Any suggestions? Pretty please? :3

A non-mathematical assumption, probably just because we’re eager to do more of it than others.

Sorry for not being able to update my blog so often, kind of being busy with work and internships. All good for now, but please bear with me. :)

Hello. Here I am again, creating random conversations in my head with people I do not know. 

Abigail: What’s wrong?

Merryweather: Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.

Abigail: By saying that there is nothing wrong, you mean something’s wrong. And when you answer affirmatively by saying, “There is something wrong”, then in truth, there really is something wrong. So what is wrong?

Merryweather: Everything’s wrong.

Abigail: Point taken. Maybe. Maybe not. But who cares, right? We are the most lucid of all the people in the world and yet we can do nothing right.

Merryweather: That could be right. That could be wrong. But who cares?

Abigail: Exactly.

Oh my. A stack of books waiting to be read. I have different books in different places, in the workplace, in my bag, in the john, everywhere. Good thing I don’t mix up the stories. Aaaand… I don’t want to rush things even though there’s too many books that I read, regretting later that I didn’t understand any of the stories at all. Here’s the list:

• The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger
• The Painter of Battles by Arturo Pérez-Reverte (reading)
• The Watermelon King by Daniel Wallace
• Snakes and Earrings by Hitomi Kanehara (rereading)
• Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro (reading)
• Life of Pi by Yann Martel (reading)
• A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon

The first of the line is tied to a tree and the last is being eaten by the ants.

I recently finished the book One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I remember picking the book in a store’s shelf with a discount and with the fact in mind that it is one of the author’s best-known novels, eventually giving him a Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982.

But enough of the facts. The book has been my company for the last months in which I was inside my own frosted bubble, taking worthless pictures and writing sad haikus for imaginary friends. I read the book whenever there is spare time, or even there isn’t, even when there is work to do, whether I’m in the john or to shorten the hours of my sleep to, let’s say, three hours. The Buendias have been my friends, my family, and the death of the line was finally told to me by the book inside a bus, sitting between two women at around 9 PM.

The storytelling by Mr. Garcia Marquez was very detailed and very much alive, from the characters, the fictional town, the little golden fishes, everything. I remember imagining the town of Macondo with yellows and oranges and ochres, especially when the town was occupied by the death of everyone by the strong winds. It also took me to the flashbacks that give details to what was happening in that time, creating valuable links for the story. In some instances, the novel also made me turn a few pages back from where I was reading, for it had these little beats or turns of waves, as if it was an electrocardiogram, and sometimes gave me these “whatever happened?” moments to characters I sometimes forget, like for example, how Santa Sofia de la Piedad ended in the house of the Buendia family. Yes, I am that forgetful even if I was reading the book almost everyday.

Another thing beside its story that made it one of my favorite books and made Gabriel Garcia Marquez one of the most inspiring authors I’ve known is its theme. Solitude. Every character in the story had their own moments of solitude and felt the same confinement as similar as Macondo from where it was found. Solitude. I like the word very much. I like it so much that it clings to me and slips into my thinking almost regularly and makes me feel the way a person is alone in a house with walking air and talking and laughing to oneself, or the way of making me feel surrounded by a bubble that cannot be burst, with no connections of the real world where everyone is at. It grew heavy on me. During the months that I was reading it I was also in the process of doing requirements for my thesis, and I felt so much alone even if I had company from my computer screen. It is hard to think and to argue with oneself for such requirements, but at the same time, it gave me both the clarity and the involuntary blurring of the thoughts I had in mind. The solitude gave me the yearning to talk to friends, and on those times when I am at school I wish not to go back to the comfort of the chair that has been my servant and my friend. It was still about solitude when Aureliano was reading the parchments that tell the story of the Buendias.

This solitude I am having is hard to just dust off. It isn’t just like a spider that fell on my arms. I have no intention of keeping it, and I have no intention of leaving it either. I guess it will always be beside me, with a black hat and a black coat. Melquiades.

Went to the The Whitest Boy Alive concert in Republiq in Pasay. Though I feel it was like tenbits, it was fun! My palms hurt because of clapping. No, really. I still haven’t removed my wrist tag up to this moment, added to the fact that I still haven’t took my bath. Awkward ending.

8GB of sheer excitement. Shyeah!

Where are you?