You have to be stabbed to feel alive
I watched her from my side of the room- it was an unspoken rule between us- i was allowed to admire her for the price of never knowing her; damned to the solitude of my attraction towards her forever.
It was physical too though- our divide.
I hated the most terrifying exhilaration I’ve felt in my entire life.
Whether it was day or night, my feelings had to be confined for I knew they were worthless.
I knew she would never reciprocate the emotions i harboured and i was sure of this because of the pure terror i saw in her eyes whenever she glanced my way. I knew I would not survive if i revealed myself to her but i craved the thought of how close it would bring us together… and eventually after months of suppressed yearning I decided it was time.
Coming out of the background, which i blended into seamlessly, was more difficult than i had anticipated. She was too busy writing in her blood red journal- it was her favorite thing to do, no matter what her mood; sometimes her hand would quiver with fury as she wrote and other times i would see that same hand steady and calm as if it belonged to a yogi . I was jealous of that book- It knew everything about her i never would, and it would continue to learn everything about her long after i was gone.
Before I made my final steps, I remembered the day i fell in love with her; It was my first day there and it only took me a fraction of a second to find the most dominant presence in the room- a presence I wished I could call mine.
Never had i ever seen something so beautiful in my entire life… never had there been born such a fool to love someone the way i did- enough to die for them.
I left my web and scrambled across the bed- she had noticed me and was lifting her book over her head, her eyes turning wide. I had to be quick, I had to be faster, I had to touch her before she..
She plucked the eyeshadow palette off of the cluttered dresser. It was hard to see in the dimly lit room but nevertheless she applied the pigment to her lids like a seasoned professional.
A tube-light flickered in a distant corner of the cramped room. Undeterred, she masterfully coated her lips with deep red paint. Next was the highlighter- the highlighter was most important. Anong had always said that next to a good pair, glitter was the way to a man’s heart. She glanced at the clock as she simultaneously swept a brush across her cheekbones, leaving a trail of arrogant shimmer.
Her eyes, now relaxed, fell upon her face. She lifted her hands up to her cheeks, her fingers tugging with a gentle persuasion at her skin. It was a futile attempt to smoothen out the various creases that had formed over the last few years. She had wondered where, when and how the lines had crept up, wondered whether they were demons of accumulated stress or scars of surreptitious smiles, wondered whether she could have done anything to avoid them- whether she could do anything to stop them.
“15 MINUTES LOVE” a voice boomed from the room next door.
Snapped out of her resentful trance she diverted her attention to her hair; an asset age hadn’t managed to claim. She caught a glimpse of Serena entering the room behind her, cuing her to finish up, and prompting feelings of jealous detest. Serena who was unaware of the feelings she harboured, smiled respectfully- she smiled back dutifully.
However now rushed, she added the finishing touches to her hair; a sprinkle of glitter and a generous amount of hairspray. She pushed a bouquet of feather boa’s aside and set down her curling iron. It was time.
She emerged through the colored plastic beads onto the stage. The epileptic lights beat harshly against her bright makeup, a comatic combination for the exhilarated men in the room. She lived for this moment- The feeling of having control over every soul in the room was orgasmic. But when she danced, it was even better. She knew the people watching weren’t themselves anymore- she knew they were in a lucid state, completely and utterly enthralled in her, their minds vacuous stores, ready to be filled with every move she made. Although she was the one in garments that left nothing to the imagination, the people watching her were the ones exposed.
She had their souls… They were hers to take and Anong had always said that a person who attained souls was wealthier than a person who attained capital.
Inebriated with her own grace, she made sure she never made eye contact with anyone; that was the most common mistake. Direct contact was harmful but inevitably, without fail, it happened… Although their attention was intoxicating, eventually, an excess of anything becomes unendurable, intolerable… poisonous.
In this case their poisonous glances induced disgust. Her command over drooling dogs no longer held its appeal and that, was the result of tasting the forbidden fruit.
Holding her surreptitious gaze she slid down the pole.
Carrying an un-communicated sombre aura she retreated into the containment of the beads. Todays performance had drained her soul entirely. She could not revitalize herself with the usual dose of a content audience – today their whistles sounded more like the cries of hungry mongrels.
But, as if they had heard her silent flee, the intrusive cheers drooled through the beads as an inescapable voice reverberated from the stage finding its way to her hesitantly welcoming ears- “Another round of applause, you bastards for the Queen herself… Our very own, Queen of Bangkok”.
‘Queen’. She cherished the words as she dressed up for her final act.
“Anurak! You’re home ! How was work today?… My god you look tired- they need to stop calling you in for those night shifts. Why I should go down there and have a chat with your boss.Honestly, yours must be the first postoffice to get midnight influxes”
“Oh nothing… The usual- as you said- influx of packages, they needed me. No. Don’t worry your pretty little head Anong- I can handle it” he sneered back, planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.
The final act had begun.
As an aspiring journalist, one does not have the common privilege of ignorance
It’s the sadness that pushes us. The gnawing, tugging, inescapable emotions that drag us into our creative zones. Writing is a catharsis and there’s no need for it unless you’re looking for an escape; for the reason a reader reads and a writer writes is the same.
And when you’re content, there is no need for an escape- *introducing the all new and improved ‘writers block’. Now in 4 different shades of frustration.*
It’s every artists internal conflict. For them to create they have to have inspiration, for inspiration they need an extreme emotion, for an extreme emotion they need exhilaration or depression, the latter being much easier to achieve when you have no inspiration and thus the vicious cycle begins.
What to do, what to do, what to do.
Take a break I guess. Go out, switch off, forget. I say I guess because evidently I still can’t write. Atleast nothing along the lines of profound or mildly entertaining.
Sorry for wasting your time if you made it this far.
But a word of advice because I never publish a post without something quotable ( ✔️ ) and something kinda sorta not really helpful- Don’t force yourself to create something that has to be appreciated… just. create.
Well, i woke up to that faint blue light that I now so easily recognise (c.e. https://itswaypastcurfew.wordpress.com/2016/06/01/stage-7-34-progress/ , where i flipped out, seeing it for the first time)
WordPress informed me that it was our 2 year anniversary. Possibly the longest any of my relationships have ever lasted (platonic and romantic). *cringing at this sad truth*
Also I haven’t been able to write at all lately and this is more or less a forced post and I have to end up asking myself the question ‘ why can we write so much better when our life is going to the dogs?’
I am good at what I do
And I am so much better at Procrastination.
Let me set the scene for you.
It’s a pleasant, cool day. You stand around nonchalantly with a group of people. Banter is being passed around like a ball and a contest of wit seems to be taking place. Generally a satisfying spell has seized control of the day. That is until
Irrelevant person 1: “and then i said to her if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate!!”
*unanimous laughter at punny chemistry joke*
You: “hey that reminds me irrelevant person 3, did you watch that documentary?”
Irrelevant person 3: …
*pause before you attempt to ask the deaf irrelevance your question again*
You: ” Did you see that docum-”
Irrelevant person 3: “Oh btw guys (proceeds to talk about irrelevant topic)”
You: *cue feelings of wanting to move to Lithuania to sell cats for a living*
Not being heard and having to repeat yourself is the worst. The only thing worse than that is having to repeat yourself and not being heard again. ( and the only thing worse than THAT is it happening with your crush but that’s a whole other post).
I mean I know it’s kind of dramatic to feel so worthless, but that is EXACTLY how you feel. I don’t know why, but the insecurities just thrive off of moments like those. It’s the most terrifying thing that can happen to you and somehow it leaves you feeling like the least important human on the planet. It leaves you feeling irrelevant.
Overthinking coupled with abandonment issues and crippling social anxiety- Life’s peachy keen.
I’m playing this world like a video-game,
Overthinking is a glitch and heartbreak is the lag.
I hit 30 followers 2 days ago preceding my 30th post. Now i know 30 might seem like an ant of a number in the grand scheme of things, however, it is a great big deal to me.
When i started blogging again in the summer of 2016, i promised myself i wouldn’t let this blog rot away abandoned like i had last time. And i didn’t.
I get bored very easily and this is an accomplishment for me. It proves to me, my passion, for writing and comforts my decision to pursue Journalism. It proves the one person who knew about my blog last year and laughed at it, wrong. It proves that I can do something if I wholeheartedly make it my priority. It proves me wrong.
So here is to 30 followers, 1000 hits (YES 1000! ), and many more posts to come.
I’m Fast to judge, Slow to understand, and Often never right
I speak loudly in the day and cry sheltered by a blanket of moonlight
I run from my problems and never ever fight
my insecurities that remain unsurpassed despite
my love for the future, which now, looks bleakly bright
I’m Fast to judge, Slow to understand, and Often never right