So here's the situation, I "received" a rose from a stranger but it is both mine and not mine. It is, in it's own right, a Schrödinger situation. Valentine's Day, a day I admit I dreaded a bit but have prepared myself enough to go through. I had just entered the room wherein I were to take my last class of the day then, I notice a single pale, pink rose lying on my table. Its stalk was rather short, compared to the ones I've seen around campus. And, there's no note. My friend, who sat beside me, also had one lying on her desk but hers was red and had a different wrapping. Seeing hers, I immediately assumed that it might've been from one of our mutual friends-- the same exact friend who has already ruined the surprise by informing us the previous day that he was going to send us flowers, that which I refused and expressly told him that he could save his money by not sending me any. So, I went through class, not questioning it further. Besides, who else would send me a flower? For anything, there are a very limited number of people who knew both the timing and location of my classes. They were my block class, that guy friend, and possibly one of my orgs (though the schedule that i sent them didn't contain my classroom numbers but technically if one is crafty, they could cross-reference it to the schedule of my blockmate who is also a member of the same org). Then came dismissals and luckily enough, we ran into that guy friend in the halls. The first thing I asked him was why he sent me a flower despite me telling him that he didn't have to, and that anyways, I was grateful. That's when he looked at me, confused, and with a deadpan face, said, "I didn't send you any flowers because you asked me not to." At that point, another friend of mine, started "ooooh-ing" and pointed out the possibility of a secret admirer. I, on the other hand, was thoroughly confused and could not think of any other explanation for the situation other than that guy friend to be lying and was actually the one who sent the flower even though he insists that he didn't. And it was a few moments after that when he said this: "Maybe, the person from the previous class who sat in your seat left that. or maybe, the delivery for that flower for that person came when he/she wasn't there and so nobody was able to receive it." Like dude, my man, why do you have to hurt me this way? That statement over there methodically struck down and burnt my very daintily-numbered self-esteem to smithereens like a cartoon man holding an umbrella up during a rainstorm. That statement effectively pierced through the mental shield I very carefully prepared especially for Valentine's Day with the ease of a warm knife through butter. And with that, so it stands, the mystery of this pale, pink rose. I don't know who sent it, and neither do I know for whom. Will I ever know? I'm yet to find out. All I know is that since I kept it anyways, it is both mine and not mine. It was both meant for me and not. It was both sent to me and not. It is Schrödinger's rose. It is No One's rose. . . . I'm intrigued.
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There were a significat amount of times during this past year wherein my anxiety cells seem to be turned off during the times when it should be on its peak capacity. Let's say a worrying situation arises, as they happened to have done an unusual number of times during this past year in particular, and being the worrier that I am. I know it in my guts that this situation should make me anxious. I should be trembling in fear right now. I should be crying. In some of those situations, the implications of the "would-be" negative situation should be enough to veer me into a panic attack wherein half of my body starts going pale and numbs against feeling.
It is unusual because in a few other occasions wherein the situation (in hindsight) was less imminent than the ones I'm trying to imply, I tended to suffer from all the symptoms I just described. As a hypothetical example, let's say I was afraid of getting any type of wounds on my skin because I scar easily. Therefore, I would be careful around new books in case I get a paper cut, as well as with the kitchen knife when I'm cooking. However, comparing my anxiety levels on the possibility of getting hurt on both situations, I feel more anxious around paper than I do when working the knife while cooking. It doesn't make sense really especially when I'm well aware that a knife injury would be much more severe than a paper-cut. It doesn't make sense how careful I act around paper while be casually relaxed cutting vegetables in the kitchen. It's almost like I know for a fact that nothing bad is going to happen with the kitchen knife. I'm somehow sure of it. On the other hand, I don't feel any of that reassurance working with paper and that is why I am anxious-- even if/when I do get a paper-cut, it probably wouldn't be serious enough to result in an overgrown scar. It's perplexing, really, but, to be honest, during those times in the previous year wherein a huge anxiety-causing situation appeared-- nothing horrendously bad happened, as if proving my gut feeling of there being no need to feel anxiety, right. Sure, during some of those times, things did not go as planned and/or things fell short but never did any of them result in the absolute worst-case scenario that my mind is good at conjuring up even for the smallest of anxieties. My gut feeling was actually right?! Fascinating. However, I'd like to think of it more that maybe, it's divine intervention, in a way something of a wholesome prank from God. And like truly wholesome pranks, they are designed to spur someone into action and to alleviate a reaction whilst not really harming nor injuring the participant in a severe way. Sure, as the pranked, you might get soiled and maybe suffer a cut or two but alive and well nonetheless. . . . Now, another possible knife-cut situation has arisen but once again, I don't feel as anxious as my rational brain tells me I should be. I'm strangely calm and clear-headed. It's weird but I'm not complaining. For a normie, I don't really know how pondering this rhetorical question will benefit me in any way but I have been having this thought since the weekend of the concert: What if I were to become famous? Would it be a dream come true or would I wish I just stayed being No One for the rest of my life? I play music. I'm not a genius nor am I exceptionally talented but I play as a hobby and I usually enjoy grabbing opportunities to perform. I sing-ish: which just basically means that on some days I'm like, "Wow, if I sound like this now, what more if I had training?", while on other days, I'm like, "*******, you sound like a choked-up fish." Anyways, the point is, I have creativity-based hobbies that which if I pursued seriously and/or by fateful luck could earn me fame. I've fantasised about it surely, I mean, who wouldn't want to be looked up to, praised and recognised? I do too. Whether anonymously or while bearing my real name, I, too, have dreamed of becoming famous... to an extent. What if I were to become famous? Would it be a dream come true or would I wish I just stayed being No One for the rest of my life? . . . My answer right now would be: I'd like to be famous too, but maybe not famous-famous. . . . Erm, let me explain: The main thing that comes to mind whenever I think of fame is how it would affect my ability to travel around freely. I love travelling and exploring, and just getting to know and look around places I've never been to before. In gaming, I'm always that one friend who takes her time exploring every single crevice of the map to make sure she "doesn't miss anything" which therefore results in everyone finishing the game early and then discussing it with each other while I cover my ears from all the spoilers as I'm barely mid-way through the play-through (also because I suck at fights). I also would like to be left alone when I'm out having fun with family and friends, and *ehem* someday, when I go out on a date *ehem*. I'm worried about how fame could possibly affect the meaningfulness of my identity and how much I could still control the preservation of my character. I don't know about you but I'd rather only share my stupidity mementos of years gone by with myself or just a select group of friends for nostalgia and laughs by means of Facebook review, and not through articles that which the whole world could simply Google and see. Actually, with the detail in which information about celebrities are easily searchable online, and the fact that so many people want to know those and much more: the idea kind-of terrifies me. Seriously, you can even find the sock size of some celebrity somewhere in the internet. And no, I did not search for it, I just happened to stumble upon the information, for goodness' sake. An example of how absurd fan knowledge about a celebrity could be, there's this fan who even memorises Brendon Urie's first Instagram post's caption and, it made me feel uneasy. Unnecessary as it may be, I have since gone through an Instagram purge of my old, maybe questionable, brought on by teen angst posts, and hipster era cringe-photos. Better safe than sorry. (Why don't you just switch to a private account then? If I did, then how are people gonna know how funny I am? But I thought... nevermind.) In summary, I embrace a certain level of privacy and it's not something I could willingly give up. However, I cannot ignore that there are perks to becoming famous-- those of which I don't feel there is a need for elaboration which is why even after all the points I've said, I still dream of becoming famous. . . . How and why? . . . Well, if I could achieve fame under a pseudonym or through anonymity, then it's... ... until you realise that this is reality and even Hannah Montana wasn't able to maintain that lifestyle forever.
. . . This is reality, kid. Well, I guess I'll worry about fame if/when I get there but right now, I have other things to do... like, cook dinner... Sh** Organisers, journals, calendars, alarms (lots of them), timelines (quite a few of them), neatly labeled files put in their corresponding folders, folders for everything, actually-- I may have a slight obsession with organisation tools.
My closet, book collection, and pens are all stored by category. I have several notebooks for different purposes (one for blogging, one for creative writing, one for college applications, etc.) My computer photo albums are all organised by date, event, and relevance. And yet... I always find myself doing the majority of my work on the days/hours approaching the deadline. I often find it hard to stick to one idea, constantly scratching the previous one after thinking of something "better". I become restless and couldn't stick to a set routine for long. In short, I am chaotically organised whose self is organised chaotically. . . . Now, I don't know what else to write, I've completely lost my train of thought on what point I wanted to make in this post and now I'm just rambling... Do you get me? |
Notes from the author: If you'd like to have a conversation with me about anything I've written in this blog, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure, memes, or anything at all, slide into my DMs at:
The cover artwork featured above is used with special permission from IG: @squackoud
Special hashtags to watch out for:*** the following are specialised blog entries that have no set schedule compared to the usual bi-weekly postings.
#WednesdayWritings - drabbles, poetry, prose, short stories--- creative and expressive writing in no one's style.
#ThrowbackThursday - the cringey, the I-did-that? moments, the tear-inspiring, and the embarrassing moments of the past gone by--- available only here so shhhh...
#FreeThoughtFriday - a collection of 3AM thoughts for your collective amusement and might get you asking wtf?!
to see older posts:To view some of my older posts, there is a "previous" button hiding just below the bottom left corner of the last post of this page.
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