I Yearn For…


I yearn for…

I yearn for the charged excitement in the air before a thunderstorm, but always.

I yearn to be more than a conscious creature.

I yearn for worlds in which I’m smaller than a pinprick, and larger than a mountain.

I yearn for magic, real magic. But I’m afraid if magic were to become the norm, it would also become the reality, and that would I’d have to yearn for something even more than magic to satisfy me. Maybe computers are real magic, and I’m already trying to find that higher plane.

I yearn for rain, everyday, to soften the edges of the world, and for there to be secrets in every raindrop for us to catch and see. A glitter of dust from another dimension. A dead butterfly.

I yearn for a tiny little attic room to call my own, with a tiny little bed and a tiny teddy on that bed, and books piled high beside it. I would live in that room, and watch the leaves from the tree outside thrust through the window, and read.

I yearn to never love, but dream of love.

I yearn to walk through a stopped world, and observe things I could not observe because staring isn’t polite.

I yearn for a door in a toadstool at the end of a garden, and to open that door, and whisper to the fairies within in, and have them feed me bluebells brimming with honey and nuts wrapped in mint leaves.

I yearn to be more than I am, and to believe I am more than I am.

I yearn for truth, though I yearn for there to be no truths.

I yearn for monsters that can’t hurt me. Closet doors I can close, books I can shut.

I yearn to visit the mermaids, in their coral catacombs beneath the waters. Though I’m scared they might be more fish than human, and frightening.

I yearn for a shimmer of gold beneath the skin of this world, a reassuring secret.

I yearn to fly, but maybe in a hot air balloon or gripping onto an expanse of white cloud rather than only my body in mid-air, or I’d fall to my death from fright.

I yearn for plants to have souls, so they can feel it when I caress their petals, or press my hand against their knotted-bark trunk.

I yearn to be a princess living in a castle, and for a prince to climb up my long, midnight hair up to the castle and rescue me. I would refuse him, politely, and go back to my books, to my library in my castle tower. I do not think the princesses in fairytales were dreamers.

I yearn to hold a hand.

I yearn for animals to love me forever when I pet them.

I yearn for all the effluence of humanity – the buildings, the cars, the grime, the synthetic muck, everything – to be swept off the Earth, and for it to be green and new and young and wonderful again, for us to pick jeweled fruits and laugh with the birds and bathe in clear springs. The world feels dirty, clogged up. It can’t breathe, and so we can’t, either.

I yearn for ordered chaos.

I yearn to slip my mind behind the eyes of another human being, and see and feel the world through their eyes and bodies. I would like this very much.

I yearn to make everything matter. That if I rescue an ant from drowning with a stick, I am doing good.

I yearn for my soul to live in my books once my body decays, and to touch that one dreamer, who curls up in his or her chair and cries at the magic and wonder on the pages.

I yearn for purity and goodness, though life has sullied me. But I can cleanse myself, with words, and hopes, and love.

I yearn for the past to be never fully gone, so that one day, maybe, I can open a door, and walk back into my childhood, and twirl about in rapture at the old, safe world.

I yearn.

I yearn to yearn, forever.


Introverts Have “No Personality”


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There are downsides to being a hermit hidden in the cave of your own mind.

Namely, that people, and, frankly, usually extroverted people, find you boring.

I can’t express how much this sense of my own dullness has worn down my self-esteem over the years. No matter how much I tell myself I do not care what other people think of me, deep down, I do care. A little bit.

I don’t mind the fact that people gravitate towards extroverts in social situations; I mean, that just leaves more breathing room for us to hide in a corner and whip out a book. What I mind is the fact that introverts are written off has having no personality, just a bland cardboard cut-out of a person strutting among real blood-and-flesh humans.

Am I the only one who has noticed this?

I used to feel a sinking feeling inside my chest every time I talked to someone while hanging out with an extroverted group of friends; because while they would dazzle the newcomer, I’d be standing to one side, feeling like the congealed food at the buffet that no-one wants to touch, just, you know, standing there, with a raincloud over my head, staring down at the metaphysical puddle of rejection pooling about my shoes. It’s an icky feeling. It makes you feel unappealing. It makes you feel a bit worthless.

It’s like if I’m not charismatic and talkative and bright as a firework, I’m nobody.

It’s definitely got something to do with the extrovert ideal salivated over by our society. Look on television, and all you see are bright and vibrant personalities, who chat freely and an express their sense of humor and wonderfulness in front of millions of people. I get that. People like stimulating people, and it’s easier to be stimulated by someone chatty rather than someone who talks quietly and seriously and avoids looking at the camera.

But that doesn’t mean introverts are boring. It just doesn’t. It’s like personalitial (it’s word now, yes) discrimination. It’s like saying all Asians are good at math (Side note, as an Asian-Australian myself, I am living proof of the erroneous nature of this statement. Mhm). You get what I mean? You’re generalizing an entire group of people, assuming they all have a particular quality, when we’re individuals. We’re not a homogenous group of silent sentinels, dull as a brick, or a wall of bricks. We’re individuals, do you hear me?

I’m sure some introverts are boring. There are boring people of all shades, of all nationalities, of all races, of all genders, of all sexualities, of all personalities. But just because we’re a little more reserved than your average Jane giggling with the boys, doesn’t mean we’re boring. It doesn’t mean we don’t have a personality. We just need a bit more teasing and coaxing and time for us to get comfortable with you, and for our own unique personalities to bubble to the surface.

Then again, what constitutes having “no personality”? I mean, that’s a rather subjective statement, isn’t it? It almost seems to suggest that having a personality means to be extroverted, doesn’t it? Well, that’s wrong. That’s messed up. It’s like saying the word “beauty” is synonymous to being white. Deliberate but subtle exclusion through the words we use that permeate our everyday lives and subconsciously embed certain concepts of the world in our heads. You’d be surprised at the power of language, and of what you see or hear constantly, through the media, among your social circles. We are absorbent creatures.

You know what? Seeing as we can’t change the mindset of society, my fellow introverts, let’s just leave this post with a secret flutter of joy in our hearts. Let’s think about it this way. We’re like the jewels at the bottom of the chest. The phoenix bird underneath the pile of pigeons. It takes work for people to break through our barriers and discover our personalities. Maybe the reason people say we don’t have personalities is because we’re so reserved, initially, though being reserved technically is a personality trait.

We’re not easy to get to know. But for the people who try – and they’re the only people who worth our time, anyway – once they dig through the layers, go hunting a bit, put in the effort, they can often discover something quite wonderful. I know that. Well, I don’t know if my personality is anything special, but I know that there are millions of introverts out there with beautiful hidden personalities, strange quirky sense of humors, sweet oddities and mannerisms. Even though I’m an introvert myself, I find lots of introverts downright adorable.

So, yeah,  we do have a personality. But it’s up to you to put in the effort to get to know us, and discover that personality rather than brushing us off as being boring. We don’t deliver ourselves on a platter, eyeballs arranged tastefully next to hands, with a side dressing of hair, for you to tuck in (This concept is getting weird, fast. Just like to say that I do not, under any circumstances, condone cannibalism). We don’t come ready-made. You’ve got to assemble the phrenological components yourself, read the manual. You’ve got to cook and carve your own pig. And you know what?

We’re worth it. We really are.

It’s Hard Being An INFP Part 2


First off, I’d just like to say to you, whoever you are, reading this, especially if you’ve commented on my humble little blog where I splash my thoughts and dreams, that I love you. I don’t have much support in my life at the moment, emotionally and financially. Money has been very tight, and I tend to get very stressed about that. I don’t have any friends in real life who truly can understand, nor any family members. But through reading your comments, connecting with people who have read my blog, and just even thinking about other dreamers reading my blog and feeling a warmth flare in their souls, gives me so much strength. You can’t imagine. I wake up, find a sweet, sweet comment, and go around with a smile in my heart. It’s beautiful and wonderful, so thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you. Though I’ve never met you, you might as well be my family. I think all dreamers are related, metaphysically. A grand, family tree of sensitive, introverted people floating in the ether.

This is going to be another post dedicated to all the INFPs of the world. I wrote one previously which many INFPs connected with, so I decided to write another. Frankly, I can always write more about being an INFP. There’s so much…I guess you could say my soul is forever in discordance with the world we live in, and all these little conflicts create lots of writing material.

I do apologise if my writing is pitiful in this post. I’m not trying to make it sound nice, but to get my point across. So, hello, fellow dreamer. I understand you. I really do. Perhaps some of the things I write you won’t be able to relate to, but that’s fine. If even one person can relate, I’m happy. This is going to be an outpouring of my soul, in this moment. From the soul of an INFP. Imagine it like a telepathic conversation. And if you’re ever lonely, disenfranchised, depressed, when you get into one of those moments when you feel so low because the world doesn’t appreciate your eccentric, creative beauty, and only wants to snuff out your delicate soul, then I hope you can come back to this, and imagine it’s me talking to you, and at the end, giving you a big hug. I know how it is. I know how it is like to be you. I really, really do. I’m not trying to sound patronizing. Sure, I don’t know each of your individual experiences, but I’ve had those strange thoughts, felt that social rejection, felt out of place, out of balance, wishing to escape to a world of fluffy clouds and jeweled trees, somewhere safe and soft and warm and quiet and wonderful and filled with nature and magic and books. I KNOW. I really do.

I know that everything I write here will be meaningless, a sort of refined whining into the void. But I’m simply going to be here for you, for you to feel less alone. That is enough. This is simply a post of all you  dreamers, you fragile-skin and lotus-soul creatures, who see the walkways beneath this world and step on clouds to try and get closer to the heavens. This is the cybernetic equivalent of my finger reaching out to touch yours, the tips glowing, and both of us alive and warm and each other. As humans, in an incomprehensible world, living an even more absurd existence.

I am a natural loner. Though I’m sure not all INFPs are loners, I think we have a higher chance of being a loner than other types, with our introversion, propensity for creative endeavors that require hours of solitude. I am convinced that if I were never to see or make contact with another human being in person from today, provided I have an internet connection (so I can write on this blog and watch the movies I like – I’m looking at you, Spirited Away & Amelie), a steady stream of books, writing utensils, and a enough food, money, water, and facilities to be a healthy human being, even if it’s only a single room, I would be fine. More than fine. Happy. Much, much happier than I am now. If you’re a loner, you know that this kind of thinking is strange to the majority of people in this world, but that does not matter. You are you. they are them. That is all.

I haven’t disclosed my real age on this blog before, partly for privacy reasons, partly out of fear. But I think I’m going to now, just to be honest, just so you can get a clearer idea of who I am, and so other people in the world who are my age can feel less alone. Age is a relatable trait. I am sixteen years old. The reason I never disclosed my true age, sometimes even pretending I was in my twenties (I hope you can forgive me for that slight twisting of the truth, it is the only untruth I have ever written on this blog), was because I was so, so frightened of people not taking my concerns seriously, and putting down my personal problems, such as existential depression and distaste for this godforsaken world and its godforsaken people, to mere teenage angst. I was scared of having my concerns reduced to mere trifles to be patronized, because that is what has always happened throughout my life. I was the five year old kid who asked questions about death and made the adults uncomfortable. They patted me on the head and told me not to worry about things. I have been scared of that kind of fake, demeaning comfort ever since. So I really, really hope that this slight revelation will not lesson your opinion of me, dear dreamer. Age is of no consequence. My soul, as you can probably relate, feels as if it’s already lived many lifetimes, though perhaps that is just a romantic fancy of mine. Maybe.

All of life is a maybe, an uncertain question mark hovering in the aether, murky, an evanescent existence of no truth, no solidarity, no angles and curves but only blurred lines. This permanent fog is what we call life, and no matter how many times we glimpse bits of the big picture through parted wisps, we’ll never see it all. Do not try. I have tried. It only strains your eyes, and breaks your heart. Nietzsche said we were born into this world to suffer. As a dreamers, we have suffered for not being ignorant. For facing the harsher realities of existence. And we have been punished for seeing, not beyond the fog, but the fog itself.

I think, as a group, we are tired. I know I am. I do not mind social ostracism, for I have no desire to converse with my peers and teachers at school, any more than pigeon would with a peacock. I do not mean that I feel superior to them, but instead so markedly different that I might as well be a member of another species. However, one of the main reasons I am a loner, and despise socializing, is because it’s dull, and every single person around me, from my family, my teachers, my peers, are intolerably dull. I do not mean they are stupid. Some of them are probably more intelligent than I’ll ever be. I mean they do not see the fog, do not see life, and go about their ideas happy and ignorant, and I am like a woman who has seen death and come back half a corpse, unable to talk with the living. Some people, even very intelligent people, are so narrow-minded it makes me want to throw up when I interact with them, and hide out in a cavern beneath the seas, or hole myself up in a tree trunk in a dense rainforest.

I just thought of a good definition for us dreamers. It’s as if we were all born with a hole in our skull as a result of metaphysical trepanning, and now absorb far more wavelengths than the average teenager, or, should I saw, human being. Now I’m wondering whether disclosing my age was the right thing to do. I’m afraid of it tainting your view of my posts. I don’t know. I get scared a lot. Everything scares me, and everything makes me want to not be scared. Anyway. The extra wavelengths make us tired, for we cannot stop thinking, and thinking only leads to despair.

Do you find walking upon this earth painful? Existence hurts. I find it painful to live with other human beings, and I find it painful being the human being that I am. We dreamers are unappreciated. People cannot appreciate what they do not understand. A thousand thoughts on existence, mortality, truth, life and consciousness flutter like smoky birds across my brain every day. They peck at the inside of my skull. It’s so tiring, I’m tired, I’m tired. What are your greatest fears? As a dreamer, I live in fear of a lack of money, because gaining it isn’t that comes easily to me. I have to sacrifice bits of my soul and sanity to get money, and don’t like doing that. At all. Extroverting myself until I feel like I’m dying of fatigue, the flesh sagging from my bones. I don’t like that. So, I live in a fear of poverty, of an indigence which will make all art and philosophy meaningless, as survival always takes the front seat. I wish to amass the wealth needed to live the life I want, but I find all occupations, apart from being a writer or philosopher, odious, and society’s systems and institutions mindless and inane. High school causes me pain. I cannot relate to a single human being, and, walking through the labyrinth of corridors, my soul is dead and stale.

Other people always seem to have something that I lack. I don’t if it’s just because I have an inferiority complex, or if other INFPs can relate. Other people seem to possess this confidence, this surety about life, that I don’t have, and don’t think I could ever have. They walk through their lives with joy and poise, know their heart before they go to sleep and taste its juicy, coppery flavor when they wake up to perfume their thoughts, hopes and aspirations for the rest of the day. I feel more like an evolving Frankenstein, gangrenous limbs prolapsing and flopping, seams tearing loose like tiny screaming stitched mouths, new eyes and fingers and parts always being attached, a prototype in the working, never fully here, never complete, always changing and lacking and inadequate, a dead person animated with life rather than a proper human being.

Without a strong enough heart to guide the way, but a shriveled sac that sometimes flutters in a direction, depending on the wind, but mainly hangs, limp and deflated and unsure. Yeah. That’s the closet I can get to the experience. it’s a constant sense of insecurity and instability that makes life exhausting, forever teetering on ice shards.

Dear dreamer, I’m probably not making any sense. But other people just have this element of sanity, of rationality, that keeps them from slipping into an existential abyss, brain strands that keep them tethered to the rock of contentment, carefreeness and laughter. They don’t float towards the heavens, swirling aimlessly in the infinities, and feel a greater darkness bloom in their souls, a bee-buzz madness on their tongues.

Sorry if I jump from topic to topic. Just imagine it as a conversation with me. I wish I could give you a big hug, right now, dreamer, so we could both feel less alone, and slightly miserable. I’m happy being me, but I’m sad about how the world reacts to me, and tries to spit me out all the time. I’m not a cog, or a wheel, but a wacky metallic object that faintly resembles an alien creature with a thousand appendages. Don’t fit.

I’m wildly jealous of extroverted, steady people who seem to have their entire life and mindset together, when I’m a disintegrating star just trying to keep all of my radioactive bits together. If you’re an ENTJ reading this, though I can’t imagine how I would have held your interest up to this point, how do you do it? You are incomprehensible, so sure, so steady, so confident. But you don’t see. You don’t see the shadows, you don’t see life. Maybe that’s what I need, to survive in this society. To stop being me. To vanquish my crazy thoughts on reality and existence.

I can’t cope with reality. I don’t know how rational and logical people do it. I can’t. It just isn’t part of my DNA. I don’t know why INFPs are not extinct yet, because we are hit so hard by life, no matter how rich or poor. It’s a kind of struggle endemic to our personality. When people say phrases like ”suck it up”, or ”that’s life”, I want to cry. My heart hurts. Because I can’t just suck it up. I guess that makes me soft and weak, but so what. That’s who I am. I can’t suck up the harshness of reality, I want to love all human beings, help all human beings, I want to love and help and heal, but everyone’s so cold (oh gosh, I’m tearing up), the world is so cold, and everyone is so brutal and harsh and cruel, it’s so hard and cold. I have no place in it. Ouch. Ouch. My heart. My soul. It hurts. I want to love so much, to wipe away tears and hug people, revel in the human experience together, but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

Dreamers are sensitive. I will cry at the drop of a hat. I’m easily startled. When people scare me, my heart jerks for a good time afterwards. Loud noises make me wince and physically recoil. Everything hurts! A slight glance, a mean word, I can even read the thoughts of others sometimes, and they hurt me, because I know they are not kind. Only cruel. Mean. Racist. Personalitist. Hate you because you’re shy and introverted and not happy and extroverted. Sexist. Lookist (when people discriminate against ugly people, I just made it up, sorry if I make no sense in this post). It’s all this ugliness, I see all this ugliness, and it makes me want to throw up. I’m sick with the emotional toxins of the world, bloated with poison. Yuck. Get it out of my system. Please, please.

I honestly want to build a quiet community of dreamers somewhere on the edge of civilization, among nature. I want it so badly. Yearn. We could have these little huts, libraries inside the trunks of trees, pick wild fruit and nuts, hunt animals, drink fresh spring water, sing songs, love, have philosophical discussions around the fire. It’s unrealistic, I know, but I think it’s the only way I could feel like I’m truly living. I live in tiny unit now, with my mum, because of financial constraints, and there’s hardly a spot of green anywhere. It’s quite suffocating. I’m crying. That’s okay. I have you guys here. Or out there. You guys exist. Other people who feel this way exist. *sobs quietly with happiness*

Money. Jobs. Careers. Another painful topic. ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Ahem. Excuse-me. It’s just that, well, the problem is we’re RIGHT BRAIN INTROVERTS. Do you see? They say that introverts can get good steady jobs and be happy, but it depends on the kind of introvert you are! Left brain introverts have a much easier time, loving jobs like accountancy, being doctors, scientists. Left brain people in general have it easier. Whereas right brain introverts, well, talented as we may be, the only job for us to become an artist. That is it. A writer, a painter. We’re practically doomed. We are the epitome of the starving artist. I know I can’t be anything else a writer. It’s stitched in my bones. And I will endure everything to write. I know I will. I know I can’t get any job to pay the bills apart from one on one tutoring, with children, because I love children. I think, if you’re a dreamer like me, that is, if you are a writer, to pay the bills, you should tutor one on one in English (which happens to be my favorite subject in school, though the teacher makes me soul recoil every time I see her, this cruelty shines behind her sweet face, but, let’s not complain about irrelevancies). It’s nearly the only option that can sort of engage our helping, literary and creative talents. That’s the best I’ve got so far.

Well. I’m not sure if this post made any sense. If you got anything from it, that’s great. If not, I’m sorry for wasting your time. I really am. I just don’t know anything. Everyone seems to think they know everything, that’s what gives them the confidence, but I have realizes that I truly know nothing, and this lack of ignorance makes me vulnerable. Stepping out into the world hurts me everyday. I’m only ever happy when I’m reading and writing.

I guess my soul is just kind of sore.

– Dreamerrambling

Death Is Scary.


Been confronted with human mortality multiple times this past week.

The sister of a friend of my mother’s died.

A friend of mine, in the prime of her youth, has been hospitalized.

A teacher has left work for many weeks, due to sickness.

I don’t believe in destiny, but it’s almost as if Death rose up from his home beneath this world and grinned his skull-face and gave me a wink this week. To say, “Hey, don’t forget. You’re going to die one day, too.”

I’ve written about mortality before, and how I’ve accepted it, wholeheartedly. I try to remind myself daily that I’m going to die, and, morbid as it might seem to some people, it helps me to keep my life in perspective, get my priorities straight.

But it doesn’t make it any less scary. Especially when it happens to people around you, people you have known, and you sit there at home and wonder about the darkness they are wading through, lying on their hospital beds, emotions of regret, hope, desperation, eddying and swirling inside them.

Death is so, so, so scary. It’s scary to face the void. It’s scary to watch others slip into the void, and know you are destined for the same route. It’s scary to think that you don’t know what might happen next, that you might die before your dreams come to fruition, before your words see the light and are viewed by the world. I think, personally, that that’s the scariest thing of all. What if I don’t get published before I die? What if? What if?

When you’re given a reality shock like I have this past week, you can’t help but imagine what it would be like. How degrading it would be. I know a lot of people imagine pain, and sorrow, and their loved ones crying beside their hospital bed, but can you imagine how demeaning it is, to be a shivering lump of flesh beneath a sheet, raw and suffering? Forget philosophy, art, literature, and all the magical wonders that elevate us above apes, and makes us feel sophisticated and ethereal.

For, big and smart as you are, tiny mindless bacteria and viruses can dismantle your entire world, break down your limbs, turn your blood to thick soup, your muscles and sinews to feeble mush. We face the ultimate, primitive weakness within ourselves when we are dying – that we, in the end, like the other creatures of this Earth, are not Gods, but animals.

Only, when we’re well and living in a rich country, we can act lofty and worldly, and read our fine literature and sip our rich wines and wear our clothes and jewelry and think much of ourselves. But when we’re dying, when we’re sick, or when we’re without clothing, without food, without sustenance, we devolve back into a gibbering, anguished animal, as desperate and pitiful as a sick dog frothing at the mouth. And we don’t like that. We don’t like to face the primitive beasts within ourselves. We think we’re better than that. We sometimes think we’re unbeatable.

And it’s this complete and utter vulnerability that makes death so awful. For all your money, for all your intelligence, for all your kindness, for all your words, death will still knock you down, and pluck the life from your limbs, still the beating of your heart, and leave you nothing more than dead flesh, protein, coagulated amino acids.

And it doesn’t matter if we laugh in the face of death, if we spit in his face, or if we beg him to not take us, please, please, for God’s sake, I’m not ready, he still comes knocking at her door, in a jangle of bones, his dark orbits impenetrable, to take us away, quietly, quietly. We’re just fooling ourselves when we think our reaction to death matters, that being acting noble will somehow make things better, a feeble fist-shake in the impassive face of the universe. It doesn’t matter.

So what matters?

Well, if you want to take a nihilistic perspective of it, nothing, really. Yeah, that’s right. Nothing. Matters. But that makes everyday living rather difficult, so I’ll leave you with something else. Something that everyone harks on about but no-one seems to follow.

The only thing you can do is to die in peace. And the only way you can die in peace, is if you have accomplished what your heart yearned to do during your measly lifetime. Otherwise, Death will take you screaming in agony, the regret scorching through your soul like a million tiny deaths before the real one.

Yes, maybe it doesn’t matter whether you achieve your dreams or not, maybe the world won’t be the better or worse for it, but it’s better for you. That’s all you can hope for. To die, knowing in your heart that you did what you wanted to do, lived the life you wanted to live. Because if there’s anything more sad than death, it’s to die with regrets. That is a level of suffering unparalleled to any in the human experience.

So, please. Death. Yes. Scary? Yes. Awful? Yes. Painful? In all likelihood. But make the final moment when you close your eyes better for yourself. Unleash your soul in a spurt of golden wonder while you live, so that it can simmer down into gentle ashes when you die, not rage impotently like a fire being put out before its time, and perhaps be reborn in a trilling phoenix-bird of magic another lifetime. You know. If you believe in that sort of thing. It’s romantic all the same, though.

I’m Lonely. Are you? Let’s Have A Conversation.



It’s Friday night, and I am typing this at 2AM.

Hello, fellow human being.

This is going to be a ramble. After all, ahem, I am Dreamerrrambling. In fact, you can just imagine it as a conversation with me, albeit rather one-sided. Well, I’m feeling lonely and bored, and if you’re feeling the same, then maybe this could help you feel less lonely and bored?

I do sometimes wish we could meet in person and talk though. Maybe I could push myself through my computer screen and reappear in yours, like some kind of interweb portal, head and neck protruding, pixelated from the waist down. Too creepy? Sorry.

This is probably going to be long and boring and discursive, as conversations sometimes can be. Especially one-sided ones. Yes, I will probably repeat myself. It’s going to be a stream-of-consciousness sort of thing. I know my thoughts don’t matter, not really, and that I’m just one organism in a sea of voices who happens to be born in a time period where I can splatter my neurological manifestations across a worldwide platform based on symbols constructed by human beings that resulted in the preservation of knowledge and the creation of literature and the mapping of human life and the human condition and –

There we go. Just gave you a dose of a typical thought current of mine. One seminal thought catches the back of my neck like a Bo-peep crook, and I’m off. So. I know that my identity has been very private on this blog, how I look, my age, and whatnot, and I do want to keep it that way. But also know how lovely it is sometimes to see your bloggers, to know what they look like, you know what I mean? But I haven’t put any pictures up, in case anyone in my circle of acquaintances finds this blog and then reads all of my inner secrets. Anonymity is kind of a necessity, at least until I leave all institutions and go live a hippie life in the forest. Until then, no photos. But I like to think that it’s my soul you guys see through these words, because most people are not like what they look like on the outside anyway. But, if you want to give your imagination a little kick, I don’t think I’m particularly ugly, and I don’t think I’m very pretty either. I’m just…extraordinarily average? I have black wavy hair up to my elbows and dark eyes. I’m not sure how to describe my other features, other than relatively pleasant in dark lighting (such as in bathrooms), and relatively boring during the day.

Look at me. Talking about myself. Yadiyadiyada. I hate being egotistical, and part of the reason why I try so hard to please others, and think about others, and love being empathetic and caring and loving and helpful, is because every time I stroke my own ego or comfort myself, I find myself odious. Because I know I’m an insignificant organism, and that the best thing I can possibly do is to unleash some art into the world and help other souls. I don’t know. When I feel like I have touched someone, who is perhaps on the other side of the world, reading my words, I feel like I could die of happiness, cry tears out of my fingertips.

I just finished watching the Corpse Bride a few minutes ago, and there’s this deliciously painful bittersweet feeling in my chest. The movie was so lovely, lovely, lovely, so wonderfully imaginative and strange I wanted to weep with happiness, and so touching, so full of humanity. Don’t you both love and hate that feeling? It’s like nostalgia. It’s like when you fall in love with a movie or book character, and feel that bittersweet sense of separation, the barrier of reality.

Actually, I did kind of fall in love with a character from the movie. The man in the movie, by the name of Victor, was incredibly endearing in his awkwardness and gentleness and politeness. I combed the internet a bit after watching it, and found many people found his character distasteful, too flimsy and spineless. Which got me thinking about the personality traits that attract me, as a idealistic, introverted and sensitive female. I mean, sure, looks are important to an extent, but for me, the person, the person is the most important thing.

Problem is, I often find myself idealizing people from afar, which usually results in me ‘falling in love’ with egotistical, extroverted guys. It’s so strange. Deep down, I know they are uncaring, not gentle, selfish, and completely wrong for me, yet my idealism hones in on that one time they patted a cat, or uttered a single kind word. There’s also the fact that I am attracted to extroverted, confident men sometimes because they hold traits that I do not have, and occasionally admire or am envious of. But what kind of man do I really seek? I think the truth is, someone like me. Someone just as idealistic, sensitive. Perhaps a little tougher, a little more grounded, but still able to experience the depth of emotion I sometimes experience. Still able to know and see the things I see. Another fellow old soul, perhaps.

I have not met a single person in real life who has been like that. And of course, awkwardness is endearing. I don’t find it off-putting at all – I’m pretty awkward myself. But kindness is honestly the most attractive trait on earth. I don’t know how to stress it, but kindness, it just melts my heart into a puddle of toffee goodness. I love, love, love kind people in general, not just kind men. Sometimes, I wish I could be kind to everyone I meet, help and love everyone I meet, but I end up repelled by the brusqueness and unkindness and cold indifference of most of the population. So I just retract my inner Mother Theresa and become hardened like everyone else. It hurts. I have so much…stuff inside my heart, and I want to give it out, I want to heal and touch souls, make them shine, until I collapse, but I don’t have an outlet at the moment. I suppose if I ever did have a child, I would pour all of these caring feelings into him or her.

I want to have children, one day. I think that will make me very happy. I actually love children, and their purity and loveliness, but if you spoke to me in real life, I would scorn them and denigrate them as being messy little buggers who are good for nothing. Because of my family issues, of having a terrible father who did not care for me, did not love me, and left my mother with nothing, and turned her into the pitiful, working-to-the-bone person she is today, and I have trouble introducing the idea of love and marriage into my plans for the future. But I’m romantic as hell. My soul yearns for romance, but the hardened exoskeleton, formed through years of heart-pain and crying into pillows and seeing my mother degenerate before my eyes, stops me from hoping, screams at me to not hope, because I’ll only choke on a bloodied heart. I’m nearly crying just typing this. I so want to love, to give myself up one day, to a significant other, to the prospect of happiness, but I’m so scared, like you wouldn’t believe, of putting in my all and having it taken away from me, and being left a shell of a person like my mother. That would break me, snap my soul in half, scatter the metaphysical shards into oblivion. 

Ah. To live is to suffer. All words and thoughts slice through me with the pain of knives through flesh. Sometimes, I have romantic fantasies, like meeting someone who understands me in a bookshop, or even contacting someone through this blog, and then meeting in real life and eventually dating and then…a happily ever after. But I know they are just daydreams. That all I’m truly left with, at the end of the day, are my own thoughts, my own consciousness and body, and my words, my writing, my books. That’s what truly matters for me, at the end of the day, and I hold onto art so much, so much, even if it feels like I sometimes fail it. Even if sometimes, while writing, I feel like a monkey ripping out the pages of Shakespeare, trying to understand it while chittering and scratching my armpits. Like I’m too bad at writing to even deserve to write, that I’m never going to make it, that my stories are worthless, that I’ve got this creativity, this writing thing, sure, but it’s mediocre, and it’ll never take me anywhere.

But I can’t think that. Even if it’s true, I can’t think that. I have to believe in myself, because then there would be no point in living. Even if it’s true, I will make it false. That’s just the human spirit. We fight for so much, fight it with every fibre and cell of our being, sell our blood and use our bones to make furniture, and yet we’re still so little, yet all our efforts are still tiny little ant-scramblings on a tiny blue dot of a dust mote in the universe. Yet I can’t stop, because this is all I have. I am small, I am nothing, but I still keep on going, because there is nothing else I can do. The ants go on carrying food to their nests, even if they have an existential crisis, because it’s all the can do, we’re born to do, we’re made to do.

There’s so much we don’t know, and will never, never, never know. Perhaps there is a race of greater beings who look down on us the way we view ants. Perhaps they snack on galaxies for breakfast and swallow entire universes for dinner. Perhaps this entire universe like a water droplet in their world. It’s so big, so unknowable, and we can’t know. All we can do is live, and live, live, live, live, live, live, live, live…until we stop living. And then other people will come and live for us. And they will stop living. And it will continue until all life ends. And does anything matter, then? Will life still exist in some other universe, forms created out of complex molecules entirely different from those of amino acids, so they are like electronic creatures, or something else entirely, made of light or water, or perhaps not even life, perhaps an animation, an understanding, an awareness, dreams incarnated? I don’t know, and there is no point in thinking about it, because we will never, ever know. Live.

I’m going to wrap this up, because I feel unbearably tired. If you’ve read this far, I thank you. I don’t know. I just. Want a hug. I think that’s what I lot of people need. Just a hug, a kiss. To say that you are a worthy human being, to me, and I love you. And I know that if I say I love you all, it will sound pretentious and lame, so I won’t, even though I do. Well, I love the nice people among you guys. I’m not particularly fond of narcissists, or serial killers, or unkind people, so, not all, sorry.

Here’s to love, here’s to hope, here’s to romance, here’s to the beautiful souls out there who understood this post (and perhaps one beautiful soul who could be a potential partner, one day), here’s to not feeling lonely, here’s to more movies like Corpse Bride, and, finally, here’s to living.