Jean, in the Real World

by The Dreamer

I think, sometimes I think too much. But to be honest, I enjoy it. I like hearing my own voice in my head, constantly commenting and acknowledging. However, sometimes it can get very overwhelming. Basically this is just my thoughts running wild at the moment.

I read Marcelo in the Real World in the long car-ride home from Malaysia today. The pages kind of flipped themselves, the words wrapping themselves around my mind, intertwining with the melodies streaming in through my earphones. I started thinking about thinking, and my brain just got narcissistic and  shit. But after the novel, after the horizon around me got dark, I started to see things with more clarity. I kind of immersed myself in those thoughts, until I fell asleep.

I still remember the first thing that floated into my mind was this couple that I saw strolling around the mall. The boy had both sides of his head shaved, a tuff of hair swept in the middle in a swave and rocker-way. But under all that black facade and punk hairdo, he had a smile as innocent as a four-year-old. He held onto his girlfriend who was a petite little mushroom head, an oversized rectangle spectacle frame basically engulfing her entire face. She wore sweet clothes and small shoes, and basically they looked perfectly mismatched. I couldn’t stop staring. I kept thinking like they had stepped out of a comic-book. These two complete opposites, an elemental contradiction, and yet in my eyes they just seemed perfect for each other. I silently wished them the best.

Then my thoughts drifted to the quirky little thrift shop I stumbled into. They were selling racks of clothing cheap, and I was scouring through when I found this white blouse. Haphazardly and randomly, cut-outs of pink girl heads were sewed on. It was so weird and out-of-place and wrong that I was instantly attracted to it and I decided to buy it.  But at the same time, I also bought a floral shirt, and chances were I would wear the floral over head-shirt any day. It was this constant nagging every time I went out, voices of my friends telling me “Hey, don’t dress so nicely”, or “I knew you were going to dress so maturely” and “I was so stressed out because I thought you would doll up”. Like, why did my friends have to care what I wore? But then I corrected myself. Why should I care what my friends think about what I’m wearing? Period. I dressed to impress myself and to make me feel good.

Lastly, I thought of the music that was quietly entering my subconscious. Sometimes the music is just there. My sister and my parents were in a discussion of the recent missing flight, and my sister was devastated to have found out that a Biology teacher from her school was in that flight. A pregnant and stifling silence grew in the car. My sister started reciting stories about the passengers on board the plane, telling us of the pilot whose brother just passed away a week ago, and telling us about how grief-stricken the family must’ve been. The pauses between her breaths were heartbreaking. I remember jamming in my other earphone and turning up the volume, letting the music drown out her voice. I didn’t need to deal with it, and I didn’t want to deal with it, but the sadness( and the guilt of thinking that selfish thought) hung heavy around my neck, and I couldn’t find the strength to lift my head up, so I slowly drifted back to sleep, summoning the soul of my music to comfort my saddened spirit.

“How do we live with all the suffering? We see our ugly parts, and then we are able to forgive, love kindness, walk humbly.”  – Marcelo in the Real World

 

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