Demigods, Magicians, Realitants

"Hey, I had this really bizarre dream last night. It was like a fusion between Pacific Rim, Endless Summer, and Mass Effect all rolled up into one, and-" "Yeah you probably watch too much movies." "…But there's only one movie I mentioned…" "Too much games then." "…" "God, I was so scared, I was almost got ran down by a motorcycle on my way-" "Did you pray beforehand?" "Uh, yeah, I did?" "You probably didn’t do it enough, you should  be more pious." "…" "Hey, when are you gonna finish it?" "Um…" "The lady from across the street has been asking, you know. So does Mr. X and my friend Z." "…" "Why don’t you stack it so you wouldn’t have to go back all over again?" "I don’t know how." "Oh, I can help you-" "No need!" "…" "Hey, why are you so quiet?...

Pink Soft and cheerful Childish innocence Princesses’ dress Petty fight and winning it A pair of roller blades Still wistfully wishing A grin and eyes full of wonder Contentment Green Fresh and constant The start of an adventure Searching for a fitting piece Self-reliance and confidence Five letters to three Cusp of metamorphosis Prided victory in hand Cultivation Purple Glamour and mystery Shaky steps forward Slippery slope and prickling pebbles Ghosts of past wonders Questioning, keep questioning Empty stares and doubts Slipping, tumbling down Deterioration Blue, green, and purple  Forked lines and intertwined paths Red, pink, and cream Unconscious stares and empty canvas Too pale, too empty A hint of red might do nicely

Once upon a time, there lived a little girl with wispy frame and the eyes of a dreamer. She could capture the soul of any objects, be it awaken or asleep, and voice it to the world. Despite her extraordinary talent, only a small part of the world would listen to her tales. Many of them thought of her tales as nothing but an empty daydream, a thing to be ceased immediately. But still, there is that small part of the world. The part that is small in both number and size. Consisted of two little children, both younger than the girl, but with the same wonder in their eyes, just as the little girl’s. Each night, before they went to bed, the two children would decide on two things or persons, one for each of them, and they would ask the girl to tell them of their soul-story. The girl would comply, and her voice would flow until the two children slowly drifted into slumber, and only then the girl would join them. A night of a soul-story is good and beautiful and theirs. But nothin...

I couldn't even remember the first time I write my thoughts... My father has always been fond of writing, and both he and my mother always encourage me to write in a diary ever since I'm little. I remember that I used to write about the simplest thing, the huge rat I saw at a dumpster near my school, the binder book my friend's mother gifted to me out of the blue, the drama of elementary school girls. My entry would be filled by only a few lines about what happens to me that day. Sometimes it doesn't even contain anything particular, I just wrote that nothing special happened to me that day. Although, my inconsistency apparently has shown its seeds even then, since I couldn't write consistently for more than several days. Consistency has always been an enemy of mine in the case of creative process. Writing, painting.... I still can't comprehend how artists can draw their character repeatedly without needing to be in (what I call) Copying Mode (basically it...

The problem with my life was that it was someone else’s idea My impression after reading this book is...  beautiful . It is quirky, thoughtful, sweet, and beautiful .  It will make you smile, and cry, and cry some more, and eager for more, more, more . What happens after this? What about him? Are they going to be alright?  And rest assured, I read that this book is a part of a series, so, any curiosity and demand for more will, probably, be sated. So, this will be my Review/Summary of this book. And I warn you, IT CONTAINS SPOILERS . LOTS . OF. SPOILERS . Don't say I didn't warn you. Why do we smile? Why do we laugh? Why do we feel alone? Why are we sad and confused? Why do we read poetry? Why do we cry when we see a painting? Why is there a riot in the heart when we love? Why do we feel shame? What is that thing in the pit of your stomach called desire? The protagonist in this book, Ari, is a 15-year-old Mexican-American contemplative ...

"When you like someone, would you try to get close to them, or would you rather watch from afar?" "Why would anyone just watch the person they like without doing anything?" "I don't know. Maybe they're scared, maybe they're inexperienced. Maybe they don't know what to do and just looking at the person they like is enough." "That's idiotic, what if the person you like is liked by someone else, someone bolder and who doesn't just watch from a distance." "Distance is a safety measure. They may be cautious." "I'll use another C to call it, Cowardice ." "Hm. I've done both, though. When it's someone I already know and knows me, when liking them is slowly realizing that they are more than just who I thought they were, I'll try to get closer. Because I know them, I understand the dynamics. I know what not to do to keep them by my side." ...

I like my face.  I'm not saying it to sound vain,  but I do like it. My face is not overly pretty.  Nor is it badly shaped. It is a perfectly normal human face. But I like my face.  There are times  When my tears run down my cheeks When my eyes are red-rimmed and glassy When my nose is puffy and snotty All drawn clearly on my face But I like my face Because the marks won't stay long My cheeks will soon be dried  My skin will soon be back to its color I like it I like my face Because my face won't tell  about what happened  behind the closed door of my room My face won't tell  about what happened  to the soaked pillow on my bed My face won't tell And I will smile