the empty pages

 Sometimes I wonder what it'd be like to be someone else. It doesn't come from a lace of self-hatred(I don't think), but maybe it'd be nice?

I'm weird about identity sometimes. If I attribute something to someone else I hesitate to claim it for myself. If my friend is already 'the purple girl', I'll pick a different colour to like, if a classmate is known for baking cookies, I'll make brownies instead. It sounds dumb put into words but it's how my brain functions.

Another thing I'm weird about is people's perception of me. Everyone thinks I'm so artsy, and I feel that contributed to me putting more effort into my art so I'll measure up. I asked a friend what colour reminded her of me and when the second she said green I started thinking of ways to strategically push other colours into my wardrobe and person because who wants to be known as green, you know?

I feel like everything I do has to align with the identity I pick for myself, even as I stop identifying with it so much. I think that rigidity is kind of a flaw to be honest, because it means I don't allow myself to venture too far out of this box I put myself in. So I guess that brings us to my original point, I oftentimes wonder what it'd be like to be someone else.

''Someone else' can vary wildly. It can be the way someone perceive me: what would it be like to be that smart? That sweet? That artsy and delicate? It can also be me in an entirely different set of circumstances. What if I was born somewhere else? Looked different? Didn't have to learn certain lessons the hard way?

I guess people might think these questions do more harm that good. Personally, I think it's fun to think about sometimes. If I could live an entirely different life, for just a day.

Most of the time when I write a blog post or anything at all really, I read it over and over and make minute edits even after I say I've finalised everything. I hereby make an oath that I will write this, edit it as I see fit, post it, then never look over even once before my nineteenth birthday.

Nineteen is a weird pick. It's not my next birthday- that's seventeen. It's not the year I'm officially an adult, that's eighteen. It's not when I'll hopefully graduate or enter my twenties or any other major milestone I can think of, so why nineteen?

Honestly, dear me, I wish I could give you an interesting answer. I guess my thought process is that I'll have been in college for a little over a year and my life will look a lot different from now. Seventeen feels too close, and so does eighteen, but maybe at nineteen I'll be firmly removed from the person I now am.

Not that I want to be too far removed from that person. I'm a little hard on myself sometimes, as you probably still are, always will be(and for the record, I don't think that's too bad a flaw all things considered, I think you can channel it in a healthy way), but I do like myself to a certain extent. I think I want my core to remain as it is, do you think it has in these three or so years? A part of me thinks I'm assuming too much will change when really hardly anything will and a part of me thinks it's the opposite. I guess you have the answer to that. Personally, I hope things have changed, for the better, and the good things have stayed the same.

Brace yourself- here are the rapid-fire questions(and you have to write me back, in case you've forgotten): Is our father still working? Is our mother still working in the same place? How do you feel about that? Did they every build that clinic? How are we doing financially? Where do we study? How is my brother doing? Have things changed for him? (I hope so, for the better). Do we still talk to any of our school friends? How is that middle school trio doing? Do we do anything besides studying(like are we employed or something)? How is college? Do we meet anyone we form a strong attachment to? How was senior year in retrospect? How did we do on our SAT and IELTS? Do we still draw? Read? Crochet? Journal? Did we ever finish that programming course or start learning a language? Where do we live? Is our room finally pinterest worthy or is it still mostly barren? Do we drive or are we still scared? Did Beyond The Spider-Verse finally release? Are we still into comics? Is there anything new we're into?

Okay... I'm sure you're groaning by now but you have to answer. And I could have gone on really. If you don't recall how I am in this particular point of time, I've been kind of fixated on my appearance. Its summer so you don't get to say anything, just tell me where did that end up going? Do you work out now? If not, I think you should. It's not an appearance thing surprisingly enough but I think if you're not moving your body and pushing yourself, take this as a sign to do it. You've got way more freedom now, I think you'll really fall in love with it.

Did we get laser eye surgery? How do we feel about it? My parents have mentioned it before and I think it's a fine idea but I'm not sure if it's worth the hassle, you know?

I should probably talk more about myself and where I am now but truthfully I'm not sure what to say. If you're looking for me, this blog is slowly shaping up to be an archive of who I am and who I've been, so read a few old posts and tell me what you think, maybe it'll take you back.

Also! Tell me about someone who's gone in an unexpected direction. Maybe a schoolmate or someone. I'd love to know. 

Finally, I hope you're doing well. I really really do. Tell mama and baba you love them, as I'm sure you always will. Tell me whatever comes to mind, I''m certain I'd love to know <3

(Also! Treat yourself to a cinnamon swirl cheesecake from cheesecake factory sometime this month!!!!! Trust me!!!!! Or even make one the point is you have to I'm craving it!!! Don't listen to the losers who hate it!!!!)

 I think we as people seek out beauty in the simplest things. I mean, the difference between a walk in the park and going in circles inside your room is minuscule. If anything, the even flooring that housing provides in addition to this wonderful thing called air conditioning means you get to optimise your experience- no bad weather or having to awkwardly change your path to avoid walking into someone who gives you a dirty look afterwards. Still, the green grass and the humming of the birds and the sound of the breeze and even the people-watching makes a walk in the park much more desirable to practically anyone you ask.

The same can be said for many other things. Why we chose to study in a library or a cafe over an equally quiet but much less refreshing place or why we carefully curate pinterest boards of everything under the sun.

Maybe this is why I've always wanted to decorate my room and why I've been obsessed with keeping it tidy these days. I think when I was younger, there was something novel about everything I did in this place. The art supplies everywhere from all my school projects that drove me to think in ways I'd never considered, the makeup supplies I was just starting to learn how to use, the hair ties I coordinated with my outfits. When everything you do is novel and gratifying, you kind of get all the satisfaction you need from those simple acts.

The more I grow though, the more I appreciate a beautiful tidy space. Admiring the work I put into beautifying my environment seems to have adequately replaced the novelty of the things that are now second nature to me. Seeing all my hair ties arranged by colour brings me happiness as I reach for the one that fits my outfit unthinkingly. Putting all my well-loved books neatly on my bookshelf brings back the sense of wonder I felt on my first read of them.

It's a fair trade, if I do say so myself. I love having something nice to look at when I'm doing something hard, and I love the work I put into creating that beauty. It's an ongoing process for sure- my room is still pretty plain and I have to remind myself to always keep things neat, but I'm slowly falling in love with that process.

 Senior year is coming up, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. There's a few different things really.

I'm a little nervous of course, apprehensive. Academics have always come easy to me(so long as I focus during class time) but final year isn't like the rest of them- where a 98% will get me on the list of top achievers in my school and a 99% will make me top of my class- it's competition on a national level and with my sights set on the most competitive major in the biggest university in the country, a 100% is the only real option. So consistency, and following a schedule for once might just be the difference between a scholarship to the university of my dreams and paying tuition at the one my brother will probably end up attending. It's not a terrible deal either way, but I always wanted that last hurrah, to prove everyone who complimented my intelligence and integrity right, you know?

Speakings of last hurrahs, I've been having thoughts about my image. I've always had body image issues, and I've written about them before, but I think this is the first time in my life I've really been trying to do something about them. Walking consistently, a calories deficit, and I'll probably start working out too. I've also been trying out different self-care things- face masks and moisturising and sunscreen and taking care of my hair and nails and whatnot(on a budget, so it's been slow-going but still). I've thought about what jackets and jewellery and shoes I'll wear with my school uniform, what hairstyles I'll keep in my regular rotation and what perfume works best for me. I want a year of feeling like I have it all together- of being beautiful and smart and even athletic(me! athletic!), and one pretty picture at graduation. A picture where I wear a gorgeous dress that serves to highlight how nice my body is, where I have on just enough makeup to enhance my natural features and add a little sparkle to my face, where I have great hair and smile all pretty because I've started to believe the people who all year long have chanted that they think I'll really get that 100% that every student here dreams of in their final year of schooling.

Circling back to my 'dream university', it might be a bit dishonest to call it that. I've never had a real dream university, just vague notions of cold European towns and intricate architecture. So it might come as a surprise that the university I've given that label to at last is one in the sweltering heat of the place I grew up in. It's a very grounded dream. One where I'm close to my parents and don't have to spend money on housing or really anything at all because I have a full-ride, and my school friends go to the university practically next door so I spend time there between lectures and ride home with them on public transport. I graduate from this humble university with the strongest certifications you can find in this country and go on to experience cold European towns some other time. So, a grounded dream, but a nice one nonetheless.

I keep my room tidy these days. Make a stacked to-do list every morning and try to get as much of it done as I can before I go to bed. I'm studying for the standardised tests I've decided to do over summer and am trying to be the girl who lives out that picturesque final year. I've had my regrets in the past, and will keep having them because I've learned it comes with life, but I really am trying to be the girl Ié always wanted to be, just for a year.

Who knows- maybe if I manage to do that, it'll stick! And if I don't, maybe for the first time in my life, I can say I gave it my all <3

I'm not sure how to enjoy things without thinking too hard about it. I get into something and I either like it a decent amount and leave it at that or love it and tie it to my identity. That doesn't sound like a bad thing, right? Well, you'd think so.

The problem with linking the things you like to your identity is that you no longer allow yourself to like them at your own pace- to be a reader but not have familiarised yourself with all the classics, to love a show but not have analysed and deconstructed the book it was based on, to say you like to draw but not have the same level of skill as those who have dedicated their lives to mastering their chosen mediums.

It feels snobbish and performative, but knowing something to be those things doesn't make it any easier to break the habit. It's exhausting, trying to prove yourself and perfect the very act of enjoying something. What's worse is that logically no reasonable person expects you to be perfect at something you do for leisure, so why do you still put that pressure on yourself?

I believe that we really are defined by the things we enjoy, that we do purely for our own merriment. But for that to be true, maybe I need to practice divorcing these things from my sense of self. For that instinct to prove myself to others even through simple pleasures partially transforms them from genuine meaningful forms of fulfilment and self-expression to performance. And when that happens, to define myself by those things would be to define myself by others' perception of me. Is that not a scary thought?

I feel like I do a lot of thing for superficial reasons. I kind of do want the applause, you know?

I've never thought of myself as an attention-seeker, but what other reason is there for that kind of thing? I often yearn for that perfect middle ground between being a hard-worker and having things come effortlessly to me. It's another part of some obsession over the way I'm perceived. I want people to think that I try, to know that I care and that I put my mind to something and keep going till it's done, but I also want to be a natural, awe-inducing in how easy I seem to be able to do the most difficult things.

I want my friends and family to be uplifted by their proximity to me. I want people to crave my companionship so badly that I can unashamedly crave theirs back, unburdened by fears of caring too much or giving too little, free to pick and choose who to shower with my overflowing affections.

I could sit and try to moralise these desires of mine, maybe a part of finds them wrong and immoral and that's why I write the down with all the things I intend to leave unsaid, but I also think maybe they're just human.

Did the ancient people not love status? Did they not seek to be admired and beloved? Surely they did. Numerous as the perversions that have come about in our modern age are, it seems to me that they all stem from the wants of people who lived in times long forgotten.

I've always found it difficult to end things. Not in the romantic sense, how do you end a friendship?

Sometimes it feels stifling, when people don't let things fizzle out with time. But if I loved someone once, I can't bear to tell them I don't see myself messaging them about my day, talking for long hours, planning trips together. Maybe we were brought together by circumstance, and circumstances change.

Still, I've been on the opposite end. I know I'd overthink it, I know I'd blame myself, and I don't want that for someone I love. How could I bear to think of them when someone mentions their favourite book, if I've broken their heart? How do you tell someone you want to catch up someday, when you're older and wiser and haven't talked in years, knowing you're genuine in wanting no hard feelings.

It's hard to find a good thing, harder to let it go. But when nothing ties me to you but a love I once felt, how do I convince myself it's not suffocating, how much you love me still?

I want you to think of me fondly, and love me forever. But don't think of me often.

Maybe one day I'll master the art of goodbye, and know how to end things just right. Truthfully, I doubt it. Because love isn't supposed to hurt, but I think it is supposed to sting. It lingers. You let someone go, but the relationship you had stays with you, even as you forget the lines of their smile and and the shape of their eyes.

I don't like the way I look.

I can walk and run and fit into party dresses and maybe I'm not the prettiest girl around but I've never met someone who wouldn't keep that thought to themselves. Maybe then I'm a shallow girl for how much I still care.

I sit in front of the vanity in my parents' room. My mother has so many things on her mind. I should talk to her, remind her that her daughter is smart and sociable and never disappointing and always understanding. I should do all that and more because she has so much on her mind and doesn't it ease a parent's mind to know they've raised a good child?

I sit in front of the vanity and pick apart my appearance. My hair's a mess and my face's colouring is all wrong- the strangest blend of hyper-pigmentation and hypo-pigmentation. My brows are okay and so are my lips, but my nose is ugly and I can see the barest hint of facial hair, unfeminine and embarrassing. If I'm honest with myself, none of these things are the issue. It's not my acne or my plain brown eyes, it's the weight I can't seem to get off.

I turn this way and that, no amount of fixing my posture can make me feel prettier. I frown and avert my gaze, the sociable daughter now sulky and unpleasant. I should talk to my mother, so she'll see why everyone likes me and be assured that she did a good job. But how can people like me if I barely like myself?

My memories are stained by this flaw and that. There are stories behind the few childhood pictures I have. The one in the airport, the one in the park, but I can't see past how I look older than my age. How I look awkward and how I've yet to grow into the features it seems I've always had. On the flip side, there are no stories behind the photo of me dressed in pink, under studio lighting, face framed by my oil slick hair that had yet to grow frizz and curls. But I looked cute.

I talk to my mother, go fetch her something from my room. Another mirror greets me as I open the door. I like to think I'm a good daughter, would I have been better if I was pretty? Does my mother see me for who I am, or is she blind to my flaws? Will I always see them or will I someday be blinded by some all consuming security?

I think I'd rather be insecure. Otherwise, I feel like it'd be an open secret, everyone in on it but myself. She's just not pretty, you know? I walk back to my parents' room and sit in front of the vanity. Again I avert my gaze and try to be someone worth talking to.