| Hotel Home. |
[Jun. 14th, 2009|09:59 pm] |
| [ | Current Music |
| | I Woke Up Near the Sea - Lydia | ] |
The supposed escape is now a mere figurehead. The streets are unfamiliar, they changed while my mind was in constant overdrive and having spasms of trying to make Live Trace on Illustrator vector impossible pictures stolen from the Google Image Search page. Play Led Zeppelin backwards, the stairways lead to the pits of hell. I am Zombie once the lift doors open to storey four and am unthinking as I glide the length of the corridor to my white gate white door. Inside it is a cave, furniture in half-shadows, the work of a single floor lamp, and curtains opaque and completely hiding unnecessary storage and a collection of dysfunctional light bulbs and dusty plastic hydrangeas.
If the doors of the rooms are closed, I bask in the eerie space, after the awful habit of looking above the door to check the time and then remembering Mom shifted teh plastic Ikea clock to the bathroom months ago (very frustrating). For three minutes I am alone, stolen from all chaos that is Mass Comm and almost achieving a blank state of mind. For three minutes the shelves at the back of my head are hastily packed with files of that day and its office desks have an insane number of Post-its of Things to Do Later. The frontal regions have achieved some sort of overwhelming Zen-ness and it almost pulls the sides of my lips into a curve. Almost. Because the big ship clock couldn't be more timely in its pretentious chime, it snatches my flying soul and handcuffs it to the hands of reality, swallowing the key. It bursts opens the windows up there, pouring out my disorganized, incomplete thinking to fill my brain again. Take out your surfboards, it is a tsunami. Tidal waves of unchecked to-do lists and foamy curls serve only as Towards Panic Mode speed boosts. They are unwelcome.
And the first door from the right opens, cold air gushing into the first two metres of the living room, enough to tempt me to slide into oblivion, but, no. My parents disguise "worry" with frustration and screaming that pound at my temples like throbbing headaches Panadol can't seem to kill. Kick me, but I have no idea what possessed me to believe that monosyllabalism was the way to go to combat situations like these. These monsters are suddenly greedy for words, spewing atrocities in escalated volumes, angry (?) that I lack initiative (or something) to accompany my Yes/No/Idunnos with an explanation. The Unspoken Why. The Unspoken Why is the death of me. Sue me for answering your questions with to-the-pointness. "One question, one mark, no need so long," said Mr. English Teacher.
It is only after reciting my timetable for the day and some tears thrown in for good measure, shower, be caught in a food dilemma (eat or no?) for half an hour, strain my eyes at Mr. Mac for four hours and attempt homework can I finally recreate the very fantastic Bruno Dayan photography at the start of this post. |
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| Comments: |
Hihi! Kana here ; ) Add me please!
Aww, hi Kana, your blog is very very quaint! ♥
I think I just.........................don't bother. I escape. It's far from confrontational, I know. But I really don't want to deal with this now. Maybe only when I'm done making them happy. Maybe when I'm part of "the World". Because that's when suddenly they'll become People instead of Mom and Dad.
They will never be happy. At times I feel that I have this innate epiphany that they have been People all along. I've been unfazed and distant to everything at home, which pisses the hell out of my dad. But........
haiya you know the rest of the story.
What I meant by "People" was that we'd all be on the same level. Where I could finally take their flaws as part of human nature, judge them and they wouldn't have the I am Your Father excuse to cushion their hypocrisy, mistakes and shit. I hate being in this limbo, dancing on the fine line between kidhood and Adult City, where there is a need for self-censorship when you need to point out something.
High-five on the obliviousness. It ticks my dad off to no end too. And it ticks me that it ticks him. Like, I'm not at home anyway????
From: (Anonymous)
2009-06-14 11:00 pm (UTC)
Noel. | (Link)
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I see you can write there, woman. We need to hang out, woman. Hang out not only because of studying, woman. But for fun as well, woman. Have fun this holiday, woman. Miss me, woman. LMAO. That was a womanly post for you :D
![[User Picture]](http://l-userpic.livejournal.com/96607936/12319632) | From: ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif) qlassik
2009-06-14 11:18 pm (UTC)
Re: Noel. | (Link)
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Go to your tagboard.
From: (Anonymous)
2009-06-14 11:01 pm (UTC)
Noel. | (Link)
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p.s. I still don't see my <3 letter up there, woman.
| From: qlassik
2009-06-14 11:18 pm (UTC)
Re: Noel. | (Link)
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Patience *assumes yoga pose*
Ifzzz, we still kinda have yet to talk proper.
Barney takes up a lot of conversation time and I think we need to make him sit in the corner for a while.
):
+1 No more HIMYM references the next time we meet.
HOLLA.
And deffo no Bro Code.
Burn Bro Code.
NO.
OMG I'M ITCHING FOR BARNEY.
I KNOW RIGHT I KNOW RIGHT I KNOW RIGHT
OH GOD BARNEY YOU KILL.
ANYWAY, I AM PASSING IT DOWN TO MY SON.
Hello Library room in future-new-awesome-house.
HAI HAI HAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!!!!!!!!!! | |
