It’s easy to admire anything from up above, or when things aren’t within your reach, or when everything is far away, at a distant, especially when it is impossible. It’s easy to fall in love with things that we do not know, with people we cannot reach, with people out of our leagues. But look closely, always look closely, and ask yourself, will you still love her when you see the freckles on her cheeks, and the scars on her wrist? Will you still admire her when she wakes up crying and screaming at the middle of the night, with her dreams impossibly monstrous and cruel? Will you still like her when she stammers as she talks, when her confidence begins to fade, and doubts begin to cloud her eyes? Will you still love her then? Because really, it’s easier to fall in love with our imagination, of what seems to be, than when we are face with reality.
“Why do you write sad things?” is one of the hardest questions I’ve always been asked.
How could I answer that? How could I tell you that all I have is sadness, and all I can share to the world is sadness? How could I tell you that every time I get a little glimpse of happiness, I always just save it for myself, keeping it close to my heart, memorizing every details and feelings, and not writing it down because writing it down feels a lot like giving it away, like I am letting that little happiness go. How could I tell you that I write sad things to purge it out from my system? That it is impossible to write sad things without sadness consuming you to the core to the point that all you can do is to bleed it out on the paper. How could I tell you that? That I write sad things to let it out, hoping that one day it would never come back, that maybe one day, I will finally succeed in writing all my sadness away.
We are the girls who kiss wolves, who train foxes hoping we could tame their hearts, hoping we could train them not to leave us, we are the girls who kiss imperfections that cannot be salvage, hoping that our goodness is enough to shed light to darkest and dirtiest part of a human soul. We are the girls who played with fire, burn our tongues and lungs, hoping that the smoke of our ashes will serve as a sign that even when you turn into dust and ash, your cries and pleas will still rise up to the heavens, a ghost of a smoke rising above the forest, guiding the lost souls in the right direction. We are the girls who sing with the wind and dance to a rhythm no one else could hear, who let dangers swirl on our palm, seep on our veins, and swim on our bloodstreams.
We are the girls who wouldn’t kiss frogs hoping they would turn into a prince, because we are the girls who make changes to this upside down world.
Whenever I do things, I always want to do my best, and not just do my best, but to be the best. I’m ambitous, sometimes a little bit egocentric and narcissistic. I remember my kindergarten teacher describing me to my mom as the girl who always wanted to be the best, to be the first in everything, the one who dreams of being known and famous, that little terrible girl who has ambitions flowing through her veins. As I grew up, I learned that the world is hard, difficult, and not everything comes in a wave of a hand. That most of the times, you really have to work and fight for the things that you want, and sometimes, even if you did your best, your best would still not be enough. But the most important thing that I realized is that being famous or being known by everyone does not equate success. Those are just numbers. A sea of people I wouldn’t know firsthand even if it happens. I realized that I only wanted to be famous in the hearts of the people I love, to be known by the inspiration I give to their dreams, and to the strangers I unknowingly help along the way, and to be at least be a temporary relief in any way to the people who have aching pain in their souls.
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write #28
If it’s true that we photograph the things that we are afraid to lose, then it’s saddening to think that maybe this generation, the so-called selfie generation, aren’t really just a bunch of narcissitic fools and attention seeking people, but rather a bunch of individuals afraid to lose themselves. Isn’t it disheartening? That in this age of technology and fast communication gateways, there are more and more individuals that capture their own photos to preserve and have memories of who they are.
“Why are you settling with him? He isn’t good for you. He’s just using you.”
I sighed. “Who says I’m settling? It isn’t because I’m still seeing him means I’m settling. You think I’m the one in love in this situation? You think that just because a girl is hooking up with a guy means she’s settling? Can it be the other way around? I definitely don’t want to hear any wedding bells with him, if that’s what you mean. He’s not the type. So relax. Stop your stigma. I’m just having my cake, and eating it too.”
//excerpt from a book i’ll never write #27
She is the kind of beauty that gently falls on your lips like snowflakes softly falling to the ground, silent, subtle, fragile to touch, but beautiful nonetheless. She is made of winter, thunderstorms, and scars, yet she possesses the gentlest touch for the broken souls. When you meet her, you probably won’t notice her right away, for hers is the beauty that whispers ever so subtly to your soul, capturing your heart and soul first before entrancing your eyes.