"How can you be so many women to so many strange people, oh you strange girl?"

---

Lately has been a mixture of everything and nothing at all.

The Nothings:
1) Grey
2) Numbers on the page, numbers on the scale, numbers on the calendar I don't dare to raise my eyes at
3) The constant questioning of IT
4) the mundanity of text
5) Today I wore a thin white t-shirt with a big black circle in the middle of it, and when I looked into the full-length mirror, arms arced above head; I realized that what it really looked like was a big black hollow eating right into my ribcage, past bone, right in the middle of my chest. "VOID HERE"

and I think I thought "how apt" and laughed a little bit to myself.

The Everythings:
1) Hot, dry sun and hot, dry oil and warm, wet skin
2) The corner with the DWL and Truly Epic conversations about the-prom-that-wasn't
3) Warm, dark voice.
4) Irony. a lover singing you an old lover's song.
5) You repulse me now.
6) You intrigue me.
7) Yes, please, do!

Today I met up with Di after a maaaajor Di-Cara Time Hiatus (in lieu of impending A Level Doom), and we hit the American Club for a gym session and muaythai.
Never mind the endorphins; I love walking the streets with Diana. It's like nobody else and nothing else matters except us and our smiles and our conversation. It was hot and muggy out today, and people were jostling and their feet were getting in the way and filling the cracks in the sidewalks; but the cool water of the spotlight was just over us two and the wind hushed away the frizz from between our lips and had our words jet cool, clear, pure.

What am I going to do when she moves to L.A?

... Pick myself up and continue, of course; but this just goes to further prove my Loves The Leavers theory.
For once, just once-- can somebody I love just stay? Stay past a summer, past a ship that sailed five islands, past a stolen kiss on a foreign stairwell. (There should have been a second one, but I had a plane to catch.)

I don't mind all that much sometimes, though. Because on the plus side; I have become very, very good at living with ghosts.
Also, you should hear the stories I have to tell.

Speaking of ghosts and general bones in closet-

I HATE PACKING. Pack pack pack. Sort sort sort. I'd rather have a knife twisted between my teeth.

Yesterday I finally knuckled down to some proper packing and throwing- more the latter than the former- and WOW you should have seen my room. They should name a hurricane after me.

Things I found after an hour: File of Elvish vocabulary, a diving suit, a lot of Jesus books, two halves of a broken wooden sword, my old roleplaying books.

Things I could not find: The floor.

Anyhow; so I got home and was greeting by a pleasant surprise.

I Love Voices. I honestly do. There are a few things in this world I would give anything to bottle: the weather, scents (not eau de toilette-- i mean scent-scents, scents of memories, instants, Eau De Right Now), gazes...and voices come under that list, too.

We'll see how this plays out, my What If #031298. I'm not sure I could handle a deja vu of what happened over December.

The rest of my afternoon was devoted to Math and a protein bar that was supposed to taste like strawberry but didn't really (do they ever?) but wasn't half bad anyway; and now I shall offer my night like a pagan sacrifice to the Economic Forces That Be (...market forces. Oh I am so witty, so economics-savvy; Adam Smith- are you proud??)

I'm glad it's only Sunday tomorrow.

#Girl Talking through Small Female Skull: Dear Norman, And How Are We Today? Big Sue is Miles Away Making Money, and in the Mean Time Who Loves You?

Liar. But Close.

(aka #post in which Cara loses her words and decides to use Duffy's.)

Lock the door. In the dark journey of our night,

two childhoods stand in the corner of the bedroom

watching the way we take each other to bits

to stare at our heart. I hear a story

told in sleep in a lost accent. You know the words.

Undress. A suitcase crammed with secrets

bursts in the wardrobe at the foot of the bed.

Dress again. Undress. You have me like a drawing,

erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.

The name of a country written in red on my palm,

unreadable. I tell myself where I live now,

but you move in close till I shake, homeless,

further than that. A coin falls from the bedside table,

spinning its heads and tails. How the hell

can I win. How can I lose. Tell me again.

Love won't give in. It makes a hired room tremble

with the pity of bells, a cigarette smoke itself

next to a full glass of wine, time ache

into space, space, wants no more talk. Now

it has me where I want me, now you, you do.

Put out the light. Years stand outside on the street

looking up to an open window, black as our mouth

which utters its tuneless song. The ghosts of ourselves,

behind us and before us, throng in a mirror, blind,

laughing and weeping. They know who we are.

So I am guessing that the person who made this picture probably never took A Levels.

I AM SO SICK OF ALL THIS.

I'm sick of waking up in the morning not wanting to wake up.

I'm sick of the highlight of my friends' day being showering and eating (because there must be so much more to live for).

I'm sick of feeling like an idiot in classes because I've been in this Premier Institute For Education for the past billion years and all I seem to know how to do is write rambly poetry and do really good eyeliner and occasionally make people laugh.

I'm sick of trying.

I'm sick of not wanting to try.

I'm sick of being left behind.

... I'm whining, I know. Emo kid extreme- not attractive. Yes, I know this will pass. Yes, I know the onus is on me. Yes, I know it will be better in the morning.

All I want to do is sit at my piano in ocean-coloured dresses and write pretty songs with sad lyrics.

pause button pause button pause button please.

This is going to be another one of those inconsequential blogposts about nothing in particular.

But it's Monday and I'm tired and writing is one of the few things that still gives my dull grey existence mild pleasure these days, so here we go.

It's Monday and I'm tired and if my existence isn't dull grey my uniform definitely and still is.

I don't like Mondays- it's a long day at school, there's P.E, we have a two hour history consolidation, and then I traipse back home to freedo--- ...no, two more hours of Math tuition. FUN.

Whatever. P.E was surprisingly fun. It looks a bitch when you're watching from the grandstand but when you're actually in the thick of it, throwing around a smelly ball and wearing a smelly sash it's actually a little more than tolerable. On the rare occasions we get to hold hockey sticks one even tends to feel considerably badass. Holla at me, Team Garter!

We played softball without the bats and Amrit kept catching the ball for the other team and cheering loudly by accident when it wasn't our goal. Xu Yang got frustrated with her on numerous occasions for catching the ball when she wasn't the runner/running when she was the pitcher/etc and it was hilarious and all I could think was SINO-INDIAN WAR OVER AKSAI CHIN & SUBSEQUENT JEOPARDIZING OF CHINA-INDIA RELATIONS.

This is a definite sign that I am ready for A Levels. Duh.

Am debating over whether to apply for overseas universities.

Once Upon A Smilier Time I was absolutely convinced I would be a PSC scholar to Oxbridge, where I would go on to be class valedictorian and president of the drama club and in-demand law graduate extraordinaire and subsequently go on to practice law (wildly successfully, ofc) for the grand total of 4 years before becoming a millionaire and retiring when I hit the 40 mark.

Now that I am no longer 8, I know better.

Hell yes, I am still going to work my ass off; but this time my dreams are encapsulated within the boundaries of Reality. (although I still hold on to my president of drama club ideal. And who says you can't become a millionaire by 40?)

So now it's the overseas?/local? debate. If I do go overseas, it'll have to be on scholarship, since my parents are adamant about letting me send in my application for their version of the PSC (Parents Sponsor Cara) scholarship. And I think part of me is still the part of me that was desperately itching to- y'know- head out there! see the world! independent college grad takes on university life solo! etc... but part of me is going "hey, home's not so bad, maybe". Also- I have a great new house back home. I don't want to live in some little hole in the wall and subsist on instant noodles and canned soup.

I want to Live, but I also want a certain Quality of Life.

... so it's all in God's hands.

I won't close any paths to myself, and I'll follow where He leads. I keep forgetting He knows best - " I have plans to prosper you and not to harm you"- and I think that's the raddest reassurance of all. Am no holey moley but I think there's a beautiful assurance in being able to rest in His palm amidst my stacks of math rough paper and university applications and go, "...God, your will be done."

... You know what I MIGHT consider subsisting on instant noodles and canned soup for, though?

Missions.

I've decided that come end of the year, after A Levels, I will be leaving this country three times:

1) Phuket-Australia jaunt with Amrit + whoever

2) Mission trip

3) Operation Raleigh

Lately I've just been feeling this calling to go abroad and help people.

... i know- this coming from the girl who'd rather have an iDog as a pet and wishes her own dogs would all turn into cats or stuffed dogs/bricks/stones/assorted inanimate objects, I'm not picky

but I think this is something I really want to do. Someone told me "why go at year end? too late already cannot put on your CV" but honestly I couldn't give a damn about my CV. Or okay I do kind of give a damn but it doesn't matter if it doesn't show up on my resume- this is something I want to do because I Want to do it; I am compelled and I will go, I will go.

So Operation Raleigh might be a little tricky because I went and did my research and apparently it involves not being able to wash your face and having to build your own toilet seat out of sticks and leaves or something. It is so not going to be the Hyatt. ):

... but you know what?

When it comes to a worthy cause, I think I can sacrifice facial hygiene and I will learn to shish my own kebabs over gas fires and twigs and collect my own drinking water in leaves when it rains or whatever it is you do when you set up camp.

... and what worthier cause than PEOPLE- to go out there and go on your knees beside them to build their homes, go on your knees to wash their feet, go on your knees as they go on theirs and pray for and with them, go on your knees to hug a child with wide dark eyes who has never watched Dora the Explorer and whose idea of a treat is just having food on the table.

so yeah. Bring on the homemade toilet seats and the having-to-set-up-own-tents (which inevitably WILL collapse when a spider scurries over them because after all I will be the one constructing said tents).

I'll do it. I'll go.

Nicaragua > my Nvey Eco compact; Costa Rica > Clarins.

Sssso let's talk about my day out in the trolley wood.

It takes mad skillz to be stealth in 1) a maxi-dress, 2) beach flipflops, 3) too many bangles and with a bag besides- but I, apparently, have said mad skillz.

So I did a Check Yes Juliet, went towards the waiting cab, was blindfolded, and...subsequently tramped and then was fireman lifted along some godforsaken path, all the while incredibly grateful that I hadn't worn heels--

--- and then he lifted the blindfold-- and I think little universes exploded behind my eyes.

It wasn't Arcadia; but it was absolutely beautiful.

I wish I could have freezeframed the instant the blindfold fell with my fingers, and rub it into the screen so all of you could see it. picture this: a hillscape of absolute darkness- the deepest, softest midnight-running-into-black, caressed at the corners of its rolling jaw by what i thought was a reservoir and dock (but turned out later to be the sea)- and the lights, the lights, the lights.

there was wine, and small candles, and I had speakers so I put them on and played inshallah and the dragon's breath and faeries. I remember we talked at length about how "we are all made out of people" and old lovers, lost polaroid people- they're all kept between the pages of our books, pressed and dried and fragile like old flowers.

I remember realizing, with a pang of something, that I always meet with the ones who leave- and then folding my legs into myself, like this is the dark little secret I've been trying to guard all along. and maybe it is.

I know people always leave- but it's kind of odd, realizing you've always (when it mattered, anyway) been the one left watching from the harbour. She calls me an Amazon, and they tell me to up and be a warrior princess, and he told me (in no uncertain terms) that i could be a cold hard bitch-- but can you blame me for being a leaver, now?

recently I've stopped letting the shadow of the past hold the present hostage, though. so I leaned over, switched the song, and curled up on the makeshift blanket, into his arm, and fell asleep.

when i woke up again, it was beautiful. everything had changed- touched by the tentative first starts of dawn, and it was this cool, silent shade of blue. like the world submerged under an ocean.

we spent the next hour watching the sun rise- and i mean literally: watch the sun (space) rise;

watched as ocean blue's cheeks heated up shyly with a slow blush, which twisted into pink and blue and orange and then- very rapidly, startlingly so- everything unfurled a fierce golden and I put on my faux raybans and we saw the sun push himself out of the horizon and blaze straight up ahead in his morning glory.

"can you blame the ancient Greeks for thinking it was the coming of a god?"

the rest of the day went oddly and spectacularly.

in usual Aquarian fashion, we got onto the first bus that came, without really knowing where we wanted to go, and not giving much of a damn, either. Fell asleep and when we woke up and looked out of the window, we thought we were in Vietnam.

"can we go to the Cathedral? please? please?"

and since we had hours to spare and youth to pretend we could waste- we did.

I hadn't been there since I was little.

There's a silence that strikes as soon as you step through those heavy doors. Maybe it's the memorial plaques- old, heavy sounding words like "fell in..." and "died in action" and "fell in service" and dates like 1972 and ages like 81, 10 months old, 17 years old (that's a year younger than I was, and he died during his voyage from Hamburgh to Singapore)

My granddad stands up there and preaches. I used to run through those pews in my white fairy dress when I was 8, and charm the stockings off all the church ladies. My mum walked down that aisle when she got married: where it all began.

I prayed.

I haven't felt so close to God in so long. I went down on my knees and I prayed for present friends, past lovers, my future, numerous other Life-related things etc.

when I got back from the washroom, his head was bowed, too. and it made me smile. Not all those who wander are lost.

Following which: we hit up the Supreme Court and sat in on a rather uninspiring hearing, in which Twitter/FB/Friendster were banned, and one of the young lawyers (we had a prime view- SO BUSTED) was playing a stickman game on his laptop, and the judge also looked suspiciously engrossed in his computer screen... I suspect a 2-player challenge.

I did absorb some useful legislative terms, though; before we headed on back downstairs to the Legal History section and looked at pictures of Chief Justices past and came to the conclusion that: the white wig is un-pullable off-able. Sorry.

last feat of the day: BREAKING INTO MY OWN HOUSE.

... I know. This world works in weird and wondrous ways. 007 ain't got nothin' on us.

"leave it to me- I'm the trained sniper."

... but I can distract with feminine wiles!

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind = TO BE CONTINUED. I wish I could go for a procedure like so and wipe out the useless bits of information (eg random song lyrics, nutrition information, timings of Clash of the Gods etc) so's I can make more room for things that apparently DO count in life; eg Statistics formulas, what ln e adds up to, why protectionism is less beneficial than specialization etc.

... Not people, though.

I used to wish I could wipe out people, but in retrospect- no. I don't regret any of them, even the complete bastards.

Because they're all pressed flowers in my book of days.

[/stepback]

... I guess I CAN still sort of write about stuff, huh. even if it pretty much is just word spillage.

so yeah.

day in trolley wood: well spent, and not regretted.

"i love you. thank you for making me live like i'm 18."

Ad astra, ad absurdum.

I can't write anything.

One poem and several inane text messages aside, I haven't been writing much at all lately.

Chalk it down to an odd lethargy.

By the time nine o' clock rolls around, my lashes are lowering and the world looks like it's moving slowly- sound takes on a queer consistency and my words roll sluggishly around my tongue like sludge.

Walking up the stairs is getting harder. Food is nice, but not entirely neccessary. And I'm tired of seeing everyone governed by this ratrace fear- everybody's so fixated on the future, they're forgetting all about the present and I completely understand that this is an important year... but doesn't anyone else besides me see past the grey and the grades and the tears over alphabets on paper? ...we're only going to be here Once.

say it with me:

"Once"

--- i dare you to be able to keep that word on your tongue. you can't. you round it between your lips and think aha! but then it trips between your teeth and in the minutest of a moment (a sliver of a second, like this --> 1/1/1/1/1/1/1/1/ flickering old screen style) it's gone. a soft, sharp gust between the gap of the two buckteeth they used to laugh at, pre-orthodontia, and then: nothing.

I've been keeping a reasonable lid on things, and have even been Properly Happy quite a number of times over the past few weeks-- but truth is there are all these Feelings (i know: terrible, laden, womanly word!!) and (but) I feel like if I don't get them out- and i have to, by hook or by crook: pull apart my ribcage like fishbones and reach deep in------------------

cry.

I'm so tired.

I'm so frightened, Mother.

...and this is not addressed to Mother Mother my Mother- it's addressed to MOTHER in all capitals- the name you either whisper in reverent tones or else it's up there on stone walls blinding men:

MOTHER EARTH MOTHER GAIA, MOTHER COSMOS, MOTHER WHOEVER HOLDS US TOGETHER AND WITH HER OUTSTRETCHED ARMS POLARIZES THE DESTRUCTIVE INNER FORCES THAT WOULD OTHERWISE TEAR US APART

... help me.

Hear your child. This is my time of need- come.