I began many novels in my day. They always end up unfinished, because they are mostly stories of people like me, and most of the time I don't know how stories like mine end.
I would love it to end so beautifully, a published hard-cover novel with the main character's name in bold lettering, a bouncy daughter to read fairytales to at bedtime, and, when the children fall asleep, falling asleep on a companion's shoulder with the lights on. But I hate lying in novels. Beauty in reality, I always say.
(I'll just take this opportunity to ask mothers out there who do this most every night. Are you aware that you are living in a fantasy happy ending of a teenage angst-ridden female with an imaginative streak and a need for warmth, comfort, and love?)
(And I'll just add how amused I am that I managed to explain who I am in one sentence, when most profiles are pages long. Hurr.)
To add on to "Beauty in reality". If you read my stuff, you'll realise that I spend pages describing single emotions, or emotions warped deeply in coccoons and bursting at the seams. I will admit, much to the annoyance of the humble and in-self-denial writer loving public, that I love some of my poems and prose pieces, and I do believe that they are beautiful, because that's what I strive for. Thus, with reference with "Beauty in reality", everything I write is real. Emotion-wise. I am a person who strives for accuracy in aspects she willingly indulges in, like Maths, Physics, English, Literature, and file arrangement on her Cdrive. Writing is inclusive, obviously.
Reread my poems if you have read them before, and read them if you have any desire to relate to this blogpost. Note the "lyrical style" (quote my Stanford Uni teacher). That is the way I think most of the time.
Yes, gasp in amazement, or laugh in amusement, or gape like fish without eyelids in bewilderment. My mind is suchly formed. When I am upset, that is the way I think. That is the way I assess my situations and my surroundings. Basically, I try to be as truthful as I can to myself, despite my unusual ways. But it becomes a problem when I speak. To people. About myself. Because instead of a conversation - what do you get? A crazy girl reciting the poetry carved in her mind, so abstract you need to ANALYSE just to empathise with her. And if she talks normally, it seems unreal, because just seems false. All of it.
I lead such a sad life. Take pity in me, and buy some gold-plated armani jackets from me. Comes in Michelle size, Carine size, Jieyang size, and Choon Hiang size. Oh, and Gwen size too.
squee.
IN OTHER NEWS
The event of alien male students wandering around my school (GIRLS' SCHOOL). What are they doing here? Why are they aimless, teacherless and school-less (if they weren't, they wouldn't be in a girls' school)? And what, may I ask, are they doing walking around outside our classrooms?
More updates of this article in the near future of the next millenium.
The startling attack of the EVIL-BOUNCY-HUGGING-SQUEALING-GRINNING-DEMENTEDLY-FROM-EAR-TO-OTHER-EAR-BLUE-CREATURE has shocked millions (of nerves), and the blue-coloured creature has reportedly been seen wrapping its tentacles sneakily around students of SCGS, with implications to bring warmth and comfort to self, and to others.
Quote Classmate of EVIL-BOUNCY-HUGGING-SQUEALING-GRINNING-DEMENTEDLY-FROM-EAR-TO-OTHER-EAR-BLUE-CREATURE : "You arh, slowly reach in and apply a little pressure first, then suddenly apply alot more pressure. Such tactics. Haiyooo."