This Little Dream Called Ambition.

found via We Heart It

Every time people asks me, of what I truly want to be, I tend to shrug the question off, and using the excuse of not entirely knowing what I really want to be. I mean, I am twenty two and I have a lot of insecurities, rather than to sit down and think about what I really want to be thoroughly. Sure, all of us use to tell our teachers in elementary school that we want to be doctors or astronauts when we all grow up. Well, childhood is all about having ambitions and stuffs, acting all optimistic about life—thinking that everything is about sunshine and rainbow, and fucking unicorns flying around, shitting rainbow poops.

But life is not all about that wonderful shit, and that is what growing up from childhood is all about. Your childhood gets corrupted by ideas and realities, and in certain ways, you just lose all these beautiful ideas you have.

What I really want to be is a writer and good God; I really want to be a writer. I want to let my imaginations flow into words on pages. I want people to read the words from me, to feel my emotions and my ideas. I want to change lives; I want to implant ideas and inspirations into minds. Those are what I really want to do. I want to feel free to live on my imagination; I want to feel free to use my words on pages to speak what is on my mind. I want to write, and let people know that those words they are reading are mine, all mine.

No one understands how I really feel when I am writing. I don’t see writing as a waste of time; in fact, I see it as a way to express myself better. I suck when I speak, I don’t tell what is on my mind when I am using verbal words. I express very well when I am writing. My words flow fluently when I am writing. I could let my emotions run with everything when I am writing. That is how I see writing, I see it as almost everything I do, everything I speak, and everything I feel.

I want to be a writer. God, I really want to be a writer. I need my current work, but I will make sure that I will continue to write. I will write a book. Just wait and see, you’ll find a book with my name as the author on its cover one day.

Away.

Am I slipping away? I just don't feel like being alive any more. I just want everything to end and I just don't mind if it hurts. I wish my existence means a little more to the people around me. But I am nothing but a breathing human being who's unimportant to everyone. I hate that. And because of that, I just want to slip away.

For What It's Worth.

Just so you know, I am still alive. Bitter and all in misery, but yes, still pretty much alive.

With every passing day, each and every one of my friends finally found a job and start a new life as a working, young adults. And then, there is me; still somehow stuck in between reality and fantasy, not entirely sure of who I am, or what I would become. I am just existing for the sole purpose of wondering around like a lost soul, unsure of everything. I am made of everything, but in the end turns out to be nothing.

Just, Bitter.

I think I am turning into a bitter, twenty two years old young adult, who dangerously loiter around her dying social life, at times walking around in circles of deteriorating dreams and living in a fantasy that evolves around her barely functional brain, in hope to hold onto something that could miraculously transform her amazingly dull life into some sort of a joyous roller coaster ride that could once more makes her believe in the genuine thrill of having a young, very lively, adult life.

You Don't Get It, or Everything Else in Between.

found via (*) The Only Magic Left is Art

You don’t sign a contract that legitimate you to an unlimited access of free time and a ton shit load of guilt trip for months when you've graduated from college. Certain people—like your parents for example, because it is that simple—expect you to get a job almost immediately after you graduated because for them, the student loan you've got to finish your study in college gave you this incredible qualification that came in the form of printed papers, and that rubbish is supposed to get you a job that pays four digits numbers by the end of every month.

That is what you get when you believe in college, and probably as a side dish if you believe that your excellent grades are going to be guiding you down the lighted road to an excellent job. You know what; fuck that and all of the shits that accompanied it. 

Hate Them Changes.

I admit that my relationship mostly with my father and younger sister have grown apart lately, and although I am open to admit that most of it is caused by my own foolishness and stubbornness, I also tend to blame everything else that is going on within our life as a family right now. This is how I function on a daily basis; I do things and when something goes wrong, I blame others while still somehow blame myself. It won’t feel bad when there are two sides to blame, end of story.

But my younger sister has taken a liking to turn into the pious path lately and it is because of her boyfriend. Can I be honest—what am I talking about, of course I can—I hate her boyfriend. My younger sister used to be wild, not bad though and she is this person I could lean on whenever, on whatever matter. She is somehow better than me, like a better half in my sibling.

Yet she becomes highly pious, changes her personality and the way she dresses, everything just makes me uncomfortable. Yes, I love that she really wants to change, but this is too drastic for me to adapt with. That is her own path yes, and I admit she has the right to be a better Muslim unlike myself, but I can’t cope with this change.

She ditches our plan to have fun, like going for karaoke because she says it is a sin to sing in public. Overall, I lost my fun and loving young sister for this pious little punk I don’t even feel comfortable to talk with.

And yeah, I hate her. I hate that she is better than I am. I hate that she could have everything at such a young age. And overall, I hate her because she is the reason why my father thinks of me as the trouble kid in our family.

I hate myself for acting childishly, but I am a human is prone to emotions. I hate it when others begin to compare the two of us, saying that she is the better half all the freaking time. I hate when I can’t go out with her without strangers saying that how could I be this kind of girl when my younger sister is that kind of people.

I don’t deal with changes well. I just need my old life back. Screw all of these shit, I am out.

Not Making Any Sense, As Usual.

There really is nothing worth a story within my current life, thus I don’t feel the need to bore anyone with my long and unacceptable act of rant. I am going to keep my mouth shut for once, and pretend as if nothing will ever matter. I am pretty good at it, after all.

Life could get a bit lonely at times, but then again, I am always lonely; like all the time. I am used to that, because obviously growing up is like going to school without knowing it and bam, in the end you just end up with all these knowledge you’re not sure about and act as if they will matter one day.

I am running low on the imagination and it caused the lack of self esteem and ideas to write and pursue my creative writing. Perhaps I should blame something right about here, but I can’t find the perfect words to describe this despair I feel at the pit of my stomach. Even with that, I just don’t feel like moving on.

Nothing is making sense in my life right now—not even my sanity, or my ability to close my eyes and shut the damn world out from my mind. Yeah, I think I am somehow losing my mind with this continuous silence and loneliness as my companion but even on my better days, I am always at the edge of losing my mind, and everything else in the process.

Let’s look at this as an effort I showed to prove that I should write, even when my words don’t make any sense and my horrible grammar is calling for some grammar ninja assassin to chase my ass around with machetes. Ignoring that, I shall revive these dying brain cells of mine, or else I might as well lose my mind for good.

Truth is, I am feeling utterly useless. My existence doesn’t make any sense, just like my brain and my sanity. I am here, but I may not even be here in reality. You know what I mean, the void feeling in my stomach every time I think about a day from now. I don’t want to say the future, because that sounds so cliché and again, mainstream.

I am just thankful I am able to survive yet another day, and have to put up another fight to battle tomorrow. In the end, what I think and what I write don’t make up any logical sense. I appreciate the time you spent to read my ridiculous piece of shit right here, and once again, I love you all. I just don’t love myself, end of story.

Fashion World, Maybe Not For Me.

found via weheartit
It would safe obviously if I say that I don't particularly like the life as a working person, especially as writer in a fashion-oriented magazine. I would admit that I really want to work for a magazine, but seriously not a fashion magazine. I don't fit there, I feel like a misfit. I want to write for a magazine that is close to my interests.

But then again, how many percentage of people actually love what they are doing for life right now? I would love to sit and complain all day, but I have two months within my grasp left for my practical training. It really is a pain in the ass, but I can't much do anything about it.

Yet I am already being a bad ass rebel by skipping work as I like, yeah. I swore there are words spreading around the office like a pandemic, but I really don't give a fuck about it. I mean, I don't even receive a single payment over my work, why would they feel the need to nag me about how I work? I did mine, so fuck off and just let me live well for the next two months.

There are nice people in my office, sure. But there are also the people I really can't stand, who I wish to kick and punch until they drop and die. I love to write, yes. But do I love to write for this specific company in the near future, I am not sure.

I am thankful for the opportunity to work there even for the temporary period of three months. I gained a lot of things about magazine productions, and I also make a few friends, but please. I don't think I could withstand fashion people, and I could not bring myself to write about fashion as a career.

Two more months to go in this fashion industry, maybe it could help me to change my mind. I do hope I would learn to like the matter about professionally write for the fashion world itself.

There's A Bruise, Where's Once Was a Wound.

found via mermaids love cake

I had bit hit by a series of unfortunate events lately. I could not bring myself to believe the bad luck of mine, when I accidentally fell nearby an escalator in a shopping mall during the festivity of Aidiladha recently and sprained my right feet.

My right feet right now is horribly swollen. It has grown twice its size, like an alien feet or whatsoever. Wow, just one month into practical training and this happened. There goes my reputation down the drain, gosh. I hope my Editor won't like scream at me for ditching work for several days.

But seriously, the pain of getting a sprained ankle is awful. I mean it. Even the pain I suffered through the surgery was not this horrible. I cried several times secretly, and to see my feet swollen to a point I could not even put on my favourite flip-flop. Gosh, I wanted to cry again this time.

Breathing, Underwater.

found via I still care. That's the problem. 

She feels as if she is breathing underwater at times. She could not find the proper way to adapt into how lungs suppose to work as how gills do, but because she lives in the nature of breathing air—and not salt water in any way—she allows her self to just endlessly drown.

That is how she portrays how life falls upon her; all seems terribly right but yet all feels correctly wrong. It never quite fit—those pieces of puzzles—on how the life she lives does not even feels as if it is hers to begin with. It is like her whole world is really just simply underwater—all transparent and unable for her to grasp—even when she uses the sanest part of her imagination.

Friends around her are like chorals—pretty but really are for nothing. She really does like them, really could even be an understatement because even for a small fish underwater, the chorals are the whole world for it. It applies the same law in her life. Friends are there for her, around her. But she could never fit in. It never makes her feels as if she truly belongs—like a fish unable to swim near the chorals, in fear it might hurts it, it might kill it.

If she could describe the taste of her life she would say it is salty—like sea water, perhaps. It never gives one feeling of satisfaction, as it gives out constant thirst, as if nothing in the world would ever be enough. It is as if she dives underwater and takes in all the salt water she could comprehend before she drowns, before she dies.

Closing her eyes and putting her ears to work, she would hear the noises around her all blurry. There are no distinct noises she could point out—no familiar voice, no apparent sound—just a mix of all and brings out nothing, really. It is as if she is listening to the faint buzz that fills her eardrums while being underwater. Everything sounds the same, simply similar one to another.

To walk on a path in her life is just like swimming through an open sea with no definite destination. Just simply allow the waves to carry her somewhere, maybe. It would bring her to an end, her end apparently. But it really is a long journey of just swimming or just drowning all altogether. Life never quite has one distinctive destination to her, or she could say not yet. She never makes a decision about after all.

In the end, all that she ever would believe is that her life is simply an ocean of everything and she really is just breathing underwater.

- all the tragic nights 

I am currently doing my practicum, thus the lack of updates for such a long time. I hope to be back, one day. This is my haven, remember. I am doing lots of writing, but none give me satisfaction like the one I am doing here. Oh well, let's just say that life is getting in the way, as usual.

Disappeared, But Alive.

found via anime is life

Don’t think of me as suicidal or anything. I may be overly pessimistic and all, but that does not mean that I literally want my existence to disappear into the thin air. I am a coward, remember. I don’t have all the courage one needs to eventually be my own reaper, to take away my own life. No, I am a Muslim. It is a major sin to take our own life. Life may be all shit and stuffs, but that does not mean death is a solution. Keep all the hopes high, even if it is impossible.

In case someone thought I died, I am just here to prove that I am not anywhere near being a walking dead. No, I have zero intention in becoming a zombie, what so ever. I would appreciate the offer, but I am gladly turning it down because putting aside how shitty real life could be, I absolutely cherish my chance to stay alive as long as I could. This is not the part where I admit that I am finally allowing my self to be a little optimistic about this and all, but I am just saying that being away for months does not anywhere mean I am permanently gone.

If one is wondering whether there have been any exciting things going on with my life—as for example, like being in a serious romantic relationship, or finally owning a small sedan to my self, or perhaps graduating with excellent achievement and all those sorts—you are basically wrong. I have not achieved any of that yet. But keep the hopes high, it may happen, eventually. Let us all have our fingers crossed.

Things Never Last, Sweethearts.

I guess at some point I just have to learn to accept the fact that I probably will not see my lovely Kipling wallet which I bought at such an affordable price while on family vacation in Bandung, Indonesia, ever again throughout the rest of my life.

My worst fear eventually comes true—I become a victim of pick-pocket on Saturday while following my mother and younger sister out for some shopping in Suria KLCC—and the worst part of it is that I do not even realize it until it is already two days later.

Ah, I do not even know what to think anymore. I cried like a child when I could not find my wallet this morning while preparing my stuffs to attend college. I rummage through everything—just to see if I misplace it again as usual—but to no luck; I could not find it any more.

Since Suria KLCC is the last place I visit on Saturday before I went home and did not even come out from the house on Sunday at all, it is possible that it was where I lost my wallet. I did walk through some crowd and there was a possibility for someone to just secretly snatch my wallet which was inside my bag.

Dah takde rezeki, which were what my mother said when we could not find my wallet this morning and I have learn to accept it. It is all right, it is not my luck to have that beautiful wallet with me for a long time anyway.

But I lost my identification card, my driving license, my CIMB ATM card, some cards—including the POPULAR bookstore card and BONUSLINK point card—and several passport-size photos of my self. I also lost approximately RM300 in terms of cash, which I keep so diligently with the allowance I receive every month to buy the stuffs I really want.

What is there left that I could do but to accept this reality? My mother willingly replace RM200 of the amount of money I lost and my father will bring me to the police station to file a police report and get my self a temporary identification card later—since we both need to go to work and attend college.

Goodbye lovely wallet, goodbye my awesome cash and stuffs. I will miss you a lot.

Farewell To A Good Life.

found via PicShip

I really do try to keep my optimistic side high regarding this one particular matter but it seems that regardless how hard I try to put on this horrible façade and pretend as if nothing will ever bother me, certain things really do invade my life and makes it all miserable—as if it is not miserable in the first place.

The one thing I really hate and try not to complaint about is my social life. I realize it that I have such a poor social skills—all due to that ugly incident that occur during my senior year in high school of which makes me cringe every time I think about it—and I am horrible when it comes to making friends and communication.

Yes, you may see me writing such a damn long essays every now and then on this blog but do you actually expect me to be able to talk this long to a stranger out there in real world? Oh hell no, you are absolutely wrong if you think I could.

Here is a secret; I avoid making eye-contact even with my closet friends. Yes, I know that making eye-contact is the most vital part of communication, but I could not do it. Now everyone knows my secrets that I do not make eye-contact. I tend to look away every three seconds during a conversation—even during a personal conversations and the only time I do not look away is when I am talking to my family members.

I am that horrible in social skills. I manage to get a good grade for Effective Speaking class and even the Public Relations class but in reality, I just do not apply all that I ever learn. I am afraid to be out there in the real world.

My social life is already halfway down its own grave. I abandon my social life after I graduate from high school and probably most of friends from high school might already forget my existence. It is that unfortunate, seriously. I do not know what part of me that shut my self out from the reality and the social life out there but all I know I am always by the side, just watching my friends rather than to be with them.

What most teenagers do with friends I do it alone. I go to the cinema and watch from romantic movies to action movies by my self. Really, I am not telling a lie. I go for a shopping spree by my self for hours. I have breakfast and lunch at the popular fast food restaurants by my self. I sit at the library by my self. I take the bus by my self. I sit at the cafeteria by my self. I really do everything by my self.

I am an observer, really. But it pains me that I am only observing them from the sidewalk. That is why my social life is disappearing fast. In college, I assume it would be better if I participate with my friends a lot. It works at first but then it disappears fast too. I may be among their group but whenever they are going somewhere and doing things I am always the one to stay behind.

I am not saying that this hurts my pride or things but at certain point it does get onto my nerve. I have friends but I can’t say that I really have friends. They are around me, but they never make me feel as if I am a part of them.

This may be my hallucination but even my mother says that my friends only need me when they really need help. I try not to think about it and dismiss it quickly but then I realize. My mother is right; the only moment I have all of my friends around me is when they really need my help.

Back in high school, the only time I ever feel as if I am the part of an active club in high school is when I have to do all the secretariat work like a bitch by my self and submit it all to the teacher in charge—only for her to ask me all about my work because she does not like it. In the end, my name is not even in the school magazine under the particular society.

It does not hurt at first but as time goes by, it becomes a wound—and a permanent one too.

In college, the only times I ever spend such a long time with my friends are when they need me for assignments and projects. I do not feel bad, because I feel as if they need me. But then I begin to think whether they are only using me—because I tend to do all the work even in a group project because I am such a stupid perfectionist that does not know how to appreciate other works.

Sometimes I wonder who the real friends among the friends I have are. I maybe someone that they could not even remember because I never tend to stand out in a crowd. I maybe just a person they once meet and forget the next day. I maybe the geek who they could rely on certain things but never the one they want in their circle of friends.

I guess this is the time for me to give up on trying fixing my social life. I mean, I have been living a lonely life ever since I graduate high school. No one ever dies because of loneliness and I am pretty sure I could survive all well.

I am always a loner and will always be one. I have my own world to live in and I do not think that I could accommodate anyone else. I believe I would do well by my self. I would not fall because I am by my self. I will always be by my self either way. I just need some time to adjust into the reality that I no longer have brag worthy social life.

Then Come The Stories of Her Language, Sweetheart.

There are obvious reasons why I choose not to have my creative writings in my own language—which is Malay, of course because it is apparent that I do not speak Russian or Japanese in all the logical ways—and I do intend to say it out loud that I do not intend to write in English because I am such a show-off brat who does not know how to converse in my own language.

No bitch, you need to listen to me carefully and just listen to me well. I do speak fluent Malay—and along the way after I graduate high school I may lose some of the creative writing essence for the beautiful Malay language—but that does not mean I have no longer appreciate the beauty of my own language. No, I love Malay language so very much that it hurts my brain, and no, no sarcastic point taken here.

Why I write in English is that I am able to say certain things that only makes sense in English rather than in Malay better. I could not simply curse someone—or more than just one person—in Malay because it will be directly rude and just utterly pointless. But I could curse anyone in English and still somehow sounds so indirect, and it seems my sarcastic point makes it better for me to be cynical in English rather than in Malay.

I have my Malay creative writing roots way back when I am still in elementary school—and yes, you could ask my parents about all those stories I write in Malay—and at certain times I do wish to write back in Malay language. Apparently it is easier to write in my own language than in English—considering that my grammar sucks that my late-grandmother would definitely kills me if she ever reads my lousy English—but I love the way I am able to play with words in English.

I am not that arrogant bitch who does not know my own roots. I know Malay; I still do speak Malay ninety-five percent in my daily life. I am not saying that I like other language more. I speak all sorts of gibberish Korean and Japanese but that do not take away the beauty of Malay out from my life.

Yet I have to admit, if you ever read my Malay creative writings, you might just die because I reek of cheesiness when I write in Malay. All those romantic stories I write in Malay, I wish I could burn them into ashes and never let anyone else see it, ever.

Oh Dear, Parfaits!

found via weheartit
Yes, I do know that it is already past midnight and yes, what I am actually going to write is just something that does not make any sense in any possible ways but seriously, I really want to eat parfaits right now. I do not care if this is a ridiculous craving or just a foolish wish, but come on, I need parfaits. I mean, I really want to eat parfaits right now.

Look at those delicacies anyway. Parfaits must be one of the most genius human creations ever in this whole wide world. I salute whoever created parfaits in the first place. Now, if only I could have parfaits at this time. I would kill for parfaits right now. Someone, just please send me some parfaits right now.

An ANOTHER Horror Train Ride.

found via Wan Abrar
Although I could call my self somewhere close to an anime freak, I do not particularly like to watch anime anywhere near the genre horror. I could digest psychological and thriller a lot, but strictly no horror. I am a coward yes—but only when it comes to horror anime.

Seriously, has anyone ever seen how gore a horror anime could be? I mean, if Japanese horror films are gore, then Japanese anime takes it all to a whole new level. They are able to fuck with imagination because they are animations, thus they manage to come out with all those creep and shit that still scare the hell out of me.

It seems I could be easily influence by this local magazine I buy monthly—that covers on anime and things that sorts of branch out from that it self—and I come across the review on the horror sans thriller and drama altogether, Another.

I have come across this title some months earlier while I am searching through the list of winter anime for some good anime to fill my time. But when I see the genre of Another to be horror, I practically skip it over as if I never even know it in the first place. It is actually intriguing at first. I contemplate on whether I should follow this series or not, a lot. But then I realize no way I am going to spend my nights watching something horror.

But that damn magazine makes me want to watch it—to at least give it a chance, somehow—and yes, I download the first episode, because with my current internet connection, the buffering of online videos takes almost the same time as the period to download it.

Only one thing I would really want to say upon the first episode of Another—the fuck with the scary high school ambience?

I love how the death that occurs many years ago in the junior high school becomes something close to an urban legend. All schools have at least one urban legend—I know my high school has a shit ton load of urban legends of which I rather not talk about here or else I would not even want to walk pass its gate anymore near future. Another is basically dark and, well all I could actually say after the first episode is very dark.

It may just be me but throughout the twenty-four minutes of the first episode of Another, all I could say to my self is literally the fuck is this. I come with all this possible ideas to match and link all the dots together but come on; I am only at the first episode. I think I am going to enjoy this horror train ride more than I actually want to.

This is somewhere along the same line as Future Diary—or as I would refer to it as Mirai Nikki—but not as mind-fuck as how the latter actually is, or perhaps it is but I could not tell yet since I am still on its first episode. I like the hints that make me point out to various characters in the anime series, to what they are talking about to all the minor details that make the whole situation scarier than how it looks.

The idea of a transfer student to be the one who become awfully stuck in this scary situation is not quite a new one—I think Shiki has the same idea but I may be wrong since I only watch several episodes of Shiki and could not finish it due to circumstances, of course. I learn on not to bother on the typically cliché parts of anime a long time ago but I love the character Misaki though it might chance if she gets anymore scarier after the first episode. But most of the time, I could not get it out from my head on how she almost seems like the female counterpart of Ciel Phantomhive from Kuroshitsuji, but this is a joke.

I am sorry to say but the opening and ending theme do not leave any permanent and significant marks on me. I usually tend to listen to how thriller and horror anime fair in the soundtrack department and I still do think that the first opening theme song for Mirai Nikki is amazing. But for Another, I do not quite feel the impact.

I am going to stick through this horror train ride for a couple of episodes, to consider that Another is only seven episodes in and I already have seven anime I am currently following diligently for this season and Another makes it a successful eight altogether. If it does not click during the fifth episode, I am sorry to say that this anime is permanently out.

It is time for me to download the remaining six episodes of Another before I leave for Electronic Publishing class later.

Life Through My Magic Door.

found via Google
I do not even need to shout it out to the whole world about how I detest reality and the fact that I am floating in between reality and fantasy it self. I draw my own escape route—off the reality path that I have my life walks on—a complete detour that bring me out of my real misery and into the world where nothing actually matters, except for that I am somehow alive.

Anime—and no, this is no where near the definition of cartoon because if someone ever put anime and cartoon in the same category, I swear I will butcher something—is one of magic doors I create for my self to escape my life. I do not believe in living a life to the fullest and all that shit but anime actually gives me a reason to believe in being alive—just thankful of being alive.

I could trace back the first time I encounter anime is when I am approximately seven to eight years-old. There is an old popular anime that airs weekly on the local television channel and I watch it as if it is my food—my only source of life. I pay too much attention on it that my childish brain hurts.

It never quite stops—my habit of watching weekly anime series that constantly airs through the local television channels—but it often comes to a halt as I grow older. Growing older comes with options and when I am already able to point out what I like and what I do not like, I grow a bit distant from those anime I watch when I am still in elementary school. I shift genres—from comedy and all those shits to something more dramatic.

And then I completely stop. I encounter those shits in my early teenage years—pop culture and a mix of punk rock that I temporarily like, the Korean Pop that inhabits most of my teenage years, fashion that never quite mix with my life and all those other things that push anime out from my life. It seems wrong back then to watch it—it does not click anymore.

But now at the age of twenty going to twenty-one in less than nine months, I finally return to the root that makes the person I am right now. Anime is the magic door that pulls back into the wonderful life I once live in—away from all the teenage dramas. I may be shifting into more genres but to spend my time watching anime gives me back all those warm feelings that I lose as I grow older.

It freaks me out at first—on how I slowly become engross in this life with anime. But I find comfort, somewhere along the way I assume. I enter a new world with every episode I watch, with every new anime series I encounter, with every new fictional characters that I become completely attached with. I am able to show more human emotions toward all these rather than how I show emotions in reality it self.

In one word, I could say anime pulls me out from my depression. Anime is always there when I am alone and I feel as if the whole world is against me. Anime is there for me like a friend who never walks away even when the whole world turns its back against me. Anime is the remedy to all the pain reality inflicts into my life—an escape door, a route that leads to the world where every little thing seems too beautiful to be true.

If anyone to ever dare me to list down all the anime that practically change my life, I could list more than just twenty—because there a lot of anime I watch and somehow manage to alter a bit of how I live my life. I may be dull and boring at times, but I know how I should color my own life better than anyone else and it is all thanks to the anime I grow up watching.

This is a detour I like to take when life begins to take it toll on me—on how reality begins to really hurt and no remedy really does exist to cure all those pains or just take it away. I live my life this way and even if to anyone else it seems completely ridiculous and does not make any sense, I love my life. I may not be living it to the fullest—maybe not yet or somehow, just don’t really matter anymore—but anime makes my life worth all the pain and cry. Anime is the one lifeless thing I could turn to when everyone else betrays me, when the whole world decides to go against me.

There Are Silent Murderers Somewhere, Sweetheart.

found via It's not about how you look it's about how you see
Could I say that this sixth semester is the hardest semester I have to live through in college? It is only three or four weeks since the semester starts but the pressure are building intensively that I do not think it is an option to either die or to simply kill my self before this semester actually ends.

First assignments are usually those simple tasks—the ones I could simply finish a day before dateline, because I am the best at procrastinate and act as if I am a boss to be able to do such things and things like that much alike—but this time it will be absolutely different. The assignments are murderers; I am saying this by mean it could kill, literally.

The first assignment for Radio & TV Production class is that I have to come out with ideas for a television talk show program—which mean I have to play the role of whoever it is who comes out with ideas for a new television talk show on real television. This is the only class I have to go through with a bunch of broadcasting students altogether thus the pressure are high, seriously.

To think I—a horrible almost anti-social journalism student—to have the ability to think exactly as how broadcasting students are able to is simply ridiculous. I may be good in terms of writing but to come out with a new idea for a television talk show is just ridiculous, plain ridiculous.

It goes the same for the first assignment for Media Psychology class. I am horrible in assignments that involves outings assignments—those that needs me to leave my house and do real field works out there in real world, when I am all anti-reality right here in my own imaginary world. To actually see me cover an event and write a news about it—oh God, just let me dig a hole and allow me to live in there permanently.

I don’t think there is a way out from this semester unless it means death. I am going to fail, I could already feel it. It is either I run away or face it bravely, but ends up miserably. Why must it become this difficult? It is these little things that make me feel that I should have not quit graphic design in the first place. Should just stay through the hardship of an art student rather than to mingle with this kind of problems.

Assignments are really the murderers that will haunt me until the very end of this route. They will literally become the death of me—or perhaps my already dying brain cells, because lately I am not able to think properly without fucking up my life even more. I am already a train-wreck; I do not need those murderers I call as assignments to wreck it all up even more for me. 

Now let me sit in my personal corner and cry my eyes out at how I am going to miserably ruin all of my assignments by my self. Everything is due next week—I am so going to die by that time. Or if I am still alive by some miracle, please lend me a hand and shoot a bullet from a revolver through my brain. Make it less painful please, because reality and life are already too hard for me to handle while alive.

It Was Raining, But There He Was.

found via You are loved
Ah, I do not intend to write anything that involves awesome anime boys in school uniform—not that I want anyone to ever label me as a pedophilia or some sort of anything relates to it. I just do not want to ruin this moment and I mean come on, anime boys in school uniforms are hot. I have to say, if they really do exist in reality, I would not mind becoming a stalker for them.

I tend to like boys who are mostly in the art department—the one who smells of oil paint or perhaps the one with pencil stains on his rough fingers, or just the one who sits in a corner with a sketch book and an old pencil—those kind of boys who spend more time with their creativity sides rather than reality.

It may be the fact that I use to imagine my life in that world, the world of endless arts. I picture my self to work with lifeless utensils and apparatus to create an art that seems alive even may be just for me. For that I have the tendency to like boys who could draw, or simply those who are in the art department.

He wears a blue shirt and carries a black backpack—of which I see the most because I stalk him from behind—and one thing that makes him stands out is not the fedora he wears or anything—but the black case art students usually carry to bring along humongous drawing or layout pads around. I don’t even know its name, silly me.

It clicks in all the right places. I like that kind of boys and I mean a lot. I like someone who would talk more about his art and most of the time when he does not talk; his eyes would look as if it is deep enough to drown in it. I hate boys who talk so much—considering that the boys in my faculty all talks like shit, literally—and the ones who are mostly in the art faculty seems quiet and reserved.

I do not even know why I am writing this but perhaps I just want to keep this memory alive. I mean, I really like boys who are very good with arts. I like them more than boys who talk shit about music and stuffs. You do not know how deep art people could get when they actually talk about their arts.

Anyway, I hope to bump into him again next week. I try to catch up with him while we walk from the LRT station to the college but I am wearing my pair of flats and the one who walks in front of me is too slow that I do not have the chance to walk pass him. Let’s meet again, art boy. Even if I could only see you from far away, I would like that.