I remember vaguely (day)dreaming that I had a twin.
Exactly how I look like, the same hairstyle, the same fly-away on the right side of my hair, the same smile, the same nail-length.

We were identical in all ways.

Sometimes my twin would wake me up in the mornings, behind my closed eyes, where she existed. I don't even know her name. Maybe we're so identical we also have the same name.

Since I spend my time alone always, and I'm not busy with anything at the moment, I wished for my very own twin. Some say the comparisons will bring the other to envy the other; but for me if there's understanding, there shouldn't be anything like that happening. The world's just chaotic because we don't understand each other.

So there I was, getting insecure with everything, daydreaming and lost into my own world, I wished for a twin. Someone to talk mundane things to, someone to share feelings with, and and little secrets. Then my talking alone the time would have sense, my saliva not wasted, and I'd get a good reply about my ideas.

The thing about solitude is you can do anything you want, have the freedom to act and smash things, (even thoughts) and be yourself without the audience. I'm very happy when I'm alone. But it gets depressing when you don't have someone to share that happiness to. Someone you know who can fully understand you, not mock you, or talk behind you back.

I know that I'd never have a twin elsewhere, and I know that my mother's not hiding her/him, and I know she doesn't exist.

But I can still close my eyes and go to my own twindom and talk to her there, and just share memories.

I find it hard to blog these days. Everytime I stare at notepad I feel like a mocking fool with nothing to write.

The thing is-- I always write.

It's some hidden addiction I have that couldn't be stopped. Friends who follow my blog will have to know. *winks*

Meanwhile, while I am about to sleep on my bed, about to close my eyes, I think of something to blog about, and I wrote the post in my head. Then I drift to sleep. The next time I sit here in front of the computer, with notebooks and ballpens and a glass of water, I open notepad and lock my eyes at the blipping cursor and think; "What did I think about last night?"

I'm listening to Emily Harder's version of my favourite Paramore song 'That's What You Get' right now, and I still can't compile all the right words to make this post look good. Or else readable. Words are strangled up at my mind, I'm bordering on writer's block, but I continue to eat like a kid surrounded with sweets.

I have several topics up in my head hidden in my imaginary folders, for future use, just in case my 'blogging block' goes away.

I kind of grew up listening to his songs -- my mother is such a big fan, she has albums of Michael Jackson up in the CD rack, and we'd listen to them while doing other things. I was a bit worried with my mum's reaction when I came down, but I saw that her eyes were dry.

But then later she told me that she has used maybe a million rolls of tissue to dry her tears, and her tear ducts just ran out of water to pour, so she's stopped. She loved MJ, went to his concert twice when he came here. He's influenced hundreds, millions of people, and has touched lives with his music.

Rest In Peace, Michael Jackson, and don't let the Angels sing to you; sing to them.

May you Rock the Heavens Above.

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The Questions:
1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What is your favorite color?
4. Favorite drink?
5. Dream vacation?
6. Favorite hobby?
7. What you want to be when you grow up?
8. What do you love most in life?
9. One word to describe you

This was something I was rather fond of.

Well, with the new job I'm getting. This is like an extra-curricular. Hmm. No. Part-time, yep, that's the word.

Other than go-sees, I'll be my brother's Science Teacher.
Science-- the experiments. So I'll be guiding him and I'll be a dummy. Perfect job. *winks* And I just love my brother to the core.

And my feet got tired, naturally. I walked all day. Talked all day. Laughed-- well, a bit.

I have met my friend from online today, her name is Alexis. She's sweet, kind and cute. You can see sincerity coming out of her eyes. It's my first time to meet someone really different from me. I thought she'd be one of the friends that I'd have that would slowly fade away into oblivion... someone who'd chat with me for a few days and vanish on the face of the Earth. Or else, come online on MSN and ignore me completely. Some friends.

But then, this girl stuck with me. She said she wanted to be my friend and hoped that we could be good friends. Wow. Friends. With me. I thought that sounded a bit complicated, but oh well.

We got along comfortably enough, we walked and told stories, giggled, observed people, walked and mainly talked. With fits of giggles. Oh, because we're girls, get over it.

But there's other than that.
I had an observation; I listened while she talked, but the other part of my brain calculated some things.

People. Again. I stared at them.
They stared back. I wonder what they thought about me, and they've probably wondered what I thought about them, too.

I saw too many of them in one day, my right eye felt blurry.

There're people who pick on their noses when they think no one's looking.
There're people who get a wad of thick crispy bills off of their wallet and wave them to the sales girl.
There're people who stare at you and won't break the eye contact unless you break away.
There're people who whisper behind your back and they think you can't hear them. Well, they say, "Look at that girl, so tall."
There're people who lick messily on their ice creams.
There're people who think that they're the prettiest in the world, and flaunt off their mosquito-bitten legs. I had a laugh at that.
There're people who talk with their mouths full. They're splashing food everywhere. Ew.

The list goes on.
But I'd never, ever thought they'd be that weird, or different. Well geez, I know we're all different in beliefs, food choices, other choices-- but I don't know why I'm suddenly dumbstruck at how people-- people are so different. Different in a sense some don't get on well together. Some don't understand what she/he thought.

So maybe that's why there're friends and bestfriends. Enemies and foes.
Friends who say, how are you? And let the conversation die.
Friends whom you get along with and then pretend you didn't exist at all.
But there're friends who stick with you forever and never let you down.
And there're friends who give you chocolates the first time you met, too. (Thanks Alexis.)
And there're friends who still believe in you even after they've seen the best and crap out of you.

Thank God for friends; and I felt really cliche and foolish saying that. But then all is true.
I hope I have many more to cherish and love.
But to those I have, thanks for sticking up with my crap-talk and my being slight-emo all the time. There're good bits in me, honest. You just have to, err, dig it.

I sat on the edge of the bed, chewing a pencil, an empty piece of paper on my hand, waiting. Again, for sickening ideas. The room was still, I locked the doors, no one moved, I heard no rings or chatters, only the sound of my heartbeat and breathing. And the sound of the clock.

I stared at it. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Tick.

It stopped.
I frowned.

Maybe it ran out of batteries. Maybe the clock was truly old that it just had to stop, its life ending. Maybe it was conscious of my staring, and it stopped to see how I would react. I twitched. It irritated me slightly. I didn't know why, I just felt that it was very irritating for the clock to stop.

As if it felt my annoyance, it started working again. Only after ten seconds, it stopped. It continued again. It stopped after five. It stopped after three. After two.

Beads of sweat started sliding from my neck, down to my throat. I didn't know what I was waiting for. I had a theory, but I didn't voice it out loud; I didn't even let the sentence finish in my head. Then it started working perfectly; after a minute, after two minutes, three minutes, five minutes... After the fifteenth minute it stopped again. A frown appears on my face.

My theory was, time has finally stopped.
Oh goodie! That would give me a lot of breaks. I can do anything in one day, or two, and wake up the next day to see it was still Sunday. Wake up the next morning to see it's still Sunday.

I can paint a thousand paintings, I can write as many stories as I want, I can eat and lose everything I ate and it would still be Sunday.

Sunday, bloody Sunday, I sang in my head.

Time will have to stop soon, and then we can have free reign. Of whatever we want, no deadlines at all. Nothing we have to worry about. Finish things with our own pace, rather than finishing them up with stress and worry, and the result too pathetic to see.

I twitched when the clock started working again, I could feel it smirking at me, reading my thoughts, and laughing at how silly I was. There's nothing wrong with thinking; everyone needs to think. Everyone has theories. Everyone has ideas. I eyed the clock with narrowed eyes. I heaved a sigh.

We're probably like the clock. We have our moments, and life seems to go on for us, because of survival, maybe, because of love, success -- each of them a momentum in our lives. Each of them's something we can't live without; a thirst to us. And we keep putting batteries on the clock to keep us going; because it's routine. And when the clock stops that's when we have our confused moments, depression seeps in through you, feeling you, caressing you.

Dragging you down.

But then you wave it away and continue on with life, putting on batteries to keep you going, filling up your heart with love, and you hope that your heart would continue: pump, pump, pump.

Just as the clock continues to; tick, tock, tick, tock.

But there will have to be a time that we can't replace that darn battery. There will be a time that it just has to run out, to die, and expire.
There will be a time that you'll have to quit running and start lying down to rest, expiring, yourself.
I'll be expiring, too. Like you. Like me. Like them.

And then the clock thinks, I wish I made myself useful ticking all the time, hanging on the wall/on the tops of desks/on someone's wrist.

And then we start reflecting what the clock says. I wish my life had been useful, too, to live with rights and a free conscience, no blood on my hands nor with the ones I loved, always running, walking, going left and right.

Time is everywhere. Only time can heal. You can only do things in time. Time will be your guide, your companion. You can only be successful in time. You can only be a mess in time. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I've more time ahead of me, more tick tocks to go. Years more. More breaths to breathe. More beats to pump. I've time to make myself useful, to make someone happy, to guide someone, to comfort a friend, to make someone smile. Sure I might bump on a post and start chewing on tinfoil and candy wrappers and more what-whats, but I'll just have to snap out of it to keep me going.

I sighed as I lay down on the bed, yawning, sleepy. The clock wasn't moving.

I didn't want to get up and nudge it, or poke it. Prodding wouldn't help. I'll let it go on by itself, just like us.

Waking up an hour later (I checked the time from my phone) I saw that it was still a stand-still. I yawned and heaved my lazy ass off the bed; the clock's needing help. I stretched my arm upwards and got it off the hook on the wall. I left it on the shelf to hunt for batteries.

I sat here for almost three hours, looking at this blank piece of virtual paper, thinking of what to write. I watched the cursor blink. blink. blink.

I'm tired.
I wish I could sleep all day long but my brain won't let me do so.
And I feel blunt because of this crappy fruit cocktail I ate. :/ The pineapples are all mushy and somehow old. And it's bearably cold today, because, thank heavens, the sun's out rather than the rain.

I've been writing 24/7. Or maybe, 8/7. I can't get enough of it.
That's why I haven't been posting here too, I think. Ideas drain me -- before I'd kill anything (too harsh I guess) to get an idea on my head. To have inspiration. Beware what you wish for is the perfect phrase here. I'm too full of ideas it's turning me into a zombie -- an amputated creature -- a madman. I wake up at ten in the morning, still sleepy, and struggle to go down the stairs. After I've washed myself, I write. And then it's lunchtime. And then I have a go on the computer. And then I write. And write. And write. It goes on until 2:30AM, and I tell myself, "What a stupid way to drive yourself insane," only I can't do anything else at the moment, I continue living like this.

I hope something good comes out of this, so my nights when I should be sleeping wouldn't be such a waste. Well, I hope. Because I hate waking up so late in the morning, only have six hours of sleep.

I'm starting a new life soon.
Very soon.
I just hope it fits me, and it won't be so hard.
And that God would be with me the whole way.

It's been a hobby of mine whenever I log on here, I click 'next blog's button.
It's fun to read what other people have to say, what their thoughts are, how different we all seem, yet we are one.

Mostly, people write about their everyday lives, many post how much weight they lost, others about crafts and gardening and about cooking, some about how their lives are just going all wrong, and how they're pissed off, and how life seems so dramatic for the teens who blog. And the last, people post about their thoughts, desires and dreams. I'm can, hmm, say that I am one of the last.

I'm munching on cereal as I type this sentence. I'm loading 'The Hunt for Gollum' movie on YouTube. I'm listening to the Sunday showbiz chatter on the telly, talking about a sex video scandal. And everyone's ignoring me at MSN at the moment. Bah, it has always been like that.

It's fun how people describe how life really is, how it bores them, how to see happiness in the smallest of things, how life is suicidal miserable, all from different people, all different views, all different beliefs. Sometimes I can't imagine that each of the people I see have different names, each leading a different life, a different childhood from mine; and some of them might've been little heroes. Each of them have a family to feed, each of them struggling to live, and trying to survive by life's rules. Each have their own complaints, their own fantasies and dreams. Each of us wanting a place in the world.

Last Thursday, after the shoot, my sisters and I were waiting on a line for a cab going home. A little girl with sampaguita approached us, barefoot, face ashen, and looked at us with puppy dog eyes.

"Please, please give me a few coins, just for me to buy food, please."

I would usually give out a spare change of whatever I have to those children; but the thing is, I didn't bring my wallet, since I was a free-loader, because my sister's wallet's going on a show. I said I didn't have any change. She pleaded again.

The sight of her broke my heart a little, thinking of what home she'd go home to (it was 10:30PM then) or if ever she has a home. I thought, what would it be like in her shoes (hmm, that might be a wrong statement, seeing as she's barefoot ), waking up to find no decent breakfast, her drunken, bum of a father lay asleep, while the mother's feeding her new-born baby with mere milk. My imagination went on like that, and I looked at her again. Finally, I nudged my older sister, and asked her if she had spare change.

"No, nothing."

I kind of glared at her, half annoyed, the sight of the kid didn't even soften her. At last, she pulled her wallet out and gave change to the kid.

The coin was almost worthless if you're going to spend it on something to satisfy your hunger. It's only worth to buy crisps, or a few pieces of candy. It wouldn't help feed a family of seven or eight; but her face lit up, as if my sister gave her 500 coins or something.

The people on the line looked at us, and I wondered if they thought us fools or kind, and the men sitting across the road on a coffee table, looked at us, too, and I'm very much curious what they thought.

People can be very weird. They can be bad. They can be good. Heartless, or giving. Lugoons, or gifted, or assholes.

Maybe that's why I don't like being around with people, or crowds, or the company of someone I barely know. There're just a lot of judgment, ideas, thoughts they wouldn't want to tell you, and honesty's the last thing they'd want to tell you.

Maybe I can wish for people like me (lollll) or my sisters, or some cousins I'm close to, and some few friends to multiply by night and invade the world so I can go out and be comfortable with everyone.

Mental thought, that was. Screw that.
Maybe I just need to accept that we're all different and try to mingle with people and understand our differences and just try to get along.

I think that's a better idea.