3. I want RED tattoos on my wrists.

2. To at least have a look at (and eventually take pictures of) cherry blossoms for myself.

xalai

• I've read too many old National Geographic magazines depicting these blooms
• or because my brother watches way too much Japanese films/anime and whenever I look at what he's watching, the scene almost always rains with cherry blossoms. I'd like to be showered with them, too.
• or that I have been once enamored with a notebook that contained dried cherry blossoms and I could not forget how the pages smelled. There were also lilacs as well and the scent was unforgettable.

1. Learn how to play mah-jong.

A fragment of Corinna's poetry

To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity.
-Søren Kierkegaard

You are breakfasty, like a pile of pancakes on a Sunday morning that have just the right amount of syrup, so every bite is sweet perfection and not a soppy mess.

You are a glass of orange juice that's cool, refreshing, and not overly pulpy.

You are the time of day that's just right for turning the pages of a newspaper, flipping through channels, or clicking around online to get a sense of how the world changed during the night.

You don't want to stumble sleepily through life, so you make a real effort to wake your brain up and get it thinking.

You feel inspired to accomplish things (whether it's checking something off your to-do list or changing the world), but there's plenty of time for making things happen later in the day.

First, pancakes.

It's been awhile since I wrote anything in here and it's because the past few weeks have proven to me that twenty-four hours is not enough for me to sit down and collect my thoughts. I give up writing to catch up on my sleep, because I get cranky in the mornings if it's anything less than 8 hours. And then, I work. When I sit in this cubicle, everything about it is urgent and everything else is unimportant. And that a blissful Sunday off is not enough to cover the time spent to update my wardrobe or to travel back to where I need to gain my sanity.

When my suicidal bus carries me to work and it runs past a street with a handful of people looking as if they have nothing to do, I wonder if there is any way I can buy a portion of their idle time. And if the money in my savings account were enough to buy me an extra Saturday each week, I'd then be able to text generously, catch up on my reading list, pig out on food that I missed in the previous dinnertimes, circle a mall thrice over and learn how to cook, apart from God knows what else.

I might end up broke by buying an extra Saturday every week and all year-round but I did buy me more time, to live.  

Call me Fall Out Girl, if you will. Since this October I'm merely "existing." (Thanks for the term Xai.) What's even weirder is that he called me up to say he hates this month too. Watta copycat!  

Now what to do, to induce the ever elusive emotions? I listen to this, for one:

see the pyramids around the Nile
watch the sunrise from a tropic isle
just remember darling all the while
you belong to me

see the marketplace in old Angier
send me photographs and souvenirs
just remember when a dream appears
you belong to me

and I'll be so alone without you
maybe you'll be lonesome too

fly the ocean in a silver plane
see the jungle when it's wet with rain
just remember till you're home again
you belong to me

oh I'll be so alone without you
maybe you'll be lonesome too

fly the ocean in a silver plane
see the jungle when it's wet with rain
just remember till you're home again
you belong to me  

Yes, I'm being weird. Everything's weird. 

And to the adults out there, please don't, please don't, please don't, (s)MOTHER me! Please. Stop, stop, stop, stop, (s)MOTHERING me. Please. Stop it, damnit! I don't need it. Thank you very much. Just leave me alone. Get a separate life in which I'm not included. It's almost amazing actually, why everyone's making a fuss - as if I were a kid in dire need of being taken care of. I'm 22 years old now. I can handle myself. So get away from me.

Love Song 
Rainer Maria Rilke 



How can I keep my soul in me, 
so that it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise 
it high enough, past you, to other things? 
I would like to shelter it, among remote 
lost objects, in some dark and silent place 
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound. 

Yet everything that touches us, me and you, 
takes us together like a violin's bow, 
which draws one voice out of two separate strings. 
Upon what instrument are we two spanned? 
And what musician holds us in his hand? 
Oh sweetest song.

It's interesting how one poem can articulate my thoughts for two people.