Giving Up Isn't What I Do—It's What I've Already Done

Another story while I work on the Easter Island saga. Lots of pictures I have to fix up, and lots of distractions (i.e.: calc test, research paper, EOQR, and everything else in life), so I wrote this instead. Huh. That didn't really make sense. Oh well. (Quotes from OceanLab's songs, as you may have suspected already.)

Giving Up Isn't What I Do—It's What I've Already Done

(but it's not really giving up, and it's never what you think it is, not ever)

You have your own philosophy, and it works for you, but please don't force it onto me.

"You're smart, yeah. You've got good grades—you work hard. But what makes you different from all the other smart girls out there? All the other hard workers? I could have a thousand girls like you lining up, all vying for this opportunity. What makes you the one that should deserve it?"

Lines. Shades. Chiaroscuro.


There is something magical about life—especially in the way it can be used to emulate everything else in life. Life is like a painting. Life is like a song. Life is like a tree. Life is like a river. Life is like—

Life is my source of humor, and it's also where I get my fountain of despair. I get high on life, I get drunk from life. I am made painfully sober by life.

Life is also remarkably conforming, one life to another, especially when you distill it to its very roots.

Millions of years ago, life ran over the jungles of Pangaea, searching for survival, but more so searching for a future that would no longer require a search for survival. A future where life would be guaranteed—where it would be the basic tenet of the world and all of its extravagance.

Millions of years later, life roams over the jungles of architecture, still searching for survival, still searching for that bright future where survival simply will not become an issue anymore—where the mere word "survival" will be relegated to the dusty tomes of archaic lexicons.

"You think you're all that, with your little awards printed on cheap stationery, your fake gold and silver medals, and your minute of 'fame' going up in front of everyone in your grade to receive a round of applause that a hundred other people also receive? You really think you're special because of those trivial things?"

Fifth grade, up in my grandmother's apartment on the third floor. I looked out the window and saw two boys climbing the walls to reach the second floor walk-way on the apartment beside ours. It was sunny that day, and I remember falling in love with that golden beam.

I think that was the first time I ever fell in love.

That winter, I read my first tragedy. What struck me most wasn't how the protagonist loved a girl that he found out later was his sister, or how everyone seemed to mistreat him, or even the fact that he died—it was how, when his sister came to visit him at his grave, it started raining, and then, as his sister pleaded for him to stop crying up in heaven, it really stopped raining.

I think I found that story tragic because, even in death, he defied his own emotions to please someone else.

The spring after that, I was bound to leave. My cousin gave me a page of her "address book," a peculiar combination of keeping in touch with old classmates and a space to write farewell thoughts. On the first line, I wrote, "They smell like lavender and pain—tears." It made no sense, and yet I could not let go of the word "lavender."

I think if I had to pin-point when it all began, this would be my choice.

"I've got my fair share of boyfriends, you know, and let me tell you, they're all the same. They'll make sweet promises to you, tell you they'll give you the world, say they'll do anything for you. They'll do that for a while, make you feel like they're real. Then when they grow tired, they'll turn their backs on you faster than you can blink and none of them will ever turn back."

Smile. Say something in that sweet voice of yours. Oh, and, don't forget, smile.


They always had golden hair—a distant reminder of the sun as it slipped beyond my grasp. Blue, blue eyes—reminiscent of the brightest, highest autumn sky. They were all the same. A thousand of them, lined up, and they would still be all the same.

I treated them all the same. My eyes would inevitably follow their footsteps, my heart hung in suspense over their every word. I assigned reasons after the occasion. Oh, he's sweet, oh, he's nice, oh, he pays attention to what I say, oh, he's a people person. Oh, he's got golden hair and blue eyes.


I never admitted it before. They were all the same, really. The boy on the swings, the boy who lived next to me, the boy who trudged down the roads with me, who was too afraid to tell me. A thousand of them all lined up and they would start blending into each other, one face to another, until I could only vaguely pick out the individual characteristics and it was so, so much easier to just combine them together into one entity.

He—they—were all the same. I said hi, said bye, said I'll never see you again don't ask me why.

"Who does he think he is? I can find someone a thousand times better than he. He's, what? Crying to his little friends now, calling me a bitch? I'm not a bitch, this is just how life is. Take it or leave it. I'm not going to mess around with someone like him, when he's just another average guy down the street."

I believe in Allison Saint-Cross.

I believe in everything he stands for. Everything he is fighting against. Everything he treasures, everything he regrets. Everything he is. Everything he is not.

If I had to have a faith, it could be summed up by him. If I had to follow one person's tenets for the rest of my life, it would be his—but that would be contradictory, because one of his tenets is not to blindly follow others' philosophies. If I had to sacrifice my life for one person—it would not be him.

Somewhere in-between the ideal and the real, I had lost sight of what I was really searching for.

I am, above all, searching for survival, searching for that peaceful future where survival will no longer be in my dreams. I believe in Allison because he represents life, represents the sacrifices we are willing to make for life, represents that dogged search for survival. He exists because of our desires to live on.

But somewhere in-between the real and the ideal, I had redefined what life meant to me.

Life was a whirlpool, and there was only one way to get out. I knocked on glass, looked up, and saw blue, icy blue, soft cotton blue, simply blue.

"Really unattractive. You should have seen her. But she's special, you know. Strange girl. I don't understand her. I've never met someone so smart and so stupid at the same time. I don't know what's going on in her head all the time. I don't understand her at all."

It was simple, really, the rules of this new game. It was a twisted combination of truth and dare, of hide and seek, of tug-o'-war, of battleship, of Monopoly, of Clues, of tic-tac-toe, of every game this world had come to know and will continue to know.

It was a game of deception, a game of play, a game of hiding your true strengths and most importantly, your true weaknesses.

It was like a game of chess, and we were both good enough at it to keep on playing against each other. My pawns lined up like a curtain, poised, mockingly so, ready to stake out new territories. He had his defense up already, his eyes narrowed, his bishop out to sweep my attacks. My knight was ready, with its haughty laugh, defending my choices. His rook hung out, sharp, biting, ready to tackle me with my very attacks.

I kept my queen unmoved, afraid that once I start, I will be opening a Pandora's box, revealing my darkest weakness. He noted my unusual moves, but did not question it out loud. His mind was already wrapped up in the complex plays, trying to figure out the meaning behind every move.

It was simple, really, my reason for hesitance. I did not know how to end a game. So I dragged the game on, not winning, not losing. I waited for him to realize, and yet, at the same time, hid it deeper and deeper.

He was just like the rest of them, and yet he was different somehow. I could not tell how.

"There's a thousand opportunities out there, and a million people who want them. I'm telling you, you have to go out there and get it. Be aggressive, just talk, open your mouth. A million people—you have to show them why you're the one. Show them what you've got."

The fourteenth floor. Looking down through that tiny excuse of a window. Blue, dirty, smudged blue, adorned with maybe a wisp of a cloud here and there. So close, and yet so out of reach.

Midnight, on the buoying deck, hand framing the moon. Pale, cold, softly blurred and so ethereal it is a deity all in its own right. So far, and yet so close to the heart.

Swaying grass, endless spans of eternity etched into varying shades of green. Sea-green, sea-blue, spelling whispers of a tribe of legends and a siren's songs. So close, so far, and just so, no more, no less.

The eulogy was easy enough to write, and so were the parting words. Some hastily put-together words: I'm sick of this world, I can't see the light anymore, I can't go on anymore, I'm sorry, I love you, I've always loved you, I know you'll miss me, but I can't deal with this anymore, so please, don't miss me too much, don't hang onto me too much.


Lies, they're all lies, lies.


I chose this because I wanted to, not because it was my only choice. Let me go, forget me, because I am embarking on a voyage without end, and such a voyage requires no ties to hold me back. I am not sorry. This is my choice. I am doing something I've always wanted to do. This is my definition of survival, and I am going on a journey to find my future without survival.

I am finally ending the game.

"We're really alike, you and I. We want the same things, we crave the same things, we need the same things, we dream the same things. But we go about achieving them in different ways. I couldn't figure it out for the longest time, because you acted differently from what I'd expected, but now I know. Now I know."

You and I, truth and lies, I've been fooling myself too long. You and I, breaking ties, how could we be so right and wrong?