Closet Land

What I want most out of this year is, God, PLEASE, courage. To be brave in being alone, in trying out new things, in making new friends, in being nice and kind and gracious, in facing setbacks and disappointments and rejections. Most importantly I wish for the courage to dust myself off from the ground and take the first step, because God knows how difficult standing up after a storm can be. 

And of course to always remember that the loveliest things in life are never caged.

If you love someone you’ll free them, right? But it’s so hard to be brave.

:’( please shoot me?

…May it be better than the last.

How can you be surrounded by people and feel so alone? I have been so terrified of being alone that it is all I think about… it consumes me. How to satisfy this seemingly insatiable hunger? I have felt so much in the past year; like an over-ripened grape that is about to burst and then what? Skin and mush and juice. How to make my heart stop swelling and my mind, clearer? How to take away the fright and the dread and the loneliness that dwell in me and change them into courage? I just want to be brave. And to feel loved.

I don’t like it when people take me for granted and assume that I’ll fetch them home each time we go out. This has been bothering me for some time now but I tried to push it aside because these are my friends after all and some days I really don’t mind giving them a lift home. But I don’t like being expected to do so. Just because I live at the end of the island most assume their houses are always “on the way” back my house but no. If you really know the roads you’ll know that my place is right next to the TPE exit so once i get on the ECP/KPE I’m on a direct route home. If I do give you a lift home it is because I have chosen to take the unnecessarily long route back home and I hope you are appreciative of that. There were times where I had felt I was being jioed out late at night just so that they can get a free ride home. Most don’t understand that I pay for diesel out of my own pocket, and that there are some nights when driving everyone home takes a longer time than if I just take the MRT back home myself. Then there are also times when people just don’t bother catching the last train/bus home because they expect me to be their backup plan. The later it is, the more I’m expected to be the merry shepherd, and no one understands how sleepy I might have been. I’m not complaining about sending my friends back all the time - I’m just pissed at the few times when some people expects me to do so without even asking. It is rude and it makes me not want to fetch you home. I’m not your chauffeur, hence I just seek a little more courtesy and independence from you to see yourself home at the end of the day.

My glass is empty. I don’t know how to fill it and that terrifies me. 

I am wearing headphones around the house today. Just headphones, no iPod or music player to be attached to. My neighbour in the unit directly below mine is drilling away, and he has been doing so every day for the past week. It is not the mildly tolerable construction drilling that one is accustomed to but has more the intensity of an earthquake. One would think he is mining for diamonds in the ceiling that is my floor. It is obnoxious and too loud and does nothing for the frozen atmosphere in my household. It cracks me. So even though it had just rained I shall wager the icy waters of the pool as an escape from this decibel genocide.

Tonight the night passes as a heavy weight. It is the dull sourness in my heart, the lump caught in my throat, the bullet that resides in my flesh. It is also swollen and sore and does not simply go away.

vettyboop:

5 Fantasy Exit Strategies

1. Run away to Brooklyn. Rent an apartment with a claw footed bathtub. Commute to Manhattan during the week and put in hours at a menial publishing job. Drive home to New Jersey on weekends to swim in the pool and cry to your mother. Smoke Gauloises on the fire escape. Let yellowing issues of Rolling Stone and Vogue pile into a protective fortress around your bed. Listen to Cat Power. Fall asleep mostly naked beneath the duvet watching Sportscenter and drinking earl grey. Date a Yankees fan and kiss his hands on the 4 Train into the Bronx.

2. Run away to Barcelona. Eat milk chocolate magnum bars and drink cheap champagne. Burst into charming fits of laughter whenever you get embarrassed about butchering the Catalan language. Wear denim cutoffs, Dr. Pepper chapstick, and very little else. Go dancing at 3 a.m. Whiten your teeth. Tan your shoulders. Braid feathers into your hair. Perpetually wake up with sand caught in the thin cotton sheets of your tiny bed. Listen to the Rolling Stones and kiss all the longhaired boys you can get your hands on without ever having to apologize.

3. Run away to Los Angeles. Sublet a studio in Venice three blocks from the beach. Listen to top 40 radio. Go to Chateau Marmont and charge drinks you can’t afford to a long-dormant credit card. Sleep with a television actor who lives in the valley. Sleep with a musician who lives in Bel Air. Break things off with both of them when gas prices begin to rise. Find Gilda Radner’s star on the Walk Of Fame and swallow a sob when you see the filthy cement around her name is cracked. Walk through the Venice Canals until the sun sets and you forget your own name. Call your mother crying from the parking lot of a 24-hour Ralph’s supermarket. Tell her you want to come home.

4. Run away to Paris. Gaze at the pink and pistachio glow of macarons in the window on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Listen to Joni Mitchell. Meet an Argentinean man in the Latin Quarter for drinks. Melt into his accent and kiss him goodnight, but return to your apartment alone because his face doesn’t look enough like the man’s you are trying to forget. Get lost in the Richelieu Wing of the Louvre, admiring Napoleon’s fine red damask. Walk alone along the Seine in an old dress, ten-dollar shoes, and an Hermes scarf. Fumble with the locks on the fence overlooking the river. They all have lovers’ names etched into them and the girl who left the red heart-shaped lock has the same name as you.

5. Run away to Martha’s Vineyard. Write heartbroken stories during the day in front of a large fan that blows curls of humid hair across your tired face. Take a waitress job at The Black Dog at night and try hard not to drop too many trays. Learn to ride a moped. Pretend you’re a Kennedy. Listen to Carly Simon. Eat hand-churned ice cream out of waffle cones. Visit the flying horses and consider how many girls just like you have sat on the same horse clutching for the same brass ring. Get stoned and dance barefoot down the length of the eroded Jaws beach. Date a Red Sox fan. Yell at each other during baseball games, and then kiss and make up between tangled sheets.

(Source: thoughtcatalog.com, via lajoiedevivre)