let lemons be angry

I used to worry about hurting my toys' feelings. There was that big doll with the yellow braids and red dress called Angelina (aha, i still remember) that i couldn't give away for a long time. And there's that weird white Gundt bear under my bed that's under my bed in my token effort to keep it around. I still worry about hurting its feelings by throwing it away, i suppose. Perhaps i shouldn't worry about moving on, or forgetting, or not stopping to remember.

I should stop being deceived by that language called music. It wasn't my story i heard today, it was just a song, a song from the past. It came a bit too late, but it still tugged. And i stared into space again. And i couldn't make anything out of military regimes during colonial times, because no other history but mine was clear. Nobody is replaceable, but of course.

This week has been like study camp, and i've been to school more often than i'd have liked. I have learnt one thing from all the days sitting in school: that i've been living in a fantasy all this time. You are but strangers, and i can't even say hello. It reminds me of a typical movie with an annoying female protagonist who imagines she's all that. Yes, i annoy myself. I annoy myself with the things i think in the quiet of my head, i annoy myself with the way i am endlessly distracted, and i am annoyed with my soundless voice. I don't like trainings because there's nothing i can say and no occasion for me to say anything. I am annoyed that half of me lives in the past, and the other half lives in an imagined life. If i were thrown into the reality of the present, stripped of my memories and fantasies, i wouldn't know what to do. There would be nothing to cling on to when my mind takes a walk, there would be nothing to entertain me and give me worth. I have to live. Now.