Silence

There used to be laughter. Noise. There used to be happiness radiated from every corners of the house. There used to be hugs and bright smiles. There used to be chatters and lifting voices, of sweet singing and low chuckles.

There used to be many things but silence. The silence, awkward and foreign, stretch over them like a wool blanket in summer day, uncomfortable and itchy. The silence dragged on, slowly, steadily, driving him to the edge of sanity, to the corner of his mind, killing him. It is too quiet in the house, so quiet that he could hear himself thinking, his heart beating like a drum against his own ears.

He wanted noises. Any noise. A broken glass. A cracked plate. An alarm. Anything to take the silence away. Anything to filled the void in the house, to drown the sound of his heart beating, of him breathing, in and out, in and out.

There used to be different. There used to be love. There used to be warmth.

He used to talk with his Dad. About everything – the Beatles and Queen and Rolling Stones. About Roger Federer and tennis and the future. There used to be a comfortable silence between them, when both lounged on the couch one cold winter night, listening to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. They used to exchange bad jokes about Nadal’s nasty habit, about Yoko Ono and her shrilly voice. There used to be quiet praised and silent conversation about maths and chemistry.

There used to be many things but silence.

He used to talk to his mom, about his love life and boyfriends and desires. About Oscar Wilde and Truman Capote. About poems and chocolate and crafts. There used to be quiet evening when both of them stretched out on the bed, knitting and gossiping about boys. The silence between them used to be natural. There used to be soft kisses and warm hugs and murmured encouragement.

There used to be many things but emptiness and silence.

There used to be his brother. His only brother. The one who used to tease him and ruffle his hair and comfort him after a break up. The one who stood behind him as he deliver his graduation speech, smiling softly, proud at him. The one who introduced him to the magic of Doctor Who and Torchwood and Supernatural. The one who stayed up with him, waiting for his acceptance letter to Hogwarts and assured him that it would be there. The one who drawn him into the family circle, drawn the awkward, shy, little boy into the warmth and light. The one who protect him from those ignorant imbeciles. The one who used to be just there.

There used to be his brother, but now love and radiant happiness have been replaced by a cloud of sorrow and silence.

Letting the wind caress his messy black hair, his tired eyes stared into nothingness. Like his life. He wished he has his brother brown warm eyes, not the color of the dead, cold tunnel. He wished he has his brother radiant smile, not a slight curve of mouth. He wished for many things. He wished for his brother to be back, for himself to die, for the silence to be gone.

But what good would wishing do? His brother is dead. He thought about the screaming sound and breaking glass and blood. He thought about the dead brown eyes and the mangled handsome face. He thought about the desperation and tears and anger.

He thought about the silence that stretched on ever since.

He wished he could escape. Escape from home, back to his tiny apartment in the brightly lit London. He wished he could again hear the sound of motors and laughter and chatter of strangers. Anything. Anything to take the silence away.

Silence will fall, when the question is ask.

Can you forgive yourself?

The “no” lost into rain.

Time

time stops, and it does not move.

trap are the desire and passion,

forever buried under the fold of time.

the young stay young, and the old stop aging.

the dead stay dead, and the living soldier on.

there is no end, and no beginning,

just endless wandering, the lost, the forgotten,

excluded from the cycle of time.

they watch the stars died and cities burned,

as they lived on, the forgotten children of time,

in a land of broken clocks.

The Mop Top

They took the world to its knee,

unexpectedly, suddenly.

The bomb that exploded on a jaded scene.

“Here were the stuffs that screams were made of.”

Those cheeky grins, those mop tops.

They were everything, and everything was them.

They were the boozes, the drugs, the sex,

the music that wakes the soul.

They were the movements, the change, the hope,

the revolution of the youths.

They were the symbols, the spokesmen, the spirit,

for a time of swinging sixties.

Touch

Just one touch, and it will break.

The mask I strive so hard to keep.

Just one touch, and it will fall.

The mask I wear to show the world.

Love, it is. Perfect, it is.

The mask I have spent years to make

Sturdy, it is. Strong, it is,

and yet just with your touch it falls.

Now is my time to fade away.

Goodbye, the mask that I have wear.

Fourteen

Fourteen. Her smile is as bright and clear as summer’s sky. A teenager, she is still in that period of in between – not a child, yet not an adult. However, in her case, she is more childish than she supposed to be. A lot more, actually.

Fourteen, she still drawls out the “a” whenever she call Merima, Myra, Lisa or Salma. Fourteen, she still pouts for a hug and wants it constantly. Fourteen, yet sometimes she could breaks in a hysterical giggles suddenly for no reason, or just hugs Sokra very very tight to hide her blushing face from others. Fourteen, she still helds a grudge against Frances and sees him as a jerk for he said her Beatles “suck”. Fourteen, she still likes to shriek and scream and chasing after boys so she could hit them.

Fourteen, yet she hasn’t yet developed a sense for fashion. Her closet is full of black, black, and more black. She prefers boy’s shirt rather than those stupid girl uniforms. She loves pants and trousers and shorts, and only wears dresses and skirts when it’s required (or her parents forced her to). Fourteen, she keeps her hair short. Fourteen, she doesn’t know what the is make up and how to use a mascara. Fourteen, she thinks of high heel shoes or purses and bags as perfect weapons to hit guys.

Fourteen, she still barges into Ms. Nathalia room unceremoniously and so chirpy in the morning, ready to launch into her ranting that sometimes drive people crazy. Fourteen, she loves to sit in Ms. Nathalia coffee-aroma-filled room just to talk. And talk. And more talking. Fourteen, she still thinks having a boyfriend not just about hugs, holding hands and kisses, but is about having a personal slave. Fourteen, she still eats chocolate on daily basic. Fourteen, she still tries to bat her eyelashes and be cute.

Fourteen, she still likes him, even though he is a jerk. Fourteen, she still blushes when he teases her, her eyes always sought out for him and she just seems extremely happy and giggly near him. Fourteen, she still looks at him while talking to Ameer. Fourteen, she still likes him a lot.

Fourteen, she is childish, he is mature. Except for the fact that he is a real nowhere man, he actually has a source of income, while all she has is a 200BD debt and a long list of books that she want. Fourteen, she is having crushes and obsessing over Paul McCartney and the Beatles, while he is ranting on and on about political and philosophy and somethings that just make her head goes crazy. Fourteen, she is, and eighteen, he is. She grade 10 and he grade 12. She is worrying about doing homework and lying and he is worrying about colleges. She still clutch her teddy bear to bed and he seems more mature than his age. Fourteen, both her and him are lazy people and love chocolate. Fourteen, she always uses chocolate as an excuse to give somethings to him. Fourteen, she likes him and he sees her as a friend. She loves to argue with him, just to have excuse to talk to him. She may seems mad, but her heart beats fast and her stomach flutter with butterfly. Fourteen, and she zones out in a shop, dreaming about him and her and a prom that would never happened. Fourteen, she still tries to find excuses to hug him, and pouts when it doesn’t go her way.

Fourteen, she has perfected her innocence mask to show others. Fourteen, she knows more than she should. Fourteen, she starts searching for a college, and tries to catch a breath. Fourteen, and she thinks far more older than her age. Fourteen, she is having a Voltaire breakdown. Fourteen, and sometimes she weeps at the irony of life and laughs at the ignorance of human.

Fourteen, her face still has some baby fat, and her eyes show her innocence so clear. Fourteen, her smile is as bright and clear as summer’s sky, brighter when she smile at him than at anyone else, and her head is fill with 60’s rock n’ roll music.

She thinks

She supposes to do her History homework – taking notes, answer questions and all those sort of things. She knows, rationally, that she should do it now, but she would rather not. Procrastinate and all, you know. The manifesto of her life.

Blank screen stares at her and she could feels the whiteness envelopes her, blinds her. There is nothing. She couldn’t, wouldn’t write anything. She is not in the mood for studying today after finishing her English homework, but then, has she ever in a mood for study? It is just another chores, adding to her endless list of things to do. Like smiling. Like acting normal.

She closes her eyes, and thinks. Of anything except her homework.

She thinks of him, of the little boy with his BlackBerry and books and games, all alone in this universe, on his own. She thinks of him and his chocolate curls, his mocking smile and his lifting voice. She thinks of him, and the way he hugged her once. She thinks of his hand pulled her up the stair once upon a time as she masterly stumbled down. She thinks of how he reminds her of dark chocolate – rich and tempting and so bitter. So hard to swallow.

She thinks of Ms. Scarlett, of the shinning sun and warmth and the strong aroma of coffee, always soothing. She thinks of the familiar smell and how warm she feels in those arms. She thinks of sun rays and summer sky, clear and bright. She thinks of the cup of chocolate milkshake, so sweet and cool. She thinks of fluttering butterfly wings and London in the nineteenth century.

She thinks of Ms. Ann, of grass field and wild flowers. She thinks of the ocean breeze and the refreshing smell of grass after rain. She thinks of the black and white picture, the elegance stand of Audrey Hepburn that she has always admired. She thinks of magic sparks and a little boy who lived. She thinks of Rome in summer days.

She thinks of her cousin, of the cool, sweet chocolate ice-cream. She thinks of the cool skin, touching her when they snuggled together after a horror movie. She thinks of two voices, lifting and rush and excited, blended together, telling tales of Federer and schools and books. She thinks of bony fingers that laced with her own, the stroll they took, the warm breeze of summer, the blinding smile under the sun. She thinks of the whisper in the dead of night, the quiet excitement bubbling under the duvet. She thinks of peace, mostly.

She thinks of her two childhood friends, of the little meet up and sudden sugar rush. She reminiscences about a better time. She thinks of the little game, the feel of the wind on her face, through her hair. She thinks of innocence, of the treasures and smile she lost somewhere along the way.

She opens her eyes. The books stare at her in silent judgment, mocking her, her life and everything. It hurts a bit. She thinks of the smell and feel the page beneath her finger, the rustling sound of paper. She looks at them, at the people she could never be, the adventures she could never go. She thinks of days when it’s her and them, taking comfort in each others, the conspiracy whisper in the dark.

Faces of people in the past surfaced in her mind. Faces of her classmates and friends, of the people that have past by her life, leave a mark, then gone or stay. She thinks, thinks of the days she has live, of the darkness waiting for her. She thinks, thinks of the blue phone-box and Word War I, of the sweet chaste kiss and the binomial theory, of sunlight on her face and appeasement. She thinks of her life, of what she could have done and said.

A strange feeling starts building up in her stomach. She feels alone.

She never, ever feels alone when she is alone. Never. But now, she feels alone, and that alien feeling scares her.

The blank page stares at her. Like the road she hasn’t taken yet. Like the life she hasn’t live yet.

Sometimes, she wishes she has a friend, a girl friend of sort, so she could squeals and fangirls and laughs together. A friend who could teach her how to do her make-up and go shopping with her. A friend who she could tells all the secrets to and never afraid that it would get out. A friend who would watch cheesy movie with her, braids her hair and sleepover her house. She wishes sometimes, she has a friend like that.

And then she remembers – she doesn’t. Perhaps the closest thing is him. But he doesn’t need her, and now she really doesn’t need him either.

The blank page stares at her, invites her, tempts her.

She closes the document and sorted through her movies. Perhaps Les Chansons D’amour would be a good choice.

“Aimes-moi moins mais aimes-moi longtemps.”

Love me less, but love me a longtime.

She presses play.

Vietnam and legalizing gay marriage

Quite a bit late, but then, later than never right? Besides, this requires quite a lot of thinking, given that the political scene in Vietnam sometimes bores me to death. Seriously. If you ever watch a National Assembly or a meeting in Vietnam, chances are that they will lull you to sleep faster than watching golf or chess do. It is also quite messy, and if I may, frankly disgusting, with all the corruption and lies, and the politicians look like they are just memorizing textbooks and sprouting out nonsense. As a kid, I like to watch the news, but as I grow older and started to understand what they are doing or saying, I avoid it like plague. It is not until recently that my interest in the Vietnamese political scene has been pique again when suddenly, unexpectedly, and surprisingly, they started to discuss the issue of legalizing gay marriange.

I thought I have been inception.

It was quite strange and jarring to hear about VIETNAM, of all countries in Asia, of all places, is discussing gay rights. I might believe more if you tell me that Romney is a closeted homosexual. This was really a “wow” moment for me. Like okay, even the United States, which ironic enough prided itself on its democracy, freedom, and etc had never even reach a general consensus on gay marriage. Even they have rampant homophobia. Discussing legalizing gay marriage is quite a leap for a country, until recently, refuses to talk about the existence of homosexual and void of gay rights. Sure, the LGBT communities are flourishing in Vietnam at a rapid rate, and we now also have a PFLAG chapter, as well as a large number of supporters, but the majority of people in Vietnam still remain largely ignorance, seeing gays as something of a disease, and pretend that such people don’t exist in society.

So why are you bringing this up now?

It is not that I don’t support gay rights; I explicitly stated on this page that I am all for it. However, I’m not sure if the government is making a right move. Why do you want to dive head in into the hardest subject – marriage? Given the mentality of most people and what they view as “tradition” and their definition on marriage, shouldn’t they tackle basic rights first – equality, non-discrimination, prevent bullying, penalty against hate crimes, the like – before going on marriage? I sincerely want Vietnam to legalize gay marriage, I do, because not only that would be quite wonderful, but it would also makes me more proud of my country. However, it is quite an impossible feat, when the people are not so comfortable knowing there are gay people exist in the country.

From my own personal experience and point of view, I think before you start tackling a hard and controversial subject like gay marriage, you must first get people to see gays for who they are. Increasing media covers, stories, organizing campaigns so people have a better understanding of the gay communities, of the hardships they are facing everyday, living in Vietnam (which I know that some non-profit organizations are doing already, but it’s kinda limited). Right now, people are not truly understand, or know, what is gay. In their mind, they retain this stereotypes of cross-dresser, camp gays, or people who are effiminate in general, which is frankly not the correct depiction of gays. The young generations are becoming more and more open and accepting, which is partly influence by the news and information they are getting online. Mostly, I think, it is the adults you have to convince that gay people are not a disease, that they are human, and they deserve rights.

It’s a gradual process. Your final aim is still going to be gay rights and gay marriage, of course, but until you actually get people to understand, that is going to be a very hard process. To many Vietnamese people, being gay is simply a choice, a temporary life style, a perverse against what they view as traditions, which I think (and correct me if you know, for I am not all that good and jazzy on Vietnamese history. They never did discuss these things in textbooks you know) was influenced by perhaps both the Confucianism and the French (when they were still deep in their closets. Oh France, how hate you sometimes). For many years, they believe firmly that a man would only be a true man if he marries a wife and has children. Women should also married too, which is why people find it quite puzzling should anyone wants to be single. A bit like US in the 50s, I think. Frequenting Vietnamese news website like VN Express or Dan Tri, you could see that now, while some are becoming more comfortable speaking out for gay rights, researching on the issue and becoming more tolerance, many still believe that it is a deliquency, a bad behavior that they could correct. Many tried to help their sons or daughters to become more “manly” or “girly.” This, I believe, is because of the lack of correct, proper media portrayal and coverage on gay people, as well as the lack of materials present in the country itself. So how are you going to get people to agree on an issue that they don’t even know what the fuss is about, or why are you even discussing it?

If Vietnam somehow, miraculously (I hope that day will really come. One must have hope and faith in one’s country after all, even if the country is corrupted to the core) manage to legalize gay marriage, it would quite a feat. The first country in Asia! And I have always thought it would be Japan. Or Taiwan. Or Hong Kong even. Never, in my wildest dream, would I have thought that Vietnam is here now. However, if you don’t get people to change their attitude and view points on gays, this could cause quite a stir, adding to the frustration and tensions already existed between the people and the government. No doubt, this move will be supported by many, but still, they are a small part of the country as a whole.

And pardon me if I remain sceptical about this whole thing. As far as I can see (and I could see it wrong. After all, I am not IN the country anymore), Vietnam has quite a lot on its plate. The whole dispute with China, poverty, the failing education system, etc. Personally, before Vietnam can truly and successfully discussing gay marriage, honey, fix yourself up first. You can’t really do it when at least a quarter of your population is living in poverty and without a proper education (not that people who go to school actually receive a proper education either. If you love the country, the best way is to get out, seek an education elsewhere, and then come back. This is speaking from experience).

Still, why spoil the good news? Good move, Vietnam! I hope for the day that I can tell people “Hey, my country was the first on in Asia to legalize gay marriage!” Right now, I can’t be more proud for being a Vietnamese.

[Oneshot]Instrospection, hay khi những kẻ lười không chịu làm bài và có quá nhiều thời gian trên tay

[Oneshot]Instrospection, hay khi những kẻ lười không chịu làm bài và có quá nhiều thời gian trên tay

Author: hell_princessXXs (MeMy Mo)

Rating: T

Summary: Nó nên là đang làm bài. Nhưng nó không làm.

Warning: None. Có lẽ là thế.

Note: Chán đời. Vớ vẩn là nhiều. Tự nhiên muốn viết, thế thôi mà.

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Instrospection, hay khi những kẻ lười không chịu làm bài và có quá nhiều thời gian trên tay

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Hè. Nó lạnh. Cứ ngồi ru rú trong nhà trước cái màn hình máy tính. Thỉnh thoảng, nó ra đường. Starbucks hoặc Caribou. Tea latte hoặc mocha frappucino. Có mỗi cốc coffee mà nó ngồi đến cả tiếng đồng hồ. Thay đổi không khí một chút, cho đỡ chán. Có khi, Michael cũng ra với nó. Chả nói chuyện gì quan trọng đâu, toàn bàn mấy cái vớ vẩn. Sex có thể nhảy sang ngay Auden và Wilde một cách dễ dàng, trơn tru. Nó vẫn chưa xác định được liệu hai đứa có phải người yêu không nữa. Boyfriend. Nó tự cười một mình như một con điên trong bóng tối. Tự chạm lên môi mình, nó không biết cái cảm giác khi hôn là thế nào.

16. Lửng lửng lơ lơ giữa cái mốc người lớn và trẻ con ấy. Nó không muốn lớn. Nó muốn trẻ mãi, để được nhìn thấy mọi người, ăn đồ ăn mẹ nó nấu, ngồi dí mắt vào Tumblr trên mạng và đọc sách. Nó muốn đi London và Cardiff và Liverpool. Nó muốn gặp Paul McCartney và Benedict Cumberbatch và Tom Hiddleston. 16. Nó dành phần lớn thời gian ở trong cái thế giới ảo tưởng của nó, vật lộn với mấy cái bài tập thầy cô giao và những essays dài ngoằng. 16. Nó cuống cuồng đi tìm trường và xin scholarship.

Nó, nó lười. Nó cứ nằm chảy thây và chả làm gì cả, cuộc tròn vào chăn ngủ như một chú mèo con. Những câu chuyện nó viết ra cứ tuôn ra như một dòng suối. Không liên kết, không mở đầu mà cũng chẳng kết thúc. Lơ lửng như nó. Nó sợ kết thúc. End. Như cái chết vậy. Nó vẫn còn nhiều thứ để làm. Có lẽ một ngày, câu chuyện của nó sẽ kết thúc, nhưng không phải bây giờ.

Michael. Michael với nó quen nhau hai năm rồi. Là bạn thôi. Đến giờ, nó vẫn không biết đêm đó, khi Michael nói chuyện hẹn hò với nó là thật hay chỉ bởi hơi nồng của rượu. Nó vẫn ngập ngừng. Thế nào cũng được. Nó thích Michael. Luôn luôn ở bên nó, luôn luôn tin tưởng nó. Nó đau đủ rồi. Là thật hay giả, nó vẫn muốn sống ở trong cái thế giới đó một thời gian. Nó chỉ xin một chút hạnh phúc mà thôi. “I need somebody to love. I want somebody to love,” giọng hát của Ringo vang ra từ cái SoundDock. Nó không muốn làm Eleanor Rigby nữa. “Look at all those lonely people, where do they all come from?”

Nó vô tình, nó ích kỉ. Nó biết chứ. Mẹ nó cũng đã bảo nó biết bao nhiêu lần rồi, nó thuộc bài lắm. Nó không biết, khi nó đồng ý hẹn hò với Michael là bởi vì nó ích kỉ hay là bởi vì sao nữa. Có lẽ tại nó sợ cô đơn. Hoang tưởng. Từ trước tới giờ vẫn là nó với nó, có sao đâu. Có lẽ, nó không muốn mất Michael như M nữa. Có lẽ, nó chỉ muốn biết làm một người bình thường thế nào mà thôi. Hẹn hò. Bạn trai. Có lẽ, cơ hội này sẽ không đến với nó lần nữa.

Chung quy, sẽ vẫn là nó ích kỷ đi. Nó ích kỷ, muốn có một cái gì đó cho mình. Chỉ là một lần trong số rất nhiều lần. Dù sao thì, là con người, nó được quyền ích kỷ, được quyền được nghĩ cho bạn thân. Chả ai sẽ sống hộ nó ngoài nó cả, đơn giản vậy thôi. Ấy là nó tự nhủ thế. Nhưng nó không muốn ai sống hộ nó cả. Cuộc sống của nó, nó sống. “I do what I want,” Loki đã nói. Nó lại tự cười. Điên rồi.

Nó không biết nó có thật sự yêu Michael không nữa. Michael là bạn nó, tất nhiên là nó thích cậu rồi. Quan tâm nữa. Nhưng “care” và “like” khác “love” nhiều lắm. Ít nhất là nó nghĩ vậy. Nói cho cùng, từ trước đến nay, nó nghĩ nó cảm nắng nhiều hơn là yêu. Trừ Jerkface, nhưng hắn không thích. Nó thích hắn khi nó còn quá đau và bức tường giữa nó với thế giới vẫn còn quá cao và dày. Hắn là một trong số ít nó đồng ý cho vào, rồi hắn làm nó đau. Nó ghét hắn, nhưng nó thương hắn. Khác với nó, hắn không biết yêu. Hắn chưa được yêu và cũng chẳng biết đáp trả. Nó nghĩ, có lẽ đó là lý do tại sao hắn lại làm đau nó. Nó vẫn thích hắn. Bạn thôi, cho dù nhiều khi hắn khiến nó khóc. Đêm trắng, nó vẫn nhắn tin cho hắn. Nó bảo hắn khiến nó tốn tiền điện thoại. Hắn lại mắng nó. Nó chỉ cười trừ. Andrew thì khác. Andrew là bạn nó, nhưng nó cũng thích Andrew. Andrew không phải nắng ấm và vững chắc như Michael, cũng chả phải một cái cục đầy sự ghét bỏ và đau đớn như hắn. Andrew là sự nhớ nhà. Đài Loan. Andrew hiểu nó khác với Michael hiểu nó, bởi Andrew và nó vẫn là cùng một thế giới đi ra. Nó thích Andrew, bởi vì nó nhớ nhà, bởi vì nó buồn và cái bức tường của nó đã hạ thấp xuống rồi. Nó thích Andrew, bởi Andrew là Andrew. Nó cũng chẳng biết nữa. Cô Charlotte bảo nó hình như nó không có serious về Andrew như hắn một chiều hè. Nó vẫn chỉ cười, cái nụ cười nó cười cho thế giới mỗi ngày. Nó biết, nhưng nó không nói. Andrew vẫn là bạn nó, thế thôi. Hai đứa vẫn nói chuyện sex như thường và thi xem đứa nào giỏi dirty talk hơn trong giờ ESS, cho đến lúc thầy Smiley dọa tách hai đứa ra và hai đứa sẽ ngồi cười rúc rích mỗi khi thầy bắt đầu giảng về Islam và Muslim và cái qué gì đấy mà không có liên quan đến bài học. ESS là khoa học môi trường cơ mà, có phải học đạo đâu. Mặt nó sẽ nhăn lên và Andrew sẽ vẽ hình bậy bạ cho nó xem để nó cười thầm. Andrei sẽ lại chọc nó để nó giận. Và Carlos sẽ ngồi nguyên đó như khúc gỗ mà Andrew vẫn thường bảo nó là bản mặt của Carlos khiến cậu thấy sợ. Như khi nhìn vào mắt con mèo và không biết liệu con mèo ấy đang nghĩ gì. Nó đáng yêu, nhưng nó đang lên kế hoạch giết mình hay xin thêm đồ ăn? Thầy TOK vẫn thường dọa tụi nó thế.

Thầy đi rồi. Nó buồn. Thầy thích Doctor Who và Sherlock BBC. Thầy nói nhiều. Thầy hiền lắm. Cô Charlotte cũng đi nữa. Nó thấy như có ai cắt trái tim nó ra vậy. Nó yêu cô, yêu nhiều lắm. Ngày nào nó cũng lẽo đẽo theo cô. Sau giờ học, bao giờ nó cũng ở lại. Nó toàn bỏ tiết Hóa với mấy tiết Study Halls để sang ngồi lớp cô thôi. Cô đi đâu là cũng sẽ có nó. Giờ thì nó mất đi cái chỗ dựa duy nhất của mình. Nó đau. Có lần, nó buột miệng gọi cô là mẹ. Nó nghĩ cô giống chị hơn. Bạn. Nếu sau này nó có yêu ai, nó muốn yêu một người giống như cô, với mái tóc vàng như nắng hè, với nụ cười luôn khiến nó cảm thấy hạnh phúc và đôi mắt xanh biếc như nước biển trong veo. Nó muốn ai đó như cô, người có thể nghe nó nói lăng nhăng từ the Beatles cho đến hôn nhân đồng tính.

Có lẽ nó nên quay lại làm bài. Ừ, vậy là tốt nhất. Tất cả mọi chuyện, rồi nó sẽ tính.

Nó kéo áo chặt vào một chút. Lạnh. Hè, bên ngoài, trời nắng vàng. Nó tự hỏi, liệu nó với Michael có phải là người yêu?

Of the ’60s and unspoken feelings

Hè, mà lạnh. Cảm giác mình còn ngủ ít hơn khi đi học. Có lẽ không phải, nhưng ai mà biết được. Đánh vật với mấy cái assignment và essays. Ôi IB! Cái cuộc đời của học sinh IB nó thế đấy. Năm sau 12 rồi, phải còn đi tìm trường, đi làm application để lấy scholarship nữa chứ. Thi lại SAT nữa. 1740. The unspoken disappointment. It was never enough. Bà cô dạy Văn của mình cũng quá đáng, bắt đọc Macbeth với Color Purple. Urgh. Ngại đọc Color Purple lắm, nghĩ đến là nản. Cái theme thì chán ngắt, năm ngoái học suốt rồi. Never believe in Oprah’s Book Clubs. Really.

Hè đến là lại nhớ. Thèm về nhà, nhưng năm nay không về được. Lại sắp đi làm internship nữa rồi, nên càng nhớ. Nhớ nắng hè, nhớ anh chị, nhớ bạn bè, nhớ ông bà. Nhớ cái nóng của Hà Nội và những cơn mữa dai dẳng không dứt. Nhớ đường phố đông đúc và những chiều dạo phố trên Tràng Tiền, Đinh Lễ. Nhớ cây xanh và những giấc ngủ trưa. Nhớ những quán ăn, nhớ chợ gần nhà, nhớ cái cảm giác là mình đang được ở nhà. Home, not house. Only home.

Bên này không có phượng, không có bằng lăng, nên cảm giác mùa thi và hè nó cứ như ambush mình ý. Chẳng chuẩn bị, chẳng báo trước gì cả. Nó cứ đến thì đến, cứ đi thì đi. Khi mà mình nhận ra thì đã quá muộn rồi, chả làm gì được nữa. Hè. Vô tình như người. Ru rú trong nhà, chả làm gì ngoài học cả. Tức bà cô, suốt ngày chửi cô cũ của mình, lại còn giao rõ nhiều bài tập thừa. Có lẽ Wordsworth viêt “The Daffodils” là về thiên nhiên và cảnh vật, nhưng mình bảo là sexual desires and the pleasuring of oneself. Nếu không thì nằm trên sofa làm cái quái gì, chả nhẽ high. Ghét mình cũng được, nhưng kệ. Cô Natalie thích nó. She always likes my paper, even if I feel like I BS half of those stuffs and the rest are junks. Mà có phải mình bịa đâu, dẫn chứng hẳn hoi nhé. Commentary mà, interpret cái qué nào chẳng được. Đến Porphyria’s Lover mình còn bịa ra được cả đống, nữa là “The Daffodils”. Nếu làm IOC gặp bài này là hơi bị hay đấy. Mình vẫn thích poetry hơn prose.

Đang làm cái History Internal Assessment về the Beatles và những năm 60s. Mình thích cái khoảng thời gian đó, chả hiểu tại sao. Limit là 2000 chữ, mà cái phần analysis và summary of evidence nó bảo mình làm từ 500-600 là được, khiến mình dở khóc dở cười. Cả một đống quotes tìm được không biết có kịp dùng cái qué nào không nữa. Chưa kể đến cái ITGS IA mình vẫn chả thèm mó vào, đắp xó. Cái EE thì có mỗi cái intro, không abstract không gì cả, ngoại trừ một cái outline vẽ bữa và một chồng sách Sherlock Holmes mình cần đọc lại. Còn phải research về sociopath nữa. 4000 chữ. Ít nhất là cũng đủ để mình viết về cả Truman Capote và In Cold Blood nữa. Nhưng lười chảy thây ra ý.

Hôm trước vừa đọc “The Fault in Our Stars.” Đau chết đi được ý. Khóc nức nở. Bây giờ đang đọc cả “Sputnik Sweetheart” lẫn “Norwegian Wood.” Càng đọc lại càng thấy buồn. Ít nhất còn đỡ hơn đọc Ayn Rand bây giờ. Đọc mấy cuốn của bà ý chắc mình thắt cổ chết luôn mất. Còn cả đống sách mình muốn đọc nữa, mà chưa rờ mó tới gì cả. Phim nữa. Vẫn cứ lười hoàn lười thôi, chả hiểu tại sao.

Lâu lắm mới nhớ mình không viết chuyện tiếng Việt. Thấy thèm. Nhớ. Muốn khóc mà éo có khóc được. Huh, eloquent as ever. Đời mà, có mấy khi được theo ý mình. Càng đọc về the Beatles và những năm 60s mà mình càng buồn, càng thấy đau. Điên. Something just broke inside me, when they transformed from those four happy young men, contented and marveled at their own successes to those bitter fools at the end. Love hurts. And in the end, the love you make is equal to the love you take. It was not enough, apparently.

Lảm nhảm quá. Lại có hứng viết. Viết gì không biết, chỉ viết đã. Không thích thì bỏ, có thế thôi mà. Như tình cảm ý. Không giải thích được thì chôn nó đi. Không muốn nhớ thì quên đi. It hurts less that way. I think.