Lost

On the internet, people disappear quite frequently. I suppose it's easy to do so, to delete a whole persona with one click of a button. But the influence that these characters/people leave is incredible. It's like a television show (i.e. Ugly Betty) that renders you powerless because of its glorious wit and when the show ends, the viewer is left with an emptiness and longing (i.e. Watching reruns of Ugly Betty right after it ended... thank the lord for three seasons).

Longing– longing for more television shows, more words, more pictures. When I type up the domain of my favourite blogger, photographer, etc, and receive the ridonculous statement of "Error, domain not found", I fall into fetal position and feel the last hope of the interwebs falling into a vortex. Aside from that, I spend hours scouring to see if there are any scraps to pick up from these wonderful influences and feast on it for the next decade. Unfortunately, when people do not want to belong on the internet, they find some magical ways to incinerate the evidence that they too, were citizens of Internet. It's sort of like trying to find pre-plastic surgery photos of certain celebrities– hey i waz bored– or trying to see if certain somebodies are on facebook, only to receive the result of a random person from Timbuktu with the name Abdul.

This is a call out to the people who have inspired me throughout the years, but have long since disappeared (or as my sister put it- "they have real lives").

1. Martha Doll
Before there was Facebook, there was a website called Flipbook or Flip which I believe was sponsored/bought by Teen Vogue. It was an online scrap-booking site which I absolutely adored until one day, it started glitching and all of my hard scrapbooking skills backfired on me (I invested HOURS until the screen froze and my poor middle school brain couldn't handle it anymore). That could be the reason why the site shut down. Anywho, there was one member named MarthaDoll completely enamored with *dun dun dun* Marie Antoinette. Her Flip books were so detailed and made me feel as if I was Alice, falling deep into a mysterious yet magical hole. Holey schmoley. It was sugar and spice, and everything nice. Apparently she goes by another alias, Martha The Ċ♥uŧưrεŗ.

Clockwise from top left: Martha Doll, Marie Antoinette,  Marie Antoinette still

2. The Unicorn Diaries
Another lady who carries a similar atmosphere of Martha Doll is The Unicorn Diaries. Fortunately, this blogger has received some recognition so she still lives on in the memory of many other interwebbers. Every time I looked at her blog, it was as if I entered a dream state, a reverie of some sorts. It was as if I was watching a constant sunset during the summer time and peeking into someone's picturesque childhood. Everything about the blog seemed to whisper an individual secret; a secret only The Unicorn Diaries and you shared. Her "diary" was filled with trinkets: film photographs of historical memorabilia,  paper art, and Christmas lights. Thankfully, her vintage-esque photos live on– type in "The Unicorn Diaries" on Google and voila, you will be in wonder.

All photos scourged from Google (originally from The Unicorn Diaries)

These are merely two out of many inspiring people I know that have faded away as a memory because of time. Even now, as I type these letters, I have an urge to create thematic art like the above people and to inspire others around in the same way. 
Perhaps I will create a diary of my dreams.

Suburban Dreams of a Mermaid

Photography by Bruce Mozert

Bold as Brass (Emotional Overdrive)

I am eighteen. In many of the books I read, "eighteen" seems to be the age where young women leave their mothers with only a single tear and drive away with a broad smile. A time where females are no longer called children, teenagers, or young adults, but women. In their fashionable purses, there must contain lipstick, a fashion magazine, perfume, morning after pills, cigarettes, and whatever young women of the century must contain in their mysterious bags.

I am eighteen. In my worn backpack, a glasses case, a sketchbook, a lollipop, gum, and candy wrappers take refuge. The thought of being separated from family, especially from the comfort of my mother, brings me into such a melancholic state. If I am plucked from her arms, where will I be placed? Who will corrupt me? Will my heart be broken?

My mind tells me that I will be placed into a vortex of nothing, a vast expanse of the unknown, a future where everything is unpredictable. And in that black hole comes a gift I suppose. Independence? 

Sometimes, I want to run deep into the forest and create my own hermitage. 

This summer, I have been in my home country (it's been four years) and it felt odd to say the words "grandmother" and "grandfather". And to speak my mother tongue– it was as if marbles were put in my mouth. My memories have been refreshed and my heart warms when I see my grandpa smile and grandma laugh, yell "I'm home grandma!", I hear my language, I see familiar people, and I am loved. I hear the murmur of my grandparents speaking between the walls. The summer humidity lasts till midnight (and beyond) and I can hear the conversation of multiple cicadas. 

And now I must leave a place that I have just called home. Will I ever see all of these people again? My grandfather cries every time we depart the country and I can't help but to let my tears flow. He doesn't weep at the sight of us leaving, but at the thought that he might never see us again. 

Scared. So scared. The future is unpredictable and my nerves of steel melt easily. After I leave this land and return back home, I only have one more week to spare. Then, I travel to my final destination for more "higher education", otherwise known as college–aiyaiyai *sigh*.

Memory keeper, please let this first message be a testament of change. It will be good; I will feed you my secrets.

P.S. it better be good. 

I

Hello World
If you can relate to the musings of an 18 year old stuck inside her own universe, read on.

Manifesto:

I will write earnestly and not to please my friends, acquaintances and fleas; I will write about things that make my heart pound for better or for worse; I will write about things that scare me shitless and things that make me appreciative of life.

I can be very indecisive (I'm still in frustration trying to decide whether to write in Times or Georgia) impulsive (freedom of speech usually dominates my freedom of thought).

I like all things that glitter and shine, the mysteries of the world, and the smell of washed cotton.

I still like to think that Pluto is a planet. It's just a misplaced celestial body in our solar system. A wise old man once told me (sounds cheesy I know) a weed is just a misplaced flower.  I believe all things far off, things that seem unimportant, should be remembered.

Fellow Plutonians, I hereby mark today as the official inception of a beautiful secret.