So this is how they define heaven.

I think I've found my sanctuary. Check this out.

2012 says to 2010,

"I've had my one day. Thank you." - Anon

"Thank you, #Melbourne."

It's the people. The genuine sincerity. The fact that you've been smiling since the minute you jump in the car at the airport down to the last ride back to catch your flight home. The inspiring hosts. The people and their dreams. The strangers you meet and laugh with in the train. The random friends who click right away. It's the four-seasons-in-a-day weather. It's the delicacies, the incomparable desserts and coffee. It's the Black Keys who was freaking amazing right up on the hill. It's the Spanish Doughnuts. It's the six-dollar lunch and dinner. It's the Korean restaurant tucked inside the alley that makes you lick your lips and your stomach grumble just thinking about their chicken steak and honeyed chicken.

It's the routine simplicity.  It's the easiness--the laid-back happiness. The feeling of not having any burden, the urge to throw your head back and laugh openly. It's the exploring, miles and miles of beautiful scenery, beautiful people, the feeling that you may just belong. That you may just found your key to simple happiness. It's the Paper Kites. The hushed silence during Bloom. It's the farmers' market, the endless rows of green goods and delicatessen to spoil your tastebuds. The endless opportunities for your alone time in the kitchen. It's the hospitality. The surprising friendliness. The Yarra River, where time seems to stop. It's the Boatbuilders Yard. The sunset and the countless adorable dogs passing by. It's the vintage bookstores. The all-under-five-dollars book sales. It's Lord of the Fries at midnight. The cookware shop that makes you resist letting out gasps as your eyes fall on all these equipment and ingredients you thought only existed in TVs, causing you to actually bit your lip and put your hands behind your back to resist buying all of them.

It's Sunshine Rd. Even the taxi drivers who ripped you off. It's Craigieburn and its inside jokes. It's Prahran Market and the rows of beautiful homemade bread. It's the gelato in Lygon Street, the way everyone dressed up for that particular day. It's the five-dollar pizza near Corner Hotel at 1 a.m. It's the underground lounge and its own randomness. It's the "Buavita". It's the  alleyways, promising an endless row of cafes, bookstores, shops, causing you to resist sitting down at one of the chairs and pull out your notebook. It's the vast, lush city parks and gardens that make you smile just imagining how deliriously happy they make people feel just by lazying around in it.

It's the dinner in the park. It's the conversations as the cold started to sting your fingertips. The long walk just to eat ice cream on the bench. The strange sensation of opening up. It's the Burch & Purchese Sweet Studio. The freaking William Angliss Institute. It's dipping your feet into the green grass you've been dreaming for years; a step closer to your goal. The things you learn from your old and new friends. It's about learning about people who love what they're doing in life; who thank Melbourne for changing the way they live. The city who shapes them into a much better person, providing them with doors and doors of opportunities to achieve their goals. It's the laughter in people's eyes. It's the ultimate comfort, the warmth, the mystery, the unspoken affection all rolled into one.

It's the urge to step back and see things in a bigger view. It's the slap in the face to awaken you, make you realize what (and who) are important and what are not. It's the confirmation that everything is indeed possible if you stop sitting around and start to do something about it. The confirmation that you should indeed ignore the haters, the ones who think you'll never make it out there, and start following your conscience--a reminder that you do have one.

It's Flinders St. It's the vintage clothing store in the alley. The rooftop beer garden, the city lights . The feeling so calm you can hear your own heartbeat. It's the constant happiness in your chest for eight days in a row.

It was the best trip of my life.

***

A Girl You Should Date

Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she finds the book she wants. You see the weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a second hand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.
Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas and for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry, in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.
Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the climax. Because girls who understand that all things will come to end. That you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.

– Rosemarie Urquico –

a day in the life.

He sits dangerously close to the edge, leering and peeking and wanting to know what's down there. He turns to his friend, sitting just a few meters away. "Should we do this?" He asks thoughtfully, kicking his feet back and forth.

The friend stares at him, unsure. "Are the guys ready?"

They both look back and see a line of other creatures, similar like them, all two dozens of them. Stretching, bunny hopping, buzzing with excitement, getting ready to make another free fall.

"We wait for the cue," the friend decides solemnly with a nod. He agrees silently and relaxes, slouching in his seat. As usual, he gets the regular feeling of guilt as he looks down again. But what could he do? It was his job; it has always been. I promise you'll feel much better when I'm done, he whispers. This may hurt, but you'll be relieved afterwards. He has long stopped finding out the cause; all he needs to do is make a thousand silent apologies each day.

Suddenly, a jerking movement lurches him forward and he grips the edges fearfully. His eyes widen and he looks at his friend, who grins back at him. "Ready?"

"Race you to the finish line," he says with a wicked smile. For a while his smile falters when he hears the familiar sound of something breaking in the distance- the infamous signal. He squeezes his eyes shut. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he keeps repeating. I know it hurts. But you'll be fine. I promise you. Everything will be alright. With the mantra echoing in his lips, he counts to three and let himself go.

Further, further down. Down the smooth surface. He feels the whoosh of air, the feeling of complete freedom, as he freefalls to the ground. He glances beside him and sees his partner racing and passing him by. Behind him he can hear his friends jumping down,shouting joyfully. What an ironic contrast to the heart-breaking sound of wailing somewhere out there far, far away. He doesn't need to look, but he knows that some of his friends had disappeared mid-air to a land of nothingness, vanishing into thin air with just a swipe of hand. That's normal- out of twenty four, usually only two or four of them survive.

He lands safely down and feels the familiar feeling of scattering away. He quickly reassembles himself and makes a brave decision to glance up. The sight always squeezes his heart.

I'm sorry, he wants to scream. I'm sorry you have to go through this but I need you to trust me. My friends and I are here to make you feel better which you will. I promise you, you will.

Sometimes he cannot stand his job. Sometimes he doesn't want to fall; but it's the default system installed in him that forces him to. Unable to look up anymore, he tears his eyes away.

Sometimes he wants to know her. He wants to let her know how angry he is at the person who forces him jump down. But most of all, more than anything else, he wishes that the next time he jumps, it will be for a completely different reason for her.

The thought calms him down. He stands up straight and walks back to the end of the line, queuing behind his friends to climb up again. In the queue, an officer is passing out the assignment paper. "OK, what's next for me?" He asks, desperately hoping to hear some good news.

"A farewell." The officer shrugs and moves down the line.

 The words are like gunshots to his ears as the worst eight-letter words he ever encounters sinks him into despair. He can take fights. People yelling in anger, hurling hurtful comments at each other. Words so full of venom he shivers when he hears it. He can even handle breakups.

But not a farewell.

Not that infamous bittersweet feeling that squeezes the air out of your lungs the minute the other person walks away, the minute you hold them and realize you won't even feel their comforting presence anymore the next day. Not that feeling when the memories and images flash like film rolls in your mind knowing that things will never be the same. Not  the contraction in the chest.  The feeling of losing something and having that thing taken away that leaves you gasping for air frantically, because you just realize the thing that usually calms you down is the one whose engine just roared off your driveway. For good. 

Gloomily he clutches his assignment in hand and moves an inch forward in the queue. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach that he would require a hell more than just two dozens friends for this.

*** End ***

"I'll be alright, as long as it matters." - Gin Blossoms

"When your mind is a mess

So is mine, I cant sleep 

Cause it hurts when I think

My thoughts aren't at peace

With the plans that we make

Chances we take, they're

Not yours and not mine

There's waves that can break

All the words that we say

And the words that we mean

Words can fall short

Can't see the unseen

Cause the world is awake

For somebody's sake now, please close your eyes woman

Please get some sleep

And know that if I knew

All of the answers I would

Not hold them from you'd

Know all the things that i'd know

We told each other, there is no other way

Well too much silence can be misleading,

You're drifting I can hear it in the way that your breathing

We don't really need to find reason

Cause out the same door that it came well its leaving its leaving

Leaving like a day that's done and part of a season

Resolve is just a concept that's as dead as the leaves

But at least we can sleep, its all that we need

When we wake we will find,

Our minds will be free to go to sleep."

THIS.

"The idea that any two people together could spend an entire lifetime of being “happily ever after,” never once asking themselves serious, uncomfortable questions or taking some time in their respective corners to breathe, seems more terrifying to me than the idea of a stormy relationship that doesn’t work out."


"..Who knows how many people we’ve thrown away for relatively minor offenses, the lists we’ve crafted which could fill libraries of all the qualities we won’t compromise on, all in that promise we’ve been told all our lives that “we shouldn’t settle.” Perhaps “settling” in some way is an essential part of falling in love — as that person equally “settles” for you, knowing that no one is perfect but that this particular person is someone for whom you want to try to be better."



Somewhere, 90% of female population feel like they've been slapped in the face. 

this one goes out to you.

This one goes out to the countless times people are shaking their head in disbelief when it comes to our thirteen years of friendship. For the countless laughter we shared in your house, the mindless conversations that run from lunchtime to the middle of the night, from the serious talks to the ones we could never remember five minutes after, thanks to the hyena-like laughter that follows once we realize how random and ridiculous it all was. For understanding each other's jokes, which are sometimes out of this world. For our countless share of Soho sandwiches and milk teas. For our family vacations and afternoon strolls eating Wafflestops and dipping our feet into the hotel swimming pool at night talking about college like a couple of smartasses, as if we'd had any clue.

This one goes out to the many times I sneaked to your house to grab my  favorite drink--which is always in stock in your fridge--even when you were not around. To the countless times you bullied me to no end, to the many pranks and surprises you pulled tirelessly (the one on my 17th birthday party being the best; but let's not go there now.) to the fact that my 'explosive', expressive personality clashes terribly with your reserved, insensitive one.

This post is for you. For being the only person in the whole freaking universe who said: ''Oh. Terus?" when I, dramatically (as you may say), stressed the importance of my lung illness to you the other day. For continuing to shop casually at the flea market as if nothing happened when I practically yelled at the top of my lungs in pain because I just ate something ridiculously spicy with my hand then scratched my eyes with it. For practically rolling your eyes every time I came to you with the same dilemma, the same confusion, for dismissing my dramatic flair in life with your sarcastic wit. For staring back at me with that dead, expression-less face when I giddily told you about my latest crush and every detail about our date I could possibly blurt out and then cutting me off mid-sentence saying, "Yeah....he's a jerk, you just don't know it yet." For that unforgettable moment when I screamed, scared shitless because you just managed to bully me into getting into a full-loop roller coaster that you know terrifies me to death and there was nothing I could do about it asIwasalreadytrappedunderthebelt.

This  is for our fights. For yelling at you for your stupidity for not listening to me and for being such a protective friend that I went over the line. For the year we drifted apart. For our misunderstandings, our selfishness, our ego (thank God you broke up with that one, so technically I WIN.) ( Not that anyone's counting. Anyways). This post goes out to you and your astounding ability to mentally slap me in the face whenever I wasn't thinking clear. To deliver harsh advises, uncensored, as an effort to knock some sense into my head when I lived in denial. For never thinking twice to say what's on your mind, with no sugarcoating whatsoever, which makes you stand out from any other person I know. For just sitting there  offering your shoulders and arms when I exploded in tears during my breakups, my battles, my lowest points....and  for never, not even once, saying 'I told you so' despite the many times the term perfectly fits.

You're living a million miles away from where I am right now, working your ass off to reach your ultimate dream, which I'm insanely proud of and I will never be tired in reminding you of. Here's to more uncontrollable laughter, public embarrassment, pleasant surprises, heart-to-heart talks in your room, the infamous iPod shuffle game that you came up with to lift my ugly moods. Here's to that day, thirteen years ago, when I approached you like a clueless, happy-go-lucky elementary school kid tapping your shoulder, ready to make a new friend, and with a huge friendly grin on my face, said, "Hi! My name is xxx. I think your brother is best friends with my sister! What's your name??" And all you did was stare back at me with that trademark expressionless face, turned, and walked away.

The only wish from me would be for you to stay exactly the way you are. As my best guy friend in the whole world with freakishly absurd, creative brain and unpredictable word vomit who always supports me in whatever I do and whom I admire for never giving a fck about what other people say. I wish you an unlimited, uncomplicated happiness, and may you finally meet that one person who deserves to see the real you and your awesomeness. Here's to more insane stories I'll hear from Paris, to more twisted tales of our love lives, to whatever's next, to being on our way to reach our dream goals. Here's to more unexpected roller coaster rides I look forward to share with you.

This one goes out to you, for knowing myself better than I do.

Happy 25th Birthday, Kae.

Love,
me

p.s: I'll get you back one day, for all those pranks and surprises. I swear.  

"we've got tonight."

I am no good with happiness.


It's something you fumble with, like a slick ball you're trying to juggle in your hand but keeps trying to slide. Like something you try to hold on to with both hands instead of one; like a thin rope you try to walk on with your arms outstretched as to not to fall down the cliff. Over the years you've learned over and over again how to keep this balance so you'll know what to expect at the end of the road.You learned about it so much that you're getting exceptionally good at mastering to disguise the word in your head.


This word, this nine-letter word that everyone has different definitions of, is becoming somewhat dangerous to your well-being. It lurks in the corner, hides under the bed, waits outside your room in the dark. Out of nowhere it would sneak up on you, out in full force and knocking all senses out of your system, lowering and eventually demolishing anything that used to stand between perfect happiness and common sense--including pride.  And I'm not talking about simple happiness e.g. seeing your best friend or getting your hands on that Ben & Jerry's pint or buying Neil Gaiman's latest book or watching a teen flick on a lazy Sunday.  I'm talking about a hurricane, a monster storm of explosive rush of feelings so pleasant and shocking it's ridiculous. The force is so powerful and magnetic that it leaves you breathless yearning for more. It peels off the most inner layers of you one by one, undressing it very slowly and subtly to the point where you didn't even know existed. Happiness can make you do things you never thought you'd do or deliver words you thought you'd never say.  Because deep down, deep down you know just how quick it is for you to just let yourself go; to go from the phase of exchanging glances and conversations, to insisting ignorance, and how you start curling up a smile which turns to a grin and eventually a laughter; the flutter in your chest and the tingles in your spine; the crazy anticipation and the scary, nerve-wrecking realization that you need to admit how unsuccessful you've been in kicking that person out of your mind.


That's how cruel happiness can be.


It's not that you don't believe in this word; in all of your 25 years of living, you're lucky enough to have experienced a few full-blown happiness from time to time. You do believe it with all your heart and you have faith that it will happen to you again one day; you just realize you need to start to choose it wisely. Permitting yourself for happiness to a certain limit. After the heart realizes what it's done, then the head follows suit, making you panic and torn between taking a million steps backward or finally lifting your chin up and walking forward. 


As a result, you're back to phase one; to try to curl up that smile; to cut off your laughter short; to calm the flutter of expectation in your chest; to avert your gaze from the person when you realize just how content you feel just by being in their presence. Literally biting your lip so whatever rush of words that's coming up next won't ruin anything. And you just keep on thinking; word vomit rolling around in your brain, thinking just how much you dislike happiness for making you hold on to a certain thought; how it digs the deepest layer in you and stir something inside you awake; how smiling and laughing freely makes you scared shitless; how you wish there aren't so many factors affecting your mood; how relieved you feel when you've crossed that thin rope with both arms outstretched in perfect balance despite the many voices, the many opinions shouting to your ear left and right that can easily change your perception. 


But most of all, most of all, you can't help wondering how all of this, however bothering and toxic and cruel and dangerous it may be, has actually made you sit down for the past half an hour to dedicate an entire blog post just to rant on and on and on about how you've been trying to avoid the nine-letter word....and failing miserably. 

"Can I please see the one in the corner?"

The door jingles cheerfully as she bounces into the shop, all decked out in her Saturday morning outfit. Wherever she turns, the clerks and salespeople greet her warmly by name.

 "How are you?!"
 "Isn't that the most darling dress I have ever seen!"
"Oh, look how you've grown; you look lovely as ever!"

 She laughs and twirls her new dress as the shopkeepers gasp and clap. She has been going to this desserts shoppe for years and years, she couldn't remember not going there on a Saturday morning. She loves the rush of the shoppe opening, the calm buzz of early customers seeking sweet indulgence, but most of all, the smell of burnt sugar and roasted vanilla and warm chocolate buns just fresh out of the oven.

 She never remembers the name of each shopkeeper who practically raised her here; she just made up names for them in her mind. Like Mr Overalls over there, a nice young fella who always tips his denim cap in a funny salute when he greets newcomers. Or Ms Lollipops and Mr Gums, who always flirt with each other when they think the Boss is not looking. Or Mrs Apron, the big old lady who roars when she laughs and always smells of cinnamon everytime she gets out of the kitchen back there. "Oh darling, always a pleasure to see you here! What can I get you? Cinnamon buns? Chocolate-filled croissants?" she bends down to the girl, who shakes her head shyly and curling up a smile, her hands behind her back. She rocks back and forth on her soles, enjoying the familiar rush of excitement and giddiness in her most favorite shoppe in the world with her most favorite people.

 "Don't scare her, Apron. The girl already knows what she wants."

The old, raspy, familiar voice startled the girl and she squeals happily when she locates the source. Mr Mustache! She runs towards him and falls into his Santa-like bear hug. He smells like sugar and cigar and mint all mixed together and she smiles broadly. Her favorite candy maker! Mr Mustache is the ultimate Boss and he's owned the shoppe since he was a little boy, working side by side with his father. "Now, princess. What can I get for you?" he picks her up and sits her down on the wooden counter. "Or is it such a shame that I need to ask?" the man smiles warmly, knowing that the girl always, always, always orders the same thing: white chocolate crepes with custard filling.

 She grins, kicking her feet in the air in excitement, already tasting the half-burnt crepes and the thick cream in her mouth. Her stomach grumbles unashamedly. "Can you sit down here for a couple of minutes while I take care of my customers?" Mr Mustache asks, and hands her a pen and a blank sheet of paper for her drawing while she kills time. "I'll be back; and no cheating. I know exactly how many candies I have in that jar so watch it," he winks, then hobbles over to the cashier.

The girl pushes the drawing sheet away instead and stares at the selection of chocolates in the wooden helves behind the cashier. One, two, three...even with her eyes shut, she knows exactly how many shelves are there and how many chocolates are stacked in each shelf. She opens her eyes and smiles. Her calculations never miss. She knows this place all too well and always knows what she wants without looking left and right. There it is, her ultimate target, a box of white chocolate sitting prettily which Mr Mustache will pour into her order soon. She glances around, humming tunelessly, until something steals her attention in the corner. Her smile slowly leaves her face, and she titles her head to one side.

What is it about this box?

 She gets off the corner and approaches the corner shelf. A blue, classic box of chocolate is sitting there, alone. She picks it up and runs her finger around the hard edges. How come she never saw this one before? The box doesn't have any title or engraving in it. It's just...there.

"That's dark chocolate. You will never, ever like the taste of it in a million years."

She turns, startled.

Mr Mustache is smiling down at her, eyebrows knitted questioningly, "Come on, come back to the counter." "Why is it sitting alone?" she asks slowly. Mr Mustache looks thoughtful. "It doesn't really match with the rest of the boxes in the shelf, don't you think? I put it there because customers are all oohing and aahing over its packaging. I love the blue color myself. But no one has actually purchased it; so it's just sitting there waiting to be made into drinks, cookies, cakes, or just, you know, plain dark chocolate."

 "What is dark chocolate?" The term sounds strange in her ears.

"It's an original cocoa. It tastes bitter and doesn't have an inch of sugar inside. You know, dark chocolate." Mr Mustache explains. "But I'm not surprised you've never learned of the word before," he chuckles.

 "Oh. Seems like it doesn't fit into my sugary world," she smiles, ready to put the classic blue box back onto the shelf.

"Anyways, it doesn't matter. Come on, I have your white chocolate crepes ready. This time, I told Apron to add more caramel swirls inside, just the way you like it," he winks. She follows him back to the countertop. "Voila! One white-chocolate crepe to go," Mr Mustache hands her a takeaway box with a pretty ribbon on top. She looks at it, and she can already picture what's inside. Yes, it's mouth-wateringly delicious. The crepe will definitely leave a sweet aftertaste in her mouth. She knows how happy she'll feel when she takes that first bite. It feels..predictable. Safe.

 She turns around to glance back at the box. It glistens under the morning sunlight. The color does look good and attracts customers to talk about it, but she isn't interested in the packaging. She wants to look what's inside. How many are they and what do they look like? Where did it come from? What is it about the box that intrigues her so much?

"Actually.." she hesitates. "I don't feel like eating the vanilla crepes today."

 It was as if the music stops playing and the earth freezes and somewhere in the kitchen, Mrs Apron gasps. Mr Mustache frowns, "Are you feeling okay, dear? Is it my sauce? Is the crepe not burnt enough around the edges; because we can..." he follows her trail of gaze and knits his eyebrows questioningly. "Would you like the blue box instead, dear?"

 "No!" she shakes her head, a little too quickly. Not yet, not now. The idea of this strange, new item coming out of nowhere and breaking all her habits is still foreign to her. But it does radiate something else that she's sure not familiar about.

Mr Mustache smiles at her confusion and hands her the takeaway box. "Tell you what. Keep this anyway; it's on the house. And you're free to come back at anytime. Sounds good?" She nods, almost imperceptibly. Mr Mustache smiles as he walks her to the front door. "I have to say; I never thought in a million years you'd be interested in that dark chocolate. Or that I would live to see the day you say no to our world-famous white chocolate crepe."

 "That makes two of us," she mumbles, still dazed. "Sorry for the troubles, Mr Mustache. It's not like I don't like your cooking--that would be crazy."

 "Don't sweat it," he stops to plant a kiss on top of her head. "You just never meet something like that in your life before, so you're not familiar with it."

 The girl stops walking and looks at him.

 "Get home safe, and I'll see you soon!" Mr Mustache waves and waits until she disappears in the corner. She continues walking to the bus stop, her mind reeling. A wave of nausea and excitement flew through her veins. And she tells herself it's all because of the sunny, bright morning instead of an all-too-familiar feeling in her stomach that scares the living hell out of her.

with a capital R.

April 12th, night time

Imagine driving on a long, straight highway with nothing else around you but good music, good companion, and a map spread out right next to you. You look outside; and it's a bright, clear day with trees rustling and birds chirping and sun peeking between the clouds, just strong enough to keep you warm inside the car but not too much that you get instantly cranky. It's a perfect setting and you hum along to the tunes in the radio because you know it off the back of your head. You've been singing to the same tune and smiling at the same buck-toothed toll ticket guy for as long as you live. Rapping your fingernails on the steering wheel as you hum along and reaching out to your backseat to find that half-open bag of chips ready to be devoured every time you feel your tummy grumble. It has become automatic. Familiar. Standard operating procedure. Your default system.

In short, you like knowing where things are.

You like the ease of placing things and the comfort of knowing that you're doing the right thing. Each of those sunny morning turns to nice evenings with cool airs and eventually into dark, balmy nights. You love it; you love knowing exactly when the color of the skies are going to change. You enjoy the tick of the dashboard clock cos it always signals the change of time at the exact minute and second. Morning, noon, evening, night. And repeat. It's your every day routine. You honk when you see a deer accidentally crossing the street and sigh in relief when it jumps back to avoid your car. The smile returning to your face, you lean back at your headrest and shift back to second gear. It's safe, it's comfortable, it's easy, it's something that you know everyone is expecting you to do.

You go ahead and keep driving; the road is still a stretch and stretch and stretch of miles with no other car around and no indication of where it's going to end. The seasons slowly change, and the autumn leaves are starting to fall; brown and red specks filling up your car roof and blocking your view but hey, so what? All you need to do is turn the wiper on and poof, the leaves slide off. Easy. Convenient. Predictable. Nothing you can't handle.

And then one night; one cool, perfectly windy night, as you lower the sound of the radio and listen to the soft hum of your engines running, taking in the comfortable, soothing silence,

A monster truck is speeding right towards you.

Its headlight glaring and engines roaring, it takes you by so much surprise that, for the first time in your twenty five years of driving, you step on that brake as hard as you can and feels your heart drop to the freaking floor and you hear someone drawing in a sharp breath until you realize it's actually your own. Panicking, you quickly shift the gear into reverse and hear the tires screech as your car speeds backwards, your heart pounding in the rib cage. And this truck; this thing that comes out of nowhere and shocks the hell out of you; it's not backing down. Its huge headlights are blinding your face and couldn't care less if it makes you lose concentration in the middle of the night. The map is crumpled now; the bag of chips fell down to the floor and scattering everywhere and the car alarm is ringing and the music stops playing and just like that, your world is upside down.

This truck keeps charging towards you, forcing you to take no other way but back into where you started. Back into before you even entered the highway. Forcing you to finally look left and right instead of always looking straight ahead and with each mile you passed backward, your heart is pounding in your ears and you get this chill, this eye-opening, face-slapping chill when you realize what you've been missing all your life. The unknown is always scary, so you can imagine how scared shitless you are. You feel like you took a wrong detour and you want to rip the map in two in frustration. You feel like you can no longer rely on your trusted car, the CD sounds awful and those chips taste bitter. Everything feels wrong now. Something is tugging in your chest and it begins with a U and ends with a Y. It's the one thing you hate, your arch nemesis.

It's like a flashback rolling back each decision you made in your mind; when you took right instead of left; when you said no instead of yes; when you just refuse to open up and to just be adventurous and steer off the path instead of staying in the track all the time. There are road signs everywhere- why didn't you take a leap?? Why did you never take off your seatbelt to hear that satisfying pop? The highway you chose was everything you're fond of, everything you like, everything you're comfortable with--but it's not something you've always dreamed of.

April 13th, 00: 40

I can still hear the tires screeching. And somehow, something tells me this is not bound to end anytime soon.

Sun, feb twelveth

Something with ketchup bottle; mirror; pandora box; a metaphor in the making. Will write later.

twenty twelve!

Happy New Year!

In my view, this is the best NY 2012 greeting, written by the one and only Neil Gaiman.

Read it, mull it and enjoy :)