Monday, February 25, 2013

Safe & Sound in Melbourne

So I reached Melbourne on the 22nd of February and have been looking for accommodation ever since.  Been crashing at my aunt's place, so I can't be arsed to take out my tablet just to edit a few photos for my blog only to have to pack it away again once we move to somewhere more permanent. And by permanent I mean roughly 6 months because I'm graduating in Sept so who knows what's gonna happen!

Yesterday we had a massive dinner with my relative's friends and I started to feel unwell (food, man) and they told me to gargle saltwater. Because it's not really my tonsil area that hurt, but the part above it... Let me grab you a picture off Google:

Source: Google Images
As I was saying, because it isn't my tonsil area that hurts but around the soft palate area which connects to my nose & (no duh) sinuses, I decided to be a little genius and inhale the salt water up my nose. Genius, really. Because salt kills bacteria. However, salt also burns. Have you ever let waves crash onto you while you're like, sitting in the shallow end of the ocean? Have you ever been knocked flat by a wave and accidentally inhaled and swallowed saltwater? I have. And yet I proceeded to inhale salt water intentionally. Like I said. Little. Genius.

Anyway, I hope that I find a place soon so I can start unpacking. I love packing and I love unpacking. Unpacking always feels like opening presents cos sometimes I get surprises and packing feels like I'm playing real life tetris! It's so exciting when you find something that fits perfectly into that remaining hole of a space. And I hope that my sinuses kill themselves. Seriously they give me so much problems. Why do we even have sinuses anyway?

I just did a quick google search and apparently they are practically useless. Evolution, why you so retarded?

Btw, song of the month: Stay - RiRi ft. Mikko <3


Bye now.

Monday, February 4, 2013

lost

I was awake in a world with a society unlike the one I knew. The rules were stringent, the laws abundant. Crossing an authoritative figure meant certain exile. Nobody would be informed where those were taken or that they were taken at all. Nobody ever discovered what happened to them. Everyone believed those taken to be dead, because they are never heard from again. And those who resisted - the friends or family members who refused to accept such a dysfunctional, unjustified society - are treated by the public as a plague - ignoring them out of fear - and most are left alone... Until they delve too deep, whereby they'll disappear too.

I was in a coffee shop the first time it happened. The atmosphere was jovial and peaceful until a sudden change in the air alerted us all to turn our heads to look at a girl attempting to run but was detained by a surge of 5 authorities. Her brown hair, whipping in the wind, was the only thing I would remember her by as there would be no reports regarding her which would be divulged to the public.

Upon witnessing the girl's arrest, I felt like I was jerked awake. An illusion in a dream. I realized that I hadn't seen or heard from my friend in a long time. I tried to call her, but her cell was off. I called her boyfriend, and he said he was looking for her too. It has been 2 weeks since she was last seen. Panic rose as I attempted to contact those who were linked to her. Friends, family, colleagues, students. But none knew where she had gone, and those who understood the implications of my search told me not to worry. They offered no comfort, it was not a reassuring 'do not worry' but a withdrawn, defeated one.

My search led me to the college she worked, by then, I had begun to attract attention. I could feel people trailing me, watching me. Unable to contain my rising panic while in a narrow corridor, I bolted for the elevator and a lady with cropped blonde hair raced after me. I threw myself into the lift and barely managed to squeeze into it as it was packed with students. I jabbed the close button furiously and was horrified when it fought to stay open. I thought to myself, this is it. Maybe they would take me to wherever everyone else was taken. But I sincerely doubted it. Luckily, I won. The doors slide close. I looked at those in the elevator uneasily, I could feel their resentment, their fear of being associated with me.

After the elevator emptied, an Indian girl pressed the button for level 3 and upon reaching, she grabbed my wrist and told me to follow her. I did. She had a certain immediacy and desperation, I knew she wanted to help.

"I have lost someone too."

She guided me to a room, filled with art on the walls and ceiling (which isn't odd as the college is an art college). She told me that this room was to become an exhibition but for the time being, served as a cover for uncovering the secrets of our government. My friend was involved in this room and disappeared when she made a discovery regarding where people were brought to when they are taken. She asked me to wait for her as she could not stay, but would come back for me. She never did.

I wandered around the room and attempted to talk to a few people who were working on completing their work. I could tell it was to be a rather grand hall. The ceiling was covered in a sketch of Michelangelesque work. The walls were covered in sketches of larger than life paintings and a statue. On closer inspection, none of the paintings had a discernible face. Even the statue looked rather ambiguous. The faces, I felt, would be the last to be painted on - and would be the faces of those lost to us forever.

Time passed, and I couldn't remember how long I'd been in the room. I remembered that I came to this room for a reason - I remember searching for someone. But all I could recall about my time in the room is people telling me not to worry. And when everybody tells you the same thing all the time, you start to believe them. Now I can't remember her face, or is it his face? But I feel like I must complete the painting I've started. The painting without a face.

Disclaimer: Fictitious, of course. Based on a dream of mine. 
                Dedicated to the one this dream is about. 
You know who you are. 

Saturday, February 2, 2013

baby eyes

When I was young, I loved looking at the eyes of babies and were disappointed every single time I found them to be brown or black.

I remember once when I went to visit my mom's friend and her baby with her and she said that the baby is asleep. I then lamented and said, "so that means I won't get to see the color of the baby's eyes!" That got the attention of the two adults as they looked at me mystified and asked me, "what do you mean? The baby's eyes will be nothing else but like ours: Dark brown or black."

I guess that really traumatized me because I never noticed that there were different shades of people: white, yellow, brown, red, black. People were people. But after that incident, it opened my eyes to racial recognition. We aren't all the same.

But then again, I also thought that cartoon characters were real until one day I discovered that I lacked a black outline.

I was a weird, cripplingly unobservant kid.