Do you ever feel like breaking down?
Do you ever feel out of place?
Like somehow you just don't belong and no one understands you.
Do you ever wanna run away?
Do you lock yourself in your room?
With the radio on, turned up so loud,
That no one hears you screaming.
No you don't know what it's like!
When nothing feels alright.
You don't know what it's like to be like me...
To be hurt, to feel lost, to be left out in the dark.
The be kicked, when you're down, to feel like you've been pushed around.
To be on the edge of breaking down and no one's there to save you,
No you don't know what it's like...
Welcome to my life.
Do you wanna be somebody else?
Are you sick of feeling so left out?
Are you desperate to find something more before your life is over?
Are you stuck inside a world you hate?
Are you sick of everyone around?
With the big fake smiles and stupid lies when deep inside you're bleeding.
No you don't know what's like!
When nothing feels alright.
You don't know what it's like to be like me...
To be hurt, to feel lost, to be left out in the dark.
To be kicked, when you're down, to feel like you've been pushed around.
To be on the edge of breaking down and no one's there to save you,
No you don't know what it's like...
Welcome to my life.
No one ever lied straight to your face,
No one ever stabbed you in the back.
You might think I'm happy but I'm not gonna be ok.
Everybody always gave you what you wanted,
You never had to work, it was always there.
You don't know what it's like, what it's like...
To be hurt, to feel lost, to be left out in the dark.
To be kicked, when you're down, to feel like you've been pushed around.
To be on the edge of breaking down and no one's there to save you,
No you don't know what it's like...
To be hurt, to feel lost, to be left out in the dark.
To be kicked, when you're down, to feel like you've been pushed around.
To be on the edge of breaking down and no one's there to save you,
No you don't know what it's like...
Welcome to my life.
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
No You Don't Know What It's Like! You Don't Know What It's Like To Be Like Me... To Be Hurt, To Feel Lost, To Be Left Out In The Dark...
Incidentally, this is an excellent song for when you're feeling stressed out. So expressive! Says everything for you. *laughs*
I've heard various comments about this song being whiny and immature considering the incredibly teenage-angst theme to it. But come to think of it, maybe it's not really all that it sounds like.
I saw the video for the song. Simple Plan performing on a suspension bridge causing a huge traffic hold-up. And the camera shows some of the people in the car, having fights, feeling crummy, in accordance to the lyrics. Then at the end of the video, those people all get out of the car and start walking en masse through the traffic gridlock to join the band.
The video kinda got me thinking. The lyrics says, "No you don't know what it's like, etc." and to some may sound incredibly self-centred and self-absorbed. But accompanied with the video, it gave me a different impression.
What if the song was meant to express how everyone feels like during one of those moments, the feeling of being all alone in a rut, but the video shows that that angst is a universal thing, shared by many other people in the world. That would explain the lyrics being one way, and the video another, portraying a group of disgruntled individuals walking en masse away from their cars towards the other end of the bridge, almost like some exodus.
So the actual point of the song then, is not merely to whine about a situation, but also like a mirror, to portray a common human condition. Then the video steps in to show the say, for want of a better phrase, the bigger picture. Probably. Yes? No? Makes sense? *sits back and smiles with satisfaction* I knew it.
So the song can be taken either way. For the people who just want to enjoy the song and not look too much into it, then we can all just enjoy the fact that Simple Plan says everything we wanna say at the moment and more with such spunk! Yeah! We can just take it as raw expression of angst with drums and electric guitars to dance around the room to. I mean you gotta admit, they say it so well! They're strumming the frustration with their guitars and singing the angst with their words. Just like that old song "Killing Me Softly".
And for those who need to find a deeper meaning to the song instead of just adolescent whining, well now there you have it! *smiles*
I've heard various comments about this song being whiny and immature considering the incredibly teenage-angst theme to it. But come to think of it, maybe it's not really all that it sounds like.
I saw the video for the song. Simple Plan performing on a suspension bridge causing a huge traffic hold-up. And the camera shows some of the people in the car, having fights, feeling crummy, in accordance to the lyrics. Then at the end of the video, those people all get out of the car and start walking en masse through the traffic gridlock to join the band.
The video kinda got me thinking. The lyrics says, "No you don't know what it's like, etc." and to some may sound incredibly self-centred and self-absorbed. But accompanied with the video, it gave me a different impression.
What if the song was meant to express how everyone feels like during one of those moments, the feeling of being all alone in a rut, but the video shows that that angst is a universal thing, shared by many other people in the world. That would explain the lyrics being one way, and the video another, portraying a group of disgruntled individuals walking en masse away from their cars towards the other end of the bridge, almost like some exodus.
So the actual point of the song then, is not merely to whine about a situation, but also like a mirror, to portray a common human condition. Then the video steps in to show the say, for want of a better phrase, the bigger picture. Probably. Yes? No? Makes sense? *sits back and smiles with satisfaction* I knew it.
So the song can be taken either way. For the people who just want to enjoy the song and not look too much into it, then we can all just enjoy the fact that Simple Plan says everything we wanna say at the moment and more with such spunk! Yeah! We can just take it as raw expression of angst with drums and electric guitars to dance around the room to. I mean you gotta admit, they say it so well! They're strumming the frustration with their guitars and singing the angst with their words. Just like that old song "Killing Me Softly".
And for those who need to find a deeper meaning to the song instead of just adolescent whining, well now there you have it! *smiles*
Saturday, 22 May 2010
Well Now. *to be said with an upward inflection like a mild exclamation of wonder*
"Mademoiselle, why is it that you seem to have a disdain for almost everything?" I threw my head back and chuckled over my mug at her.
"Ah M.G," Mademoiselle replied with a scoff. Then she stared at me straight on for moment and then said dismissively, "Because almost everything has never made me happy."
"Ah M.G," Mademoiselle replied with a scoff. Then she stared at me straight on for moment and then said dismissively, "Because almost everything has never made me happy."
Missy's Story.
"Well 'Letters to Juliet' was awesome wasn't it?" Missy said with enthusiasm.
"Oh yes it was. I love it!" I grinned back. "It was so damn romantic..." I allowed myself to swoon.
"Yeah it was," Missy sighed and smiled.
We watched "Letters to Juliet" and it truly is an incredibly sweet and romantic story. Had me smiling all the way.
"M.G, I'd much rather think of love than my dreams and ambition," Missy told me, kicking the cobbled stone pavement before us lightly.
"Maybe love is more important to you than anything else?"
"Maybe..." we stopped walking and she fidgeted. "It's just, it's easier! Because I'd much rather dream about something that could happen instead of something that couldn't." she burst out.
"One fills you with hope, the other with despair." We continued walking.
Missy was right. The other has got to hurt more. Wanting something you cannot see any plausible way of getting to at the moment. And even if you could it just seems so far away that you wonder if you could ever make it. Add in self doubt into the mix and you've got a walloping portion of despair. I understood. And I told Missy that.
Missy acknowledged then that she thought I was right. Maybe love did mean more to her than anything. Maybe even her dreams. At the moment she cannot be entirely sure about it all, but she had a feeling it was possible. Maybe, she just wanted a place to belong.
"M.G, I just want my fairytale ending," Missy said softly.
I placed my hand on her back lightly. "I know. We all do. But I can't give it to you," "But someone will," I continued more brightly.
Missy just smiled. I know. She's heard it all before. We all have. Those trills may be true but they've become overused, repetitive and cliched.
"Who would like someone like me, M.G," she continued, even softer than before. "I'm neurotic! I've got friggin' OCD for God's sakes! I'm not the most endearing character..." she trailed off. Utter despair in her voice.
"Listen, Missy." But the truth was I didn't really know what to say. I don't have all the answers.
So I just gave her a hug.
"Missy I know you've got issues. Mademoiselle does too and she makes to cover it all up. But you both are no fools and you know what's the deal. Tell me you don't really feel all that hopeless because I know somehow you're still hoping for..." I shrugged.
"I know. But sometimes this feeling of hopelessness just washes over me and I can't see it. I just can't see the chances of it happening for me. When I really think about it. I'm just scared that all my hopes are for nothing."
"Yes, there's that." ... "But at the end of the day, you still hope. And no matter how much you may or may've doubted, you still hope. There must be a reason for that."
... "And for what it's worth, you really aren't that bad."
"You know, Mademoiselle's friend said that she needs a childish guy, someone she can look after, because she's a strong, independant girl." I smiled and looked away. "But he's wrong."
"She may be a strong willed, independant girl. But she's using up all she's got to take care of herself. She really can't afford to be taking care of another person. She needs someone who can take care of her, because in actuality, she's not one to be the caregiver. She needs to lean on someone."
I chuckled.
"But no one will ever know that. Because she's doesn't let on," I looked at Missy. "Let's hope she gets that covered eh?"
Missy has the good balance in this mix I think. She doesn't squirrel away her feelings and emotions in a cupboard and board it up. She lets it out and makes it known. Ok, fine. She's emo depressive, maybe some might say whiny and always seems forever plagued with issues and worries and she never seems to be happy. But at least she's honest about it. There's no pride in hiding your feelings away like Mademoiselle does. Sure, the world sees you differently. Probably in a much better light than Missy will be viewed, judging from the current status. But, what then?
When you think about it, what then? At the end of the day, what exactly have you achieved by doing that? You've managed to make people like you by putting on a show. So you'll be left there feeling defeated no matter what because whatever you said and did up to that point, is not a true personification of who you really are.
Whatever happened to that Dr. Seuss saying, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." The old man had a point there.
"Oh yes it was. I love it!" I grinned back. "It was so damn romantic..." I allowed myself to swoon.
"Yeah it was," Missy sighed and smiled.
We watched "Letters to Juliet" and it truly is an incredibly sweet and romantic story. Had me smiling all the way.
"M.G, I'd much rather think of love than my dreams and ambition," Missy told me, kicking the cobbled stone pavement before us lightly.
"Maybe love is more important to you than anything else?"
"Maybe..." we stopped walking and she fidgeted. "It's just, it's easier! Because I'd much rather dream about something that could happen instead of something that couldn't." she burst out.
"One fills you with hope, the other with despair." We continued walking.
Missy was right. The other has got to hurt more. Wanting something you cannot see any plausible way of getting to at the moment. And even if you could it just seems so far away that you wonder if you could ever make it. Add in self doubt into the mix and you've got a walloping portion of despair. I understood. And I told Missy that.
Missy acknowledged then that she thought I was right. Maybe love did mean more to her than anything. Maybe even her dreams. At the moment she cannot be entirely sure about it all, but she had a feeling it was possible. Maybe, she just wanted a place to belong.
"M.G, I just want my fairytale ending," Missy said softly.
I placed my hand on her back lightly. "I know. We all do. But I can't give it to you," "But someone will," I continued more brightly.
Missy just smiled. I know. She's heard it all before. We all have. Those trills may be true but they've become overused, repetitive and cliched.
"Who would like someone like me, M.G," she continued, even softer than before. "I'm neurotic! I've got friggin' OCD for God's sakes! I'm not the most endearing character..." she trailed off. Utter despair in her voice.
"Listen, Missy." But the truth was I didn't really know what to say. I don't have all the answers.
So I just gave her a hug.
"Missy I know you've got issues. Mademoiselle does too and she makes to cover it all up. But you both are no fools and you know what's the deal. Tell me you don't really feel all that hopeless because I know somehow you're still hoping for..." I shrugged.
"I know. But sometimes this feeling of hopelessness just washes over me and I can't see it. I just can't see the chances of it happening for me. When I really think about it. I'm just scared that all my hopes are for nothing."
"Yes, there's that." ... "But at the end of the day, you still hope. And no matter how much you may or may've doubted, you still hope. There must be a reason for that."
... "And for what it's worth, you really aren't that bad."
"You know, Mademoiselle's friend said that she needs a childish guy, someone she can look after, because she's a strong, independant girl." I smiled and looked away. "But he's wrong."
"She may be a strong willed, independant girl. But she's using up all she's got to take care of herself. She really can't afford to be taking care of another person. She needs someone who can take care of her, because in actuality, she's not one to be the caregiver. She needs to lean on someone."
I chuckled.
"But no one will ever know that. Because she's doesn't let on," I looked at Missy. "Let's hope she gets that covered eh?"
Missy has the good balance in this mix I think. She doesn't squirrel away her feelings and emotions in a cupboard and board it up. She lets it out and makes it known. Ok, fine. She's emo depressive, maybe some might say whiny and always seems forever plagued with issues and worries and she never seems to be happy. But at least she's honest about it. There's no pride in hiding your feelings away like Mademoiselle does. Sure, the world sees you differently. Probably in a much better light than Missy will be viewed, judging from the current status. But, what then?
When you think about it, what then? At the end of the day, what exactly have you achieved by doing that? You've managed to make people like you by putting on a show. So you'll be left there feeling defeated no matter what because whatever you said and did up to that point, is not a true personification of who you really are.
Whatever happened to that Dr. Seuss saying, "Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind." The old man had a point there.
Mademoiselle's Story.
Mademoiselle sat facing me, again, as usual. She had one leg crossed over the other and her stiletto heel gleamed as it caught the light.
"Someone made me cry once," she said simply, examining her manicured nails. "And funnily enough, it was not the usual tears of anger, sorrow, heartbreak of frustration. No. These were tears of happiness."
"I was so moved I cried," she said this with an almost wonder in her eyes and voice.
I raised an eyebrow.
"You know you hear about stuff like this in the movies all the time. People crying tears of happiness." she said with a wave. Slight pause there. She was trying to gather her words and say it best she can.
"But," pause, "It was nice, so kind, so thoughtful, so... Monumental! No one had ever done something so kind and nice for me before in my life! And the fact that they did then, shocked me beyond words or actions." "I literally couldn't believe it. A complete turmoil of emotions which I let out by exploding into tears. Sobbing and wailing really," she said nonchalantly with a light tone as if she were recounting the weather of the past two days.
"Hmmmm," I nodded slightly.
"I guess I never thought something like that could ever happen for me. I genuinely never ever thought it possible that I never even in my wildest dreams fantasized about it. So when it hit me, it hit me real hard. I felt winded. Like I'd been run over by a bus. And when the shock passed, the tears and the sobs just poured out of me in waves and convulsions."
I acknowledged all this with a slight inclination of my head. I must say, this is interesting. Unusual.
"This is not a proud thing for me as you must know," she continued, exhaling a stream of smoke. "These things don't happen to me," she said matter-of-factly.
"..."
"But it did that once. And..." Silence. "Well! I must say, it was definitely interesting. Something highly unusual."
I smiled at Mademoiselle. I understood how she felt. I could see it, even if she herself tried so very hard not to. Or doesn't try at all. It was easier for her to ignore it. It was unchartered territory for her. But emotions are a part of everyone's life. And although Mademoiselle seems to have built a reputation centered around her casual lack of it, someone has to bear witness to the fact that she is indeed human. That someone is me.
Rare moments of Mademoiselle's indeed. As I've said before, *smiles* Mademoiselle, you do so entertain me.
"Someone made me cry once," she said simply, examining her manicured nails. "And funnily enough, it was not the usual tears of anger, sorrow, heartbreak of frustration. No. These were tears of happiness."
"I was so moved I cried," she said this with an almost wonder in her eyes and voice.
I raised an eyebrow.
"You know you hear about stuff like this in the movies all the time. People crying tears of happiness." she said with a wave. Slight pause there. She was trying to gather her words and say it best she can.
"But," pause, "It was nice, so kind, so thoughtful, so... Monumental! No one had ever done something so kind and nice for me before in my life! And the fact that they did then, shocked me beyond words or actions." "I literally couldn't believe it. A complete turmoil of emotions which I let out by exploding into tears. Sobbing and wailing really," she said nonchalantly with a light tone as if she were recounting the weather of the past two days.
"Hmmmm," I nodded slightly.
"I guess I never thought something like that could ever happen for me. I genuinely never ever thought it possible that I never even in my wildest dreams fantasized about it. So when it hit me, it hit me real hard. I felt winded. Like I'd been run over by a bus. And when the shock passed, the tears and the sobs just poured out of me in waves and convulsions."
I acknowledged all this with a slight inclination of my head. I must say, this is interesting. Unusual.
"This is not a proud thing for me as you must know," she continued, exhaling a stream of smoke. "These things don't happen to me," she said matter-of-factly.
"..."
"But it did that once. And..." Silence. "Well! I must say, it was definitely interesting. Something highly unusual."
I smiled at Mademoiselle. I understood how she felt. I could see it, even if she herself tried so very hard not to. Or doesn't try at all. It was easier for her to ignore it. It was unchartered territory for her. But emotions are a part of everyone's life. And although Mademoiselle seems to have built a reputation centered around her casual lack of it, someone has to bear witness to the fact that she is indeed human. That someone is me.
Rare moments of Mademoiselle's indeed. As I've said before, *smiles* Mademoiselle, you do so entertain me.
Hey You, Looking Like An Angel.
One of the preteen novels I read once described an incredibly cute guy as looking just like them angels in those Italian paintings and frescoes. And you know, you always hear it mentioned in movies, or in books, wherever. Of guys so good looking they apparently look like angels. And you know they're referring to those wall paintings again. I was like, what? Because in my mind's eye, those angels are either androgynous (and not in a good way) or cherubic, chubby little babies flying around VERY "modestly" clothed. *laughs* But to me, that is so not what I would call a hot guy. I couldn't even imagine a cute guy looking even remotely like those paintings. I just don't get it.
Until I saw this guy at the bowling alley one day. Oh. My. God he was cute! He was good looking alright. THEN I understood. Because as I stood there at the snack counter (he was right beside me) gawking at him in disbelief, the thought, the phrase immediately entered my mind. "Looks like one of those angels in the Italian paintings." Finally I could really see it. I could ACTUALLY see it! And the phrase was right! Spot on! Confused?
He was not one of those chubby babies and his gender is not in question, but he did! He looked like one of those angels! :o His short hair was lightly curly, we're talking more like loose waves and they were of a brownish, sandy gold-ish colour. His eyes were blue and his eyelashes long. His skin is fair, not tanned, and his face had this kind of olden day Greek bust to it without actually looking like one (Because most of those Greek busts were not good looking either).
So THAT'S what they meant! So THAT'S what the simile means! And now finally, I could see it. I could imagine it. I get it now. I so get it now. *laughs*
When I think back about it, he wasn't really that that THAT good looking. Or maybe time has just blurred the image from my memory. He was handsome yes, in a certain way, but he wasn't really drop-dead gorgeous like I'd die right now! gorgeous. As far as I remember. But something about his looks did strike me. It was like a flash of lightning, like someone switching on the light, seeing that guy that day. Maybe it was the phrase, and finally being able to understand it that got me. I just remember how the encounter made me feel and my thoughts at that moment. Quite vividly. But then again, it was some years ago. *shrugs* Maybe he really was that cute.
Until I saw this guy at the bowling alley one day. Oh. My. God he was cute! He was good looking alright. THEN I understood. Because as I stood there at the snack counter (he was right beside me) gawking at him in disbelief, the thought, the phrase immediately entered my mind. "Looks like one of those angels in the Italian paintings." Finally I could really see it. I could ACTUALLY see it! And the phrase was right! Spot on! Confused?
He was not one of those chubby babies and his gender is not in question, but he did! He looked like one of those angels! :o His short hair was lightly curly, we're talking more like loose waves and they were of a brownish, sandy gold-ish colour. His eyes were blue and his eyelashes long. His skin is fair, not tanned, and his face had this kind of olden day Greek bust to it without actually looking like one (Because most of those Greek busts were not good looking either).
So THAT'S what they meant! So THAT'S what the simile means! And now finally, I could see it. I could imagine it. I get it now. I so get it now. *laughs*
When I think back about it, he wasn't really that that THAT good looking. Or maybe time has just blurred the image from my memory. He was handsome yes, in a certain way, but he wasn't really drop-dead gorgeous like I'd die right now! gorgeous. As far as I remember. But something about his looks did strike me. It was like a flash of lightning, like someone switching on the light, seeing that guy that day. Maybe it was the phrase, and finally being able to understand it that got me. I just remember how the encounter made me feel and my thoughts at that moment. Quite vividly. But then again, it was some years ago. *shrugs* Maybe he really was that cute.
The Book of Tomorrow, Cecelia Ahern.
I just finished Cecelia Ahern's The Book of Tomorrow. Wow. Now that was a tearfest right there. Had me sobbing into my tissue. Literally. Sobbing. I was crying so much I couldn't breathe and had to blow my nose before continuing with the crying. It went that way for about two to three cycles. Now that is a sad story.
Maybe it is because the main character is closer to my age that it is easier to identify with her. Or maybe it's the sheer descriptiveness of her writing, descriptive of Tamara's incredibly bleak and hopeless looking situation, her intense sorrow and a sense of desperation privy only to the trapped and those with seemingly nowhere else to go. It was heart-rending really.
I mean, it's just so sad to see a spoiled brat who was so used to getting everything she wanted and needed and who did not need to care about anything or anyone in her life, be faced with such a crushing turn of events. The regret, the despair, the sense of being lost, the realization, the sorrow and the wish that she had done things differently all in relation to her family was just heart breaking it was. I would say the reader has no choice but to feel for her.
The book displays before us an array of "moral lessons". Take the time to look around, see all the good that you have and try to appreciate it more. Especially the people around you. It's no use regretting it after they're gone or things've changed. Changing is seeing the world with new eyes. And seeing the people you once knew with new eyes.
Tamara did not see how much her father had loved her before his death and she being a spoilt brat, breezed through life aware and unaware of the fact at the same time. When he finally committed suicide one day and left her life in a downward spiral, in hindsight only did she see the things that she was once so blind to. However, that is the way things are sometimes. It is incredibly hard to see something when you're too close to the project. A step back, allowing for more detachment and objectivity is required sometimes for some realizations to set in. Is that the way things're meant to be perhaps?
The description is vivid, the words precise, and the story... Interesting. I must say there was quite a bit of intrigue in it which developed itself into a full blown mystery by the end of the story. I am actually less moved by the whole plotline than the immediate story concerning Tamara herself and her personal experiences and emotions. That was the one that hit the jackpot and opened up floods of tears. Now that is what I call a tearjerker. A good book, I would assure any prospective readers.
Maybe it is because the main character is closer to my age that it is easier to identify with her. Or maybe it's the sheer descriptiveness of her writing, descriptive of Tamara's incredibly bleak and hopeless looking situation, her intense sorrow and a sense of desperation privy only to the trapped and those with seemingly nowhere else to go. It was heart-rending really.
I mean, it's just so sad to see a spoiled brat who was so used to getting everything she wanted and needed and who did not need to care about anything or anyone in her life, be faced with such a crushing turn of events. The regret, the despair, the sense of being lost, the realization, the sorrow and the wish that she had done things differently all in relation to her family was just heart breaking it was. I would say the reader has no choice but to feel for her.
The book displays before us an array of "moral lessons". Take the time to look around, see all the good that you have and try to appreciate it more. Especially the people around you. It's no use regretting it after they're gone or things've changed. Changing is seeing the world with new eyes. And seeing the people you once knew with new eyes.
Tamara did not see how much her father had loved her before his death and she being a spoilt brat, breezed through life aware and unaware of the fact at the same time. When he finally committed suicide one day and left her life in a downward spiral, in hindsight only did she see the things that she was once so blind to. However, that is the way things are sometimes. It is incredibly hard to see something when you're too close to the project. A step back, allowing for more detachment and objectivity is required sometimes for some realizations to set in. Is that the way things're meant to be perhaps?
The description is vivid, the words precise, and the story... Interesting. I must say there was quite a bit of intrigue in it which developed itself into a full blown mystery by the end of the story. I am actually less moved by the whole plotline than the immediate story concerning Tamara herself and her personal experiences and emotions. That was the one that hit the jackpot and opened up floods of tears. Now that is what I call a tearjerker. A good book, I would assure any prospective readers.
Friday, 21 May 2010
Inspiration.
I haven't written in a while. And I must say. The past month, there has been a wall of uninspiration. Blocking my effort to write, blocking my desire to express anything using the written word. It comes and goes with the flow I guess. With phases and seasons. And no doubt, seasons and phases of laziness definitely play a part in my writer's block as well. Probably to every writer too. Sometimes, inspiration just doesn't come and you're just too lazy to go out looking for it. *shrugs*
Knowing You, Knowing Me.
"I've got a grain of pride buried within a haystack of insecurities," Madmeoiselle announced proudly to me with that typical slightly smug with a hint of arrogance look on her face. She looked down her nose at me, expecting my response.
"Oh. Ok. That's an interesting way to put it. What's up with that?"
"Why not. I mean, who can be a better authority on me, than me myself right?"
I have to say I agree. She's got a point there. She's got a point.
"Oh. Ok. That's an interesting way to put it. What's up with that?"
"Why not. I mean, who can be a better authority on me, than me myself right?"
I have to say I agree. She's got a point there. She's got a point.
Missy and Mademoiselle.
"Mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle just sat silently in her armchair, staring out the window, then somewhere in my direction, but past me. She was stalling. It was like a word was hanging upon her lips and she was going to say it, wanted to say it, and not wanting to say it at the same time. I would say that it was just a general idea, not specific, fully formed words that she had in mind and it hung there like a dead weight, while she swirled it around in her mouth, deciding when and whether or not to spit it out. The sunshine fell from a window to her right, lightly on her face at an angle and gave the scene before me a cool picture-like quality. Well Mademoiselle sure knows how to place herself. I raised an eyebrow.
Our faces were still, each a perfect mask of inexpression. It was so neutral that I could feel the lack of expression on my face. I felt like I was wearing a plastic mask. That must be how she feels too. Ah, such self-conscious, self-aware people we both are. The smoke from her stick coiled lazily upwards as she draped her hand carelessly over the armrest of her chair.
I knew she would say something when she was ready. She likes to make an entrance mademoiselle does. And when she says it, her words would've been very carefully considered.
Then she smiled. And I felt the crease come to my own face with a relief, feeling my muscles tug themselves into a smile of my own. Finally. My face felt free and looser, not set in that perfect expression of emotionless inexpresison.
I should think Mademoiselle had decided in the end not to say anything at all about it then, judging by her continued lack of words. The atmosphere of something hanging in the air passed because she had decided there was nothing to be said and shattered the suspense. Her body relaxed quite visibly from its rigid contemplative frame and sank more heavily into the cushions of the armchair. These are comfortable armchairs.
I looked away. So why is it then that we even ventured upon this discussion? Or, almost discussion? She had to say it. She had to say something, she had to bring it out. And now that she has, something feels done. Acknowledged and discussed, although no actual lenghty discussion had taken place. It lightens her burden.
I shifted my gaze again. For so long I have been the mediator between Mademoiselle, and Missy. Mademoiselle is cold, cold, cold, steel. She pierces and stabs. She rams straight on, buffeting like the wind. Missy is warm. Soft, liquid. She muffles and wraps around. She is like the tear that slides down your cheek, fluid, still warm.
They need me. They need my balance. They need the balance.
Now silence hung still and heavy in the air. I wanted to open my mouth and say something. Indeed, my muscles ached to move and form words that will come floating out into the air and renew it, replacing the stale silence that now hung there. But somehow, a certain reluctance, the same kind that held Mademoiselle's words moments ago, held mine now. It was a silence I longed to break, but was also reluctant to.
"Sometimes I wonder if we could do without ourselves," Mademoiselle spoke. Shatter. The air felt fresh and clean again and I felt like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Breath came more freely and lightly now. I smiled. A sunny smile. This was more like it. Conversation. No matter about what. Not that stupid, stale silence. Tinkling music of talking. I smiled.
"Now, now. Why do you say that?"
She shrugged. I smiled wider. Shit. I need to think. This takes some thinking. Thinking means silence. I rather jabber on.
I sighed. "Mademoiselle, you and Missy, you both burden yourselves too much. Lighten up." Well, that didn't take too much thinking.
She shrugged again.
"Sometimes I wonder if my family might've had a history of mental illness, somewhere down the line. Occasionally, it jusr gets so... I feel like I'm in real danger of sliding, however remote it is. For the moment, it feels more... possible."
Well that came out eventually.
"Does it matter? You know you're not gonna, you won't. And that you'll forget all about this once something distracts you. It won't feel so pressing to be discussed anymore. That's how it always goes. You pass."
"Yes, I pass." She smiled. "I pass. As I always do. So 'I' am a symptom, yes?"
"Yes Mademoiselle, you are symptom. The state of being you, is a symptom. To yourself, and to other people maybe."
Mademoiselle laughed. Loud and boldly. Missy would be there soon.
True to my word, Missy walked in. I watched her approach. Her walk was soft in a way, every move of her legs was played in almost slow-motion. Her walk acquired an almost fluid, characteristic quality of her. It's her walk. That's how Missy walks. A physical embodiment of her character. She is soft, she is warm, she is... Hot chocolate. Her walk is like hot chocolate. A marshmallow comes to mind. Soft, fluffy. Missy walks soft. I'm thinking too much.
I turned my gaze away resolutely. The reverie was broken. Truth is Missy walks like any other normal person. I am thinking too much. I shook my head slowly. The Madmeoiselle symptom. Then I chuckled.
"Missy you had something to say?" That was me.
Missy just smiled, a gentle smile. It wasn't a sad smile. It wasn't a radiant, happy happy smile. It was just a smile. A Mona Lisa smile. Damn it. I smiled mirthlessly and looked down at my lap.
Silence again. Oh God. Damn it. Ok this was going way out of hand. I am used to them talking. Madmeoiselle with her loud boasts and flambuoyant manner. Her bold words and bolder statements. Her sometimes insightful, sometimes dismissive, sometimes disdainful, sometimes objective jabber as she goes on and on about people. People in general, people she knows. Herself, anything. I am used to her waving about her peacock tail, more colourful than a peacock's and more, much more flashy and... Blinged out. That was Mademoiselle. She was the voice and image of solid, efficient, and material ideals.
Missy on the other hand, I'm used to her soft voice accounting her woes or her sorrows. Pouring it all out to us so we can share and help her left her burden, help her feel better about the world and herself. Or her wailing voice, sharp and forceful, jabbering on and on when she's in a state of wild abandon and hysteria, angry and letting the world know. Not caring. She was explosive, could be. Missy is subjectivity where Madmeoiselle is objectivity. A torrent of water rushing down from the bucket placed above the door and splashing all over the floor. That image comes to mind. I am used to hearing her moan about something or other. Complaining, insecurity, doubt.
But now this silence. This small smile. I was not used to. What is this? Subtlety is not for those two. That is my job. Those two are to be as flambuoyant as ever. To the max. The two extremes. Subtlety is my territory. Now what is this?
What happens when the extreme does not know how to be extreme? What happens when the hurricane feels a pull away from it's nature and does not rage? Madmeoiselle and Missy. They know where they stand. They know they're the extremes and they're supposed to be. What to do when even the two extremes find confusion in being themselves? Then what is sure anymore? Then what is certain?
I remained where I was. But I cannot. Remaining where I am is boring. Neither does this pasture hold any more interest for me. I am bored, I need new sights. I need new incentives and new excitement. New life. So I'm not going to remain where I am in this limbo. It may be a tentative balance between two raging extremes, but so what. It's not a good place to be. There's no more energy and enthusiasm. No life. It serves no one, particularly not me, any purpose. So I'm going where the party is.
"Let's move seats." I declared to the two of them.
We three picked up our bags and abandoned our outpost, heading deeper into the cafe where the chatter picked up and sat down at a new table.
Now this is better, Fresh and new. We ordered new drinks. Expensive new drinks. New smoke curled up comfortably from Mademoiselle's poised hand as she leaned forward, probably about to say something trashy. And conversation flowed.
Madmeoiselle, dismissive, disdainful, haughty, arrogant. Missy, understanding, gentle, forgiving, hesitant. The dynamics fluorished. Laughter abounded. Serious words exchanged. Gossip flew. Judgements hurled without thought of dencency or consideration for the person spoken about. *smiles* It's the good life.
Mademoiselle just sat silently in her armchair, staring out the window, then somewhere in my direction, but past me. She was stalling. It was like a word was hanging upon her lips and she was going to say it, wanted to say it, and not wanting to say it at the same time. I would say that it was just a general idea, not specific, fully formed words that she had in mind and it hung there like a dead weight, while she swirled it around in her mouth, deciding when and whether or not to spit it out. The sunshine fell from a window to her right, lightly on her face at an angle and gave the scene before me a cool picture-like quality. Well Mademoiselle sure knows how to place herself. I raised an eyebrow.
Our faces were still, each a perfect mask of inexpression. It was so neutral that I could feel the lack of expression on my face. I felt like I was wearing a plastic mask. That must be how she feels too. Ah, such self-conscious, self-aware people we both are. The smoke from her stick coiled lazily upwards as she draped her hand carelessly over the armrest of her chair.
I knew she would say something when she was ready. She likes to make an entrance mademoiselle does. And when she says it, her words would've been very carefully considered.
Then she smiled. And I felt the crease come to my own face with a relief, feeling my muscles tug themselves into a smile of my own. Finally. My face felt free and looser, not set in that perfect expression of emotionless inexpresison.
I should think Mademoiselle had decided in the end not to say anything at all about it then, judging by her continued lack of words. The atmosphere of something hanging in the air passed because she had decided there was nothing to be said and shattered the suspense. Her body relaxed quite visibly from its rigid contemplative frame and sank more heavily into the cushions of the armchair. These are comfortable armchairs.
I looked away. So why is it then that we even ventured upon this discussion? Or, almost discussion? She had to say it. She had to say something, she had to bring it out. And now that she has, something feels done. Acknowledged and discussed, although no actual lenghty discussion had taken place. It lightens her burden.
I shifted my gaze again. For so long I have been the mediator between Mademoiselle, and Missy. Mademoiselle is cold, cold, cold, steel. She pierces and stabs. She rams straight on, buffeting like the wind. Missy is warm. Soft, liquid. She muffles and wraps around. She is like the tear that slides down your cheek, fluid, still warm.
They need me. They need my balance. They need the balance.
Now silence hung still and heavy in the air. I wanted to open my mouth and say something. Indeed, my muscles ached to move and form words that will come floating out into the air and renew it, replacing the stale silence that now hung there. But somehow, a certain reluctance, the same kind that held Mademoiselle's words moments ago, held mine now. It was a silence I longed to break, but was also reluctant to.
"Sometimes I wonder if we could do without ourselves," Mademoiselle spoke. Shatter. The air felt fresh and clean again and I felt like a weight has been lifted off my chest. Breath came more freely and lightly now. I smiled. A sunny smile. This was more like it. Conversation. No matter about what. Not that stupid, stale silence. Tinkling music of talking. I smiled.
"Now, now. Why do you say that?"
She shrugged. I smiled wider. Shit. I need to think. This takes some thinking. Thinking means silence. I rather jabber on.
I sighed. "Mademoiselle, you and Missy, you both burden yourselves too much. Lighten up." Well, that didn't take too much thinking.
She shrugged again.
"Sometimes I wonder if my family might've had a history of mental illness, somewhere down the line. Occasionally, it jusr gets so... I feel like I'm in real danger of sliding, however remote it is. For the moment, it feels more... possible."
Well that came out eventually.
"Does it matter? You know you're not gonna, you won't. And that you'll forget all about this once something distracts you. It won't feel so pressing to be discussed anymore. That's how it always goes. You pass."
"Yes, I pass." She smiled. "I pass. As I always do. So 'I' am a symptom, yes?"
"Yes Mademoiselle, you are symptom. The state of being you, is a symptom. To yourself, and to other people maybe."
Mademoiselle laughed. Loud and boldly. Missy would be there soon.
True to my word, Missy walked in. I watched her approach. Her walk was soft in a way, every move of her legs was played in almost slow-motion. Her walk acquired an almost fluid, characteristic quality of her. It's her walk. That's how Missy walks. A physical embodiment of her character. She is soft, she is warm, she is... Hot chocolate. Her walk is like hot chocolate. A marshmallow comes to mind. Soft, fluffy. Missy walks soft. I'm thinking too much.
I turned my gaze away resolutely. The reverie was broken. Truth is Missy walks like any other normal person. I am thinking too much. I shook my head slowly. The Madmeoiselle symptom. Then I chuckled.
"Missy you had something to say?" That was me.
Missy just smiled, a gentle smile. It wasn't a sad smile. It wasn't a radiant, happy happy smile. It was just a smile. A Mona Lisa smile. Damn it. I smiled mirthlessly and looked down at my lap.
Silence again. Oh God. Damn it. Ok this was going way out of hand. I am used to them talking. Madmeoiselle with her loud boasts and flambuoyant manner. Her bold words and bolder statements. Her sometimes insightful, sometimes dismissive, sometimes disdainful, sometimes objective jabber as she goes on and on about people. People in general, people she knows. Herself, anything. I am used to her waving about her peacock tail, more colourful than a peacock's and more, much more flashy and... Blinged out. That was Mademoiselle. She was the voice and image of solid, efficient, and material ideals.
Missy on the other hand, I'm used to her soft voice accounting her woes or her sorrows. Pouring it all out to us so we can share and help her left her burden, help her feel better about the world and herself. Or her wailing voice, sharp and forceful, jabbering on and on when she's in a state of wild abandon and hysteria, angry and letting the world know. Not caring. She was explosive, could be. Missy is subjectivity where Madmeoiselle is objectivity. A torrent of water rushing down from the bucket placed above the door and splashing all over the floor. That image comes to mind. I am used to hearing her moan about something or other. Complaining, insecurity, doubt.
But now this silence. This small smile. I was not used to. What is this? Subtlety is not for those two. That is my job. Those two are to be as flambuoyant as ever. To the max. The two extremes. Subtlety is my territory. Now what is this?
What happens when the extreme does not know how to be extreme? What happens when the hurricane feels a pull away from it's nature and does not rage? Madmeoiselle and Missy. They know where they stand. They know they're the extremes and they're supposed to be. What to do when even the two extremes find confusion in being themselves? Then what is sure anymore? Then what is certain?
I remained where I was. But I cannot. Remaining where I am is boring. Neither does this pasture hold any more interest for me. I am bored, I need new sights. I need new incentives and new excitement. New life. So I'm not going to remain where I am in this limbo. It may be a tentative balance between two raging extremes, but so what. It's not a good place to be. There's no more energy and enthusiasm. No life. It serves no one, particularly not me, any purpose. So I'm going where the party is.
"Let's move seats." I declared to the two of them.
We three picked up our bags and abandoned our outpost, heading deeper into the cafe where the chatter picked up and sat down at a new table.
Now this is better, Fresh and new. We ordered new drinks. Expensive new drinks. New smoke curled up comfortably from Mademoiselle's poised hand as she leaned forward, probably about to say something trashy. And conversation flowed.
Madmeoiselle, dismissive, disdainful, haughty, arrogant. Missy, understanding, gentle, forgiving, hesitant. The dynamics fluorished. Laughter abounded. Serious words exchanged. Gossip flew. Judgements hurled without thought of dencency or consideration for the person spoken about. *smiles* It's the good life.
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