hello vonnie
★
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cherry valley forever
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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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almost home
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shark vs the universe
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he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Jules of Nature
JBB: An Artblog!
I'd rather be in outer space 🛸
Aqua Utopia｜海の底で記憶を紡ぐ
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if i look back, i am lost
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@thelucklessmonster
Minsan, sa pagsusulat na lamang ako kumakapit. At nang mawala na ako'y nasa akin pa rin ang aking mga huling salita. At sila, silang makakabasa ng aking mga sulat, lalagyan nila ito ng sariling mga istorya, mga kuwentong nag-aakalang kilala nila ako. Mga bulong na nagsasabing ako ang kanilang nakikita araw-araw, nakikihalubilo. Hindi ako ang kanilang nakilala. Tinatago ko ang sarili ko, ang aking mga kadumihan, dahil sino nga ba ang magmamahal sa taong puno ng galit at lungkot.
Ninanais ko lamang ay katahimikan. Katahimikan ng isipan, ng kaluluwa, ng puso. Ngunit ako'y naglalaman ng ingay at gulo, marumi at puno ng pasakit at kalungkutan.
I was in fifth grade.
I forgot a class assignment, and everyone else has theirs on top of their tables. I never knew about cheating during grade school, or if I did know, I've never done it, so I never did those crazy 10 seconds of copying your seatmates answers until you have at least half of the answers on your sheet.
As the teacher called out for our papers to be passed on the center aisle, I felt this sinking feeling in my stomach. It was the first assignment that I haven't done in my life. (Well, okay, technically, the first one was in first grade, I vaguely remember not remembering any homework and magically seeing my mom's handwriting in one of my coursebooks.) I didn't know how to react, I'm pretty sure I wanted to cry, but did not because I knew I would be made fun of. I was angry at myself, but I suppressed it since I was little miss nice, and smart, and has good grades, and has great parents.
I'm pretty sure my teacher found out about me not having an assignment, but she never brought it up. She must've thought I had it in my schoolbag but I wasn't listening intently when she told us to bring it out, or maybe she still holds on to the grudge of me not passing an assigned schoolwork. I don't know.
After that class, I sincerely remember coming back home, being left alone for a little while, and mapping out an intense way of how I should kill myself. Should I use a rope? Nah, I'm too little to hang myself on the doorway. How about I take a couple of Paracetamol? Hmmm, not sure how many doses would kill me, or just make me go dizzy for a long time, there's a fine line between that. The best way would be the serrated knife, right on the neck, just below my throat and in between the grooves of my clavicle. But, as all young, depressed kids do (not really), I got tired of planning and got myself some chocolate.
Huh. I'm drinking of chocolate right now. Odd.
I'm afraid we've crossed paths too many times and never had the chance to meet. Does our fate make our story and our choices choose to not become a part of that? Maybe we're too content with what we have right now. Or maybe we're afraid. We're afraid to lose our present selves, with the risk of not becoming who we really are, and who we're really supposed to be with.
I roll out of bed, and it is ten in the morning . The weather is as indecisive as me, hot and humid, and then dark and cold in the next five minutes. I dress up, wearing a grey shirt, worn out jeans I used yesterday and my glasses. I try to make myself presentable. So I fold the hem of my jeans. I drink a bottle of water, and I could still taste my morning breath. I take a quick tour to the bathroom to fix myself. Back to my room, I gather my things in a black bag, squeezing all I could in the small space, never mind if my notebooks are crumpled, or if I lose my wallet underneath all the mess. "No one would see it, so no one would care", and so my mantra goes. I have spent days and days living up to that mantra, belief, whatever anyone wants to call it. Nobody cares anyway, unless you show your dirt to anyone. Besides, who in their right minds would voluntarily show their dirt to anyone? Not me. So I squeeze, and cram, and bottle the craziest, darkest, scariest parts of me into myself. You read this and think this is the worst, well, this does not even scratch the surface. "No one would see it, so no one would care", says the girl sitting next to you, with a black bag full of who knows what.
Vacation-turned-constant-trip-to-the-doctor-to-check-if-i'm-sick-in-the-head-or-i'm-making-things-up-with-what-i-feel
I'm trying to make sense of my constant tiredness but spontaneous bursts of energy, my apathy and over-sensitivity, the feeling of being sick in the stomach but the closest thing to clearing out my guts was dry-heaving, losing focus and being scared of losing focus, eating so little and too much, hearing random voices and not hearing someone talking to me, etc. I am now in a space full of contrasts, and I don't know who I am or who I'm not, am I what people see or is that what I just want them to see? I am unsure of the steps I should take and I just blindly follow other people and see where I go, but everything feels off, everything is fuzzy. I'm trying to make sense of what I'm going through, if I'm going through anything. Knowing and having a name for this sick, downcast feeling is both a savior and a stupid choice. What if I'm just making out reasons as to why I always feel sad when I'm just (as simple as it is) sad? What if there's actually something wrong with me and people start calling names, they start tiptoeing around you?
i wore shorts this morning.
it wasn't my first time, but i can count with my two hands how many times i've worn shorts outside.
it was hot. humid. and i wanted to cool myself down.
i felt nice, sexy i might add, and i could feel my body temperature cooling a bit.
it was an amazing start for the day.
that is, until i rode a jeepney and the driver kept looking at my legs. yes, i sat in front, next to manong, and he kept glancing down. i thought he might be looking at something else, the stick shift, the old, rusty floor of his jeepney.
but he was looking at my legs.
and i was so mad at myself for making up reasons for him, as to why he was looking at me.
yes, manong, i see you. i see you looking, and i see you smile, and smirk, i see your eyes twinkle, but not in the light and innocent kind; i see your eyes twinkle, and your sight darken at the same time.
yes, manong, i hear you. i can hear you, and understand how you were talking in ilocano with another manong from another jeepney, saying how i was 'nagpintas'.
yes, manong, i feel you. i feel you wanting to inch closer and closer, gradually, not enough to graze my skin with your knuckles, but enough for you to use your imagination.
you might ask why i didn't move to another jeepney.
or even just move a little farther away from him.
but i froze.
i froze knowing that a single movement might aggravate another response from him.
i froze thinking that me pulling down my shorts for better coverage might beckon him to talk to me.
i froze knowing that doing something to protect myself might be pleasurable for him; knowing that i know what he was doing or was trying to do, that his glance and his snickers and his smirk has affected me.
and from the moment i sat near manong, right down to leaving his jeepney and scurrying down the sidewalk, i can feel him staring. and standing up i know it wasn't just my legs that he was looking at - he was looking at every piece of flesh he could see, thinking god knows what. i felt betrayed.
i felt betrayed that until now, we live in a society wherein how a woman dresses is an open discussion for everyone.
i felt betrayed that my clothes and my body is an open target, whether i'm in shorts or in pants, hell, even if i choose to be naked for my own.
i felt betrayed, and saddened, and mad, that women are still being preyed on, for choices that they made for their own selves, and not for other people to comment on.
so to everyone, who tried (or dares to try) to reduce women into just a plaything, a scenery in your own naked wonderland,
what i choose to wear is not up for discussion.
i am a rose.
picked. stepped on. i am enchanting, unique, sitted on your windowsill all alone; bunched up with other roses, other flowers, and i am nothing. but you see me, yes you do. you see me and inspect me, inspect my petals and my thorns. i come forward, i feel welcome in your touch, in your curious stares. you get a glimpse of my petals, how soft my vivid red skin is from afar, but a closer look shows a dark, strong maroon. you touch me, and feel my delicate skin, how fine, and smooth; "with my touch, i might hurt you", you ask, but still you continue, longing to be close to me. i am aroused. excited. no one ever noticed me before, only a few strange looks, never longer than a glance. i open up to you, my petals, once half-closed, are yours to pry open. "get closer, look into me, for i am yours and yours only", and with the longing of both lonely strangers we devour each other, spontaneous, yet passionate, abrupt yet timely. you looked at my thorns and i saw disgust. they are mine, my cape, my security; you wanted me to take them off. you can't hold me closer with my thorns. i take them off, one by one i take the thorns that have held me tight and constricted, the thorns that kept me from harm. "i don't need these thorns, for i am yours and yours only"; you held me tighter. you take a whiff of my scent, and you say "that's fine; never change that part of you", and i do not; but every day i dance with the other roses to get that perfect, sweet, fragrant whiff that you remembered; and you never noticed. and after my morning dance i get to you, only you, and we talked. and we kissed. and you held me close to you. i let you see more of me. you held me closer. your grasp tighter. and i am again constricted. not by my thorns but by you. but i am okay. "for i am yours and yours only"; and then the time came. longing to be close to me, you see the scars where there were once thorns. they are ugly, and dark, those little miniscule spots growing darking, inching deeper into me. you are disgusted. and then you see my petals, and remembered how you loved the vivid reds and the intense maroons; my contrasting glow has darkened; the once smooth, and delicate skin has grown cracks and is dusted;i am pallid, i don't make you feel warm deep in your core. you are mad. you take a whiff of me, and you noticed there was something off. i am not sweet. nor fragrant. i am sour and bitter and pungent. i have gone bad. you are now afraid. you are afraid. you tell me you're afraid that you don't love me anymore. but did you really? did you really love me? "you love me not for me, but who i've become when i was with you; you love knowing that i am yours, and yours only"; you are disgusted and mad and afraid. your grasp tightened around me. and you picked on my petals, you picked on them while singing, "she loves me, she loves me not", you are mad. and crazy. and you're trying to find more reason to love me. but there's none. "she loves me, she loves me not", louder and faster and you hold me tighter, constricting me. and with one last petal, you held what's left of me. "she loves me" "for i am yours and yours only" you got what you hoped for. but there's nothing left of me. you placed me between the pages of your journal. hoping that that would make me feel better, that would preserve your memory of me. i am now nothing, because of you, for you. for now, i am forever, yours and yours only.
Talent is insignificant. I know a lot of talented ruins. Beyond talent lie all the usual words: discipline, love, luck, but, most of all, endurance.
James Baldwin (via jacobwren)
When she is quiet there is a reason. She is sorting through all the chaos in her head, and all the madness in her heart.
LLK (via onlinecounsellingcollege)
Columbia University student, 1948, a photo by Stanley Kubrick for LOOK magazine’s “Life in New York” series
Sometimes I just have days where I really, really need to be reassured that people still like or want me or want to be around me and I feel bad because I can’t communicate this need to people but I know they can’t possibly instinctively know when I need this reassurance
Man, I hate high school.
