To tell a story, or whether or not...

"Eventually, you have a brick. Then you throw it at someone."

So, there's a thing about friends and support, but there's also the problem of being a burden, or whether, that you need to be your best, and you can't be your best if you're feeling down.

Not that that has any relation to any of you, right?

It's to do with sadness and coping, etc.

Also, happiness, which should come from within.

You can't know yourself until you look.

And similarly, you can't know the world until you open your eyes.

Of course, no-one really cares either. And oh boy. Lots of work, but it's the weekend. I'll get around to playing DOOM and Aliens and whatnot a tad later.

(Pew pew.)

Hoping that...well. There's a load of quotes I have now. Including:

"Mark Seatang!" - Mark Seatang

and

"Men are like steel. When they lose their temper, they lose their worth" - Chuck Norris.

Ah, dreams...

"To live is to die, and to die is to truly live, is it not?"

Mind you, I didn't say that.

Anyway, I had a happy and sad dream, which would then be both a good dream and a nightmare, and then, a predominantly sad dream which had happy moments.

It's really really really weird.

Hoping to finish the rest of this post in the afternoon.

Y'now, 3 essays aren't good for doing work.

"Ie; there's not enough time..."

Yea, so I'll write up this essay, not editing it very much, and then hand it in, hoping it's good.

Then, start on the rest of my work. Like...NQE, Math, Math Extra Mode and Random Quotes. I should really keep a tally.

Hoping I finish all this, eh?

Aha! 3rd day of essays...

"Why have you gotta do that?" - Harvard.

So, I could rewrite my Eng Ext essay, but that would probably result in parents yelling at me to sleep, so instead, I'll do everything else that I haven't been doing in the last two days.

That is, bio, chem, English Normal, and maths.

Well, I've been doing math. But whatever.

So, pretty much everything *but* English Ext.

Though, I think I'll have some time leftover tonight to write it, and then edit it tomorrow night to hand in on Friday, cause she ain't here on Monday/Tuesday.

Which means bludge on those days, and hard to hand in stuffs.

Might as put it in now.

I realised what I should write about in general. Any person can write about an event, distort truth, etc, but what is truly worth writing about is emotion.

And it took me this long to realise?

Yes. It did.

Hoping I get all my work done with loads of time to spare.

Might start reading manga again.

Ehe...

"How do you do that?" - Danny

Anyway, nice banter in every subject besides Chem to make up for Chem being so damned boring.

The writeups are bleh, the concepts are sooo year 7, and there's no way in hell that Goh will turn out to be polite. Ie; Really boring hell.

In fact, it's probably Purgatory/Limbo. (For real? Yea.)

Also, second day of essay, ie; Two essays in a row, one per day. Heh.

And I fell asleep in the car trying to write it.

Also Nancy =.=

I explained it, and she still asks. Well, not explain. But...Jess did. Didn't she? Anyway. =.=

Hoping I get this one done on time. Ie; by today.

Simulations, simulacra, simultaneus.

"You don't know what will happen, until, it comes around and slaps you in the face."

So, I spent the better part of my afternoon feeling tired, talking to someone, and then, wondering whether I should give in a really try to do some damage to that annoying...argh.

But I won't. Not yet.

Here's what I'm thinking.
1) If I don't give in, then I'll have to bear with it
1)a) I could apologize
1)a)i) Would that stop it?
1)a) I could just be polite, smile, etc.
2) If I do give in, then what can I use to an excuse?
2)a) A lot.

So...Hm.

I suppose, it's kind of weird how they're really provoking me. It's...hm.

I wonder what I'll do. Sometimes, I should record myself, and listen to it.

Hoping I make the right choice. Also, I have a lot of English =O

(2 Essays, and an analysis as well as a moodle task I'm doing atm.)

I wonder if anyone will read it...

“Why do you think cherry trees bloom? Once they do, their petals must fall right off.”

Walking home is always a chore. There’s the sombre cemetery, creepy and awkward to try and walk
through while whistling a jig; it’s not like the dead need to dance. “Here lies” so and so; people
remembered, but no-one remembers why.

“Who is the founding father of genetics?”

Eyes flit in annoyance, remembering today’s lecture. Who needs to know who those people are? What
they did was important. Not who they were.

They’re dead.

A date. A name. Nothing less, yet nothing more. Here a stone in quiet disrepair and neglect, another
with flowers scattered over it, silent yet screaming indifference. It is afternoon, where the sun is just
beginning to take its daily rest; casting its dull glow over the stones, lengthening their shadows.

Eagerly, I hurry my way home to escape the feelings of unease.

“A vacuum creates forgetfulness, and sooner or later, people will forget my existence”

My house is not very large; it has two bedrooms, and one small room for everything else. We don’t
need any more. It’s late into the afternoon now, and the yellow glow of the Sun has turned muddy and
sallow; orange tinged with a sickly gloom.

I’m greeted by the smell of flowers, too many for me to distinguish. One of them would be a cherry
blossom, for certain; mother has a strange attraction to them. Sneering at the ikebana on the worn
table, I notice that his picture is above it. Gritting my teeth, I walk further inside.

“Oh. You’re back?”

“Yes, mother...” I stifle a groan and move past her. “Still with the flower arrangements?”

“Don’t mock me. One day you’ll understand.” She glared at me for a moment, then went back
to silently arranging the stems, so that the spaces between the flowers were uniform, that the
arrangement, when seen from a certain angle was perfect, symmetrical, flawless.

Maybe one day I will understand her obsession with ikebana and photography.

But not today.

It’s people like her who remember who someone is, but not what they did that makes life painful.

“Art is less important than life, but what a poor life without it” – Robert Motherwell

“Dinner!”

“Alright, alright, I’m coming” grumbling, I put down my pen and resignedly walk down the stairs,
and past a picture of him.

I’ll never understand why his face is plastered to every wall, nook, cranny and recess.

Dinner on the whole is a quiet affair. One or two questions will be asked, usually of how our days
were, and other polite matters, but otherwise, we eat silently.

After that was over, it was back to more silence within the confines of my room, but I’m glad I’m not
forced to have photos of him all over my walls. There’s a sunflower on the window sill, but otherwise,
nothing of my parents’.

“Imitation is suicide” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Weeks pass but today on my journey home, I notice that my mother is at the cemetery.

She usually doesn’t go there, so why...

“...why did you leave me? I don’t know what to do... why...?” Even from my vantage point, hidden
from view by hedges, I can hear her quiet moans of pain.

Shocked, I watch for a small while, wondering why she never showed this side before...

I run the rest of the way home. But I can’t escape her sadness. Not now, not ever.

Why did he have to ruin everything?

“It is fearful to believe in someone. You may not receive what you expected. You may even be
betrayed.”

Nostalgia creeps in as I slam the doors behind me, fills the gaps of my heart as I slump against the
door, short of breath.

It makes me remember things I don’t want to.

It forces me to remember my father, before he died. The times when he truly cared, when he loved
me. When he loved us. When I could truly be myself, without a care, without a worry.

And then that night, when he left. If only I had got home earlier. Hadn’t waited around to talk to her...

“I can’t take it anymore.” That’s all the note said.

She liked to think that he was still out there, that he was coming back.

But I knew better.

One night, the call came. That he died, alone and penniless.

It was about then that she started taking to art.

Some turn to God, others to drugs, but not my mother.

“My biggest fear is “being forgotten.” So, I don’t care how tough or painful it is, I’ll bloom and
fall off again and again. So that people won’t forget me.” –The fable of the Cherry Tree.

Now, I realise why she spends her time, making new arrangements, shuffling things around, taking
photos; all the things I thought were a waste of time.

Somewhere, deep down, she forgives him.

And as foolish as it is, I can’t help but cry.

“To be forgotten is a fate worse than death.” – Anon.

(Hoping you like it. Do criticise it.)