Hindsight Is A Spiteful Kid

The main problem with wanting to prop up your vanity (or just being over-eager in general) is, well, sometimes you wish you hadn't. Really. Not that, I, uh, have any experience in this field or anything. Uh-huh.

But I would like to take this opportunity to note that my ankle does not like me. I was walking from the dining counter to the kitchen counter when my left ankle decided to writhe in pain, and naturally I almost toppled over. Needless to say, it was not fun and resulted in me hobbling on the other leg for a long time (because I was afraid to see if my ankle was okay afterwards).

I have weird joint problems (as Tea nicely pointed out). That I will admit. This ankle thing could be related to my habit of sitting on my ankles, although it does not explain the relative lack of pain in my other ankle, unless I usually only sit on one ankle. I don't know—and I don't want to find out, because that would mean more ankle-sitting and possibly more pain.

Anyway. My mom and I went to Crumbs today, because two of my interviews to come (the early decision/action ones) will occur there. My mom's theory was that we should have a "mock interview" there and see how things go, since I am generally not good around strangers. Instead, the entire journey turned into a "What do you want to do in the future?" talk, but this time with a delicious apple pie cupcake, as opposed to the ordinary talks. My mom's idea of my future (and probably my dad's too, since they think remarkably alike) is that I have three choices: financial whatever, engineer, or doctor. (Okay, so I could have expanded upon the "financial whatever," but then it wouldn't rhyme.)

She is leaning towards doctor. Something about stability and lack of need for aggression.

We are going to Starbucks tomorrow (did you know I have never been to Starbucks, ever?) and figuring out what the second floor will mean for awkwardness in terms of interviews (Ariadne said it was pretty awkward since no one else was talking). I think I will get a hot chocolate tomorrow. Or whatever looks good. Any recommendations?

Also, in light of all the issues going on (primarily mine, but also everyone else's), I have decided that I need to take on a more optimistic, plan-oriented way of approaching things. Of course, I know it's not going to work out that way (I should know, the last few times I tried planning something always just happened), but I am setting some basic guidelines and then letting things roam. I have a December plan (if it ever will happen, that is). And plans are at least something to go by, when everything else is just so chaotic.

. . .

Allie's All About Apathy (part III)

"You are Rena," he said, without any charm. Charm was not needed for those who were desperate enough to see him. "Changed, no doubt. How is the family?"

"Good," I replied. "Everyone who is alive is good."

"You mean yourself?"

So he knew. It should not have been surprising—after all, Allison Saint-Cross knew everything—but a part of me still wished he had not known, that I would be able to bring some shock into his hardened composure. I took his outstretched hand and allowed him to guide me inside the house out of habit. I knew the house better than he did, I had in owned this place with my childhood dreams. But habits, too ingrained in the mind, were hard to break.

"I thought I saw him the other day," he continued. "In a silver robe so characteristically his style. I thought, for once, I was wrong."

The unspoken words stung. Allison was never wrong. It could not have been Ciel. Ciel was—he was—I stared into Allison's eyes. "He came to you last, he must have wanted something from you."

"If he did, he did not tell me."

"Liar! You know very well what he wanted, you probably even gave it to him!"

"No," Allison said. "I meant, he did not come to see me. Not on that day."

"But he said he would," I said. "He told me that was where he was going. And everyone saw him in town, on Bayon Street, and everyone knows that if he was on Bayon Street then he must be—"

"Fate is here too, why don't you ask him?"

He was angry now. He had to be. Allison never mentioned Fate unless he was upset—he always preferred to ignore Fate's existence, as much as possible. I took my hand from his and leaned against the wall. "Fate. Is that why? Because you think Fate has to do with this?"

Going Down The Memory Lane

I do not do this willingly, oftentimes. Remembering the past is something that happens because I had, in my past self, left behind mementos for my present self to come across. Precariously. Because even the smallest things can trigger memories that do not belong—should never have belonged.

Today I was cleaning out my inbox, per usual, when I saw that I had a lot of drafts just sitting there. I opened them up one by one, trying to see if there were any I could delete. And of course, there were those I had previously mentioned in another cleaning-out-inbox moment, but there were other things too. Stories from once upon a time. Fragments of words—sentences—thoughts. Things I used to believe in. And maybe still do.

And a few recurring themes.

Confusion is one of them. I always write when I am confused. Count this as one of those times. I write about loss, and about getting lost. I write about regrets, and trying not to regret. Sometimes, I write about death. Usually I just imply it. I write about things I do not understand but wish I understood.

I write about real life, I just had never quite noticed it. I write about real life packaged in shiny wrapping paper made up of lies. Freshly embellished. Until all of the rough edges are hidden, and all of the raw emotions are curtailed, and all that is left is a neatly polished piece that is faintly reminiscent of reality.

Writing is just as much a lie as it is a reflection on the truth. And I must say, I relish in the lying as much as I do the truth-telling. It, in its own magical way, protects me from reality. So I write. A lot. In my continuous search for that perfect "real" that is not "reality." A safeguard.

But I am rambling. Digressing into the uncharted waters of my mind. I must have written about that as well.

. . .

This because I am not the perfect person I think a part of me envisioned myself to be. The other part scoffs at perfection. But none of that matters now.

I think what matters now is: I'm doing this for all the wrong reasons. Again.

If there ever was a first time to begin with. And I was recently asked whether I would rather all of it never existed, this funny business with the past. Would I? I have asked myself that. Oblivion. Forget this ridiculous dream so as to forget the torturous crushing of hope. I think it can be boiled down to that.

But there is no what if? in this world. Another reason I dislike the past.

. . .

Paradoxical, of course, because I am dredging up the past with this.

. . .

Allie's All About Apathy (part II)

My first memory of Ciel was of his piercing red eyes. It was my favorite memory of him too, because in that memory he was calm. Solemn, yes, but not annoyed. I must have been four then, and he seven. We were in the study, and Ciel was writing something on the parchment laid out on the desk. I was too short for the chair and could not see what he was writing, so I asked him.

"None of your concern," he said, but it was without animosity. It was merely a response meant to stop me from distracting him. Later on, he would add the more biting words, but for now, he had not donned the cruelty children often had.

And it must have been this time when Allison Saint-Cross entered the study, his hands stuck in his pockets. Over the years, he and Ciel would often meet to discuss things that came with monetary value but was more often measured in lives and livelihoods. But for now, they were only friends.

If even that.

Allison saw me and said, "He's crazy, that brat." He was a few years older than Ciel, and had thought he earned the right to call him nicknames. Ciel looked up and frowned.

And it was now that I wondered why I did not have any memories of Ciel before this particular moment. It did not seem like a memorable occasion, nor was it any natural time for Ciel to enter my life. He was just there, and I had just accepted him into my life, even if he had never accepted me into his life.

When I climbed down the mountain and got to Bayon Street, I asked a few people if they knew of a store that sold wishes. They all pointed me down the street, where I found a small two-story house juxtaposed with the towering marble buildings so typical of Anna Marie. He was there already, waiting for me.

Allison Saint-Cross still had his dazzling green eyes, although he had grown his hair out longer, and it now trailed in wispy black strands down his head. He held out his hand and bowed slightly, so that his tall frame stretched and crinkled his shirt. He had the expression of a bitter man who refused to accept defeat. An expression I must have mirrored, because he laughed when he saw me.

Here Is To NaNoWriMo And Math Meet

Math meet today! The second math meet of the—do we call it a season?—started with me missing the last fifteen minutes of Middle East (which is such a boring class, although now I know what a caliph is, finally). I went downstairs and saw Tea and Gretchen coming the other way, and we all got on the bus (and eventually everyone else got on the bus as well).

Obviously, per math meet tradition, we talked about random things. I don't remember much of the conversation, because I was attempting to read the last 15+ pages of Metamorphosis on the bus, and then proceeded to get really nauseated. Not good. (Tybalt remarked that our bus ride was extremely bumpy—more so than usual—which I believe may have contributed to the cause.)

Off the bus (and into Spearheadville), we went into the cafeteria and were going to our usual table in the banished corner when some random girl said, "Is this the nerd conference?"

That comment aside, the pre-math-rounds-math-meet-time went really well. There was lots of food, lots of fun, and lots of hysteria in general, except I believe that either Gretchen or Tea may have better things to say about this because I was rather, uh... anyway.

I will comment on the rounds though. Round 3 was really straightforward, except I did 36 - 8 in my head and got 24. No idea how that happened. Round 5 was also okay except the last question, and we did not have to know sin 75, although I do know it rather well (for the time being) thanks to Bryant's wonderfully descriptive circle (read: circle with four dots). Round 6 was also okay, although I probably flunked out on the math because I got the second question wrong.

But I'm on B-team, so who cares?

Also, while going into round 3, I waited outside for a while with a bunch of Treeburg people who were extremely tall. In matching hoodies. Argon suggested that we really should get hoodies for math team. Uh-huh. Keep on dreaming, Argon.

This is the end of my math meet recount. Someone else pick up from here?

. . .

P.s.: The 2010 midterm election results are out! But they were close to expected, so not too much surprise there.

. . .

And, of course, I mentioned NaNoWriMo, and I have been seeing it around plenty of times, so I suppose I could take part in it too. Except mine will probably be NaReallyShortAndDisjointedNoWriHalfMo, if that makes any sense. I'm sure it did.

I was supposed to have an outline and notes jotted down before November began to give me a head start or something, but since I have my characters already (yay for recycling) and I only really write about one plot, that is not extremely necessary.

So this is the first edition of my ReallyShortAndDisjointedNovel. AlsoKnownAsALongShortStory. NotEdited.

Allie's All About Apathy (note the alliteration?)

In the morning, I came upon the cliff my brother used to call "Judgment's Edge."

Or, if he was feeling creative, he would call it, "The place where all the moping people come to mope and all the idiots come to make stupid poetry about things they'll never understand."

He was never a creative one. It was either plain and straightforward, or he did not bother with it. And I never  knew how he put up with the stories we learned as little kids, but something must have stuck, because he remembered Judgment's Edge from a book our mother had read to us back when she still read. The book was about a boy and his two sisters, that was all I remembered. A boy and his two sisters, just like my brother Ciel, and my sister Celeste, and me.

I am not named after the sky. I am not a skychild. But in the book, the older brother and sister loved their youngest sister. They adored her. And that is all I remember from the book, aside from the ledge they called Judgment's Edge, where the brother and sisters went to pray for their mother's health.

Back then, we did not have to pray for our mother's health. These days, I did not have to either. I wondered if I had ever prayed for her.

I knew Ciel never prayed. Skychildren did not pray. They performed miracles because they were children of the sky. The ones who could survive anything. But Ciel did not pray, not because he believed himself invincible, but because he thought it was pointless. Or maybe the idea of it was too complex, too reliant on a faith he did not possess.

Faith brought me to here, I knew. A faith Ciel never took part in. The same faith—or lack thereof—that created this world.

Anna Marie.

I was in Anna Marie now. Kaniol. A hundred thousand worlds away from Nephria.

I was on Judgment's Edge, looking down on the glistening rooftops of the buildings of Anna Marie. The tall, pointy tower of the Sovereign's Castle. The sprawling gardens Seria Deshen took so much pride in maintaining. The grand magnolias of the DiGrant's front lawn. The town square. The bell tower of the library. The winding Crescentia that flowed through the east end of the city and sparkled under the morning sun.

It was beautiful. I wished I knew why Ciel wanted to leave here so badly.

To be continued next time I have something interesting to say.