Never

It really is tiring to have to wait…
Not knowing what you are waiting for,
Not knowing if it will even come,
Yet, we still wait, and expect…

- - - -

Behind the apartment, on a swing, looking up at the stars…

GPD: I don’t see the logic behind waiting,

^_~: Sometimes, people wait because they have to.

GPD: Like, foolishly waiting for… love.

^_~: *laughs* Don’t get all mushy on me now.

GPD: I don’t do that.

^_~: We all have to wait for love.

GPD: No, we don’t.

^_~: Why do you say that?

GPD: Because I think, if you really want love, you will easily find it.

^_~: Probably.

GPD: See? You agree.

^_~: It is easy to find love out there, but…

GPD: But what?

^_~: But, it is not easy to find a love… that lasts. That is what everybody is after, that is why we wait.

GPD: Why cant they just make the love they already have… last?

^_~: Okay. You are creeping me out now.

GPD: How many times have you been in love?

^_~: I haven’t counted. You?

GPD: Never.

^_~: That explains.

--oOo--

Tirade:on irc (mood: riled)

Are you one of those people who ignore other people because you think you are actually better than them?

Are you one of those pricks who continually deride people who you think wont have the facility to defend themselves against you?

Are you one who discounts interaction to the people who have been categorized as noobs?

Are you one of those people who scoff at people who tries to converse in another language (especially in English), and intrusively indict their incorrect use of the grammar even though you, yourself, is using it incorrectly?

Are you one of those nincompoops who only talk to beautiful people and disparage the ugly ones, but you are one of the latter yourself?

Are you one of those braggarts who swank about being perfect aesthetically, but is actually not?

Are you one of those narcissistic bitches that would only want to talk about themselves and their bullshit all the time?

Are you one of those a-holes who would send threats, and impertinent nouns and adjectives, and profanity if the person you pmed was simply a little late to type her reply?

Are you one of those people who send the same annoying messages repeatedly, like a hundred times?

Are you one who types `hello, `hi, `ctc, or `asl and never replies?

Are you one of those people who just doesn’t reply… at all?

Are you one of those people who reply with a maximum of two words every time?

Are you one of those people who assertively solicit people to have eb with you but you never actually go to the assumed location?

Are you one who’s only after the friendster account?

Are you one of those people who presumes that everybody is gay just cause they haven’t given you their asl’s or their friendster, or a pic of themselves, or any pathetic reason you can find?

Are you one of those people who swear at someone once you’ve found out they are of the same gender?

Are you one of those oafs who condemn homosexuals for being homosexuals?

Are you a homosexual who pretends to be a girl just so you could go on pretending to be a girl until someone finds out you are gay and have broken quite a few hearts?

Are you one of those men who think girls are just dying to be with you(or it could be the other way around)?

Are you one of those guys who frighten the girls by talking dirty to them?

Are you one who thinks everybody is horny, so you go on about parading your liberal take on sexuality even though it unnerves and offends other people?

Are you a one of those people who are just downright boring?

Are you one of those perverts who think all the girls are that stupid to not know you are a sicko?

Are you a pedophile who have several nicks so that even if you get kicked or banned you’d still be able to continue with your sordid liaisons with innocent young girls on the channel?

Are you a fucking pedophile?

Are you a pervert?

If you are… fuck you!
Thanks a plenty for being such an infuriating lot.
And because of you, IRC is becoming such an unpleasant place.
Especially the last two.

--oOo--

Dream on

I had this peculiar dream last night.

It felt so incredibly real.
And scary...

While I typed away another blog entry, there was this pop up that asked me if I wanted to view the nonsecure items or not. I clicked the “no”. After a while, when I was almost done with my diatribe, and about to close the computer. Suddenly, there was this red, proliferating dots and squares that appeared on my screen. Painting it all bloody red. In my dream, I figured it was a virus. So, I chastised myself for not conducting the weekly scan on my computer. I did not know what to do, and the computer seemed to hang up on me. Then it just, crashed.

First thing on my mind was,

`My mom is going to kill me.

--oOo--

From my head, to yours

In the midst of that dreary stillness, between the reverberating gyrations of the electric fan near her bedside… and the muffled chatter from the television outside her murky, lifeless room. Her somnolent body lay on its back, draped with a thick balmy blanket. Her face tilted up staring blankly above the sallow coarse ceiling.

She wafted to some place, feeling the rough road of that new land on her feet, breathing in that unfamiliar air, lavishing the grandeur of the view… taking in that perfection.

Within her, she sensed that overwhelming need to run. So she did.

How merrily she jogged towards the horizon, wondering to herself, what might be beyond that. The sun was up high, shining brightly and proudly down on her, and on all that beauty of nature. Zephyrs softly brushed the thicket of grass lining beside the road. Trees gently swayed in harmonious beat casting shadows on her path.

She slowed down to a stop, in front of her was a flowering shrub, she stooped down to admire it. It was painted in pink and white dots, and green for the leaves. And she thought what a sight it is. These lovely blossoming little flowers, she simply must pick one.

She lifted her hands up, and carefully moved them forth the tiny spec of a flower.

Then she heard a noise…

Rousing her up from that quixotic reverie,

Again, she could clearly hear the rhythmic whirr of the electronic fan. There was the gloomy light coming from her bedside lamp, the clumped clutter left for days on her bed, her warm blanket, the scintillating book she had been reading, and the same four corners of her bedroom. The four corners that she got stuck up in almost a year now.

- - - -

Is it not great, how imagination can take you on a free traverse to somewhere fantastic? (Especially when you are bored, or if you don’t have any money to buy tickets to go somewhere.)

You could create imaginary worlds, things, and people…

Anything;

- - - -


Darkness swallowed the night. The putrid stink of seclusion drifts afloat the lifeless room. An opened window attracted queer noises from outside. But she still lied on her bed, as tranquil as the evening.

A wintry breeze caressed her limp frightened body, cold sweat drew lines down her forehead, the nervous beating of her heart chewed her ears, and deleterious thoughts played gloomily in her head.

She raised her right arm at the ceiling, reaching out for that oblivion. Her shaky hands tried to grasp the empty air a couple of times, and she smirked at each attempt. Dissatisfied, she flaccidly placed it back down on her side. This time, she hoisted her left arm, and in all her acridity, let it clasp her black parched hair tightly.

She smirked again, and then she tugged.

The burning pain pierced through her senses.

She smirked, and tugged again more forcefully.

Her mind was in ecstasy. It was pure pleasure… swelling up inside her.

How she hated it.

She bit her lower lip… digging her teeth in on it, while her apathetic eyes stared vacantly at the sallow coarse ceiling above her head. Sinking her teeth in… cutting
it… rupturing the delicate skin…

Until it bled.

- - - -

It is such an event to me, when I write with the focus of human emotions. I am still new with this bit though. Imagination truly is infinite. And in believing so, possibilities would also be infinite.

`For in writing, I find my only bliss- GPD

--oOo--

bit about love

I just saw Tim Burton’s THE CORPSE BRIDE tonight. It was very poignant, the storyline. But I enjoyed it tremendously. Everything was done in exquisite detail that you would not like to take your eyes off the screen. Perhaps I’ll even see it a second time.

- - - -

Love, how truly great a force it is that even in death we would still want to feel it. Such a lonely place the world will be, if there is none of it. It is what its all about after all, right? Love, and our eternal pursuit for its elusiveness. For we are living feeling beings, that for us love becomes the crux of all our emotions. So, we spend our entire lives wandering blindly about this big, big world looking for it. And how we wonder, how splendid it must be to be in love, and have someone. For that, for our need to feel affection, sometimes… we even readily fall for the wrong person. Just so we’d know what it is.

It must be terribly romantic.
*sigh*

--oOo--

Beer and peanuts

I talked to ^_~him today. Not for long, cause ^_~his connection kept getting cut off. That was a good thing though, cause today was one of those “bum” days where my mind simply refuses to be interested in anything.

- - - -

In front of a round table, with a couple bottles of beer and pomelo gin waiting to be emptied, with a bowl full of chicharon and peanuts;

GPD: Do you ever have weird fantasies?

^_~: Yes.

GPD: Fantasies that you would want to live out if you have a chance.

^_~: Why are you asking me this?

GPD: Because I want to tell you one of mine.

^_~: Okay. Shoot.

GPD: I want to get drunk. Drunk out of my senses.

^_~: But you said you don’t drink.

GPD: Yeah. But I would want to try it, just once. I want to be so intoxicated
that I would not remember what happened the night before. And I wont
mind the hangover.

^_~: Why that?

GPD: Cause its something I would not likely do. And the feeling of inebriation,
it would be like... I have no possesion over my own mind.

^_~: So that is why there is alcohol here, and peanuts. You want to live out that
Fantasy with me?

GPD: Yeah.

^_~: I’m flattered.

GPD: You should be.

--oOo--

On my ideals

One thing I like about chatting, is how easy it is to make people believe in things that are really just figments of your imaginative brain. Not that I always like to lie, I sometimes do when I feel like goofing around. Sadly, that sometime comes a bit too often. *grins* But I find it strangely amusing whenever I make up stories and how they readily buy it, that it serves to me as a catalyst to actually establish a good conversation with them.

I suppose it’s my yawning belief in serendipity. That I need it to coincide it with my daily life, cause I want so much to have even if it is just slight, a confirmation that it exists. And even though there is a good chance that this queer need to embroider a dull occurrence in my life to a more thrilling worth-looking-back-at-and-ponder-about serendipities that I feel is probably the most romantic thing that could happen to a person, especially to one like me, is not out there. I would still want to think it is. Because the idea it gives to me idolizes the romance I had fantasized of since I had been a little kid. And I would rather have that than embrace the fact that the world has no magic at all, and romance is just real on fairy tales.

The idea and the truth that the world is such a chaotic, disorganized place but that it is still capable of causing such beautiful things to happen, the likes of serendipity or destined faith, has such an influence to my perceptions that I would not want to let go of. And the thought that it is because it is so out of order that it cannot stop such wonderful things to transpire. That stems my impression of romanticism. And I would like to think this way cause it matches my ideals.

I need it to be like that.

--oOo--

My hands, Oh my hands

Two of the only decent drawings I sketched... Last night was the first time I drew something again. So, I decided to post it up here. Enjoy.

-The drawing on top is uhm, the first one I draw. So, it is still a bit simplistic. Anyways, I decided to write a short poem on it. Sadly, I cant read it cause its too small. Darn, scanner. It says;

`I give you this prickly red rose,

Keep it to remind you,

That a fallen heart is close,

So if you felt the way I do,

You would know,

What I wanted too.

Baah. Its not one of my best poems. Hehe. Just look at her face. It is good to be asian.

-The drawing beneath it is of a woman standing on a bridge overlooking the whole city. She is looking at Son Goku perched on top of a crucifix, and wondering what he is doing there but mostly how he got his fat super sayan butt up there. ^_~What? I decided to have a little fun with it. Hehe.

--oOo--

Strawberry Parfait

I have this odd penchant for whipped cream. Perhaps because of its simplistic feel to my tongue, that it tangs the whole experience if assorted with flavouring. Heavenly, that is what it is. Maybe it’s the same simplistic facet to it that I just find so palatable. That when ever it blends with flavouring, even the pungent ones, it would not ruin the taste. Instead, it is tempered.

- - -

Let me introduce another character to my stories, I would name him *Artiste. Fundamentally cause he is an artist, and I see him as one. I shall not dispense any more personal information as it terribly frightens my puny self-preserving heart. Somebody might ascertain his identity and tell on me; I simply cannot risk that.

Artiste pmed me today. He gave me a link to one of his works. It surprises me every time I see his red blinking nick on my pm box cause he rarely chats me up, and I cant deduce what is with him when he does. He is awfully arcane all the time. And I find it insanely attractive of him. The way he steers every little thing to his own accord. But it also infuriates me tremendously, how he just flagrantly always get his way with me. I badly dislike being taken advantaged of, but if he is the one to do it, he gets away with it leaving me in utter disarray emotionally but fascinated. And I chastise myself always for that.

This time, I felt both surprised and bothered. But all the same, my then listless heart clocked up to a 120 pulse rate per minute. I wonder how he does that to me. Compelling me to subdue my irate moods and intrigue me incessantly, yet making me want to reach out to the monitor and wish my quavering little hands would somehow get through that and breach his end all the way to his esophagus.

I liked his work. It was a bit bland though, but I liked it more with the knowledge that it was his. I wonder though, what his inspiration is, or who. Since he denies having one, which I was quick to counter. No person could ever generate any beauty especially with the use of his imagination without something dash someone to enthuse him. It would be an impossibility. For the heart and mind would not produce beauty if they don’t feel and have not experienced it. If the heart feels something wonderful it would want to seep it out. And if the mind finds something just as astonishing, it would let the beautiful memory stay there for the artist to utilize in his masterworks. After all, mostly, it is the beautiful things that the mind keeps, right? Thus, the artist dash person would want to convey that beauty outside himself; immortalizing the beauty that he felt and knew. And from there, it would all be cyclical.

I had not the bravado to adulate his work, because I knew that was what he was after. I needed him to be annoyed with me, because I wanted to know what he’d do. The things he’d say. If I’d ever make him angry. Because he doesn’t seem to want to get angry with me. It only makes me think, that he might still feel a scant of fondness for me. I absolutely don’t want that.

I suppose it is the thought that I can never have him, and he can never have me because I will never let him, that I find so appealing.

That same premise might also be reason why I allow him to wound me, cause I am guilty of doing that to him. Perhaps, if I had let him break me, I would not be so pacifying. Then, I wont feel so at fault. But the thing is, whether I wanted him to do that or not, he still wouldn’t. Cause he cant. He wont be able to. He is an already pungent flavour that needs not me to exacerbate the helping. If it were food, you would not like yours to be too sweet or too salty, would you? You’d want it to taste just right. Because, overtime, even if you liked it at first, your taste buds would eventually learn to averse the familiar binge of flavour. Because it would just simply be, “too good”.

That is why I would rather fancy a whipped cream. Cause I, myself, is a pungent flavour that needs to be tempered.

- - -

Best ever compliment I got from a Friend;
`You should write a book, I’ll buy it. *laughs*

--oOo--

Thoughts in the morning

Tick tock… Tick tock…

The only sound that seems to be most perceived right now is the droning ticking of the wall clock in close proximity to my medium sized bed. And the continuing hum of the passing vehicles just blocks from the apartment. Also, the gentle tapping sound my keyboard makes as I sluggishly type this entry. Almost like a lullaby to my ears.

My head is in tremendous almost intoxicating reluctance to sleep. I am very sleepy, and perhaps need to sleep. But I don’t want to yet. I have been reading something, things from one of my favorite writers who I should mention; I never bothered to look up the name of. I was intensely engrossed in her stories that I hadn’t notice the time flew by. Her method of writing is just so very true and appealing to me, and I reckon it would be just grand if I could write like her. Or even be close. She sort of comes across as somewhat similar to me, in a far-flung calculated way. *laughs*

Her way of candourly relating things that had happened to her, and it greatly rivets readers like me. It is such an amazing talent, the one she has. Having the facility to write as beautifully and candidly, to me, it is a very rare and special gift. One I would love to have, and possibly would if I had enough practice. I believe in myself a great deal. If I wont, nobody would. Just like her, she has this great sense of perspection. She has this incredible ability to take you to the places, with the people she’s been with, and the things she did, her gripping misadventures, through her literature. The way she drills the images of what she saw on your head and her thoughts on the matter on her prose. I mostly appreciate how she was able to extricate her emotions and transform it to words, and those feelings emanate to those who read it. And the way she concludes each topic, leaving you pensive whether it were true or not. She is awesome. I admire that so much.

- - - -

Again, I was in front of the computer the remainder of the afternoon. Chatting. (and answering trivias)

I made a friend yesterday. His identity, I shall not reveal. He told me a secret, two. One was `he is not really a girl. I had thought he was, seeing his nick and because he previously said so too. He even asked me of my friendster and I unwittingly gave him my email address, confident of his femininity. (I am simply gullible.) The other one was, he is in love with somebody.

Knowing myself, and how I cant dispel any reliable, tried and tested advice due to my inexperience on the discussed topic. I was hesitant to say anything. However, he pressed on and accounted the adversity he was stuck in. The girl he was simply mad about is in love with somebody else. So, he is disinclined to woo her. And, almost as an afterthought but also of immense concern, he believed the guy liked her back. But it is not official yet.

`Start to make her notice you. (I said out of impulse.)
`How can I do that when she is also busy trying to make the other guy notice her?

There was a part of me that wanted to tell him to forget and let it go. It is easier to find another love, than to change a heart that already loves and is loved back. How to say that without breaking his poor heart was the hitch. I asked,

`Does she know that you feel that way about her?
`I haven’t told her. I fear that if she knew, it might affect our friendship.

And I thought, it certainly would.
I did not have much to say thereafter.
If you were in the same situation?
Would you rather tell, and risk rejection?
Or stay mum, and still hurt yourself?

--oOo--

Like a horse on your rooftop

I just Love Mariah Carey, isnt she such a fantastic singer?
I am listening to one of her songs right now.
That Mariah sure can sing.

Mellow music. It surprisingly calms me down, and my tired irate heart likes it. When there is nothing there to be a cause for antagonism. Everything would just seem, perfectly okay and passable. Because in my reality, it is a massive contrast to this fond feeling of comfort.

- - - -

I incredibly hate it when I am uninspired. Each piece of instigation I get out of reality simply seems to make no sense anymore. All of it seems to conjure no element of curiosity in me. I just cant bear that. It feels as if my soul doesn’t have anything to attach its dreams onto, and it is incredibly draining. Almost to the extent that would make me contemptuous of instant fulfillment, and prolonged gratification. When I always get my way, I would easily tire of things and miss the effort put in to attain something. But when I don’t, I would tremendously hate it. Because I want too bad to always have my way and get what I want, by then I had realized the futility of my efforts since I could have had it without doing so. It is a case of retribution of having obtained the reward, too soon or too late. Some karmic phenomenon perhaps. But darn it, I still am not interested.

Imagination, I don’t even know if I am still capable of it. These days, everything had just seemed too boring that I didn’t even bother to imagine,or envisage, or even just think out of myself. I try to continue to nourish it in a way that it would stay purely individual and even theatrical, to have a me-ness in it. But where shall I find a reason to stick with. Even in my lonesome moments, I have always relied on my mind to take me to a more magical nonexistent world, out of my funk. But these days, there is just nothing there. Just the thought of my impending flight to South Korea… and back to my dear old home, the Philippines.

I shall always love the idea of constant fascination, at least that way, I would never get wary of monotony. I sometimes marvel about our brains. Which part of it is responsible for our emotions of wonderment? If that portion of the wrinkly mass of soft grey matter in our heads is bigger than the normal, will our bland lives also be Larger?... Lived Larger than life?

`You, your joys and your sorrows, your memories and your ambitions, your sense of personal identity and free will, are in fact no more than a behavior of a vast assembly of nerve cells and their associated molecules. (Francis Crick)

If that is so, then if these molecules are successfully altered, would it be possible to completely rid of human suffering, pain, and perhaps even boredom? It sounds like a great idea.
But I don’t think everybody would accede to that. Simply because, we humans, subliminally admire the flawed nature of reality and of ourselves. It is what makes this world more bearable to live in. Because if the real world were faultless, unsullied and absolute, that would be such an anomaly, our human minds shall simply not be able to handle.

- - - -

I think of love, and what a novelty it would be to me if I ever had one. Love and having someone to offer it to would be an infinite fascination for me; and I always think of the rain. How much I admire the drizzle of tiny beads of water falling from the vast azure sky. As if each of the droplets are on a race to fall back to earth to the tarred, wet cement road, then one would hit the ground first...`splatter splat splat, like a horse prancing on your rooftop.

Raining is such a romantic episode for me. The cold breath of the weather, soft whispering winds, almost baring the gentle,feminine side of nature.
I love to watch the rain, and am always tempted to go out and soak myself in it. If the time ever comes when I actually do that, I really hope that I would not be doing it alone. *wistful*

--oOo--

Ennui, a midday crisis

Yesterday, and as always the past year, I have been on this internet relay chat wishing to stumble across, perhaps a special person I could converse with the rest of my obligatory stay here. But it has been a fucking year and I since haven’t found a single, remotely interesting, discerning mind down there. A grossly large throng of perverts and nitwits were always available though. Egad, and some of them even chanced to pick my indicative nick for a small chitchat. (Indicative of my Age, watch your thinking there)

Not surprisingly enough, they seem to agree to be fond of one particular topic, this might ring a bell; SEX. Oh Christ, I just can’t comprehend how these bozos’ brains operate if all they ever want to talk and think about is that. They actually do think about it every five fucking minutes all day long.

It is incredibly depressing. I just could not believe how with all these people and none of them has starkly roused up a tinge of fascination in me. Well, occasionally there would be one to bend the generalization. But they always tend to get tired after sharing several discourses with me, as I do with them. Some, I might have offended or just could not remember who that witty, incandescent little prude they had been talking to last when they come on again. *laughs*

Mostly, after the exchange of pleasantries and asl’s and a pinch deal of small talk, the magic magically poofs out.

I still have quite a few regular chatmates though, but sometimes I really cant put a finger on it but I just don’t seem to want to talk, or type for that matter. Which appends one of us not responding any longer. I suppose this whole incredulous farce is wearing me down now.

Some perchance, simply just grew tired of the chatting scene itself and never came on again. Eitherways I always am left to wander about to my own devices. And it is such a detrimental thing to do. Because then, I’d have a reason to hate being left to my own devices and realize how much I hate doing that. Did I mention I tremendously detest the idea of being alone? (not all the time though) Yet, I have always been just with myself ever since I can recall. I wonder how I made it. Maybe I Am tough after all.

-----

Last time was not too bad as the preceding late afternoon chats. It was actually, dare I say, a scant lively, sustained to a point where I almost thought it was actually fun.

But I would still call it a boring one.

There was really nothing vaguely close to a conversation there. Just people either wanting other people to notice them, or those indolent `hi’s and hello’s from chatters who when you bridge a second word with would not even bother to acknowledge the effort to strike up a decent introduction.

Indeed, it was a dull way to spend the whole afternoon. Sadly, I had no other options but to do so.

Amidst that dreary self-effacing wait, between the trivia at Shs_Asylum and the forum I was concentrating on, a thought formed in my head. Then it conveniently amassed a couple of letters, until it spiraled to vestige a feeling broad on the idyllic. I didn’t even think I’d ever feel that way towards that person, but I oddly did. I felt it ballooning up inside me, that one feeling I thought I had forgotten through the bypass of the years. That with the familiar, but scantly jarring aftertaste. That one which reminds you of something that would only be there when it isn’t.

`Did I just miss ^_~him?

Seriously, I must have. I did feel that I wanted badly so to see his nick posted on my channel list. I wished to see that red flashing nick of his on my pm box, alerting me of his intimidating yet appealing presence and asking me to spare some of my precious time to chat him up, and making me bluntly curse at myself for having him affect me that way. I cant always stand feeling like that, it is a part of me I have adroitly gotten used to repressing. But I wont say that I haven’t felt like that before, because I have. And I was quick to rub it off, just as I did this time. Perhaps I just couldn’t swallow the idea of being truly effeminate. Or I just don’t want anyone to affect me in a particular fashion that would frighten the shit out of me and make me aware of stuff that should not dare transpire.

It could fairly be the ambience of the room, or the lack of sensible natters, if not because he was simply the only guy I had a good time talking to these past few days. And, he is one not to suggest a carnal topic which I have grown to adore in him. Whatever it is, it got to me.

Whilst the `fist fight story and the `I never lost a fight in elementary discussion brews on the main channel, I pondered languorously (and while I have nothing else to do but ponder too ).


Could missing someone be readily mistaken for a deeper more intense feeling?
Maybe even in the lines of attraction?

--oOo--

Anonymity

“We express ourselves better when we are in disguise.”

This quotation is from one of my all time favorite romantic flicks, (insert title here) I forgot the title though. *sheepish grin* It is an old movie and I only watched it about five times in 10 years now. Last time I did, they aired it on television; I only caught half of it. It was not a bad thing though because I still got to see most of the drama (usually they’re at the concluding segment of a movie), albeit I was not able to watch the beginning part.

One lingering scene there really stuck to me.

The setting was in a typical standard classroom with some high school students listening in on their teacher who was standing in front sharing his good insights and, of course, that days lecture. I still remember it quite vividly. It was probably, I think, around ten a.m. because the whole room was painted in a golden almost clementine shade, besides the fact that the class just started.*lol* There was this nerdy girl on the second row with both her hands clutched tightly to a book about sonnets,poems and Shakespeare, presumably. Her soft longing eyes was fixated at the teacher who right then took out something from beside his desk, uhh, some sort of odd looking bat. The piece of elongated L-shaped metal (or it could be wood) is used in ice hockey to “make the pot”(?). Anyways, he was toying with it while talking to the class about a play. He told the class about how one of the characters in the play, when she dressed up as a man, was able to express herself more freely and not to mention boldly. She was more liberated when she wore those clothes, and by masquerading as the opposite sex, it gave her the audacity to show her enduring love for the dashing but underprivileged male lead character. That in the shoes of a man, she had the confidence to do the things she would not in her wildest imagination carry out if in her feminine reality.

Methinks this true. That in costume we might comport distinctly from our usual selves. Perhaps in an attire that conceals a nature of ourselves, we would have an excuse to not be ourselves(?) but not entirely; I mean, to still be you but not exactly you. To let out a part of you that you held back in the public eye. From the immortal words of Shakespeare, “The world is a stage” and we are merely actors. Think of it as a recasting, when you wanted to play a different role. And giving life to the character in a disguise would give you the boost to effectually pull it off. It will indefinitely give us the drive to act upon those dreams that only ourselves can see. Those covert wishful thinkings that we are compelled to stifle from the world. We fear being judged, especially if we oppose the given opinions. I, for one, would heavily consider the thoughts of those around me when I behave and do things in a certain manner. For their biased and narrow-minded scrutiny are important to me, their reviews are my assurance that I am doing the right things in accord to a societal criterion, and secure my social life. But I would not mind emancipating myself from convention once in a while, an awful lot often while. An ingenious front would do the trick.

Good thing there is the internet. I can be as anonymous as a love letter from a secret admirer. What an analogy. *laughs at self* It is a great way to explore your personality though, pretending. Pretending to be someone else, someone you hope to be. Or it could be anything. You would find out things about you, or confirm them. To me it is some sort of escape from the tiring demands of reality. Because the fact that it is the reality, it inhibits us in a way.

As cheesy and silly as this sounds, this can also be true for me in the nature of relationships. I am frightened of intimacy so I restrain from it. I terribly want to keep a commodious space for myself, and my selfish need for discretion. It is the only way I can think of that would not completely give me away to the other person. Take it for a clever façade, or it could just be me not wanting to be ripped out to my bare stark skin. I would not dare let anyone see that in me. For I fear I might not be as charming to him, I might even be… boring. Because it is a horrible feeling when you realize the person knows you too well that he would be capable of reading even your innermost thoughts. I badly need to keep secrets; maybe it is that self-preservation thing.

But I also want to dip into that part of me that is carefree, unabashed, and brazen, to be free from the chains of self-doubt and insecurity. It would be awesome if I had some sort of permanent disguise. I would no longer need to hide and be reluctant of my actions. Slam hesitations, this is a new me. I would totally put myself out there.

Behold yee mateys, for here I come and cast a new star of the show.*In a piratey accent*

But then, if I did that, would it be truly me?

I wonder… if it were true, how then would we know if we are acting as our real genuine selves when we hypothetically express a truer form of ourselves behind a camouflage?

--oOo--