this too shall pass but.

tears flow freely

as truths never acknowledged

spill out

uncapped, unflasked.

words, just words, are the trigger.

labels, just labels, that meant so much.

spill my guts out

as the avalanche of censored dread

flows freely through.

until a tiny voice says,

“this too shall pass.”

i’m a green butterfly sans wings

Writing heals. When you think everything is lost and don’t understand people thanks to your inadequacies. When you don’t know if you’re being played or not. When you want to go back in time. And get submerged in nothingness. Then you get back to Word where the words first started to flow. You let them take you to a place where you want to live forever. My stories, my characters, my words- they are my cocoon.

I wilt.

I wake up with a lump in my throat. Whatever I do, it stays.

My eyes are dry but my face is sullen, anticipating the tears that are yet to fall.

What is happening to me? Why won’t the feeling go away?

Depression and loneliness consume every fiber of my being.

I stare at the floor, waiting for nothing to happen as the clock ticks and time flies.

The bees buzz, flowers bloom, the sun shines as I wilt.

stagefry.

Walking up the stage
It’s not a long walk
My head is in my heart
My heart is in my mouth.

Feel nerves rearrange
Tell myself it’s time to talk
My head is in my heart
My heart is in my mouth.

Struggle with the page
Sound like board un’ chalk
My head is in my heart
My heart is in my mouth.

Tightening of the ribcage
I’m Jack on shaky beanstalk
My heart is in my mouth
My mouth is drying up.

Tell myself to calm down
The words fly out
But it takes time
For them to float about
And settle down.

The people in the hall
They are already gone
Mind is finally unblocked
But they are already gone.

Bring me back on stage
Repeat the awkward walk
And there will be the speeding of my heart
The need to run south

But still.

I’ll remember the last phase
The final turn of clock
And I’ll follow the quickening of the heart
The urge to overcome the verbal drought.

quotesforme

Don’t think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It’s self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can’t try to do things. You simply must do things. 
Ray Bradbury 

of books, intense fluff and fluff that’s intense

i spent the 15 day end-semester vacation reading tons of YA books and chic lit. the result? a book blog!

just two reviews up. and it’s barely set up. but check it out! you know you want to

http://aandhowareyou.blogspot.com/

Whoops! Missed two days of NoBloPoMo-ing for October but.

NANOWRIMO. Exams. Articles.CD Burning.

Fun. to-do. Deadlines. Waiting.

cathartic cleanup

Sociology papers covered in red ink
Dated three years ago
Yes, three YEARS ago.
Smells of a different era
Crisp shirts, blue skirts
The feeling of dread manages to envelope
The smell of the ghosts of the past
the past
past
(past)
of when i never belonged
(belonged).

I got a 68
My neat blue scrawl dominates
The page full of tiny red squiggles
“This is not the right answer.”
“See me!”
68 wasn’t so bad.
For her it was.

The beginnings full of promise.
The end of lost hope.
But in a way, it ended how it began.
I can laugh at it now.
And how.
Surely, that counts.

The in-between

It’s October.

The month of exams. The month before the Semester ends. The month when the workload’s at its worst. The month when you can give it your all or give up. Shape up or ship out.

Bring it on, I say before going back to sleep.

 

pottermore and.

Pottermore  is every bit as amazing as I thought it would be. Despite the mild identity crisis I went through when I was sorted into Slytherin.

If only Pottermore weren’t digital. I want to go to Hogwarts. I want to study Charms and Potions and Divination. Not Psychology and General English and Statistics that mean so much to me yet take away half my life. That mean so much to me that I can smell, it feel it and taste it. It’s way too intense. Feels way too important. Way too deep. Way too much is at stake.

If only I could become an Auror.