#ohninesevennine

[carmengold]

My reading of (seeing you for the first time in years) by ohninesevennine.

[semplance]

Let's spread positiveness! Name one thing you like about yourself, then send this around to people. It's always good to remind everyone that they're awesome. :)

one thing i like about myself… i thought that would be empathy (i’ve been given credit that i’m very compassionate, to the point where i’d try so hard to cheer someone up but it all seemed in vain because that person remains the same amount of depressed, chained with anxiety and i am sorry. i can’t always be mental therapy), or open-mindedness, like you answered for yourself (i rarely really judge people. even if their actions are tactless, or plain stupid — i’ve learned to accept people as they are, and appreciate for who they are. because everyone is important and valuable in one way or another. even if i choose to cut all contact with someone (like my mother) because her mind is too limited, i fully understand why we can’t communicate anymore. but that’s another trait i guess i have, understanding (which is of somewhat familiar nature to empathy), then i have to exclude humbleness (in this world where pride is such an important quality (especially these months where my FB is attacked with photos of graduation diplomas), i don’t even like to brag, or convince someone that they convince me that i’m appreciated “wow look at me i’m so good at this tell me i’m valuable!” sometimes it traverses a depressing path because i’m of low opinion of myself (not of my essence. just the things i do — like writing. i don’t ever think i’m good enough at writing). but then, what do i even have to brag about when i rejected the default plan the society and all family had for me), and all other good things like intelligence and ability to think beyond, tendency to question everything, creativity, loyalty, etc. but i want to answer this wholeheartedly truthfully, what i think saved me, and will save me again — it is my stubbornness, or rather, perseverance (such an American quality too). ability to have a say for myself or for someone else i care deeply about in this world where nothing inherently matters. and keep saying it, whether it’s implicit or explicit (implicit is the one i prefer because i avoid confrontation; usually it just leads to conflicts). because all those things mentioned above wouldn’t matter so much if i stopped trying to comfort someone after so many disappointments, wouldn’t matter if i understood something and my knowledge got quenched (maybe just for the time being), so my mind would be limited, just less limited, wouldn’t matter that i’m creative and could do whatever, and when i’m done with it, i’d be fully satisfied because that would prevent me from trying again. people have tried to put me down saying that i have to be a realist if i want to survive in this world. but i am a realist, just with a more expanded mind (oh how prideful). a good example comes to mind… at the start of this year, my psychiatrists told me i would come back begging for meds after 2 months max when my supposed mania is over, and i would be deeply depressed again… but i was stubborn enough to say that not everything about me is chemical, and i can fix my fucked up chemistry with my mental power, which i apparently did. never let anyone tell you you can’t achieve something because reality… that’s just an excuse weak-willed people give, and brainwashing powerful figures use to stick “experiment successful. proceed manipulating” to your mind like a leaflet.

[semplance]

ohninesevennine said: Please don’t die just yet.

lucky me, i have my disorder, and can ricochet between excessive happiness and existential crises. happiness just one, crises -- too many. why do we count our miseries, and why don’t we count our happiness.

also there’s too much of me, so i’m creating alternate versions of me to hide the real me because apparently, no one needs the real me. no one feels as mush of the same that i feel.

[natureorcreation]

Your blog description is a very good reminder.

I think so too.

For those too lazy to click through: "tell me you remember you are still a human being, not just a human doing"

It comes from The Disease of Being Busy by Omid Safi, which is a great read.

[wnq-writers]

What does it mean to write? To write is to do violence against our thoughts, to force structure on them that weeds out the worthless from the worthy, to leave only the strong and logical while the frail and flimsy are banished into oblivion. Writing is the holocaust of the minds.

ohninesevennine

[incourages]

What a terribly lovely set of poetry you have here. <3

Thank you very kindly, I appreciate your sentiment. <3

[bitesizedpoetry]

What are your bones made of?

My Biology teacher talked about tissues and collagen and calcium phosphate and some kinds of cells. We were told to memorize the number 206.

But some days, when the sun decides to grow limbs that come lashing down on our backs, I believe my bones shatter to four times more pieces.

Sometimes, I can convince myself that the textbooks are lying. Because there are nights when I wake shivering before dawn. My skin, varnished with a thin coat of sweat. I could hear the ticking of the clock echoing inside me. My bones are hollow. I have earthquakes hibernating like bears inside each crevasse. The worst days are when they wake up and go out on a whim to recreate the Colosseum.

Some days, my bones are made of iron. And unfortunately, his are made of 206 bars of magnet.

[bitesizedpoetry]

Post 5 random facts about yourself and pass this along to your 10 favorite followers!

Hm..

I love old books. Their smell when they’re yellow and tattered and read a thousand times over. The sound of their spines cracking like the beginning of a firework, before it flickers off and die. The dog-eared pages. The way they are much more capable of warming hearts on a stormy night than the thought of the sun ever could or the sun itself, actually. Even love, come to think of it.

I have two permanent scars. One on my right knee, the other on my brow. I am quite clumsy. And use way too much adverbs. And periods and commas. And conjunctions. And I hate capitalising. I use S’s instead of Z’s. I add U’s that I don’t really pronounce.

I hate my voice. It’s far too soft and small and quiet. I’ve always wished it would’ve been stronger, steadier. So that I could’ve spoken my mind better and not have resorted to silence for so long. This is probably why I write. This is probably why I prefer listening to songs sung by powerful vocalists as opposed to softer voices. And I praise them. My admiration far exceeds my jealousy. Though I do wish a lot.

I ricochet between self-love and self-loathe. But somehow I can never love or hate myself wholly. It’s always been parts and bits of me. That’s why I’d write of my heart and hands or lungs and ribcage then leave out the rest. As though they never even existed.

I worry. I worry a lot. How lately, everything I write begins with an i.

Will send this to everyone who likes this post. And thank you, ohninesevennine! :)

Edit: I can’t send it if your blog doesn’t have an ask feature!