Animorphs and Memories

You are probably not a fan of Animorphs. Probably haven’t heard of it even. But I’m telling you, it’s gold.

I grew up with Animorphs. Book #2, The Visitor, Rachel’s perspective was my first novel. Ever. You’re probably wondering why not Book #1? I was new to “reading” so I did not know there are book series at that time. Didn’t even notice I was holding Book #2. Even if I did, I wouldn’t have bothered asking where’s #1.

Anyway, before you lose interest, give me a chance first. I am not a good salesperson nor a writer so bear with my way. I’m just trying to share to you a memory. Give me a chance. 🙂

The story basically is about these teenagers “with a death wish”. Nah, that’s just what they say. But as I see it, they were teenagers who tried to save the world. Teenagers who tried to save you and me, and in the process forgot that they should be saving themselves too.

Maybe  you are thinking now that it appealed to me because I was a kid at that time. Yeah. Probably. I might’ve loved it because I was in 4th grade and still trying to grow up.

But in all honesty, I think I didn’t really care care much for it back then. I liked the story, but didn’t really realize it was going to be one of the greatest adventure I’ll ever encounter. Encounter because reality dictates I was just a reader.

I was just reading when Jake gave the order.

I was just reading when Rachel killed her cousin.

I was just reading when one of them got killed.

I was just reading when one of them wanted to die.

I was just reading when they were all fighting.

I was just reading when they were trying to just be normal teenagers.

I was just reading when they failed to do that.

I was just reading when the war ended, but not really.

It was such a ride for me that I decided they are my favorite heroes. It was the kind of story I can’t ever get out of my system. The kind that makes me wish I was part of it.

But adventures and sci-fi aside, I think what really got me digging it was the ending. It was too real. It was the sort that irritates all booklovers out there. I swear, if you’ve read too much you will hate the ending. And then you will calm down. You will cry if you have feels or human stuffs in you whatsoever. You will try to research if it was really the ending. There will be anger and frustration.

Then you will reach acceptance once google confirms it is the actual ending. It’s the last page. It’s the last book. You’ll realize Katherine Applegate wrote you a letter in the end. To give you a closure.

And then you will understand. You will understand that that’s how things end. That this isn’t a Disney film. And you will love them even more. And you will thank me. Haha, jk. It might not be the same for you. But that’s how it was for me.

This is why after all these years, I still reread the whole series. I might’ve improved on a lot of areas concerning the English language, so sometimes I suffer the childishness of its structure. I forgive it in the end because I get reminded that I am not anymore a girl in puberty stage. 🙂

So please, try to read Animorphs. I don’t know why I’m writing this now but the whole thing just passed my mind and I wanted to let people know something great is out there. Be patient with it, it has its moments, like most stories.

Then, once you’re done, you have to tell me and we have to talk about the whole thing.

P.s.

Katherine Applegate told us that we may now demorph. I just couldn’t.

Thank you K.A. Applegate and ghost writers (I’m sorry I do not know your names by heart). You are all amazing. Thank you, a million times.

Fucking Hate Writers

I hate writers. Fucking writers. Writers of fucking movies, plays, papers. Writers in fucking movies, plays, papers. I fucking hate writers. So fucking busy all the time. Minds working like bees, shitty busy bees. Always have a word for you, an adjective to fuck with your feelings or a verb that rarely actually moves.

Someone once told me that all writers were readers before they were writers. Fuck that then. I fucking hate readers too. Always have this quote or that of some fictional shitty princess in a fictional shitty far away land. Fucking readers. Always somewhere else when you want them to just be there. Can’t get a hold of their minds, can’t win them over in one line. You had to speak chapters to get to them, fucking readers.

Fucking hate readers. And writers. All their words, their worlds. So shitty and pretentious and always attached to feelings. Always have the perfect mix of words to make you feel things. Real things. Really shitty. Fucking hell, what kind of god gives a man a mind that works like that.

Above all else, I fucking hate fucking with writers. I mean, hell, you make one wrong move and they’ll write about you. You hurt them and they’ll write about you, thus immortalizing your fucking mistake. Forever preserving that one moment when you fucked up. “Oh I knew she was a criminal who can stab me anytime with a rusty dagger, but the drop of ecstasy from it all when she wasn’t murdering was all worth it.” – he would fucking write that and some fucking reader would shed a tear for him. Fuckers. Damn right I wish all writers and readers live in a different earth and leave all the sane ones here in peace.

I fucking hate writers.

Tracks

Sometimes we keep track of people because we are afraid of losing them. We keep track even though the distance in between had covered up miles. Because no matter what, we just care. Doesn’t matter if they’ve gone to their depths of misery, impossible for you to reach – they are not gone to you.

We keep track because we want to know that they’d make it. We want to make sure they will not slash that wrist or jump off that window. We try to decode every post, every image liked, because, well, there are no words to hear – we can only rely on the unspoken truths.

We keep track because we know they are the type who can just one day snap and flash the middle finger to the world who cares. We just want to make sure they’re not going to do it today. And maybe, if we learn that they will do it soon, we can still soften the hard ground.

Because we still care and we cannot help but. We have invested too much and it’s just not like us to drop it like that. We have the friendship that never made it, but that doesn’t mean we can just let them take a fall.

But most of all, we keep track because we just know we can’t live with the guilt of losing someone we knew we could save. That maybe, if we can save them, we can save ourselves.

Or that maybe, we are saving ourselves more than we are saving them.

2pm

You are my 2pm thought…

 

When work’s piling up, and I’m starting to be very busy;

When I’m busy trying to debug the program that was running just this morning.

 

The distraction in my presentation;

The ellipses in my speeches.

 

You are my 2pm thought –

When my world is busy and lost,

And I’m simply trying to breathe.

I Picked You

Of all the people, I picked you. I wanted to learn how to understand, so I picked you. I picked you even if I do not have any idea on what you’re all about. I picked you over the  closest friend I have – you, the strangest amongst all strangers. I picked you.

 

I picked you not just because I could. I picked you for a reason – I picked you because I cannot bring myself to pick anyone else. You shone brighter than anyone, and you were the kind of art that’s hard to miss.

 

But yes – you were art – and everything else was a mistake.

 

Me picking you was the first and worst of all.

 

Yet I still stuck by the deed and along it was the extension of the mistake. I couldn’t help it. I had to stick with it. Because I needed that mistake, maybe. Or I wanted to understand myself more. Or, I don’t know. As I’ve said, you were hard to miss. I just had to stick longer until I couldn’t bear it anymore.

 

And then it did came – I couldn’t stick with it anymore.

 

But I picked you still. I picked you over comfort, over logic, over life. I picked you over sanity.

 

I picked you.

 

All your tragedies and everything else that makes you who you are.

 

Because even with my full awareness that picking you was a mistake, I just had to pick you over everything else.

 

But oh the slam when that last punch hit me in the face. You couldn’t pick me. You couldn’t pick me back. You wouldn’t.

 

Because I am an artist and you were art. And we just click. It’s too sane. You couldn’t consider sanity. You couldn’t make my mistake. You were too beautiful for perfection.

 

I could draw you with my eyes close, paint it with mud, and I would still get the very image of your soul right, with all angles considered, all flaws intact. Hah, artists always pick the arts. The arts are just bastards who cannot consider making a mistake. No matter how good its chance is on being the right sort. You couldn’t take that chance. Couldn’t hope for the coin to land on our choice of side when fate flips it for us. You settled that we will always be a mistake. You couldn’t even try.

 

I will never get picked.

 

Not by you. Never by art.

 

I’m still unsure if that hurts or what.