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Thursday, September 20, 2012
Birthdays
My impending birthday fills me with dread.

I remember a few years back when every year I would be filled with wonder and that self-assured smugness that for one day, even if nobody else knew it, the world revolved around me. I did not care if anyone was going to be happy about it, but I was happy about it. I would yap on endlessly telling everybody, counting down obsessively. But now, I dread it, I fear it.

Why? Is it because of the growing expectation and silly rituals associated with a birthday? Or is it simply because I am self-conscious enough to know nobody gives a fuck.

I would like to pretend the day doesn't happen and go on with my life. Please postpone my birthday for just one year, can that happen?

Honestly I trust nobody at all.

No one. I only trust myself alone.

No friends are trusted enough. Not even my boyfriend.

Because I know once anyone knows for real what/how I think, how life looks like from my vantage point, it will drive them all away.

I feel very empty nowadays. I only know how to go on living and breathing and shitting and dreaming, but I realize, I'm one year closer to death. As I type this, I am minutes closer and closer to death.

And I wonder how it will seem like when I have only minutes left, will life be different then? How ironic if the greyness of life turns colourful when it is draining out at the last moment.

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&the time is 5:30 AM
posted by Ena ♥



Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Vanished Dreams
What started as a foolish dream as a child.. Now hurts so much, knowing I've never been further from my dream. It hurts to have an aspiration as young as 3, and to know for certain when you're 18, that it is never going to happen. Poised for an eternity of being here.

My dream was to be a journalist in New York City. This has been my dream for years and years. I knew the maps of the city by heart, everything, yet I failed to do what I could have to chase my dream. I was too comfortable in my own zone, in what I knew I was good in, too afraid to take a chance.

And now I will never know how living my dream feels like.

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&the time is 8:41 AM
posted by Ena ♥



Monday, September 10, 2012
Spatial Dyslexia?

Even with well rehearsed long journeys, I seem unable to "hold" the entire journey in my head. I experience what can only be described as a series of "sequences" which, in the correct order, "become revealed" as I progress through the journey.

 

Read this on a forum and copied it here. I can seriously relate to it.

I am hopeless at roads and directions. It's not even just a funny aspect of me, but it is a serious handicap of my life. I don't even know how to get back home from work. Or school. I can't envision the roads, the intersections which lie in front of me. People would ask me , "where does this road turn to?" and I wouldn't know until they turn into it and after a while I get a dim recollection, "Oh it leads to my house!" I only know where I am when I've been there for a while, I can't picture what is ahead.

It's not even funny. Finding myself in an utterly unfamiliar part of town, unable to get home. Not knowing what this road is when I've been on it 6 days a week for all my life. I am clueless in directions to the point I get lost in college, in school, at least for a while. But I can't SEE routes.

I don't know what it is. I've tried memorising maps, paying absolute focus when Dad drives me. But I can't seem to recall what lies ahead of this road, and when I recall it is too late, we have missed the turning. Sometimes I really hate myself. I just CAN'T do it. I know how dyslexic people feel, or people who don't GET maths, because I don't GET directions. Poor spatial memory? I don't know. It's strange that I have a good memory but I can't remember directions that is all.

 


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&the time is 9:33 PM
posted by Ena ♥



Thursday, September 6, 2012
Reading: A Passion


I started reading when I was 8 or 9. It all started when I borrowed an Enid Blyton book home and I couldn't stop reading. I barely understood the words but I was so overjoyed at how I could immerse myself in a book for so many hours. And then began the Journey of Reading, which was a period of some 5 years of my life. I would read everywhere, bring a book everywhere, and read in the middle of class, in my bed secretly after Mum went to bed, and everywhere.

I feel like I've experienced so much through all these books I've read. I think that 50% of what I know doesn't come from my education, but what books I read in my formative years. I had a rich childhood, full of magic and adventure and wonder with every turn of the page.

I dragged my family to read too. We visited 3 libraries every weekend, and when we got home it would be 7 or 8. After all books were borrowed I refused to go ANYWHERE but home to read. I read 4 or 5 books a day on weekends and I would devour them all. In the car between libraries I'd already start reading. My parents were happy but forced to sit in libraries every weekend. I made so many friends at libraries too, while browsing through the many racks. I did increasingly get self-conscious when people stared at me, a little girl borrowing 10-15 books from one library alone (we had multiple memberships).

I would finish all the books before each weekend visit, and photocopy those books that made an impact to me. I didn't have ENOUGH books to read. I must have read all the books in the libraries. It became harder to choose books, because so many had been read! I must have read 500 books a year at least.

I revelled in not only fiction and literature, but also books about space, about the universe, learning about all the planets and their moons, the Egyptians and the Greeks and how they lived, cut-out 3D books about how the medieval people held sieges, books about how trains and escalators work, UNICEF books about all the children and all the cultures in the world, Amazing Facts books about our human bodies, and strange animal habits (our intestines stretched out would be kilometres long! there are butterflies which camouflage themselves to look like dangerous insects!)

I viewed life differently when I read shamelessly, openly, willingly. Now, I've become critical and self-conscious. Certain books I scoff at. Quality of books have dropped. I don't want people to think I'm a bookworm. I wish I could immerse myself in books the way I used to , instead of just occasional "hmm that was a good book" afternoons when I find myself temporarily in that vortex untouched by fatigue, hunger or time.

I miss those simple times in my life when a new adventure started every time I opened a new book; when I felt sad when a book ended; when I dwelled and properly thought about a book that had impacted me, for example poverty, war, child abuse; learning about how the Egyptians lived, about the Roman baths, about the social status of women in Greek, what the children did in their spare time; learned history and inventions of things; learned that Io is fiery and Europa icy (Jupiter's moons); learned so so much, that made me wise beyond my years.

So for that, I'd like to thank all the books which made me who I am today, thank you for teaching me all I need to know, thank you for colouring my childhood, thank you for being my friend when I was lonely, thank you because I was never bored when I was turning the pages, THANK YOU, for all the experiences and adventures you let me live through while sitting in my bed till the wee hours of the morning.

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&the time is 8:33 AM
posted by Ena ♥