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[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #10 - Letter to My 13-Year-Old Self

Dear 13-year-old-self…

You know I’ve imagined this scenario many times, from a time travel plot to a magic clone, even a futuristic murder plot… Anyways, all of them start in the same way:

Que the biggest, longest, air-sucking hug that you can ever imagine.

I know the past few years have been tough and you’re about to go through some big life changes. Unfortunately, we both could use this hug right now. I know you think you’re ready to take on the world and that you’ve answered many of life’s questions already. But the world is huge and chaotically marvelous, even I’m still learning it too. 

Everything feels like doomsday right now and it does. I’m sorry that I can’t promise it will all go away one day because some things just don’t work like that. You’re resilient, we both know that, but it doesn’t mean you need to keep holding onto that “If no one will look after me so I have to look after myself” mentality. You were walking into battle everyday and I remembered that feeling. It was horrible. But the tighter you hold onto that fist, the harder it is let go when you need help. I’m going to hold your hand and tell you right now that you’re far from okay.  

We were young. Really young. When it all happened.

You are the way you are now for many reasons and I’m not blaming you for any of it. There will be a lot of looking back and it’s painful but necessary. It’s going to take a long time and I’m still healing today. But in the next couple of years, you are going to meet some incredible people and have experiences beyond your wildest dreams. It gets better, not always, but it will. 

Growing up we barely think about the future, like it’s a distant mystical concept that acts more like a sentence than reality. And every time you think about it, all you see is a blank vision, a vast wall preventing us from seeing the other side. I thought at some point I needed to break through it and that’s when my life truly started. In actuality, it is a canvas for us to paint on. The next few years are all going to be about the ‘future’. You’ll ask a lot of questions, answer them, and then get more questions… It’s a never-ending cycle. And before you say anything, I know it feels like ages away but trust me when I say that everything is going to hit you like a train when you start seeing calendars saying 2023. 

Good things are going to happen. A lot of unexpected surprises. On the days when you’re enjoying the view on a grassy field with no care in the world, cherish them. Then on the days when you feel unstoppable even while navigating the waves of a vicious storm, learn from it. 

Love,  18 year old you...

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #9 - Short Story Reflection

Ronnie was a character I made up for a while now but after school started, I didn’t have much time to write about her. I thought this would be a good opportunity to write a story and expand on her character. I didn’t have much of an idea of the story I wanted to write in the beginning but a key aspect of her personality I knew was her struggle with accepting her death and her tendency to shut people out because of it. That’s how I eventually came up with the idea of Ronnie going into a panic attack after not being able to paint and coming to terms with her mortality. I originally wanted to end off with the readers finding out she was a ghost but I thought the idea was very bleak. Especially since Ronnie was very observant and still saw a lot of the world’s beauty, it felt very cruel to end her journey like that. So I added the “house mates” “ghosts mates” plot to create some form of resolution to her character. 

Plot Graph:

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #8 - Genre Workshops

Horror

Ding.

Congratulations! You made your first kill!

Please enter the following information to complete your registration.

If the account is not registered within 48 hours, you will be

terminated.

- Kill Team

Beth dragged her feet across the mud, the sharp pain in her ankle constantly reminded her of the way the flesh tore off when the knife sliced through his body. His widened and desperate pupils. The way they darted around, begging for help. The sight brought euphoria flushing through her veins. She looked into the rearview mirror once more, taking in the masterpiece she created before driving off. 

That was 47 hours ago. 

More precisely 47 hours and 58 minutes ago.  

The days didn’t make sense anymore. The giant welcome sign greeted and bid her goodbye as she drove past every city. She didn’t realise the sky started merging with the centre black streak of the road. Her eyelids were heavy and the mountains of coffee cups by her side barely kept her alive.

Ding.

“I thought I turned this thing off, will you just shut up for once for god sake!”

She lowered the side windows and a gust of cool air blew across her face while she slid her phone out of the crack. 

She turned her focus back on the road, desperately trying to battle the sleepiness in her brain. She closed her eyes for a quick moment to remind herself of the intoxicating joy she felt hours ago.

Ding.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a small light illuminating the seat beside her. 

“What the…”

She pulled to the side of the road and with baited breath she slowly turned her head and picked up the phone

Your 48 hour registration window is over. 

- Kill Team

The screen went black and a cold shiver went down her spine. She opened the window once more and shakily tossed the phone outside. This time aggressively much farther.

She dashed back into the car and turned on the ignition, but the faulty low buzz only made her hands shake more. She was so focused on returning to the road that she didn’t hear the small tap on her car window

“Ms, I think you dropped this earlier.”

“Oh no I meant to do that-”

She felt a sharp pain behind her back. The sleepiness had taken over her. There was a mix of euphoric release and agonizing burn. She fought against those heavy eyelids one last time and saw a red fleshy figure by the glass.

“Jim?....”

Termination completed

- Kill Team

Fantasy

The Desk of Rats and Hammer (Victorian Setting)

Prologue

From sunrise to sundown, the children of Lendon slave hours to make a few pennies to support their home. But after a long day in the factory, each child looked forward to a few hours of sleep, where they magically transformed into every adult’s greatest fear, rats. 

The villain of the city, infection ridden creatures. They’re despised, cast away, forced to hide in the dark alleyways and crevices in our walls. The perfect creatures to be free.

Children thrived in their dreams, living the lives that were stripped away from them. For a moment they could roam around the city without fearing getting late for work. Where they could enjoy London without the factory smoke fogging up the sky. 

Yet none of them could stay a rat forever. One day, the gruelling work hours will be all they have to keep them moving. Legend says the Hammer of Rattus Rattus will keep them a rat forever, but no one knows its resting place.

Vikas dragged his heavy foot back to the entrance of his home. The dim light behind the curtains painted his father’s silhouette. His large figure covered up half the window even when he slumped down on his chair. Vika walked into the house and was greeted with the usual remarks.

“How much did you make today, son?”

“Seven pennies, Father.”

“Kid down the block makes nine pennies a day lad. That’s it, no dinner for you! Go to bed!”

It wasn’t usual that he went to bed hungry, he'd just wake up earlier the next day and steal some bread from the bakery down the street. Or better yet, steal a feast straight from their kitchen. 

He tramped up the stairs and tucked himself into bed. His feet dangled out of the tiny cot as his droopy eyes took him to wonderland. His limbs began to shrink inch by inch which eventually became a small pile under the covers. He made his way through the heavy fabric and poked his head out to a world that was a thousand times bigger. He leaped off of the wooden bed frame and scurried his way to the small hole at the corner of his room. The light above him guided his way up to the chimney. After he climbed his way up the rooftop, the starry London night greeted his presence.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #7 - Writing "Magic"🌟

No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights. No more trains running under the surface of cities on the dazzling power of the electric third rail. No more cities. No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by.

No more screens shining in the half-light as people raise their phones above the crowd to take photographs of concert stages. No more concert stages lit by candy-colored halogens, no more electronica, punk, electric guitars.

No more pharmaceuticals. No more certainty of surviving a scratch on one’s hand, a cut on a finger while chopping vegetables for dinner, a dog bite.

- Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel

Chapter 6 of Station Eleven. Two pages. All sentences started with a “no”. Yet it told so much about the world that became. The way how this chapter was laid out really stood out to me. This post-apocalyptic novel jumped back and forth between characters before and after a catastrophic flu wiped the nation. It was written in the third person but certain chapters focused on specific characters and wrote incidents from their perspective. However, there were short chapters spread throughout that didn’t seem to belong to any character. Which begged the question, whose perspective was this and were they the narrator of this book? 

Something I noticed immediately was how personal this chapter felt. It didn’t list the big changes but rather the mundane bits of life. It began with, “No more diving into pools of chlorinated water lit green from below. No more ball games played out under floodlights. No more porch lights with moths fluttering on summer nights.” It used brief sentences to describe small details and visuals that we took for granted. Simple and beautiful aspects of life that they had never seen again. Then it began to dive into personal experiences: “No more films, except rarely, except with a generator drowning out half the dialogue, and only then for the first little while until the fuel for the generators ran out, because automobile gas goes stale after two or three years. Aviation gas lasts longer, but it was difficult to come by.” Whoever ‘narrated’ this chapter experienced it firsthand. It used longer sentences to provide more description like, “a generator drowning out half the dialogue”. It’s not something people would notice unless they’ve been there themselves. It also gave a hint that they had been there for a very long time to know what resources lasted better since they mentioned that “aviation gas [lasted] longer, but it was difficult to come by.”

The next two paragraphs similarly used brief sentences to list the things that were lost and longer sentences to expand on the idea. The first paragraph paid more attention to lights and electricity which was a common symbol throughout the book representing nostalgia and survival. It acted as foreshadowing for the future references to come. The last paragraph provided the increased medical uncertainty. Simple accidents such as cuts could be deadly to life. Showing the bleak chance of survival, in turn, raising the stakes of the story. 

The author used a mix of brief and long sentences to create an engaging list. The word choices were simple and easy to understand so it was universal to all readers. The specific details in longer sentences helped enhance the effects of the aftermath. Most post-apocalyptic stories were often set in a world that was unrecognizable to us. Therefore this chapter bridged the unfamiliar gap and helped readers empathize with the characters more in later chapters. The repetition of “no’s” felt like a constant reminder of the descending madness as the lists went on, creating a depressing mood once we reached the end of the chapter.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #6 - Toxic Comfort

I barge into my room and quickly closed the door. The blinds are shut, dimming the sky blue walls that surround it. As I warm up to the space and let myself soak in its comforting scent, tears begin to trickle down my face. I shut my eyes tight in hopes that the pressure will numb the wave of voices in my head. 

Within the darkness, my field of vision becomes a canvas for a projector to shine on. 

I plop my heavy body onto the side of the bed, letting myself sink into the mattress. I desperately try to wipe off the tears painted on my face. I scramble for the box of tissues on my nightstand in hopes of it absorbing the sadness that seeps out of me. 

Click.

I turn to look at the machine beside me as it begins to move. A small blackout occurs and with each click, the spinning deck on top turns to the next slide. 

Click.

The muscles in my body grow weaker as my skin makes contact with the soft blanket. Desperate to cocoon myself with comfort, I pulled another duvet over my body, hoping that the heavy layers can emulate the feeling of a warm hug. 

The eye of the projector gives out a soft warm glow but the passage of light bleeds with stinging pain. 

“It will never be you,” the text pastes up on the screen, “Only others but never you.” 

Click.

“Sadness. Loneliness. It’s what you’re destined for.”

Click.

“What you want is insane. No one thinks like that anymore. Take what you can get and move on.”

Click.

I dig around in search of my plushie companion, craving for some sort of emotional embrace. Once I can feel the lump of its tail, I trap the small ball of reassurance close to my chest. The layers of blankets cover up to the tip of my ears, burying my body into its masses. Helping me muffle out the weepy sniffles seeping out of me. I hold the plushie tighter to ease the soreness in my chest

Click.

Click.

Click.

My eyes can barely read through each slide, yet the words still manage to linger across the distance. No amount of simulated comfort can ease the numbing ache in my heart. I squeeze my body tighter, hoping the budding pressure can disintegrate the bubbles of fear. But the sentences screech into every crevice. Latching onto any part they can hold and begin eating up my already aching flesh. 

Stop. Please, just stop. 

Please…

The mountains of blankets swallow me whole and every inch of me melting into a flower filled sanctuary. The scent of pollen and honey filling the air while the grass slowly digs into my body, wrapping around every visible surface. I smile even as I struggle to breathe. 

Comfort. So intoxicating and addictive. So dangerous yet so safe. 

Eventually, I open my eyes and everything remains in its place. Beside my pillow is the clump of used tissues and my desk piled with the homework I have meant to finish up. Yet the only thing lighting up my room is the sliver of sunlight peeking through the window blinds. 

“Mom? Did you turn off my light last night?”

“Oh yeah, Dad found you all tucked in asleep and you were even snoring. You just looked so peaceful and we didn’t want to bother you.”

Yeah… peaceful… I guess.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Dandelion and snow. Summer and winter. Grassy morning dew and warm stews. Seasons come back but time doesn't.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

12 am: Warm fuzzy blankets over colourful socks. Then waking up to frosty white roof tops and slushy pavements. 10 am: A travelling journey to late 40s America with Death of a Salesman and unravelling Arthur Miller's every word. 10:52am: Heart full and content with sprinkles of excitement and hope for tomorrow's lesson. Lit up eyes and small wave of hands while walking down the hallway to the next class. So much expression even if they're covered under a mask

For a moment the world didn't feel so bad after all.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #5 - Extended Reflection

Poof

“Ahh! Where am I? Who are you?”

“Well this is our room and I’m you from the future.”

“Oh… okay.”

“Wait, this doesn’t phase you?”

“Why would it? We both know how our funky brain works.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“So… why am I here?”

“Yes about that, you’re from January 2020 right?”

“Yes? It’s the 15th?”

“Perfect, just the person I need! So last night you did your drama motif performance right?”

“Yeah, it was awesome! And I know this sounds crazy, but after that performance, I have this weird moment-”

“Where you looked into the mirror and thought maybe, somehow, in this crazy state of the world you can do this for a living?”

“Wait. How do you- oh right this is the future.”

“Yes. Anyways, I’m writing an essay about this for my writing class. I just want you here for reference. You know, to make sure- ”

“It looks dramatic and tragic enough to get you a good mark?”

“God, you know me so well.”

“Well, I am you after all.”

“Okay, here is what I have for now,” I pass the laptop to the younger me, “It’s mostly fine, but I just don’t know how to explain that feeling we both got. I want a metaphor where people can still understand how we felt but something that they can still relate to.”

She touches the keypad and begins to scroll, “Oh wow, this is four pages long. How do you write so much?”

“Emotional outbursts and practice?”

She clicks her tongue, “Sounds about right. So… why is this incident out of every other crazy thing that has happened in our lives? I’m sure there must have been something more interesting than this.”

“You see that bag over there?”

“Yes? And?”

“It is filled to the brim with university student guides, and one of them might have the potential drama program of our dreams.”

“Wait!? You’re serious? You’re not joking?”

“No, I mean…” I sighed, “Really all because of that-”

“Moment.”

“Yeah,” I nodded.

“Wow, I…Thank you.”

“No, Thank you. I have to brainwash you after this though, so won’t actually remember anything from tonight.”

“It’s okay. At least we did it. Now, shall we continue?” 

“‘A coward. A crybaby. A waste of space.’ Short. Dramatic. I like that.”

“Thanks. I use a lot of brief sentences to emphasize the rapid change of emotions. The beginning also echoes back to something I have at the end so it really packs a punch. 

“I really like this coat metaphor you started with. The ‘smothering feeling’ and ‘directionless ticking’ are spot on.”

“Thanks, I used coat because in a way it’s like-”

“How actors put on different costumes and personalities to play different characters?”

“And this is why I trust you with this.”

“How do you come up with everything so fast? This might have been last night for me but it’s years ago for you.”

“Well, I actually have written down a list of ‘major theatre events’ over the summer for university supplementary applications so I won’t be scrambling on the day of. Then in class, I did a brainstorming session and that’s how I come up with some of the metaphors I used”

“So word vomit and rage writing?”

“Correct.”

“The imagery you used for the stage description really gave me goosebumps ‘an endless horizon of possibilities and a pit full of booby traps’ and ‘the lights brewed above us while the thick silence echoed our every word.’ It feels exactly like last night.” 

“I think it’s important to set the scene as something hauntingly beautiful. Show the stage’s best and worst traits so any reader can picture it. In turn, further understanding the fear and excitement.”

“Alright but this part really takes the cake. The way you compared acting to a mother reading a bedtime story is beautiful.”

“That’s actually one of my favourites. I really want to emphasize the way that comforting familiarity is taken away from me and nostalgic comfort is the ultimate strategy. It took me a long time to come up with that because I had a hard time coming up with good metaphors throughout writing this essay.”

“Well I think this is great, I hope you get a good mark on this.”

“Aw thanks, now before I send you back, remember, try not to be so hard on yourself. You’ll understand that later.”

“Um…ok? Well, it’s lovely meeting you, bye.”

“Bye.”

Poof 

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #4 - Showing And Telling Rewrite

Revised Version

Our classroom transformed into a time capsule as we redid scene after scene so the tech team could cue all the effects. Time and I began to blur as the long hours and my character melted into a jelly pot. Actions became instincts, and my lines became my symphony. I stepped into my mark and began reciting. The text reappeared in my head as a painting and it played like an old melody. The excitement rushed through my veins like a child listening to their mother reading a bedtime story even though they had heard it thousands of times. “You’re almost there,” I thought, “Just halfway through the paragraph.” The knots in my stomach started slowly untwisting but my sigh of relief came too soon. 

The strands did not disappear. 

Its fibres mutated into a colony of ants trickling across my body. The feverish stillness of the room only allowed them to travel faster. 

Oh no. 

My throat hitched and the painted picture in my head slivered away. In front of me was white canvas and the smothering feeling I ran away from for so long had returned. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

Sophie. Focus. Where did you left off? Find where you left off!

They said acting was hard because you had to be vulnerable in front of strangers. Yet at that moment, I wasn’t aware of the hundreds of eyes staring back at me. For a split second, the figures vanished and I was in a black box with one job only.

I paused for over five seconds, missed a line and switched two up. 

It was embarrassing, and it should have been. But for the first time, the redness in my cheeks and sweatiness in my palms weren’t weighted with the dread of my classmates mocking me. In a way, this ‘mistake’ was liberating. For the first time, I can’t hear their whispers in my head. 

Original Version

Our classroom transformed into a time capsule as we redid scene after scene so the tech team could cue all the effects. Time and I began to blur as the long hours and my character melted into a jelly pot. Actions became instincts, and my lines became my symphony. I stepped into my mark and recited my monologue. My pool of worry slowly flowed away as the scene passed. “You’re almost there,” I thought, “Halfway through the paragraph.” However, that familiar pool that I often associated with presentations and public speaking mutated. What started as a small ball of fear in my stomach grew. It cracked open as a million little firery ants trekked through my body and the smothering feeling I ran away from for so long had returned. It burnt its way to my head and my mind went blank. Words hitched at my throat as I scrambled to string them back into coherent sentences. 

Breathe in, breathe out.

“Sophie. Focus. Where did you left off? Find where you left off!” 

They say acting is hard because you have to be vulnerable in front of strangers. Yet at that moment, I wasn’t aware of the hundreds of eyes staring back at me. For a split second, the figures vanished and I was in a black box with one job only.

I still remember how I tried to fix it. It was bad, really bad. I paused for over five seconds, missed a line and switched two up. But for the first time, I wasn’t weighted with the dread of my classmates mocking me. In a way, this ‘mistake’ was liberating. 

Explanation

I wanted to describe more of the scene with more metaphors and evoke emotions that others can understand even though they aren’t in the situation. In my original version, I just talked about what I was feeling at the moment. I think it was important for this part of the essay to really let the readers understand the emotional turmoil of having that certainty and confidence taken away so rapidly. I compared it to a child listening to their mother reading a bedtime story to emphasize the familiar comfort being taken away from me. I also didn’t specifically say I ‘blanked out’ but rather described the feeling of the panic that came with it and the sudden realization of it happening. I broke up the paragraph into more brief sentences to emulate a thought process and rapid anxiety. 

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

You know what's both scary and upsetting?

Guys our age watching dating videos in business class, judging women and getting outraged for every other "ugly person" the show brings in, then proceeds to say "Oh finally someone normal." when they bring in a thin white person.

And the people they claimed were "ugly", one is Asian and "looked like their mom and those ugly waitresses who worked at chinese restaurants" and other is plus sized (yeah that's the only complaint).

Just another reason why I am scared to date people or guys in general

(I just told this to a friend and they pointed out they are racist too, and those guys were Asian too btw)

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #3 - A Sequal to "Aren't You Happy For Me"

“So William…” John asked as he poked around his food, “What are your plans with Melanie in the future?”

The fuming tension in the room was undeniable, sooner or later someone needed to address the elephant in the room. The Ballingers thought inviting their sixty-year-old future son-in-law over for Thanksgiving would be a great idea but it was far from perfect. 

The couple stole a quick glance from each other. After a small approving nod from Melanie, William cleared his throat and said, “Well, we’ve already moved in last month and we’re planning to have the wedding down there. I’ll take a year off after the baby is born so Melanie can go back to her old job once her maternity leave is up.”

John pondered for a moment, “So… retirement with a baby is your plan, correct?”

“Daddy!” Melanie yelled. 

“Oh no, I’m planning to go back to college once our kid is old enough for daycare. Or I might stay at home for another year or two. We haven’t decided yet but we will work it out either way.” 

“Well that’s actually a better plan than I was expecting, I thought you guys are planning to raise the kid in a retirement home.”

CLANG! The utensils dropped on the table and William’s eyes lit with fury, “Mr. Ballinger! I might be in my sixties but I am perfectly capable of taking care of my future wife and child!”

“Is that before or after you received your pension?”

“Look I tried to be civil last time we spoke on the phone but I simply cannot accept the hostility towards me and your daughter ever since we got here.”

“Well, I’m not the sixty-year-old who knocked up my daughter, thank you very much!”

“Please can you two just stop!” cried Melanie.

“Mel, we don’t need a blessing from your folks.” he turned to stare at her parents across the table, “Melanie and I really love each other and it’s your choice whether you want to be a part of our lives or not.”

John rubbed his eyes and let out a slight groan, “You can’t be serious! Melanie, are you actually going to listen to this guy? He is too old for you for crying out loud!”

“Daddy, I know William and I are not exactly the ‘All American Family’ but we are making it work! You and Mom did. Got married before you even graduated, had me, and you’re still together.”

“Well not anymore for god’s sake!” John exclaimed.

“W…what…I don’t understand?”

“John, maybe now’s not the time-”

“No, Mary! She needs to know that marriage is not a silly fantasy!” He turned to Melanie and took a deep breath, “Your mom and I are separating.”

Melanie went blank. First there was confusion and sadness in her eyes, but then they slowly flickered into rage. “So all this time…You have been treating William like crap and telling me how important marriage is when your own marriage is falling apart-”

“Which is why we need to warn you,” Mary spoke up for the first time since the argument. “Honey, we love you, and this” she pointed to herself and John, “Is exactly why we don’t want this union to happen.”

“Because of what? That William and I will end up like you two? Unsupportive and lying to their daughter?” Melanie scoffed. “At least our kid will know how hard we worked on our relationship.”

“That’s it, Melanie Ballinger! This wedding and the baby are not happening!” Mary screamed.

“Ehhh…” John interrupted, “Well I do agree that the wedding is a definite no, but the baby… that’s kind of set in stone, right? This ain’t as easy as literally ‘taking a bun out of the oven’ so… I mean, sure we can…but ya.”

“John… I never intend to tell you this but… the fact that Melanie is pregnant with William’s kid, I can’t hide this any longer.”

“Mom, I don’t understand?”

“William,” Mary said softly, turning to his direction, “William Coombs. You used to go by William Gates, didn’t you?”

Everyone’s heads were now turned over to a puzzled William, “Wait, how did you-”

“Mary Lindsey. Does that name ring a bell to you? Or did you screw too many students over the years to keep a count?”

His eyes widened and his face went blank. He looked at Mary and quickly back at Melanie with utter distress. 

“Can someone please explain what is happening here?” John yelled.

Mary looked back over to John and held his hand with concern in her eyes, “... A month before we got married… I got really worried about our future, so I went to the bar for a drink. I was really drunk and started crying… and a professor came over and offered me a ride back to my dorm… One thing led to another and… I knew something was off by the time the wedding came around…”

“Good lord. Mary, you’re not saying…”

“Mom?”

“Melanie, sweetie. William might be… your biological father?”

The room abrupted to a dead silence, everyone trying to grasp the information that came out of Mary’s mouth. 

“So William… is… actually… her daddy?”

“Dad!?”

“Yes?” both John and William said in unison.

“No! No-no-no! This is not happening! William is not my dad and this baby isn’t some incest child!”

“Babe, can we talk about this-”

“No, don’t babe me… I just… I just need to lie down for a minute.”

“Melanie-”

“No mom, don’t talk to me!”

She sprung up from her seat and sprinted up the stairs. A loud slam followed shortly after. John slumped in his seat and buried his eyebrows, “Well… this is a horrible Thanksgiving.”

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

So I told you none of it was accidental

And the first night that you saw me

Nothing was gonna stop me

I laid the groundwork, and then

Saw a wide smirk on your face

You knew the entire time

You knew that I'm a mastermind

Mastermind - Taylor Swift

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #2 - Treasure Hunting

The musky smell wafts into my nose the moment I enter the store, greeted along by the upbeat tunes playing in the background. I arrive in a world where the lines of present and past are blurred. Within these four walls are bubbling with history and stories of the past, where music is still seen as an object rather than a cloud file.

The lights are dimmed but the colourful walls and posters outshine its ghostly aura. Every record store I have visited during this trip feels like a call to an adventure, an opportunity to travel back in time. This one is no different but it is the biggest I have ever seen. Rows of bins are filled to the brim with vinyl albums, milk crates are tucked into every possible crevice with even more record sleeves to maximize the space. Old cassette tapes line up like soldiers under the counter for browsing. This is a far cry from the tiny record section in the local Value Village I’m used to visiting. The catalogues are often a disappointment with either orchestra or love song compilations taking the cake. I’ve even started a saying, “For every South Pacific and Oklahoma album you find, there might just be a hidden gem somewhere.” 

Now I stand before a mine full of gems. Albums in all genres, formats and editions, some new and some have battled through the test of time. Worn down sleeve corners exposing its yellowed edges and little scrapes on the sides showing how much love the previous owner has given it. Some are imprinted with a circle silhouette, a sign of how long it has been smushed between other vinyl records. 

Yet in the midst of chaos, there is still a sense of order. Everything is alphabetically organized, some even by decade and artist. My fingers graze the stack, flipping through the catalogue searching for something that catches my eye. The covers are discoloured but still full of life. I pull out one from the pile and open the gatefold. My eyes travel across the page, admiring the pictures and artwork I never thought I would see in person. 

The idea that music used to be a tangible item still baffles me. Things like records and cassettes are the magic key that sets the cogs in motion, the key ingredient to replay a memory of sound. Every groove on a record and spool of tape in a cassette carries a unique pattern that feels more impressive than the play button on Spotify. Shuffle play is non-existent, and every album is preset for the purpose of telling a story. Holding a solid piece of music feels like holding a piece of the past, the unchangeable. It is a nostalgia I am never born into but long to see. 

After careful examination, I slip out the record from its protective sleeve. I hold it under the light, angling it around so I can take a closer view of its refraction. There are small scratches across the disk, some vague to the eye while others slice deep across the grooves. I see these imperfections as clues to its previous owner: their favourite song, the track they replay the most, maybe they have kids that always knock the needle out of place. 

As I study it further, I wonder what it will sound like. I have grown accustomed to reaching towards my phone and finding a song within clicks. I have never had the chance to experience the excitement of buying a physical piece of music, then dashing back home to set up the turntable, plopping on the bed and allowing myself to melt into the melodies. 

After scanning through it a bit longer, I slip the disk back into the paper case before returning it to the pile. I continue to venture into the deep end of the store digging for more treasures.

45.5304258251486, -73.60876162880058

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Peer editing in writers class is basically everyone sitting in a circle sharing alphabet "trauma" soup

It's like we had a potluck, but instead of food we cooked up a nice trauma packed dish and shared it with everyone. We would complement each other's cooking, the flavours, how certain things reminded us of stuff from our past. We laugh about it sometimes, share a lot of deep details of how we made our dishes. Nice way to bond with people.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Blog #1 - The Letter I Will Never Send

Dear Mystery Lady,

No amount of thank yous could describe the gratitude I felt after what you did for me. I knew I had dropped by in person to see you but that quick meeting didn’t allow me to finish everything I wanted to say. 

Truth be told, I hadn't been doing well since Covid happened. The isolation took a toll on me and I was left questioning my life. For months I sat in my room panicking, crying, staring at the ceiling, struggling to calm my brain down as it leapt into overdrive. The once comforting walls of my blue bedroom became the prison bars that held my dreams captive. I could still recall the excitement when I finally got to repaint it, the sense of pride in giving myself permission to start my journey of self discovery. Yet now I could hear those same walls mocking my naivete, that I was convinced it would be possible to forge a path for myself. 

Therefore, when the schools opened up last year I told myself three things: 

#1 I have two years of high school left and I want to make the best out of it. 

#2 I want to get out of my comfort zone and take a leap.

#3 I want to look back and know I have done something with my life.

Grade 11 ended up being the most fulfilling, chaotic and best year for me. Quarantine felt like a warning cry the universe gave me, advising me that theatre was something I should never commit to and run while I still could. Hence that year I gave everything I got and didn’t look back. It was the best decision I had ever made, and I finally felt like I was becoming the person I was meant to be. 

Even though I held my chin up and fought every obstacle that came my way, I was exhausted. Tired of people who didn’t even need to try, tired of comparing myself to others, tired of overthinking everything I did and wondering if it was ever enough. I realised I was a perfectionist, incredibly ambitious and willing to put up a fight. One of the best lessons I learnt last semester was being less harsh on yourself didn’t mean lowering your expectations, it meant allowing yourself to make mistakes while reaching your goal. 

I knew the performing path wasn’t going to be easy but it didn’t diminish the fact that it felt overwhelming at times. A lot of people assume that it’s a glorious adventure, yet in actuality, it can get lonely. I always had a gut feeling that the universe was constantly scheming something to screw me up and unfortunately my gut was right half of the time.

When you picked up the phone, I didn’t know what would happen. I assumed that I would just get a cold remark and be told off to wait for the official emails. Nonetheless, I knew whatever this was, it’s going to be big, and I had to take a chance and fight it. I had to. What I was not expecting was you spending a whole hour learning the software just to help my case, even going back to change it multiple times. I’ll never know what prompted you to help me in the first place or why you had so much faith in a stranger. So when you said, “It’s ADB in period 5 now,” I bawled my eyes off. I hadn’t cried in ages actually, it was that moment I knew how much that class truly meant to me. 

All I can say is that last year in musical theatre class I did so much learning and growing up, it helped me become the person I never thought I could be. Therefore, thank you for giving me the chance to do it again one last time before I graduate. 

Sincerely, 

Sophie

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

Today we were brainstorming and writing about important events in our lives. I wrote about the first monologue I did years back in drama class. To me that was the first time a teacher had faith in me to carry out such a big responsibility. Just now I realized that wasn't actually my first. When I was 8, I was one of the 3 students selected for the inter school math quiz where we compete with other classes in my grade. It was only then I realize that I am actually one of the top math students in my class (Holy heck! I'm smart???). I remember I felt sick in my stomach when I received the news, not because I had stage fright or I was scared of the responsibility. But because I was terrified that people would alienate me even more if I made the class lose. Honestly, they probably would have blamed the whole thing on me if I answered one single question wrong. I was so insecure and bullied as a kid, that I dropped out of this contest because I couldn't handle the 'public pressure'. I remember crying, begging the teacher to pick someone else (She was extremely surprised, I don't blame her.)

I remember being afraid that I will never grow out of caring what other people think of me and if I continue to live within their box, I can never get hurt.

Recently, I just got elected to be one of the presidents of my school's drama club. I hope younger me could have known what she was capable of.

[an-overthinkers-way-to-life]

"chaos pit" playlist

Wondering what mini me is listening to while lying down on grass? Here a musical glimpse into my never ending burning mind. Join in and listen along with me, but fair warning this is NOT a calm playlist.