Won’t You Be So Kind?

To get me hard-covered, mint condition, awfully lovely, books?

Andrew Lang’s Fairy Books!

The Silmarillion.

And as funny as this is, I’d love to read this as well. If you have it, and could allow me a quick peek, I’d love you forever as well.

The Secret Book of Gnomes.

Andrew Lang’s books will probably cause a fortune. There’s twelve of them! I want the Blue Book the most-est of them all wheeeee. (:

Will save on my own, and get them from Amazon.com, hopefully. Or if I get to go to all those major bookstores in KLCC and manage to find, oh, for joy, a hard-covered, illustrated, unabridged, awesome Blue Book.

I’ll splurge.

Definitely.

But if you will be so kind.

I could settle for paperbacks. ILU.

Hee. C:

Well, What Do You Know.

I’m gonna be so busy with so many things, I’m in rather a daze, and unsure where to start. Sorry, Simran, if I seem too out of it whenever you ask me things. Because I’m still trying to sink in the fact that I agreed to THAT.

Sigh.

I just didn’t want to, either, YOU KNOW. But like you said, I can’t think of anyone else either. And you were so desperate, I felt bad too.

See. CURSE YOU HEART.

I’ll try the best I can.

I’ll try to make a difference.

Hopefully.

Sigh.

I wonder if things will turn out well though. Seriously. I’m not cut our for the job. I’ve never been in that position before, GOOD CHANCE TO LEARN RIGHT. YES.

I’m cranky. Sorry. I just hate self now.

For various reasons, and not this, and you’ll never know, because I won’t tell you, and if you’re you, the you I think you are, you couldn’t possibly understand, but maybe you will, but I won’t know, cause you won’t tell me about you as well.

It’s always a deal.

Always one to make.

I’m A Very Sorry Person

When sometimes things go out of hand, and I lie back against the not so comfy seat, with the safety buckles on, because they’ll slap you a fine of RM300 if you don’t, and get so nauseous and claustrophobic, with iron sides closing in, closing in.

Sometimes I get jealous, when I can’t draw as well, can’t write as well, as unwell as I think I do. And I hate myself for it, because these two things are the things I love doing best, and when there are those with better, better. Ah.

I like doing work, I like doing stuff you’ve placed upon me, but I do not like the expectations that follow, because I do all in my pace, I do all that I can, and when I cannot fulfill that tower that you’ve constructed on me, I flail, I break things, I scream. Alone, where no one can hear me, and I smile and I apologize to you.

The thing that I hate the most, the thing I’ve long not heard, for a long, long time. Is when there are screams and yells, and violence, and sounds of skin upon skin – not in a nice way – pushing, grating. I pretend not to want to understand, I pretend not to be listening, I pretend to know nothing, like I’m just a kid, without knowledge of the real world. I pretend that I’m not huddling, hugging myself in a corner, wishing, wishing. Praying.

I wonder if that dream was one from the Devil, or one from my heart. Because my worries and fears all came pouring out in the deep, deep sea of doubt.

When I’m done. I wonder if any of you will continue to see me as me. Or see the me with the facade, and never know what I truly am. Like so many of you. Like so many of you who do not understand.

And always think that you do.