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post number one

If I am to be very honest, as I hope I can be in our future conversations, I perceive it difficult to grasp why people blog. To be very honest, I am no more interesting than your ordinary sixteen year old typing away on the internet. I write to you now post-inspiration, lying on my stomach on my pyjamas with a sore throat. I have just finished reading Terry Pratchett’s ‘Small Gods’, inarguably the best read this week. Reading good books tend to put your mind in a state of effervescence. Personally, I think people read to swim, to escape from real life in text. I used to read a book a day, back in the good times (citing the year 2016 and its precedents), but now that I am told to cram my meagre twenty four hours with work and more work, innocent ideals like reading for pleasure have lost their appeal.

My days are long, un-dilutedly painful. I am smart, I suppose I know this for a fact. I scored six As at my Ordinary Level exams, four of them making it to stars, but there was also the pesky B grade for English Literature that motivated me to change all my goals for the future. An update on the situation meant that I switched to Language, where I scored a good 91, Computer Science and Biology- also A* graded subjects. Systemic as the plan feels my body feels empty, my mind spasming with anxiety like technicolour sparks off a malfunctioning robot, metallic head reverberating back and forth like clock work. It is not that I am scared; I have more reason than not to be but fortunately enough, I am not afraid. Where I live, most schools do not opt for English Language, meaning that I undertake this course without formal syllabi to follow except for the Cambridge resources.

I am not worried. I realise I am just strangely empty.

I spend my days reading reference books which seem chaotically off topic, sometimes relevant and on the rare occasion of actual help, unduly inapplicable to the questions on paper. Reading has become a guilty pleasure, sneaked between intervals of harsh study, where anything strange and obtusely taboo holds mystic appeal. The light of my laptop is harsh on my skin at night as my eyes flit to the screen, taking in multiple tabs of Fanfiction. Who needs to read? To the blank world before me, a null sea without rumble or hint of audience, have you ever felt like ceasing to exist? To disappear in your body? To behold a second persona under your skin as you push yourself to travel to the places you do not want to go?

This is what leisure activity feels like. My hands and feet disappear as I swim in words, lies, pretty lies that did not happen but taste so sweet. After my three hour binge come stand off with the books, half a night awake looking through things I already know mind in chaos as it yells at me to do something worthwhile.

My body feels like it is suspended in constant war with itself. I have no idea what I must do and how I must do it. How long do people usually study? Does this depend on how good the teachers are? If so how good are mine? Am I being lazy? Does music account for break time? Is the mind a single faceted entity? I do not know.

All I know is that there seems to be there months left in my ticking time bomb, before the world swallows my body and I can learn no longer. 3 months of that sweet satisfactions of numbers and flows and pretty coloured sentences. As I write to you now, my sister lies on her hospital bed, eyes closed from her painkillers- she’s giving birth. A simple request to anyone who views this, please make a quick prayer for her health, the baby is being quite fussy inside her. The stench of my sweat forms two misty hands over my eyes. I cannot breathe and write any longer. I must take a shower.

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post number 10

I blink blearily at the oil coloured light staining my windows in the dark. It is three am. It is so dark that I can’t see the stars. I should be getting to work. My head slinks further down my chest. I have to get to work. I heave my body off the plush mattress beneath my back. Study. Study because you did not study enough yesterday. Study because you will not study tomorrow. I can’t see too well on the way to the bathroom. My bottle green glasses are jostled onto the smooth bridge of my nose; it slinks down to my cheeks. My eyes keep shutting, I can hear them clasp shut, my eyelashes like spiderwebs entangling together. The water from the faucet patters loudly on the cheap white tiled sink. The inside of my mouth tastes of mint.

I find myself sitting on a chair. A textbook looms before me. My eyes flutter. Never in my life have I ever felt like this, so helplessly, unreasonably tired. They fall shut. The words blur. I spring towards my iPad, keying in an alarm. One hour.

I wake up tired. I slink towards my textbook. One whole chapter, another hour of sleep then school.

Funnily after I have my morning dose of coffee I am fine. I head to school, I concentrate- half heartedly, but concentrate nonetheless. Idle hours are of a great comfort. I take a free day every Friday- half an hour off on Tuesdays-, however these sporadic, bittersweet moments bundled under sheets smiling at things that do not consider me, thinking about things that have nothing to do with me, they hold a magical kind of allure. Once you start enjoying the idle emptiness you find yourself slinking into it again. I cast this spell upon myself, so I can’t escape it. Just like in these non smiling empty moments of not doing, not living, of failing to exist, there come moments of hate, self directed resentment, moments that push you to sleep five hours on average, to skip your meals, to work till your fingers hurt from clenching your pain. It is an intense cycle, but you can’t escape it, because that’s just what it is- a cycle.

I am back from school, ice cream and lunch fills my stomach to the brim. I should probably inhale a lunch and stop trying to paint in my head. The funny thing is my printer has stopped working so I can’t print anymore papers. It is as much of a blessing as it is a curse. I told my mother this on Thursday but it remains silent on my desk instead of churning out 2 hour long papers. The scary feeling is the what to dosthe I haven’t got all the time in the worlds, but worst of all is the sweet taste of temptation pulling you to a laptop and a pile of poorly written fanfiction, dilemma indeed. My sister has occupied my desk. Perhaps I should make summary notes for Biology.

post number 9 (mute speak)

People must not speak. This is what I decided as I careened through the gaps between loopy teenage bodies pressed together in the hallways, this is what I pondered upon as I stumbled over sprawled feet at today’s heat and this is what my mind lay transfixed at as I watched my teacher speak, dust coloured lips chapped under the scorching heat. For the past few days, the climate has subdued its fascination with our slick sweat, the morning are a numbing cold- the sky a cloud filled pearl dome above our heads- , the blue is only visible at day, when the sun is so hot that you’re squinting too hard to see anything. Yet, amazingly we do not sweat and carry the stench with us throughout the day. Thank the heavens.

Half of the problems we face is because of miscommunication, because we say the things we don’t want to say and are grappling to make things right. What thoughts should be voiced and what thoughts disguised? When should you lie, when should you speak, when should you speak the truth? Our tongues sit latent inside the cusps of our mouths, restrained by our perceptions of those around us. I would prefer a world of thought and gentle touches. All around you, unrestrained thought. No one is acting. No one is lying. You hear an actor’s thoughts as he mimes a play- you can choose to tune in or listen to your own voice, or even listen to the silence. I understand the truth hurts, but it would make things painfully simple. No more beating around the bush. Those needing help would be granted help. Criminals would be understood in one go. You can choose with thoughts you like, reply to the thoughts you don’t. Bottom line: I think God created the tongue to test us all, giving us the power to speak to test the power of our being.

I am just back from a tuition class, my mind is sleepy still making the gradual awakening from when I had brutally shook it awake at 3 am today. Sometimes you wonder why people procrastinate- watching television (people still do that where I live), gossiping, scrolling through tumblr, reading fan fiction. We aren’t really doing anything productive, most of the time, our guilty secrets are simply lapses are accumulated lapses of thoughtlessness. We just lie to ourselves, believing that we’re addicts. We just don’t want to go through it all. It is exhausting. Thinking.

 

post number 8

It’s 2007… My pulse is a butterfly, its wings flitting against the hollows of my chest. On tiptoes, I peer above the murky grey wall between us. A long mahogany worktable with a pay-book and shiny calculator placed at its left corner, a woman stands behind it. Her lips a wrought into a frown. Her red finger nails cut through my blurry tear-stained vision.

“What do you want?”

“Birthday card. For Mom,” I fill in with rusty Sinhala. What kind of design would she like?

“That would be 25.”

My heart sinks. I have the tenner I’d grabbed from the chestnut drawers downstairs.

I turn away. My cheeks are damp, red. The world is whirling into shades of brown and green, clusters of pink appear where the pavement had caved in for spring flowers.

Something straightens the edges of my tilted world and pebbles resurface beneath my feet. A hand on my shoulder.

“Hey. It’s okay. I’ll talk to her. You can pay her tomorrow. Are you sure you only want a card? You can tell your Mom about the cost with your present, she’ll give you the money.”

“Maybe a pen too.”

When I get home, I clean the expanse of the balcony where you have set up my toys for me in big boxes. I dust and sort the plush toys away from the hard toys. I pick up one plastic box and set it upside down. Water spills on my t-shirt from filling your water glass with too much water. The card, now blotched with water, sits beside the ink pen I got you on the makeshift table.

Your face turns splotchy and red when you see it, tears run down your cheeks like a river. You sit on the ground beside me. “Thank you.”

If only making you happy would come to me so naturally now; if only you were the first thing in my mind as it had been; if only I had never made you cry for things other than bliss; if my only words about and to you were of things this pretty and if only things are as they had been before, maybe I wouldn’t always be so sad, so confused all the time, wishing I could be a better person for you.

post number 7

The morning was cold, Pura- that’s our dub for where I live- has cold mornings now. Getting out of bed was slow, slower than usual. My sister is in the hospital, there’s a problem with the painkillers they gave her for her delivery. I hear she’s in pain, a hundred kilometres away from us, she’s plugged to an IV in a big hospital- the doctor is flashy, one of the best Asian doctors out there. I hope she’s okay.

How I spent my morning: gurgling old water in my mouth as I tried out past papers. I am finally getting the answers I want, but the work is not really up to satisfactory standards. Computer Science is one of those subjects you wormhole into, once you’ve perfected a single paper, you find yourself reluctant to try out the next as its obvious you’ll be certified shit at it. Perhaps this applies to all subjects, how would I know? I was listening to ‘Camilla’ on my iPad as I went through the papers. I love it when artists name their albums after themselves. No concept, just them, the music being all that we have to learn about them. Her lyrics sound very intimate, oddly reminiscent of Troye Sivan’s- this is simply a personal opinion so cross analysis is discouraged. The sound of her voice appeals so well to the ear, it’s breathy and soft and whirly. It’s the kind of music you listen to staring on quiet afternoons. Her voice is yellow, pale yellow, like the lemon coloured underside of leaves that are beginning to transcend from summer to autumn. To someone who’s never been in a relationship- her words are technicolored. Where I live people just get married, there’s no dating, just like there’s no getting to know anyone. Dating is rebellious, a taboo.

If your son was found meandering with some misbehaved girl, it would take you years to rebuild your reputation. If the rebellious kid is a girl, you pray that she does not have any sisters. To someone who’s always heard of relationships being something stowed under conversation, hidden under layers of dangerous and wrong, such intimacy is heavily appreciated. Not having relationships does not make you immune to having your heart broken. Whoever came up with that one needs a  good shaking, and maybe a good running over with a truck. What it builds, if I was to be very honest, is awkwardness. A strange rigidity, that makes your elbows and knees wooden crooks on a string puppet. Married people being awkward for years into their relationship is a thing. Wives don’t call their husbands by their names- fearing offence. Calling someone sweetheart is showy, calling someone by their name is coming off too strong. People aren’t in love or married or in a relationship. They just come in pairs and have kids together. All of this, and the crazy thing to do is try out relationships, finding someone you love. You accept the awkwardness just like you accept the spontaneous fighting, the rare bouts of laughter over tea.

Support for this is preambling about fate, and how parents generally pick your fated partner. Soulmates. Bound for all time. But, you can’t act the way you want with your fated partner, you can’t borrow their shirts or hold their hands or kiss their cheeks.

You are allowed to be. That is all. My sister’s logic for this was that if both individuals ‘tried to love each other’ things would work out. I’m not a skeptic, I’m just curious. How do you work things out? When’s the time for holding hands, for sleeping on shoulders, for living past what is mandatory?

I’m not on for living like I’m supposed to for the rest of my life. I want to live past my culture, past how society has shaped people’s lives into being. I want my head to resurface above the torrents of complexity set forth by them, to breathe above the suffocating waves of sea that taste like salt and sting your throat as you swallow. My heart yearns to be broken. It’s amazing how artists are able to portray past loves in hues of reality. How is loving one person different from loving someone else? I love how different people are different flavours, different songs, albums of being.

Conclusion:

to all the people i will never be approbated the chance of loving,

maybe in another reality i would see sunshine in your smile, hear wind in your laughter and taste bubblegum on your lips, but unfortunately a time for our woven hands may only come to us in the depths of sleep, when i am not myself and you are not you, so we can finally be us. 

I am cheesy. Sue me.

post number 6

The best thing about iced popsicles is the cold, the numbing cold that makes the frontier of your tongue stick to the luminous cement-like treat. You don’t think. It’s cold, you love it. The best things come packaged that way; a little red ribboned knot over thinking stuffed under a tyrannous amount of numb. That’s all I want. Numb. I don’t want to feel. About a week after my grandfather passed away, I found myself embracing this odd feeling. Hollowness under the bones of my chest. I would go for hours staring at the darkness around me and there would suddenly be a ticking sound next to my ear. Thrumming. Like the last bits of tap water hitting a metal sink. It would take me a moment to realise that its my heart beat. A dull throb. It’s all that’s keeping me alive. The thought makes the blue fabric of the couch blur against the hazy darkness. I am not wearing my glasses. The edges of the furniture appear curved- splotchy, as if someone had rubbed too hard at the edges. I stare. I do not realise when I fall asleep. It does not matter.

When I was 12, I suffered heavy bouts of childhood insomnia. Sleep did not come easily to me. I hated it. I was afraid of it, the night terrors, the sleepwalking, it made me feel off kilter- weird. I hated staring at my sisters’ sleeping bodies in the dark, blankly watching them sound asleep, the silence too loud, my thoughts on a constant tirade, never stopping. It stopped when my mother got me a night lamp, and I could then tire myself to sleep. Spoiler: I still do. Anything to get away from the memory of new years eve 2013, my thighs rubbing against the newspaper layer under my bedsheets, the slight smell of vomit rustling against the air freshn-er around us. After four successful years of winging it, the feeling is back. The loudness. Everything and everyone is too loud. The house feels too small. The walls feel like paper cards, as if God is sticking his thumb at its sides watching it bend.

My mind is frantic, running a race course underneath my skull. I keep trying to breathe but I can’t. I want to tell someone, but no one cares enough to listen. Maybe I should stop talking all together.

Maybe I should just go mute.

The perplexing thing is that I don’t know how I got back here. Again, fighting my stupid scary thoughts. Watching their silhouettes move through the silence, blurry and loud, waiting for them to cover my eyes and get it over with. I just want to stop feeling hopeless.

post number 5

I realise that post number 4 was an absolute bore, so I decided the nap can wait. My mind is yelling at me as I type, writhing inside the lovely little straitjacket we like to keep our minds in. Where are we? Procrastination? Maybe, but that does not sound so bad, it does not really sound awful today with the sound of my cousin’s loud screaming filling the entire house. I write to you today as I gurgle cold black tea in my mouth. Cold tea. Not ice tea, but the aftermath cold that presents itself when you don’t drink your tea when it is hot. ‘When you don’t drink your tea when it is hot’- sounds like an elaborate meme to me, fitting for the extra category- precariously balanced on the ‘voice in the audience’ seesaw. That one had been wild. So what got me to posting a second update, on the same day? As far as I remember, I still possess the body of a sixteen year old girl living in a third world country, sighing exaggeratively over her hot tea amidst an equally, if not hotter environments as she types away, seamless. Well, as it sometimes turns out, I happened to visit other blogs during my minuscule procrastination- insert bold face ‘miniscule’. Freeze. Whoever you are, I command you to freeze. Stop staring intensely at your screen- not that there’s anything wrong with that, I’m not crazy– and just turn on the ‘reader’ page. Now sift through the titles.

MAGIC.

Someone out there writes with his heart. He believes his words are stuck in his shoulders and the fellow has taken to writing with his heart. His heart. I am trying it right now. I didn’t read the post, mind you, being a woman with a very tight schedule, but I’m doing it. I assume he’s spilling his thoughts as if they were cold Sri Lankan tea, so I’m attempting to mimic the feeling. Am I doing it right? It feels weird… Nice weird.

Moving on, a girl who wants to find a word for falling ‘half in love with strangers’. Strangely- no pun intended- enough I can relate with her. I don’t fall in love with just anyone, but I do possess the undiluted capacity to fall and keep falling until I find myself in the bottomless pit of that person and that person only. And no, I do not consider myself a teenager romanticising high school. That’s kind of impossible where I live, except if you want to be labelled the rebellious one that no one wants to marry (this gold one is from my Grandma). My cousin is pounding at my door. A whole house and he chooses to bang at the door of my room, the one I have been living and breathing in since my fifteenth birthday. The audacity.

The kind of love I possess is scary. It is empty and dark. It’s also pointless. I fall in love with everything. Name it whatever you want, romantic, platonic- other words I don’t know and can’t spell-, the bottom line is that I love to fall. I love the feeling. Little kids, some pets, random classmates, my friends, celebrities, before I know it there’s this weird coziness in my heart, urging me to coo and collect and treasure and store everything I can get ahold of, before my chest bursts and there is nothing left. It’s exhausting, warm and vital. It’s one of the things I have yet to explain about myself. I could go on about this for days. Beauty is insignificant, a minor detail, negotiable. I like the kind of beauty that is subtle; tuck in an eyelash, maybe pretty bronze skin and I am a downer. You don’t have to look glamorous, I think the hook lies in just existing. It’s that moment when I realise that I’m slipping under a self incurred mask and seeing past the tip of the iceberg that you decide to show, that’s when I actually fall into the bottomless sea, that is you.

It’s strange and crazy and reminiscent of how I used to sit under bushes in second grade because I liked how the leaves felt against my hair. Good times. Now that I have unleashed my first proper outburst of random thought, I would like to wish you all a good day- or night or evening, pick whatever suits your fancy. Suits your fancy– also potentially memey.

post number 4

Peering through my blotchy green glasses as I blink away my hazy post school laziness, I wonder how I should fill the screen. Words. What kind of words?

I have heard of people who can taste words. Who love their colour. I just write. I think we all just write. To make the colour we wish to see around us, to taste the world where we want to live in. I think tasting and seeing words come when you read. Very good writers, perhaps, may hold the ability to taste and colour with words. I have been pondering a story. Something about blindness, about chaos. But there’s too many options. how do people even get to writing one?

Should my main characters be animals or people? Do I make things magical? Can my characters taste rough draughts in their wine, or will they also be forced to make unfair decisions that have actually been decided for them? The possibilities are endless. Highlight of my day: Leaning forwards to level my gaze with my microscope during Biology practicals. I overslept so I forgot my glasses. Vision blurry, I peer at a vascular bundle- it needs to be more circular. I forget to add the detail. My partner mumbles something about his work; I nod. The curve, I have to get it right. The paper is wet so I have to be careful with my eraser. I am moments away from ripping the page when someone clears their throat. Odd way of garnering attention, self inflected pain.

I look up. The management has scheduled a class trip (in my birthday, yay!). I am expected to receive confirmation today. All the way home I contemplate the possibilities. My father is in the country, yes. But he’s also busy, which means his perception of parenting becomes rather warped- do this do that, instead of y’know, chilling. Do I approach the problem or should I get my mother to do it? So many possibilities. I think today is going to be a lazy day. I can just feel it. My blood feels too warm under my skin, as if its begging me for a long lazy nap. I also have a meeting at 5 pm. Yeah, good sleep sounds sexy.