she fell in love on a
thursday with flowers behind
her back. there's stock photography
on the walls and polaroid memories
in her pockets as she
sips on her latest
adrenaline rush,
cigarette between two fingers and
romance novels under her tongue.
you and i are meant to.
be.

the sea is washing away all traces
left of us, baby, because
we're taking a train beyond
our last stop,
caution to the wind and fear in our fingertips--
this is your sweetest poison, boy,
&most definitely your last.

It's been 7 years.

I'd like to say "I'm moving on", but that would be a lie. I'm still not sure how those words can come out of those who have grown up with them and given them so much of themselves. Directly or indirectly, it's a little more personal than just that.

I knew in the back of my mind that they would have gone out without a bang. I imagined small news being leaked bit by bit until we were numb to these blows, and then... we would've just grown up. Grown out of this painlessly, maybe wistfully, but no bitterness, no sadness, just a lingering nostalgia for what used to be. I've grown out of a lot of fandoms this way, but this... not this time. I don't know what it is about them that I can't let go of. I want some kind of closure, something more than empty promises. It's the same kind of closure the rest of us are looking for. I wish you had my answers.

We're still playing the waiting game, half a year later. It's nice to see optimism, and people leaning on literal translations, picking on those specific words such as "temporary suspension". Secretly, we all know already. It's been too long, so long that you'd think we'd be okay with this. It still hurts like a bitch, though.

Be happy. You don't have to be 동방신기, or 김준수 박유천 김재중 심창민 정윤호 in that order, or Asia's top stars, or conquer the world, or be perfect. Just don't forget each other. And most of all, don't forget those promises you've made to each other onscreen and behind the camera. 5-1=0, regardless of a label behind your names.

I won't move on to another group, and I'm probably taking a bit of a break from k-ent (tbh, I already have been...), but I won't forget. I just want the best for you. If things fix themselves and we can go back in time to 2004, I would probably burst into song. If not, well. I still love you. Thanks for the amazing memories.



Lastly,

Q. If DBSK breaks up, what will you want to do?
Yunho: If that does happen, I will gather my members again. As the leader.

I'm holding you onto that, leadersshi.

i will memorize (you)

they stopped by the crossroads
the other day, and
found her wrapped around her latest
endeavors.
cigarette between her lips and empty eyes
and it's like they've started
all over.
there are words on her hands they
can only read through mirrors
and thoughts in her mind they
can only hear through secrets,
it's about time they woke up and
smelled the rotting air. she's
the only one
who basks in their aftermath,
as glorious as the gray skies
and bare branches of
her latest winter.

because those are the days they'll sit in their cafes and sip their cappuccinos, chatting and laughing and looking right through her when all she really wants was for the world to hurt with her--

i will memorize you.
but that doesn't mean i'll remember.

you know those days where you feel like you can just slow down and enjoy life? yeah.

it's funny, because i have my biochem textbook open in front of me with tons to memorize, and the impending (possibly suppressed) panic of an upcoming lab final, but despite all that, i have never felt calmer this quarter. i am so behind in all of my work, but for some inexplicable reason, here i am, sitting and typing and feeling like nothing can stop me. the silence of this apartment is nice, for once.

things always come out prettier in words than they really are. i think it's because it'd be too boring to just describe what we see. what we end up doing is writing out emotions that go along with it. i'm not sure if that's a good thing. on one hand, it makes things more intriguing when some perspective is put on it. on the other hand, we're not technically telling the truth, are we?

too philosophical. that ties into society in more ways than i want to elaborate on/think about right now. kills the magic of this post.

i'm not quite sure why i'm updating this. i fear this DW is becoming more of a blog than a writing journal. which is slightly upsetting, but relieving at the same time. it makes me feel like i've started over. although, i think i'm internally having a hard time letting go of LJ. it holds too many memories, and even the measly updates my old friends make occasionally doesn't make up for all the changes that fandom has experienced. everyone in the communities are much younger now, more interested in groups i would never even bother with. without the boys, things have changed so much on my (our) side of LJ. a lot of my friends have left, and a lot of them are now too preoccupied with college and real life to keep up with a diminishing fandom. at one point, thoughts of this day would've made me cry, but now that the boys really are fading into the background, i think i'm going to be okay.

so, this is where we are now.

today, i saw some random pictures on facebook and realized that some in the class of 2004 (high school) have already gotten married. and for a moment, i was taken aback. but after i thought about it, they would be around the marrying age. 24, right? only four years older than me (us). it's crazy to think that, because 4 years isn't as long as we make it out to be. look at how quickly our 4 years of high school have flashed by. and now we're already (almost) halfway through college. insanity. so where are we going to be 4 years into the future? getting married? graduating (once again)? working a steady job? typical expectations, right? but what if we end up on the other side of the fence? thoughts, thoughts, but too many of them.

already two decades in this world, and i think i just grew up a little more today.

this is a fact i've come to accept. i pick the worst days to think about my writing. to illustrate the "worst" of this day, i shall elaborate: chem lab 7 discussion, chem lab 7 postlab, chem lab 7 writeup, chem lab 8 prelab, all due tomorrow. physics midterm thursday, chapters 19-21, one of which i have successfully completed. glycolysis, gluconegenesis, citric acid cycle, fatty acid synthesis, radical reactions, resonance structures, carboxylic acid reactions, and more. can i get a fuck my life brain for choosing to write about this now?

but alas, i would pick writing over potential differences in a uniform electric field any day. so here goes:

( in the case of (my) poetic writings )

[the beginning]

Angels fall when we're not watching.

You see, our story is not that simple. There is a fundamental gap in our memories we cannot bridge. We dream of wings and feathers, and wake up to blank walls. Sing of heaven on earth and close our eyes before sinners. Touch the hearts of those we love and break the hearts of those we abandon in our haste to save ourselves from reality. We are selfish, you see. We are human.

Sometimes, so are they.

a little follow-up from yesterday's writing that i've been fiddling with in my head.

( in the case of freestyle rhyming )

thirty seconds before 12am, and the clocks are
freezing again--

there's too much fog on
the windows to see out, much too perfect to
even touch,
it's just our stuck-up curiosity lingering in
shadowed corners leftover from
yesterday's latest break.up--
they're phenomenal in the best possible ways
disillusioned from already-leaked secrets,
and the world outside is too late
anyway.

there's a little orphan girl across the street,
selling matchsticks for money;
she leans against frozen lampposts to catch
her
breath, (cold against the winter air)
she dreams of opaque windows blinded by
warmth and heat, but--
it's our fogged windows she cannot see through
and our locked doors she doesn't step through
but our latest sins are too strong
even for those glass windows.

we're sipping lukewarm poison in front of
the fireplace,
taking life for granted in our most
favorite ways while
the little girl
falls
asleep
as her last match burns out.

a/n. trying something new. rhymes in the most disjointed way, atonal in the least expected phrase, almost like the best kind of contemporary music. hehe♥ thoughts?

hello. so here we are, with approximately 11 hours and 44 minutes to go (pacific time, don't argue!). this DW is nowhere as personal to me as my LJ is, but it is synched to FB, so i feel slightly obligated to make one of those cliché, end-of-the-year posts here. except this post isn't so cliché (i hope).

so, here's some spur-of-the-moment, 10-minutes-long writing. don't expect to have an epiphany (or any phenomenal reaction, for that matter) upon clicking the cut.

( just another one of those days. )

happy (almost) new year! :)

last but not least, i'd like to say the following to the current and upcoming year:

dear 2009,
thank god you're over. may you disappear into history forever.
no love, me.

dear 2010,
don't fuck up my boys. thanks.
pending love, me.

there are days when she remembers to stop and just think, maybe about the way nostalgia is imprinted in negative film. memories in picture form, but more surreal than words on paper.

( it's the sunny days that make it hard. )

i like those rainbows, she whispers
in his ear, and he
looks up to seven shades of
black and white--beautiful in
monochrome;
in her dreams they toss red roses on
body bags
and watch the thorns rip through
plastic.

he laces his fingers with hers,
watches the smile playing on her lips,
and tucks the blankets tighter around
her sleeping form.
sweet dreams, he whispers
and leaves her with her
favorite nightmare.

there's only static now.

maybe things are a little better on
the other side of the bridge, but
each time is
not the same--

there are some days where we'll
lay in the grass side-by-side and
look up into the sky as if
those clouds will paint
tomorrow's story.
these are colors too white to describe,
shapes too ambiguous to decide--
you'd say, that hesitance is
tomorrow's history.
as if the world is at your feet
and you have nothing to lose.

so we let go.

tomorrow we'll drive by mcdonalds on
unnamed roads to unknown cities with
nothing but the clothes on our backs
and the wind in our ears.
the music is
playing louder now, and that beat
is ingrained in our hearts.
it'll be freedom in a way we've never imagined
half-hearted risks we've never taken,
fogged up windows and crookedly-drawn hearts
in the nostalgia of tomorrow's history.

it's just the wind, now, with silent lips.

i wish i could write things that
beautiful, she says
to blank walls and imaginary posters.

some people paint the sky in pinks and oranges until
they can't see the difference between
dawn and
sunset.
others shade forest paths of
black and white
onto beautiful wax paper with
ink. to watch the way
parallels blend into perpendiculars--
something profound.

you'd read me your pseudo-poetry in the
heat of summer behind a rose bush, and we'd
prick our fingers, rip our shirts
in a rush of adrenaline untraceable.
there are greater things out there, i'd say,
and imagine wind carrying such wise words
to that neighborhood kid down the block,
but such philosophies get stifled on particularly
hot
days.

sunday afternoons in empty classrooms are
better on wintry days.
we'd dangle our legs over plastic desks and
read the secrets splayed
on the side, under the surface, next to that
piece of gum--
secrets grow like ivy vines here, long and twisted and
very much alive.
in another universe, the table says but
never finishes the thought.

in another universe, we'd
love like puppets do,
no strings attached, and a little less geometrical
because that's the only way we'd be able to fly.

you are not here, but
i am.

in these dreams, she writes with emotions
(not the twenty-six alphabets),
about a sentimentality
inexpressable.
they hold her down by the arms
on cold, metal tables and shine on her
lights warm enough to break through
any nightmare. but--

leather straps are much softer against
raw, raw skin and so she
falls deeper into the dream she doesn't want
to wake from. they're breathing.

--it's not a nightmare, she whispers
but nothing comes out other than
those unwritten emotions.

they're breathing nicotine all over her
body, and stand admiring
gray smoke and white skin.
in their eyes, these are colors of the
rainbow,
more beautiful than
sin.

it's inexplicable, the way you're hit with a certain kind of wistfulness on more dreary days. everyone pales in comparison today, and everything loses its sheen. under the sun, the world is too bright, every light particle reflecting off metallic car paint too blinding to be real. it's an unending parking lot filled with cars as far as the eye can see, glittering prettily in the sun. but that's not really how it is.

( we can imagine all kinds of scenarios... )

i hope this doesn't become a daily habit, because that'll be really annoying. although, i'm most definitely sure i think too much.

well anyway, before i forget, ( in the case of prose vs. ...unprose (not poetry!) )

i'm going to start keeping track of all these musings, because i keep getting fucked over by the same mistakes, and hopefully this will put a stop to all that!

( in the case of angry, keyboard-smashing writing... )

it's the adrenaline at work, says goldilocks, in the
midst of this pandemic, and the brothers grimm suddenly
the epitome of placebo-pill-endings.
they're checking their reflections in polished leather boots and
doing last-minute touchups on those semi-automatics.
it's not truly a war and not truly a battle, maybe as real as
the tales of three blind mice.

they remember the rules of the game and still
come home in body bags.

like second-hand wishes for the dead,
passed down a generation or maybe
two, because oh, those genetic disorders embedded
in your skin; what big teeth you have,
grandma! little red exclaims before wolf tosses
the disguise.

they are wishes of the more forlorn, less
tattered, and more miserly,
a chaotic mess of postmodernist opinions that
draw pedantic circles. just some second-hand wishes
for those who need it the least but
want it the most.

they wake up in their favorite fairytales.

as if anger can make words bleed—

it’s the early morning sentimentality that simmers
behind her eyes, while she breathes in
and out, one breath
after another.
she’s not as perfect as
silent china dolls,
far from fixed
porcelain faces,
and maybe a little more broken up inside. she’s
inferior in every way, incompetent in every case,
hates clichés and lives in one, pretending
that anger can cut like knives—

as if.