Étude VI. It’s Harder Than You Think

Take a step back. Relax. Chill out. Life is not exactly here to harm you. Life just wants to live. And you just want to live, too. It’s just that you don’t want to live life. You want to just live. But how do you live without having a life? Not so sure– look it up yourself. It’s harder than you think, living a life without lying, being kind… It’s hard to stay whole as a person when life is constantly on the lookout to save you, only to leave you harmed.

Life will build lighthouses to search for your soul. Life will build tsunamis to crash and erode the warmth of your heart. Life will claw on to every piece of human that you have. Life will hold on to you like a needy infant. It will say, Please, don’t leave.

Because life just wants to live. And we just want to live, too. We essentially come back to the same question. How do we live without having a life? For now, it’s not exactly possible. I guess you could look it up yourself. It’s harder than you think– living life as a person and trying to stay human when your very own supporter, Life, is always on the lookout to save you. Life just wants to live. Really.

So put back that thought of leaving Life behind. Life needs you, and you need Life. I know– it’s harder than you think. It’s hard to stay human. But Life needs to live. And so do you.

Étude V. GLASSY – A Person

Right outside the an old cafe, a girl was sitting on a small wooden stool. She held a warm roast of coffee in her left hand, and a small notebook in the other. It read LE PETIT PRINCE on the cover, along with a painted picture of a small boy standing on a planet with a flower. The girl’s slightly wavy hair, which fell to her shoulders gently, was a soft strawberry blonde. A beige knit cardigan was draped across her shoulders, and there was a hint of a maroon shirt inside. She was wearing black leggings, matched with a pair of tinted off-white high tops. Her amber eyes were dark but warm, and although she looked normal, a dragging impression of weakness could be felt by looking at her.

The girl put her coffee down on the ground, opened her notebook, and sighed. It was filled with nothing, and as hard as she had tried, she could not get a single idea down from her head to her notebook. It just didn’t connect– her fingertips, holding the pencil firmly, and her brain, projecting whimsical images of fantasy-like creatures and their actions. On the paper, there were grey marks and smudges, the remnants of sketches that had been erased. Putting aside her notebook and coffee, she stood up from her stool and stretched out her arms. Yawning, she bent over to pick up her items.

Her name was Glassy. She was a very sensitive character. In a way, she was like a passive-aggressive Venus Flytrap. She had strong opinions, but never showed them. It came to her that it would be much more “friendlier” to be modest and cut down on her own thoughts. To others, it seemed as if she was simply a transparent, weak girl. When she was tired, it always showed. She would wilt with a pout on her face that everybody could clearly see. Although she never realized it, she would grow extremely sensitive to things, to a point where she would become intimidating. When she wanted to be friendly, she would use her smile as a bandanna that she thought would cover her true feelings.

Her heart was built out of glass. It was shattered, taped, and rebuilt a myriad number of times. Who would break glass, when everyone knows how fragile it is? Why? and How?

How do you break Glassy?

Étude IV. Goodbyes

Too embarrassing to repeat, too apologetic if repeated. The endless chains of goodbyes, as I stay, chained onto the walls of guilt, and my good friend, deterring himself away from me. We keep repeating the “bye”‘s, word after word, step after step. He’s too far away, and as strong as I try, my words are muffled by his ignorance. I can tell that he’s trying too hard to stay with me. But he can’t, because I am a wrongdoer, and he is the prince. I had loved him, he had not; I had dedicated my life to him and framed myself, he had escaped the scene just as quickly as he had entered it. I had done what he had told me to, and he had not. He had broken our promise, yet I chose to forgive him. He had not.

As his horse carries him into his glorious palace of diamonds and blood, I stare away into the distance, at a dot that had previously been my first love, my best friend, and now, my accuser. The victim.

I want to stop saying goodbye, because it is tiring me. “Bye,” he says, for the last time ever, and I do not respond. Was this a bad choice? I’m not so sure. I do feel sorry that I had not said the last “bye”, but I am sure that I would’ve felt abandoned if I did end our long chain of goodbyes.

 

Étude III. Loose Ends

Come to me, dear, and tie my loose ends; I am lost and unforgiven in the world of horror. This world is merely a place of terror. I cannot tell you with words my feelings of fear. I cannot express myself without releasing a single tear. But you; my dear, you can. 

We must stand up on our very two feet, screaming and crying pools of our blood. And when our protests are complete, when the world has reached its limit, we must stand until the end, until our cries our heard over the rubble of skeletons and bodies.

Corpses will lie on the ground, immobile; paralyzed. Skeletons will line and decorate our grave. And they will come, and laugh at our blood, seeping through the stone cracks in the concrete that they mindlessly walk on. And they will not know, until they are punished with the same fate of ours. They will not know, they will not know, they will not know…

I am scared. I do not want to leave my home. But did you know, that a person could come into my house and gun me down? Did you know, that I am not even safe in the place that I belong? Did you know, that our schools and playgrounds are the gates to massacres? I am scared. I fear. I am not safe. Why is nobody protecting me? I do not want to protect myself, I do not want to learn how to defend myself, I do not want to learn how to hide in case of a shooting. I do not want any of this.

Instead of teaching me, come and tie my loose ends.

I am broken and torn apart inside. Each and every violent happening shakes me. I fear the world. I fear my home. I fear myself, my peers, my teachers, my loved ones… I fear everybody. Yet nobody wants to comfort me. And I did not want to explicitly ask for comfort, because that is a selfish act. I did not want to explicitly ask for a person to come and tie my loose ends, because it is a sensitive topic. The mood of a lively birthday party will be turned upside down by my mentioning of shootings, of racism, of hatred, of segregation, of terror, of everything. I fear death and love. I fear power. I fear my very own home, my world, myself.

But please, come and tie my loose ends. Because I will not die with my heartstrings untied, tripping on my own laces, falling down.

In the end, we are all the same.

Defining Me

Part Songfiction; most ideas are mine. Please keep this in mind that these are my personal opinions and that they were not meant to offend anybody. 

Kindly greeted by the brisk, cold wind, I step out the door. Fight it. I am strong. But I cannot help but hopelessly wonder, why, out of all people, me…

When they look at me, they see right through me. Can they really not see me? Am I nothing more than a transparent, monotoned human being? No. I am nothing more than a transparent, monotoned alien. I am something different. I’m not human. And because I’m not human, because I’m different from the supposedly “regular” people, I am ignored. They cannot see me, but I see everything that they do; including the corruption of this world and what needs to be fixed. But I cannot fix it. I am alone. I am a piece of paper to write down your favorite affronts; a styrofoam block to shoot bullets through. I am a person who will be noticed by everything, only to be disregarded. But I will stand with my very two feet, pointing towards justice; pointing towards the world that we will never have. I will stand with everyone, and I will be heard. But I will be ignored, because mastering the art of ignorance towards the different is their job, and I am a minority.

“All the people tell me that I’ve changed
In my eyes, they’re the ones who changed

The more I know about this world, I want to be apart from it
But I can’t be free from it just because I want to.
It feels like they were trying so hard to hide it and I somehow stumbled across it
I’m a person of the world, love. “

I am a person of the world. Do not tell me that I am incapable of making a change in this world. But please do, consider my ideas and everyone else’s. We are the people. And we can’t fix our corruption, but we are going to stand up anyways.


 

Song: AKMU – Around (this song is SOOOOO good, I advise you to listen to it! It’s very meaningful and thoughtful, the lyrics are just aAAHH TOO GREAT).

 

Étude II. The Unknown Two-Face, Love

“But she is perplexed by the purely enigmatic blindfold that one might call ‘love’. It is not love; she does not know.”

She longs to be free. She longs to be part of the wind, flying ceaselessly as she stays afloat, idle but lively. She wants to be with him, whoever “him” is, that will bring her love and spirit. She wants to be with “him”, who will ignite the small flame inside of her. She lives in her own world; a different dimension. Some call her a dreamer, others view her as an optimist. Little do they know, that despite her friendly exterior, a small beast lives inside.

Should the supposed “him” come, he would just as well light her candle. But it would burn her to ashes, down to her nub, transforming her to a used shell. She would become a shelled mollusk without its pearl. But she is perplexed by the enigmatic blindfold that one might call “love”. It is not love, but she does not know. We leave her alone, with “him”, letting them converse about their lives. She is merely falling for a trap all the while. She stares at his eyes, an ocean full of lies. But she sees the truth, the truth that only she can see. She sees the truth; and that truth is a lie.

This “him” propels and drops her in the middle of the vast sea. He forgets that she cannot swim, and she drowns in her own sea of tears, dedication, lies, truth, trust…

She is burnt; gone.

Étude I.

A palette of brightly colored lights shines in the dark room. It’s particularly crowded; not to mention deafening. A ring of people in semi-formal wear stands, encompassing a dancer. One female dancer.

She’s the emblem of beauty; the mascot of love. Her dress screams for attention, as it sticks to her figure and slides along with every dance move. It passes just above mid-thigh, a scarlet stripe of ribbon decorating the end hemline of the dress. Her shoes are crimson red, with impossibly high heels, as they click and clack to the rhythm of the exhilarated electric song. She’s dancing; entertaining both herself and the crowd. They cheer her on, screaming endless chains of her name as loud as their lungs could ever support. The crowd gets hyped up as she takes the dance one step further, the song changing tempo and roaring through the room. For a second, it seems like her piercing green eyes are looking at you, but the moment you look back and smile, her eyes are already on someone else. Her alluring, golden platinum hair swings with her every step, dragging you in, closer and closer. A whiff of her perfume and your feet unknowingly desire to get closer to her, despite the sea of people that you would have to swim through.

The music slows down, to a relaxing, almost slow techno beat. The crowd disappears, and the focus is on you now. You’re hooked. She’s coming closer, and now she’s only inches away from you. One step. The crowd surrounds you two, as you ride the waves of the music, forgetting all of your worries. It cleans you, but this is not what you want. You go along with it nevertheless, because– why not? It’s only for tonight, and the reason you came here is to meet people anyways. Flustered by her beauty and charm, you overdose.

Well, this is what you came for.


Songfiction: Calvin Harris – This Is What You Came For (ft. Rihanna).

I do not own the song in any way, or any part. I only own this piece of writing up above 🙂

An Introduction To Études: What They Are

Études are short pieces of writing for me to practice my skills on. Originally, the word “étude” is a word for a musical piece that exercises a musician’s technique and skill. Études are designed to help musicians focus and/or improve a certain technique. For my writing, however, I will use the word “Étude” as a category. Like a warm-up writing piece. I will write about various things and may or may not title each one of them. They will be similar to my Scenes, but the études will be based off of personal experiences that I have encountered and will be less descriptive of the setting. Études will be more focused on the actual writing and flow rather than word choice. In a word, my focus is content. 

Analogy II. Analogy From The Ageless

Warning: Slight rant. 

There are so many people that think to themselves, “Oh, I wish I could be younger”. And while they’re thinking those futile thoughts, time is just perpetually ticking on. Without even realizing that they are still young enough to enjoy life, they constantly think about the good times. Or what they think was the good times.

A person can ramble on about how they wish they were five years old again, clinging on to their mother’s skirt and being treated well and all that. But they also have the power to live in the present. Look at your child clinging on to your skirt. Treat your child well. I don’t know, you decide. Do you see how different things can be?

Because I’m not actually “old enough” to realize things. I’m less than half the age of most mother-to-be’s, and yet I can still realize this. When we are twelve, we’ll want to be five. When we’re twenty, we’ll want to live the young and careless life of when we were twelve. When we’re thirty, we’ll want to be as beautiful and lively as we were when we were twenty. And a few seconds before we die, we’ll realize that every single millisecond that we wasted on thinking about our age and life was a waste of time. And eventually, perhaps the moment we die, we will summarize our lives in one positive word. At least we had a chance. At least we got a life.

It doesn’t matter if you’re seventy-two years old. It doesn’t matter if you’re seven. It doesn’t matter if you’re near dying, and it doesn’t matter if you were just born (although unlikely). You have every right to a happy life. It is you who decides things. It is you who decides to be happy. It is you to decide whether you cry about your past or live life in the present, when it could possibly be the best time of our life without knowing it.

I’m a child, okay? I have my good days and bad days, and sometimes, life gets tough. And even I think about the times when I was little, when I was a toddler. When I knew nothing about the world except for cookies, Mom, Dad, and me. When my parents tucked me into bed and treated me as a baby. And I miss it. I miss those times so, so much.

But guess what? In the midst of all this past-time thinking and mourning and shedding past-inflicted tears, everything is worth it. Even that time when I’m missing my past is pretty much happy. And I can guarantee that for sure. I will grow up to be twenty years old and look at my then-past self and think, “Wow, times were great then.” And I will just shed even more tears about how happy I was. How happy I am.

Some people say that humans never forget the bad things. I can cry as much as I want about a bad grade on a test, or missing a concert. And I can feel as bad as I want to and feel like my life has no worth. But in the end, I will only remember one thing- how happy I was and how lucky times were/are, right now, right here.

Because when I die, I will only sum up my life as happy and a pinch of tough.