Truth be told I have no idea how you ended up here, but welcome. I only have the one blog, which means it gets filled up with a lot of unrelated things. There will be numerous fandoms, posts about privilege and oppression, and lots and lots of pretty pictures. Frequently school gets in the way and this Tumblr goes dormant, and then break comes along and I queue up a flood of posts, so don't follow if you like your dash to be somewhat regular.
I'm working on plans for a hobbit
hole mansion that me and my friends will live in. If you have ever thought about your own dream-home, then pretty please will you tell me about it?
I don't put up pictures or much biographical information about myself, but you can call me Sakura Nicole.
Oh, and even though this blog may not always be active, I will always answer my asks, so that's open if you ever need to talk to someone or rant.
P.S. I do occasionally put up personal posts, usually under a read more. I would never ask anybody to not read something I put out there publicly, but if I know you in person could you at least pretend you didn't read it? Please and Thank You.
I have so many problems with it. This will be a rant. Or a list. Probably both. But I’m leaning towards list.
For reference the six/seven religions we’re doing are:
(I chose Islam. It was interesting how most of the class flocked to the Eastern Religions.)
Mark Oshiro, of Mark Does Stuff fame, will soon be reviewing, chapter by chapter, the Song of the Lioness quartet by Tamora Pierce. It is no secret that I love Tamora Pierce. She and Mark are two of the four people I idolize (the other two being the awesome Green brothers). I should be ecstatic at this meeting of worlds, and in some ways I am. But I’m also worried. So worried that I’m breaking this hiatus to write about it.
What if Mark Oshiro does not like Tamora Pierce novels?
All the truly dangerous characters in Portal 2 are female. GLaDOS, Chell, the functioning Turrets. For men there is Cave, who isn’t all too dangerous and should just be kept away from lots of funding. And, of course, Wheatly, who is just a moron who went a bit mad with power but still holds my undying love. Have I mentioned how much I love Portal?
Have I mentioned how I never play Portal?
This is for the girls who have been harmed by some cutting remark. This is for the girls who have felt like they aren’t good enough. The girls who feel like they are wrong.
This is for my friends, who are facing troubles I’ve never had. The ones who are feeling left alone. The ones who are the target of lies. I can’t promise you it gets better, I can’t make you believe that you are worth something. Why? Because I stopped myself from truly relying on others, for fear of the pain. The insults can’t knock me down when I never had enough self-confidence to build me up. You are stronger than me, because you lay your trust reality. You risk what you’re going through now, but are rewarded with a comfort I long for but don’t go after. I hide in my books, because even though my heart can be broken, my mind twisted, my soul crushed, I don’t risk real people reacting to me. It’s cowardice. And so I admire you and your stength.
And look! I’ve turned a post about my friends into a self-pity party. I guess what I’m trying to do is offer my support, even if I have no wise words to give. I want you to know that I’m always here, whether you need a shoulder to cry on, or just someone to watch cheesey sitcoms with. But I do know I’m not on the top of your list of friends, there are others who you are more comfortable with. Just know that I’m here, and will never think ill of you. Know that people love you, even if no one wants to sweep you off your feet quite yet.
You aren’t alone, my darlings, no matter how isolated you might feel in this vast Universe.
Personally, I can’t stand Sawyer, and isn’t that odd? I love stories and books and the fantastical, and that is everything Sawyer is. Whereas Finn doesn’t like his schooling, which is my passion, and I am obviously sick and tired and grasping at straws, so yeah. The end.
I think I need to do a bit of editing.
The water sings its chaotic song
Soothing the souls of the tired and lost.
Souls of people who look out into this world
And wonder “What’s the point?”
Nothing can leave a lasting impression
So why should one as tiny and insignificant as a human being even try?
Everything will just run until it breaks
And everything will break.
So why try and fix what’s broken
If it will just break again.
Who cares about wars that kill millions
If those millions will die anyways?
The world is weak and fragile
So why try to preserve it?
Every dollar you make will be useless in the end
The Universe doesn’t care if you ended segregation.
But we go about our lives
Talking about “Good” and “Evil.”
Constructing and destructing like there’s a difference.
We fill ourselves with hope
But what is that hope for?
Hope that we will survive?
Because we won’t.
None of us will survive
Even in words everything is temporary
One day there will be no record of Shakespeare.
One day the Human Race will be a blip on the Earth’s history
And the Earth will be less than a blip to the Milky Way.
And do I even need to continue?
Everything is futile.
So why do I write?
Why do I scribble down my ramblings?
Why do I journey to places?
Why do I try different foods?
Why do I get to know the immaterial soul of another person?
Why do I take care of a dog?
Why do I plant a tree?
Why do I continue to exist?
Postpone my demise?
Why do I give a damn?
I don’t know
I really don’t.
But you know
I’m already here
So why not enjoy it?
Because right now I exist
Right now I’m real.
Right now time is passing
And I’m just sitting here
But you know what?
As the rain soaks my hair and these pages
Even though I;m under a leafy canopy,
I am content.
I am blissful.
This is how I want to live
Every moment of every day.
Each fat rain drop
Causing ripples in the puddles
In the lakes and in the streams.
I don’t know why I’m here
I will never know why.
But I don’t care.
Actually, scratch that
I don’t want to know.
Where’s the fun in knowing?
I may die at any second
But it doesn’t matter.
These may be the last words I’ll ever write
But look! I’ve written more!
Soon this time will pass into a memory
And then not even that.
But if I work at preserving every second for the future
How will I ever enjoy the now?
And yes, this has gone on for too long
And any poem it once wanted to be
But oh well.
Everything is pointless in the end
So why should my writing be any different?
I think too much.
Sometimes I feel as if I think not enough, or when I do its about trivial things. I have my “what if…”s and my Doctor Who theories, but so often they are borrowed from my idols, or just random YouTube comments or blog posts. I will often base my theories about books, life, the universe, etc. off of others, sometimes without realizing it. That is probably the main theme behind this Tumblog. I’m a parrot, one with a huge brain that is all too often underused. Sometimes (often) I wonder where my originality is, even my sketches are off of photographs others took.
Look at me, ranting and rambling and being redundant based off a four-syllable sentence my friend put on the Internet. I am wallowing in self pity and am abusing these words. I promise I will soon put up a post that is well written and bloomed from real life.
I watched Inception last night (for the second time) and it made me wonder about dreams. What are dreams? Do they mean something? I have so many vivid dreams, and often I wake up and am like “that had to have meant something!” And then there’s lucid dreaming, where you know you’re in a dream and you can mess with whats happening to you. I never have lucid dreams, and I suppose I like it that way. In life you have to make a million choices, and I want to be able to go to sleep and go somewhere where I don’t have to make any. But dreams are just so tricky. A friend told me about how one time she had a very vivid dream about someone she had never met, and when she woke up and looked him up on the internet, he was real. To me that right there is proof that dreams happen for a reason. I just haven’t figured out what that reason is yet…
Dreams can be creepy, deceitful, and downright weird. Lately my dreams have left me waking up early, not wanting to go back to sleep. And yet, I much prefer these dreams that can bring me close to tears than lucid ones. Lucid dreams never seem as vibrant, never seem as fun, although I can often remember them better. I have a friend who thinks that he’s going mad if he has any dreams, especially non-lucid ones. His lost, he will never see how creative and imaginative he really can be. You know those dreams that are supposedly the best, you know, the ones where you fly? For me those are nothing compared to the ones where you fall. When my dream self jumps from a second-story window, everything slows down and I go further than a human ever could with Earth’s normal gravity. The funny thing is, I’m afraid of hights.
What if the only knowledge of humans that aliens possessed of us was from our television shows?