——- says a very thought-provoking quote on tumblr one evening ——-
I believe in second chances, I promise. But I also believe that people are naturally selfish and that few of them actually deserve second chances.
I just don’t know how to calculate who does and who doesn’t. I just know that it’s a lost cause searching for happiness if you lost it at the hands of another person. Continue reading
Burn it down! ………..the candle, I mean.
Yesterday, my sister came into my room and asked if she could have a candle. I reluctantly handed her one that was already half burned, and she gave me this glare – “Why so selfish?” it asked.
If it were a book, an article of clothing, or pretty much anything else, I probably would have given it to her without a second thought.
But candles are special. They just do something to me. Every single time I strike a match and hold it to the charcoal-black wick, some unknown warmth grows inside of me. Continue reading
Happiness is the old song on the radio from 2005, your dirty little secret, your unknown jam. It plays in a store, it comes up on shuffle, it hits you like a nostalgic blast from the past. It is fighting the urge to break out in dance in public, or letting the music take you as you writhe around in privacy, if you are lucky enough. It is memories sequestered to songs, a melody from long ago, a better time.
Happiness is wiping dirty glasses, as if the air were magically filtered, as if you rid yourself of a visual obstruction that you didn’t even know existed. It is clarity, it is lucidity, and it is precision. The world is cast in a brighter light.
Happiness is waking up naturally. It’s that moment when you’re caught in between the dream and the awakening. It is gradual, as if the sunlight slowly prods you awake from behind your closed eyelids. It is completely embracing dry mouth and eye gunk and morning breath and ratchet hair and numb limbs. And then you slowly roll over on your back and look up at the ceiling sleepily, with nowhere to go and nowhere to be.
Happiness is tradition and routine, lazily enforced. It is Friday night phone calls and Sunday morning bubble tea runs that can be easily skipped if the circumstances so require it. Looking forward to something, the anticipation builds up. Sometimes we forget why we do it, we just keep on since we see no reason to stop. It is me-time and we-time, and it should never be forgone.
Happiness is getting in the shower after reluctantly convincing yourself to do so. It is the endless stream of purity trickling down your body, it is the luxurious scent of Dove and Herbal Essences and Pantene and Garnier Fructis and everything in between. It is loofahs and sponges, and time passes by in globs of soap. The hardest part about getting in is climbing out; once we’re here, we never want to leave. The pruniest fingers in the world wouldn’t convince me.
Happiness is a piece of paper in front of you, blank and beckoning. It is begging for intervention. Write, draw, scribble or swirl, fill the margins and shade in the corners. As cliche as it sounds, letting your mind wander and your pen make its way across the page in this way and that promotes a nomadic state of mind. Here, your mind is flowing; there is no such thing as a coherent train of thought…
Happiness is the little reading space in the corner of the room, with a few old pillows and blankets for sheer comfort. It is the little desk where you put your cup of coffee, where you rest your computer as you scroll endlessly through your tumblr feed, and where you write your heart out into a purple journal. It is the makeshift reading nook, devoid of fancy plushes. It is where your favorite novel is within reach, where the light is not blinding but instead, a soft glow, that starts in your special corner and gradually pervades the room.
The days are gaining speed – they pass like seconds
And you and I? We’re laughing about a not-so-serious matter
And it seems like we could conquer the world
And the future seems optimistic and innocent
My mom starts to warn me about life’s extremes
But I go to sleep hopeful but wickedly unassuming.
But then the days start slowing down – they drag like a limp leg
And you and I? We’re hostile and confused but we don’t know it
And it seems like the world is testing us, pushing us to our limits
And the future seems bleak and unappealing
I start to wonder about life’s extremes
And I go to sleep exhausted and unhappy.
The days – they’ve almost reached their correct proportions
And you and i? we’re on and off, up and down
And it seems like we’re both decent human beings
And the future seems like two diverging paths, one for the each of us
I start to disregard the way I categorize people and things – not anymore with these extremes
And I go to sleep thoughtful and more wise than I was when I woke up that morning.
The days – they’re long but bearable
You and I? We’re humanly incompatible
And it seems like we’ve finally found our places
And the future seems finally understood, finally determined
And I start to get what my mom meant about life’s extremes
And I go to sleep, enlightened, to some extent.
And then things change, life happens, and the cycle starts again – but neither of us realizes it.
So, what’s crying exactly? Is it just something we do in our spare time, or is there meaning to it? Does it make us stronger, weaker, or is it just something that we do?
Well, I don’t really know.
But it’s 2:30 AM and I just finished “crying” of laughter, and “crying” of happiness. Yet, at the same time, I’ve cried of sadness, cried of sorrow. What can we really take out of such an activity?