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elegantflowermentality-blog · 1 year

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Hi, it's been a while since I've last written here. I don't even know how this thing works anymore but I guess I'll just make this some sort of diary which is not that practical since this you know this thing they call digital footprint. Anyways, I'm now in my third year of college and still studying architecture. I really do want to love it but the school system just makes me hate everything I wanna learn from them. I did develop a hobby in crocheting but then I made the mistake of monetizing it and I hate having people telling me what to do but I've received a lot of orders about what they want me to make and I just feel depressed after some time of making them. I still have a pending order. It's been with me for months and I was hoping that the customer would just drop it but she didn't so I had to work on it and I'm really almost done but I just don't like how it turned out and I have to force myself to continue it but I can't but I need money ugghhh. So yeah. Oh, and I applied for a school barista position in our school. We won't really get any salary since it's voluntary and the student council handles the cafe lounge there and not the actual school but they did say that they'll give us some allowance and I'm just hoping it'll be enough to cover my fare to and from school. It'll be a huge help. Anyways, my back and neck hurts right now I think I've just developed a chronic ache on those areas ever since I started studying architecture since it requires me to sit and draw or plot designs for hours! I do love the designing and problem solving process but it's just frustrating sometimes. Actually, most of the time. But yeah, it's actually fun. I really do wanna design like I'm craving for some creative inspiration right now and the will to get started but I feel so unmotivated these days help! I guess I'll have to end this post right here and continue with my life. And I won't continue that stupid stuffed toy. (that's me trying reverse psychology to try and bring myself to start working on it again! okay I really won't do it. Don't do it thea!)

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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He was holding another girl’s waist.

six-word story (via ajelouishnarration)

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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12:46 am I hate how you look at me with so much confusion when I’ve always been so sure about you

ajelouishnarration (via ajelouishnarration)

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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The plot revolves around you and me– I, wearing the prettiest dress; you, wearing the brightest smile (because that, for me, is enough). Everything seems perfect, you know. There might be 100 more days of us bringing each other to binge-watch the funniest videos and to listen to indie songs that go beyond three minutes.

There might be 100 more days of us sharing our common hatred towards society’s irrelevant standards whilst munching over a large-sized order of overcooked fries.

There might be 100 more days of us finishing each other’s lyrics and popular phrases in the chatbox at 2am– a way of keeping each other sane with the dread of school works.

There might be 100 more days of us forcing each other to sleep because it’s already 3am, and convincing ourselves that the next days will be better ones as long as we will both buy the same flavor of ice cream after the exams.

There might be 100 more days of us trying to navigate our ways to hidden museums, with our broken bikes and broken hearts.

There might be 100 more days of us thinking that this plot really is one heck of a perfection. But well– we couldn’t, you know. There might be 100 days–and even more–for us to relish the feeling of having each other’s backs.

Yet this is not for us; we’ve known that from the start.

At the end of the day, we both are aware that we are not deserving of the 100 days we’ve always imagined. We don’t deserve even a day. It’s time to stop this plot before it gets late.

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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i saw a coffee stain on that tablecloth of table #3 in the downtown cafe we labelled as our territory

and i asked the waitress if she had bumped into you tonight

she said, “yes dear, but he didn’t leave any message

and he didn’t choose your favorite drink and the marshmallows you always wished”

and she asked how you’ve been doing, but i didn’t have a clue

because neither have i received a call nor text from you

so i kept silent, the strength of my eyes assuring her that we’re still going fine

even though it has been three weeks since you shadowed me a sign

you told me about her over lunch on the afternoon of the 23rd

and it sucks big time– the fact that you didn’t notice i was hurt:

“she smells like four seasons, and laughs as insanely as i do”

but then, well then, i can only hope that those

are lines of yours not showing any hint

of falling, of loving

because please, listen: i fell in love with you first

i saw a coffee stain on that tablecloth of #3 again,

and kept wondering why you didn’t come to see me

i wish you knew i was there first

i wish you knew you loved me when

the illness, the monsters have not yet gotten the best of you

we used to tell each other that we’d meet at 9:46

when the visitors of the cafe are too sleepy to even chatter

you’d always confess you’re in love with listening to my stories

and my lips curved in a way no one else could ever do

it’s 9:47 now and the waitress handed me a note

shivers, chills, hopelessness intact, as i read:

“hi eleanor, i just knew today that i had been sick–

my memory had some sort of ‘afterlife’, yeah?

why didn’t you tell me?..

but it’s alright, i know you have your reasons.

thank you for always being here. always take care.

by the way, the girl i was talking about over lunch the other day

kept telling me that she’s supposed to be my fiance.

oh how happy i was! flight’s tomorrow so i can have

my therapy in the States.

i’ve told the manager to reserve a large bag of marshmallows for you.

thank you, eleanor. see you.”

it’s 9:46– whatever happened to us?

i should have told you that

i was the first

i’ve always been here, love.

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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I take my first ride on the way home. Six-peso fare. Seven passengers. Then it jumps to nine. It takes nine minutes for me to reach the stretch of a familiar street; somewhere only you and I probably appreciated back then. Everything plays to the sound of my heart re-breaking– it just occurs so hard that I think it got used to the moment. Already. I don’t think I’ve gotten any more humane than this. Scenes flow inside a movie reel I’ve longed to put into trash. God, I’d do anything to become the sole victim of some kind of selective amnesia, if such a thing is and will ever get to be existent. At this point I start to hope that my fingers would get used to the comfort of the rusty pillows inside my eighteen-year-old room, just how they were before I met you. I’m so sorry my hands thought the sunset was your palms. I’ll try to change that.

Second ride. Six fast food chains. Seven stops. And nine. Nine lines of the first song on the radio have already played. Our song, silly. There’s no reason why I wouldn’t remember this. But honestly, I wish I really didn’t.

Third ride. Six, seven, nine– I can’t tell how many people I’ve chanced upon this afternoon. I lost my senses. Misdirected. I saved a seat for you. Beside me, your favorite spot, of course– you said you loved how the sunlight peeked from here. I saved this seat for you. But I forgot. You’re gone now.

When I get home, I finally figure out why I always skipped the number eight this time. It sounds so pathetic, but: there was an end waiting for us.

When I get home, I take my rusty pillows, squish my hands in between them, and try to change.

Whenever I get home after sharing rides with you, I always find myself running to my journal. It was never dusty, because you were always new, and you were always in it. I’d write a story of us: from sharing dripping popsicles, to humming along the radio’s tunes together, to finding a cute, worth-chasing puppy in the street.

You were the start and the end of my day.

But now, while staring at the 32nd page, I try to find you–yet I find myself failing.

Maybe I’m not tired of writing love stories.

Maybe I’m just tired of writing about us.

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elegantflowermentality-blog · 6 years

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Yeah, and to think i was once like “2017. No regrets. 2018. No limits.” Here we go again