Love,love,loooove this song. Perfect for a lazy day at home with nothing better to do than watch Girls on repeat.
Went to my first job ever today.
I plastered my ready-to-conquer-the-world smile and went straight to training. I felt my heart deflate just a teeny tiny bit after hearing my wages though. But heeeey, I’m doing this for the experience. Right? right? Before I know it,I’ll be walking the cobbled streets of Paris.
This was the first song that popped in my head after consoling my broken heart and empty wallet.
I’m sexy and I know it.
Ever since I was a little girl, my love for words was unmistakable. I used to love watching my mother work, waiting in anticipation for her to write down anything on paper. I remember feeling a mixture of fascination and excitement every time I saw her pen poised in her hand, ready to fill the blank sheet in front of her. I watched as the squiggly lines begin to take shape and flow gracefully on the paper. I love how she can start off with just a blank sheet and end with it completely filled out. As I grew older my curiosity intensified and I always found myself scribbling down stuff. Scribble here, scribble there. At first they were just gibberish, just squiggly lines in imitation of the letters I hardly knew then. As time passed they became more vivid, more real. One day, my father handed me a pen and notebook and told me to write. And I did. I wrote with as much vigor as any seven-year-old could muster. I wrote about my freckly classmate, my scary Chinese teacher, my pet dog Barbie and the recent Powerpuff Girls episode. I practically wrote about anything I could think of. There are many reasons that I write, but what started it all is this: I write because I love words. My love for words eventually evolved into a complementary entity to my nostalgic nature. I have kept a journal with me for as long as I could remember and every year I make a habit of reliving my past and read it all again. Each time I finish I just sit there in awe at how much I’ve changed throughout the years. Life is fleeting and I believe the best way to hold on to your memories is to write them down and make them immortal on paper. It’s like taking a mental picture of all the things that matter in your life. I can’t count the number of times I’ve scolded myself for not writing a certain episode in my journal or for not paying attention to little things. I write so I can remember the minute details that anyone could easily brush off but are essential pieces of a memory. Like the smell of my mother’s shampoo one fine summer day or that particular song my father loved listening during rainy days. I live for those little things that tend to take for granted, those little things that have the potential to knock your breath away and engulf you in nostalgia. When I get old and wrinkly I hope to one day relish those memories as vividly as though they happened yesterday. I write to remember me and everything that I am. My father captured my penchant for writing and nourished it. He was my inspiration, my avid supporter and my best critic since day one. We both shared the love for writing. He was always eloquent when he wrote. When he handed me that pen and notebook, my seven-year-old self immediately poured all her heart and soul on those pages. As all kids are, I had no qualms over letting my father read the things I wrote. I remember watching him anxiously as his eyes sweep over every line. Lines talking about mundane things, nothing earth shattering. It probably involved a lot about my favourite doll or the dress I wore or the movie I saw, just typical kid stuff. But this never bothered him, never failed to draw a smile out of him. He was never impatient about reading my entries instead he’d read it longer than an average person would as if trying to etch every word into his heart. As I got older and the things I wrote became more personal, my visits to him became rare until I stopped going to him for approval. As years passed, I sadly understood why he took his sweet time in reading my writing. He was simply basking in the innocence of my youth and like how I am today he was also taking a mental picture of that seemingly fleeting part of my life.My father dared me to believe in myself. He dared me to believe that my thoughts matter and they shouldn’t be locked in the deep recesses of my heart. They should be paraded and freely expressed into writing. Now that he’s gone, I write to keep the memory of him alive. I seek solace in the fact that he will always be with me through my writing. That I can make him as lively and as jubilant in my writing as he used to be. I write to remember that it was my father, my avid supporter, who nurtured this passion until the very end. Lastly, I write for me. I write for the purely selfish reason that I want to feel the bliss of being lost in my own world. Writing gives me the high that no other activity can. For some it’s dancing or painting or rock climbing, but for me, it’s hands down writing. The high I get from writing is probably as intense as any junkie on cocaine (not that I’ve tried snorting coke, but still). Writing keeps me sane since it allows me to purge my emotions. I indulge in the fact that this is for me and not for anyone else. When I write for me I don’t have to be pretentious and conscious about correct prepositions, comma splices (which I happen to do often) or proper tenses. I don’t have to do a million double takes and worry if I’m making sense or not. I just allow myself to get lost and dive right into how I feel and how I want to translate that on paper. Each time I write, I feel like I’m leaving a piece of me behind. As if I shifted the weight of whatever it was I was carrying into my writing. It is a form of escape. It can be very addictive, but it’s an addiction that I wouldn’t dare exchange for the world. Writing has made me see things that I never thought I was capable of seeing. It acted as my anchor during the momentary waves of adversity and sailed happily with me during calm waters. Someday, I hope for my children or grandchildren to chance upon my journals. I hope for them to leaf through the pages, observing how my slanted handwriting depicted the mood I was feeling that day. I hope for them to learn from my experiences and rejoice in my triumphs. Writing after all possesses the power to transcend from the pages and into the hearts of individuals.
We read to find the end, for the story’s sake. We read not to reach it, for the sake of the reading itself. We read searchingly, like trackers, oblivious of our surroundings. We read distractedly, skipping pages. We read contemptuously, admiringly, negligently, angrily, passionately, enviously, longingly. We read in gusts of sudden pleasure, without knowing what brought the pleasure along. ‘What in the world is this emotion?’ asks Rebecca West after reading King Lear. ‘What is the bearing of supremely great works of art on my life which makes me feel so glad?’ We don’t know: we read ignorantly. We read in slow, long motions, as if drifting in space, weightless. We read full of prejudice, malignantly. We read generously, making excuses for the text, filling gaps, mending faults. And sometimes, when the stars are kind, we read with an intake of breath, with a shudder, as if someone or something has ‘walked over our grave,’ as if a memory had suddenly been rescued from a place deep within us—the recognition of something we never knew was there, or of something we vaguely felt as a flicker or shadow, whose ghostly form rises and passes back into us before we can see what it is, leaving us older and wiser.
—She's Got You High
Well she’s got you high and you don’t even know yet.