Sarah

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Sarah, 18, Singapore
(click the flower above for older entries)

Twitter: @sarahbananachan
Instagram: hisarahnademe

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Revelations #2

Thursday, March 20, 2014 || 8:54 AM

On three separate occasions I've been described as "relatable". It is difficult for me to comprehend this because I've always placed myself in a category separate from others - the different one. Often times, I am deeply convinced that my thoughts are perhaps a bit too.... intense for others. I've written countless of unpublished drafts here, not posting them simply because I felt that no one could understand - a deeply entrenched resistance against opening myself up to other people. I've always had problems with this... "open" thing. The idea of surrendering yourself (even a little) is unnerving - I hate the thought of being so vulnerable to others. That meant they could hurt you if they wanted to; you're an open wound. I don't like having my weaknesses being used against me. I have the propensity to spend so much time alone in my head, and I think this is where my belief that I am "intense" stems from. Maybe if I just let myself go - just a little - I would realise that everyone has these thoughts. Maybe I am relatable and contrary to my own belief, just like everybody else.

Thoughts about school

Sunday, March 16, 2014 || 11:14 PM

1. Jokes are being told every day - people are funny. The things that they say elicits laughter. The drill is pretty standard - someone says something funny; giggling ensues. I smile because that is what you are supposed to do; I laugh because you're cute and what you just said made me want to.

2. Strange faces are starting etch themselves on the surface of your brain - dammit, these strangers are becoming familiar. Who is that? I don't know your name but I know your face and the bag you carry and the way you laugh way too loudly. I don't know your story but I know what you had for lunch last week. The faces you see are the ones you run into every day; you notice a hair cut or a different hair style or the newly minted tired look on their face. You know them.... but not really. You want to say something but you hold back.

3. Today we had a good break. We laughed and swapped stories over tasteless meals. No one looked at the chipped edges of the yellow table because we were too busy looking at each other.

4. Today we had a not-so-good break. We used our phones and hid our faces because we had nothing to say to each other. No one ate - and I was the one who chipped off the edges of the yellow table.

5. Two words: Rat race. Do you feel it? I do. Then again, I have the propensity to feel such things too strongly. Have you done question 1 of worksheet 3? No, I haven't - you have? That makes me feel shitty and suffocated and anxious (and like a loser - let's not forget that). 12/15? She got 13. Why didn't I get 13? I could have - no, I should have. This transcends my capabilities, I start to think. Been there, done that.

6. We shouldn't care about such things.

7. We all care about such things.

8. 17 and 18 year olds are a bucket of hormones.

9. I don't feel like myself. I feel minimised, scaled down. Less filled with life; less filled with me.

10. Often times I wish I could hit the restart button on Junior College life - I cannot help the niggling feeling in the depths of my stomach I'm doing it all wrong. For so long I've been wondering (and anticipating) these two years - God, when I was 13, these JC kids seemed so grown up. They looked so smart and old - old enough to wear their skirts as short as they liked; old enough to slip their hands through hands of boys they didn't know. When I was 15, I thought when I went to JC life would snap into place for me. I'd finally reach my full potential and achieve what I've been coveting since forever - all rounded-ness. I didn't think about the short skirts or the strange boys. Now I feel scared - I can't help but feel like I'm already off to a wrong start. Two years is a short time (ephemeral at it's finest).... I am just nervous I'll wreck it like I did so many other things. Now at 17, all I want from these two years is personal achievement. Success - for once at last.

Two good songs for six (and a half) fulfilling minutes

Saturday, March 8, 2014 || 9:21 PM

Throwback to when I was 15 and obsessed with Brendon Urie and this was my favourite song because I looooved hearing him say my name

(Just a song I can relate to exceedingly well right now. Damn)

Realisations

Tuesday, March 4, 2014 || 6:02 PM

It's frustrating to watch you fade out of my life - my personality does not beget this. More often than not, it is I who lets go of the last strands of rope holding two people together. The ghost of a former friend. I am the one that finishes the conversation. I am the one that finishes the friendship. I am the one that doesn't respond.

This is a whole new ball game (wow @ the sports lingo, Sarah). I am usually too fond of slipping in and out of people's lives, pulling disappearing acts whenever I desire. Not to say I won't be there at a beck and call, but it is in my nature to hold the door open and let people go when they want to leave. For you... I set my ego aside (and shit you... you know I am a bucket of pride) and I tried to pull you back in. Stringing you back in once was a difficult thing for me to do; god damn your ephemeral feelings. Damn your fickle mind, or maybe it was never fickle - you were just bad at expressing your emotions. Well then, damn that. Once bitten twice shy - now that you've slipped away from within my grasp again, I'm not going to be the fool that reaches out a second time.

I've realised that the chase wasn't - no, isn't - worth the prize. Much like a game of tug and war, so what if I win if all I end up with is bloodied knees and bruised palms and the end of a fraying old rope? There is no need to be a victor when the victory proves to be only a pyrrhic one.

Regarding physical appearance:

Saturday, March 1, 2014 || 6:45 PM

Blood under her fingernails. She scratches distractedly all the time - bursting open her skin bag to reveal what lays underneath. She scratches when she is busy, or bored, or stressed. Blood spills out of her open wounds, blood - red, sticky, recognisable. The scars all over her legs are testament to this habit she has - fifty cent coins, her mother calls them. She does not do this on purpose, no - she simply finds comfort in scratching and picking her scabs; the edge of her fingernails drawn along the surface of her skin with an unmistakable rhythm. It never hurt, just felt good. She does not do this on purpose - the last thing she wants to do is hurt herself. Scratch, scratch, scratch - blood under her fingernails equals ugly skin equals ugly girl. She knew - no she knows - that. How unfortunate it was to have a habit that made you ugly.

He liked how dark, shiny surfaces reflect. That meant every dark, shiny surface he passed was another opportunity for him to look at himself. His pretty, pretty face - he never expected himself to have great fortunes in life because he had already struck the genetic jackpot. He felt he could not be lucky again because he got hit by his biggest windfall even before he had his first taste of life. He hated admitting this, but sometimes he marvelled at the contours of his face - how can two eyes, a nose and a mouth look so damn good when all pieced together? It made things so... easy. Cutting queues, getting girls, turning them down. Everyone was nice to him - except bitter girls who cruelly spat in his direction, "You don't know love, you only know yourself." When he heard that, he wondered if he was just nothing but a pretty face. It haunts him on nights he feels that is true.

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