asyawrites

[asyawrites]

Was ranting to an AI cow. Low-key ATE.

I didn't see his last breath. I was too ashamed, at that time, of being troubled. Having to wake in the middle of the night, rushing to his side, because he's important. Somehow that made me jealous. Or worried. Or I was simply depressed that our roles were suddenly disturbed by something out of our control.

No. I couldn't see him, you understand? It was like... I failed everyone. As if my role as the eldest daughter was destroyed. Of course, I still have my other younger brother at that time, but nothing crushed me more than feeling like I've made a grave mistake. I was almost disgusted and mad towards him, as if his illness betrayed me. I was ashamed to a brother who, during those days, might've wished for my words more than anyone. And I was avoiding him, like a coward.

[asyawrites]

I live in the bathroom.

Yes, where the tiles crack and water is held.

That one.

My bathroom is a small rectangle, enough to fit all five of my bodies if they were cloned. The floor is blue and so are the walls. The ceiling is white.

In the upper right corner sits a tub, which holds the water, but you don't go in it. Beside it is the toilet seat. And further to its right is a rack for all the things that belong there: toothbrushes, toothpaste, sanitary pads, more sanitary pads, plastic bags for the pads after use, empty bottles of shampoo and soap which we oddly kept untouched, and a bunch of other questionable trash our eyes gloss over.

The door, wood on one side and an iron cover on the other, creaked like it belonged in a horror movie where the main character stupidly buys the haunted house anyway—despite all the signs.

Doesn't sound pretty, but I'm used to it. In fact, the bathroom is probably the space I'm most familiar with. Every little detail sticks in my head like a parasite.

And although tight and nevertheless unrecommended, it's my favorite room.

Because outside is a whole orchestra.

Violins and flutes talk harmoniously while the piano goes in between. Cellos try to converse with the trombones. The harp plays by itself while secretly attracting everyone's ears. And last but not least, the others who come once in a while to announce their presence. Even if you run miles away from them, you'd feel like you've been doing it on the treadmill—making it in vain.

They're loud.

They're everywhere.

Everywhere but the bathroom.

Inside is a liminal space—where only my thoughts and I reside. No distractions, no commands, no questions, and definitely no noise. The only company, which I think is the most tolerable, is the water. Trust me, there's no better listener than this element, especially when you've been used in that role. All. The. Time.

It doesn't shout or ask a bazillion questions, nor does it push you to answer. It understands my role—and replaced it with its own.

Maybe it's selfish to think this way.

Maybe it never wanted the role to begin with.

But ironically: like the water, we can't complain.

In the bathroom, time stops. My only connection to it is through my hands—by abusing the element. I'd stroke its surface with my fingers and plunge them deep over and over again, until the tips age on their own, leaving the rest of me frozen.

The more I ponder my very existence in that place, the more I realized that I'm capable of ruin: without the shame, without the guilt, and with no one to judge but my own reflection.

So while the world outside continues to stir in its own endless melody, I let myself be captured by the four walls. Each side familiar, each side knows me. And knowing that when the sky collapses, mine won't even move.

So yes, I live in the bathroom.

There's no other way to say it. I just am. Maybe you are too... maybe.

[asyawrites]

Current read update: My Brilliant Friend 👭

I finished reading the first part of "My Brilliant Friend" by Elena Ferrante which is about the childhood and... oh my god. Not to be dramatic or whatever but I honestly didn't expect there'll be so much violence in it.

My opinion? I like it.

Not the actions, obviously, but the raw descriptions of the scenes. But this shouldn't be surprising to you, since my favorite part of "The Stranger" by Albert Camus was this section where he talked about the Guillotine (love that thing. Terrifying—duh. But it's so interesting to talk about.)

That aside, and I'm not saying this in the way people on the internet would to be "emo", there's a level of fascination that I have towards violence whenever it's mentioned in books. Idk.. it feels real. Like a grounding moment amongst the fiction.

↓

As mentioned in chapter 3 of the childhood:

"We live in a world in which children and adults were often wounded, blood flowed from the wounds, they festered, and sometimes people died."

Couldn't get any more real than that.

But please don't mistake this as an admiration for violence in general, especially in real life. That's not what I meant. I just think it's... Eerie but magnetic to mention in works of fiction. That's why lots of people like horror, right? I think so.

[asyawrites]

The moon is shining.

My heart is beating.

And if the world allows it.

You'd be mine to breathe in.

[asyawrites]

getting inspired to create stuff is honestly the meaning of life. like i found a great story and now i wanna make a cool story too. literally could there be any better feeling

[asyawrites]

Nonchalance is so out of date. I don't want hidden affection. I want your arms thrown out to hug me out of the blue, I want the words "I love you" shouting from our lungs every day, and for kisses peppered onto me whenever, wherever, as long as it's you.

I want chaotic love—one that makes me stand on my toes and color my cheeks even in public. To love without a filter. To see each other's eyes like stars and each other's hearts close to bursting. I want that... Don't you?

[asyawrites]

"Chances are, we're just bacterias in a much larger world."

"I know. And two bacteria holding hands won't destroy it. Care to prove me right?"

"...just this once."

[asyawrites]

LMAO YES. Gentle rocks, of course. As kind as the ones they use to make medieval castles with.

“The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.” — Vladimir Nabokov

[asyawrites]

"If you use em dash in your works, it makes them look AI generated. No real human uses em dash."

Imaging thinking actual human writers are Not Real because they use... professional writing in their works.

Imagine thinking millions of people who have been using em dash way before AI becomes a thing are all robots.

REBLOG IF YOU'RE A HUMAN AND YOU USE EM DASH

[asyawrites]

God is good.

How much longer must I hear that line? The truth is, it's harder to believe such a statement when you've gone through many events in your life, seeing multiple occasions where what's given wasn't kindness—but law.

The bad are punished, the good rewarded—but sometimes they get nothing at all. As if God is trying to say "my lack of intervention is a blessing in disguise." Well, is that true? Perhaps it is. Yet my question still remains: How good is God exactly? What made us think of such a conclusion?

Throughout my childhood, it was rather challenging for me to fully accept this. In a positive light, I was grateful for many things that God had given me—like my health, for example. But on other occasions, there were certain moments that made me halt and wonder.

They say "perfection belongs to God", but what if God isn't perfect?

Will your love lessen if reality says so?

It often baffles me how people think perfection is the pinnacle of a great being. Of a great... Anything. How I see it, God isn't perfect. God is simply playing dice while holding the scale of justice. Because religions practice order, and order doesn't serve perfection—it serves systems. Different actions lead to different results. It's basically a giant program.

But I understand how it led us to the phrase. If we compare perfection to imperfection, the latter sounds more dangerous. More chances for "mistakes." And it's easier to imagine the very creator making none—assuring our safety to some degree. Therefore the idea of perfection equals protection affected our view that God must be good. If not, then we're unsafe. If not, it becomes harder for us to believe.

Why though?

You still trust your umbrella during a storm, even when you're aware that it might rip and let the weather soak you.

You still trust the traffic lights to help you cross the road, knowing that there's a chance it could malfunction, causing a car to crash into you.

And you still trust your own heart to beat every single day, with the knowledge that someday it won't.

Yet you still live anyway. You still believe in them.

At the end, perfection was never the savior.

It's our courage.

So why can't we apply this to the very symbol—the figure—we call our creator? Imperfection isn't a disease. It's a variant. And in order to make a program work, it needs exactly that: variations of outcomes, of choices, of both things terrific and terrifying. Life does not only bloom on the surface of earth, but also in the sea. Blood isn't only the source of life, but also the sign of death when it runs out. Everything connects. Everything can contradict.

God isn't a page of white.

God isn't kind in the way we understand it.

God just is.