different skills and interests. Someone I'm not.

And I know he’ll never come and never be mine. Because I know he does not exist, will not exist, which I’ve long accepted.

But maybe I’ll really meet my own artist, that artist in me. Someday. In another life.

Not asking for more

Unrequited love, unreciprocated feelings, suppressed down to the very core. Not that I wanted him to care, not that I wanted him to know me, yes, he doesn't know me.

Having this Summer Finn mentality along with my I've-been-crushing-on-him-since-(only God knows when)-and-I'm-just-a-stranger kind of life since grade school (different persons, same old me) is who I am, what I'm used to. This has never changed, never will (?), not in a million years. I've always kept it to myself, I might have shared to a few perhaps, but who cares? Who am I anyway?

Summer Finn: a woman who thinks that relationships are messy, feelings just get hurt, and that love is just a fantasy (500 Days of Summer)

I may not be exactly like her, but she does have, what I believe, the 'character' of a lot of women. Some of us are just scared of getting hurt and also of hurting the other. (Or is it just me?)But in the end, we see that she commits herself to a man and about to be wed. This shows quite so that women (in my opinion) are simply complicated creatures.

Possessing the complicated outlook of a woman, I have incorporated both mentalities in me in a very, very safe and compatible way.

Admiring from afar, I do get hurt, building these unrequited feelings rather kept in a jar, hidden. I'm a complete stranger and afraid of messy relationships. He lives his life, I do with mine. We might have a chance of meeting in the future since the world is but a tiny playground, but at this very moment, I am here. And he's just out there. HE DOESN'T EVEN KNOW I EXIST. I am content, and I do not want ask for more.

Of Sinkholes and Ice Cream

Down the alley, down the road, I walk. Leaving heartaches behind, smiles I carry with me, I show them off. I walk strong, palpable to the naked eye, felt by the blind, heard by you(even with earphones worn).
Trying to comprehend my purpose, I stopped. Trying to feel the trouble of what's inside, I undressed myself.
Sinkholes were all I had. A sinkhole in my heart, a sinkhole in my mind, of the many sinkholes that I have. A sinkhole deep down inside me. A sinkhole has consumed me, a sinkhole I have become, empty. A temple of sinkholes. One sick sinkhole.
I drown myself. Drown in suffering, suffering of the numb, of the heartless. Strong yet hollow. How could it possibly be?
I wander along the streets of emptiness, of a labyrinth. I lost myself in me. I tried to grasp onto something, of reality and the make-believe. Something in between. Something I could never perchance fathom.
I felt the coldness of the still air, coldness of my warm sinkhole-heart. Is there a cure? I'm not broken. Oh, god forbid.
I know what the heart yearns, what the mind seeks, what the body desires, the cure for all these: ice cream. And perhaps some peanut butter and/or nutella.
With sinkholes and ice cream, I survive.

Mr. Darcy

The newest member of the family just wants to say "Hi!"
You may say "hello" to Mr. Darcy, too!
No updates on life yet. Just Darcy. My life revolves around him.