Fantasy books. I started with a post about my languous time reading fantasy books during break, and I’ll end with them. I hate it when they end. Whenever a series end, or whenever a novel ends, it leaves me on the edge of my seat, wondering what would have happened later. Often times, this craving for me gets to the point that I start creating the stories after the “happily ever after’. It’s even worse when novels do not have closure, or when the hero/heroine dies right at the end. It couldn’t end like that! If happily ever after makes me crave for more, then a inconclusive ending makes me positively itch for closure.
This makes life pretty difficult, as I clearly have trouble letting things go.
I had a cute neighbor. I forgot why, but my friend and I had this code of “pigtails” for him. He built a treehouse down the street from me, and I thought he was so damn cute in hanging out in his treehouse. Yes, I had a huge crush on him. we had some conversations, nothing grand, as i was shy and he was a druggie who didn’t care for awkward girls. He moved away at the end of my sophomore year. He died in Oregon, in a drunk car crash entirely of his fault. Although I know this, I still feel that he is somewhere in a treehouse, crystallized in my memory as a 15 year old trouble child who was oh so hot. California love.
Wesleyan was a shock to my normal life of seasonless California. Los Angeles supposedly has life and excitement, but its excitement is that of cotton candy: full of sugar and symbolism, and usually associated with having a good time (at a fair or a carnival) but really having no real substance at all. The east coast, with it’s snow and rain and sleet, is more like the salt that nurtures the body (yeah membrane potential!) and really adds a kick to any dish of life. I like it. I’ve always enjoyed flavors, textures, and substance. I want to feel.
Junior year, the change shook my family’s foundation. There’s a crack now, the San Andreas fault — but how to blame the earthquake when the relief effort swamped me down? Whose fault is it? That crack would never close; I’ll never have closure. Even when the manila files are shut, were shut, and even if everything is rebuilt, that crack would be there. I live in California. That is my history. That is my foundation, a land of sugar.
When I dance, I can fly. I feel the burn, but sometimes, during those magical times, gravity does not exist and I feel ecstacy. I am purple shadows and sunlight, with the line of my arm and the angle of my elbows. I crave those moments of joy. Only sometimes — i wonder about my existence too much to always be etheral. There’s reality waiting at the door outside of the studio. But I need it — I need the air and the flow passing through me.
Riding in an ambulance is thrilling. It’s the feeling of being in the eye of the hurricane — you’re calm, you know what to do, you just can’t get sucked into your surroundings. It’s being completely charged and calm, all at once. Adrenaline is pumping and time narrows to an edge, creating jagged pictures and crisp reality. I wish… oh, I really wish… to actually *work* as an EMT, and not just have my memories of ride alongs. I just wonder how i’ll be able to deal with death on the job, says the girl who is scared of graveyards. i can strain to hold the earth and not let the crack split the sphere in two. Except, that was already cleaved before birth, says the reflection. Things separate and spin away. Sometimes they’re more distant than you might have ever thought. The mirror is gone — there’s no use holding on to the crystal shards; they’ll pretty but they’ll only cut later. Don’t look at them — they’ll only make you spin faster.
I don’t like life dangling. It’s funny, because I love to write dangling things, and I love dangling objects. And i do hate rigidity and stagnation more than any amount of chaos. I guess, right now, I’m a bit sick from spinning around, and just wish to get back into the eye of the hurricane, instead of being in the hurricane itself. Whirling Crystallized Cotton Candy. If it doesn’t make sense, spin it.
– Yumin
