Life Is Wonderful.

If you're the best I've ever met, and I can't have you...

Boy, am I blessed, because the best is still yet to come.

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LOL, Sarah.

Unfortune.

It is the last night before Methods Exam 2.
I was determined to complete one exam paper.
So I did (though left the last question due to time constraints).

Then it was time to correct.
I search for the solutions...
Only to discover that I spent two hours doing the wrong exam paper.
Mathematical Methods Exam 2≠ Mathematical Methods (CAS) Exam 2.
Sad.

I want to shoot myself.

LOL, Sarah.

Austere Daydreaming.

Don't you hate the idea of structured, innovative, new writing?

I think I struggle most with that. If you'd ever gotten the chance to look back and read over your past writings, doesn't it seem rather poxy, what you discover? Say... You've written something along the lines of:

She stared back at him, and breathed, "I'm not afraid".

It's that 'something along the lines of' that bugs me, because everything everyone's ever written is 'something along the lines of' something else already written. And suddenly, what formerly sounded unique and special to you rather becomes conventional, idealistic. No matter what the context, it's the same. Now, there will always be certain words that one must use if they were to write a short piece of fiction; words, or even phrases, like: "he stared in horror" or "my heart dropped" and "He whispered "I..."" you get it. I know you get it.

For lack of ability to then express oneself successfully without already sounding corny or even phony (damn English is getting to me. Just when I thought I could lay that subject in the grave, it comes back to haunt me. And already, how conventional do I sound? Exactly my point.), we then turn to subject matter. Suddenly, everything we've written about has already once been written about. We capture moments, significant, rare, dare I say, magical moments in our lives, and yet, what magic is there if we've already written or read about it a thousand times? What does a feeling really feel like, if we're so accustomed to it having placed our angle of it that way?

But... I do think that it is our flair that makes it innovative, new, fresh, different. Our spin on words, choice on lettering, (American and Australian - don't discriminate (: ), sentence structure. Everything that makes literary writing is at our disposal, and we can use them however we want. Most of the time, it's just easier to work with something previously done - the way I've adopted a liking for Mansfield's style, and thus have incorporated some of her writing flair into my writing (obviously not this one, but you know what I mean - the stories!), but at the thought of being innovative, being new, being fresh, and being different... I mean, isn't it alluring?

I don't know. I sometimes think that when I write, I'm the least my own... yet still, it is only me who really understands it all. We're used to writing universally, because not one person has experienced and responded to each and every circumstance, for example, as I have throughout my entire life.

I do realise this blog feels much like a waste of your time, and I do apologise for that, but I can't help it; I like to ponder. Thoughts like this, to me, are often more vibrant than the colourful language spouted out by talented writers. I don't proclaim that I do have talent here (on the contrary, one can see I clearly don't from my plain and bland use of english here), but sometimes it's just why I write about simple things that pull at the corners of my lips. The things that work themselves out, which required none of our doing... now isn't that magical?

LOL, Sarah.

Still Alive.

Ames, I don't mean to copy you (though it seems that I cannot help it, genius idea) but I have ready-made two dedications so far. I'm not sure whether I will fulfill the whole 30-letters-to-30-people...
thing. But here's one, and another for another blog, because I don't want to be greedy and steal all your time! Pls enjoy.

I don't know why this image was titled 'Alone'... but ohwell.
---
I remember back to a time where I once shared my devotion time in the mornings. I remember us talking about trees, and their roots, and how often-times, we are likened to these very plants. He said, and I remember so distinctly, that he imagined his state to be a young tree who was setting his foundation in the church, whose roots were beginning to firmly grasp and hold the soil in God's house...
And I remember my response, where I, on the verge of tears, said that I was struggling to break out of my seed, push through the dirt and find my way out into the light. You said it was possibly one of the hardest steps to take.

I would have to agree. At the time, though I faced the adversity that he spoke of, I could not take comfort in his words. But, having that become my past, I understand his testament. I feel that I have grown, and where he stood, I now do. It is possibly that hardest to combine our first passion with holding true to our commitment.

I think it's our initial steps when we are most wobbly - yet is is just that achievement that is the most significant in walking along God's path.

And I thank God that I have that person in my life, and that through his guidance and support, and his reflection of Love, Grace, Mercy, and Kindness from God to me, I can now continue to grow stronger and hold more firmly onto God, and flourish in His house.

PTL.

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And back to creativity.

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The way that crowd would roar loudly, how it would sneer in my ears. It was the very same sound that could come from a collision of metal that would grind, crumple, grate and smash at each other - like a tragic crash on the roads. They screech, yell, and bellow, and mock me. Suddenly my vision is blurred - there is not one individual that I can see; not even a single face that I can recognise; instead, I see all but a huge wave, enveloping the space around me with their ringing voices.

And it is these howls that seem to echo within the binds of my heart like a clanging bell - an ever present reminder of hollowness. It is there no matter how I fill it with noise, because, even among the loudest of clamours comes a faint reverberation of helplessness, of the inevitable stillness that I must, alone, face.

But I am still not game enough to face it. And that is why I hide myself under these noises, for they are to me like almost silence - the rain drumming on the roof; white noise that eclipses the silence that I fear.

I would much rather face being lonely alone, than in a full room with no one to face it with.

LOL, Sarah.

Spontaneous Nonpareil.

I haven't disappeared just yet (:

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There seems to me to be something a little strange...

As usual, after being dropped off at school, I take my daily hike up the hilly surfaces that my school has been miraculously built upon. As I walked, I listened, and all that I could hear was the unrehearsed songs of the birds, with voices of different tweeters and chirrups. Their voices sang so perfectly into my ear, like a perfectly unique little melody, a high trill intertwined with soft, murmured coos, percussioned with the tremour and rustle of leaves. It's as if the wind held the stave of these little voices; and each note is a fresh intake of beauty and a new sound.
It is truly unique.

And I cannot help but to think of our music. We crave structure to our music. Birds' song may delight us, but it is so beyond our grasp; so beyond our boundaries conjured by theories that melodies must take a few steps, then a few leaps, but not all over the place; that harmonies must have either 3rd or 5th higher pitch, give or take a few veriations such as a sustained 4th from time to time. Each instrument must perfectly be in tune- there is no in-between note between B and C. "Accidentals" are truly accidentals.

It is not that the music that we make is horrible. I truly love music; our deepest inspirations, our most heartfelt emotions, and our innermost desires are teamed together with various sounds placed so exhaustively and structurally detailed upon our black-and-white stave. We almost slave ourselves, and the result is a piece of music, a piece of our attempt at perfection.

Still, my mind wonders back to the song of the birds. They need not harmonise. They need not follow the rules. They know not perfection.
For they sing, because that's what they do.
And its perfect.

... And it's so beautifully moving that it could bring tears to my eyes.

It is how God's creation moves me. Beyond music. Beyond words.
Is God.

PTL, Sarah.

Exhilarating Resplendency.

I lie awake; restless. Though my lids close, my eyes dash about, eager for even a glimpse of light through their twitching slits. I furrow my brow, and squeeze my sight shut. My entire body responds in tension: hands ball, and toes curl. I begin to shudder.

But peace comes suddenly; I release. Every muscle relaxes, and I have been shifted.
Refreshing. I inhale, drinking in and savouring the night air. It is sharp and crisp, and yet, more like swallowing a mouthful of ice-cold water on a warm summer's evening. The air wafts through my lungs, chilly and wintry; still, my heart remains ever warm - it even overflows - and ever so sweetly floods through my veins.

My fists alleviate. Lush, dewy grass softly caresses at my palms, brushing tenderly through my loosening fingers. It is a cool, and yet somehow, a pleasant touch, not unlike a mild drizzle that leaves one with treasures of fragile diamonds in their cupped hands.

Gently, my eyes unfold - and then, brilliance.
A deep blue-black blanket glimmering with speckles of white dawns on my vision. A crescent moon smiling down, and I - or we - lying down, simply admiring.

And all of a sudden, it is so much more like gazing into the eyes of a significant other.

I would like to share this with you. You don't have to be important to me... For I only long for such beauty to flow throughout my veins, and send chills running down every nerve in my body. To breathe in the fresh, crisp breeze of a chilly evening, and to feel the soft undergrowth tickle at my limbs...To experience a wonderous night as this, even with one whom I know not well at all...
It is truly a special moment, truly, and a moment to simply savour.

And even if it just for this time that I spend feeling like this, even but for a mere moment, that is all I ask. That is all I will need.

LOL, Sarah.

Fluffy.

I reaaaalllly want to watch Despicable Me!

Look at this!!: Agnes!

SOOO CUTE!!!

That's all I really wanted to say (:

LOL, Sarah.