Once, it has been a decade

You are 19, Jennifer Lawrence is bagging her awards from the Oscars, you were discovering Bon Iver and music that sounds like him, e-books are easily downloadable, Tumblr and Pinterest became your virtual world. You are one year into writing on your blogger site, a half-decade late from when the pioneers began. The world looks terribly calm and generous. It is not huge and yet it is not small. It is deep and it is not condemning. You hunger for saltwater every now and then, you cannot always go when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with you. Here in this world, no one knows you. Fiction is your best friend. The world unfolds and you are taking it a laugh at a time, one day at a time. 

The real world is extending its hands towards you, but it cannot touch you yet. Not yet. But it is so close. You cannot see it yet. Not yet. But soon, its form will confront you. 

How did you dream then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the scent of the winds? You thought it would last forever. You thought that you were getting the best out of life because you were in the middle, halfway through everything. You were not at the beginning, you were not yet at your destination. For some reason, it was the best weather you were under. 

How did you talk then? Do you still remember? Do you remember the way words were woven into your heart? You thought it was the maximum. You were glad, but you feared that there's nothing to grow anymore. You had this assumption that you were living the best life yet because everything seemed so colorful, everything seemed perfectly created for your heart. No one knew it then, but you were satisfied. You thought that it was enough. 

Fiction was your best friend. That should have been enough. But the real world was extending its hands towards you. 

No one would be able to stop it. No one was able to stop it. No one stopped it. 

-

You are almost 29, Asians are bagging awards from the Oscars, you are discovering children's music, files are easily downloadable, your responsibilities are your world. You are one year away from your next transitions in your career, a half-decade late from whoever went ahead. The world looks terribly... terribly. It is huge and yet it is small. It is high and it is scary. You hunger for slumber every now and then, you cannot always do it when you wish to. But at least, the lush greens around you makes a pact of beauty with us. 

Here in this world, someone may know you. Fiction is an old friend. The world unfolds and you are running with it two seconds at a time, two days at a time. 

Fiction is extending its hands towards you, but you cannot touch it yet. 

How do you dream now? How do you talk now?

Writing a true story

via

Right now...

I'm writing a story. It's categorized under fiction. It happened in real life. I write it as squarely as it happened. But still, it's fiction. It's not even a fiction based on true story. It is a true story that is considered as fiction. I've said the word "fiction" four times already. And that just made it five.

Imaginary. That's almost all of it. It was as if a walk in a dream. It seemed all true. It felt so true. Because it was felt in the veins. Because it was felt in the heart. Because the stars brightly shone even amidst the breaking skies.

I'm writing about red lights. I'm writing about a person who pedaled through these lights. I'm writing how it has been a dangerous ride.

I'm writing from a point of view.

And I'm writing from someone else's point of view.

I'm trying to write from two very different people's points of view.

I'm writing fiction. It's about struggling. It's about discoveries. It's about people. It's about growing up. It's about perception. It's about the heart. Of all the things it is, it isn't about love.

It's as simple. It has no other setting but words and thoughts.

It's fiction.

But it happened.

Places within the pages

I started to shrink to unreality these past few days.

When I say unreality, I mean dreams and imaginations or worse, places within the pages. Yes, I don't think they are good for the soul, well anyway, but they could be good, too. I don't really know.

People were given minds that could compensate for their ideas and ideals, so they should be maximized, not be slightly used and not be overused because both extremes could be dysfunctional. Anyway, yeah, I think I may be overusing this little brain sometimes, or probably I just have a huge brain especially made for me, 'cause as far as I am aware, I don't feel any screw loosening yet (And, I could contradict myself easily). Another anyway, I want to go to places I've never been, especially places that could hardly be real because I thought it would be romantic. When you say romantic, it doesn't have to be with a guy, right? A place could be called romantic even if there were no people there (or maybe because couples will actually love it being there? ugh. Devalues the worth).

I'll start with: RIGHT NOW I WANT TO GO PLACES I'VE NEVER BEEN. Imma rant this time.I want to go to Pemberley, to North Carolina (where, interestingly, I've found most love stories written), Green Gables, Maryland, where else, hunh? Oh yes, where was the Secret Garden located? I just wonder to what castle did Cinderella leave her slipper, or the coast roads where protagonists took their twists and turns. The house on the little prairie and other places where Laura Ingalls-Wilder spent her colorful youth. I'm thrilled just thinking about the Cemetery of the Books! Many else. What will I do there then? Just walk along these places and leave my footprints there, or probably live there for a week or two or a year or just a little while will do. Just try to witness what could have happened or what change would there be if a single feature from the place is located differently.

I don't want to imagine though that I am Lizzie Bennett or Anne Shirley, and try to mimic and live their lives. I just want to walk these places as myself rather than pretend be the characters I love. I don't know but I just don't feel like imagining I am a certain character, especially those that I love, it feels creepy and insane. Sometimes, I thought it would be better if I have been there for me to really be a part of the places and for my presence to be a part of other people's imaginations, but I realized I am doing a greater part being the thinker, being the one who imagines it all.

Aww, okay. My thoughts become so excited it explodes to randomness.

Sometimes, I think it does well to think of things which are alien to us, some of these, they really do exist. Of course, some of these are just imaginations. It doesn't do that because we don't see them, they are already fictional. Some exist somewhere within the wide earth, while some of these they do exist, but they are found within the worlds within our thoughts, and some were already part of what's past kept alive by memories and memoirs.

Someday, I know I will get to these places given the chances in life. Well, I could only go physically to the places which are literally real. And who knows who I'm going with. Hahaha

(As I was ending this blog post, I felt like there's music playing, probably the OST for Anne of Green Gables animated. Hahaha)

Some places in the classics (I don't know if the others are just replicas or they are the real ones):

ANNE SHIRLEY'S LIFE:

Anne's fictional room

Green Gables (fictional, I think)

Avonlea entrance

Road along Avonlea

Obviously, the places in Anne's life are my favorites. You've gotta read Anne of Green Gables and Anne of Avonlea to understand. Unfortunately, I haven't read the other books yet.

Here are others:

The ever dear SECRET GARDEN (fictional)

North Carolina beach

Little House on the Prairie (production design for the film, I think)

Pemberley (not sure if legit)