Friday, 25 April 2014
Is it an innate trait of humans, to revisit those that they ridicule, and find absolutely ludicrous? Or it is just the natural behaviour of Rachel Cheong?
I am a cynic. A bitter existence; eccentric. I find disgust in other people's... How should I say it? Never mind. You would hate me for it, if I said it out loud. Let's just leave it at that.
As much as I would like to snicker, scorn at those who claim that they are deeply, MADLY, in love with his or her "significant other", I would refrain from doing so. I don't have the right to do that, I suppose. I am in love too, I suppose, though, I do not tell the world about it in smiles, with rainbows and butterflies that make me sound like a four-year-old girl who is foolishly drawn into her own fantasies; she, a princess.
Have you ever come across the story of how, and when 'we' first 'met'?
I don't believe so, unless, it is in one of my handwritten journals, my diary, that is supposedly private. For you are the one who violates that privacy, then there is no right to say that I too, share the stories of my love in the open. I rarely talk about it even. I don't see the point.
Everyone is entitled to their own opinions, of course. They can do whatever they want, and it is not against the law to upset minorities-- bitter minorities. Also, it isn't a crime to be cold and disagreeable. If you can tell me to loosen up, let it go, and smile, then I can do the same: tell you to shut up, get lost, and leave me alone.
Why can't I just be HAPPY for people?
I do not go "awwww" and "I am happy for you". Whenever I do, it is a lie, it is something that I do out of common courtesy. Once it comes from me, you can be certain that it would be the last time I would ever talk to you. I don't fancy lying to people, but in some cases, fools cannot be rejected.
You are excited. You are nervous. You wonder how it will go. You tend to not share your thoughts aloud for fear that people might think you are petulant, annoying and stupid, so you find a place, a place which community is originated from people like you-- lonely, excited and head over heels in love. You share your excitement. They congratulate you. They embrace you. You have become a part of them, a community of scatter-brained idiots. You feel welcomed, you feel loved. There, there is that sense of belonging which every human seeks.
Feel offended, as you like, for I am calling you a worthless being.
"My goodness! Rachel, just stop!"
It runs in the family, this undying fire that strives to burn everything that it deems spiteful.
Why is the CPU building always so cold? I know it's a Canadian-based curriculum and all... BUT THEY DON'T HAVE TO IMITATE THE WEATHER AS WELL! AHHHHH! Shiver. Shiver.
Thursday, 3 April 2014
A gift. It always starts out with a gift. A small one, mostly. A colourful box, printed stripes of green, blue white and pink lines its body. Neatly, a ribbon of glittery gold is tied into a fluffy bow, its legs dangling by the side of the box. Pull it open, see what's inside. No. I should just leave it, and give it back. After all, wouldn't loosening the seal be a sign of acceptance? I can't possibly have that.
Fantasy and reality must be separated. To stay sane, I shall let my rational mind make the decisions for me. Reality is a boring place. The truth is an ugly thing, revolting at times. Fantasy however, it shall always be sweet. Sweet sweet reverie. Even if it involves the forbidden practices of everyday life, actions absolutely perverse... It shall never be wrong, for it is only fantasy.
A world without boundaries, a universe without truths, where you make your own conditions, and bend the elements to do your bidding. Events, people, places. Love, infidelity, reflections.
I could be whatever I want. Do whatever I please. Come up with excuses, make people forgive me. It's entirely up to me.
Spoiling myself to the core. Blackening my body, my heart and my soul thoroughly, until every vein, every drop of blood that runs through them are blacker than the night, viler than poison, soot and smoke.
This is reality. Where I abstain myself from certain things, to make sure I am a presentable human being that can walk among the other self-restraining psychos and be a part of this superficial society.
It is tiring. It is getting old. I am sick of it.
When a person fully lets go. Is it happiness? Or utter sadness? Do people laugh when they are happy, or when they have lost their minds?
Just this once maybe, I would make a mistake. Deliberately make this mistake, because I want to be wrong, to feel guilty and the rush of adrenalin that comes with it. The pleasure of guilt. There certainly is pleasure in feeling so.
I don't mind.
At this point, I hardly mind anything.
Hah. What am I saying? This is reality. And in reality, there is no gift, not even a small one in a colourful striped box, with a fluffy gold tinged ribbon holding it together.
The truth of the matter is, I am going to bed. There is no story to be told.