(remember a time you were very happy)

she was leading 4-2. one more point for her, and she'd lead by three sets.
but if i got this serve in, i'd have a better chance.
ace. back to deuce. one more serve.
in. she gives me a backhand and i kill it. 4-3.

i never expected it to be that way, my first tennis game. my teammates were depending on me - screaming my name repetitively from behind the metal fence. my parents were watching, and this was my chance to show them that i had a bit of the athlete in me. just a bit of it. although the pressure sunk in heavily, all the pep talks from my coach, all the laps we had to run, all the drills we had to do - led to this.

and i won that game, 6-5.
i was so, so happy.

you see, i choose to be happy almost all the time. this happy, however, was at a whole different level: not the kind of happy that i feel when i jump into a cold swimming pool on a scorching summer afternoon, or the kind of happy when i witness someone trying nutella for the first time. it was earned happiness, a deserved kind of happiness. all the hard work for an earned feeling - a feeling that is initially expected and desired, then sooner attained.

and so;
i remember how my parents kept their hands on my shoulders, as if they were showing me off like a huge sweepstake prize. i remember the feeling of anticipation when i hit my final backhand. i remember the big slap on my back that victory gave me the moment i saw the score board. and i remember giving off what seemed to be a smile to others, but so much more to me, inside.

merry christmas!!!

nothing lasts forever

My eight year old cousin asked me one day to not grow up.

Well?


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A few years ago, when Tumblr was my inspiration space, I came across this text post that read: "Remember when one of the only things we used to cry about were the wounds on our knees?" And it hit me pretty hard. Wow, I told myself. I miss being a lot younger. You know, how everything else in the world besides cookies didn't matter?

It's stupefyingly awful, actually - the fact that nothing lasts forever. This only place that I can call my home - the way the cracks on bathroom tiles curve, or the way the paint on our roof slowly starts to lose its color- won't last forever. The recipe to my all time favorite cinnamon cookies won't last forever - neither will those cookies in the jar. And this "youth"? This, somehow, short amount of time that I have left before I graduate high school, and sooner or later graduate college - it won't last forever. And honestly? It's kinda sad.

I've thought about this almost a hundred of times - what does an old man or woman feel when they see kids? I mean, I'm practically still a kid, I run after Ice Cream carts that roam the streets, I open the window of our car and stick my head out, allowing the wind to graze through my bouncy hair. I still design my own pizzas, once in a while I climb trees. I brag my tennis skills to my younger cousins who can merely hit the ball, I host running events with my friends - I can't help it, I am a kid. 

But how does it feel - for my grandma, who's almost eighty years old, to look at me running, jumping and being so lively? Does jealousy continuously sting? Does her head and heart start to ache as she (most probably) has some vague memories of her childhood?

Source (Tumblr) 

 

Remind me to check back at this post about 80 years from now if I get to make it, but I think I'd cry. Really, 101% honestly. The pain will continuously throb on my heart - how it's over. My youth. Will I even remember this blog? Will I remember this house - the cracks on the bathroom tiles, that cinnamon recipe of mine - my freshman year, my birthday - anything? 

This is why I take photographs. I take photos to remember. To look back. Once a month, I go through my whole hard drive, looking at photos from birthdays, from occasions, from everyday life in school to huge events in hotels and such. When I take a photo, I stop time. It's like a single moment, frozen for as long as we can think.

Nothing lasts forever, indeed. People will leave, places will be brought down and even memories will slowly fade. It's stupefyingly awful, but that's how it is. And I'll kinda have to accept that.

i carry this memory

“We’re going to Falling water."

I hadn’t had the slightest idea on what my mom told me. We had just arrived in Pittsburgh, Ohio from Florida. It was summer. I was tired, tense and uneasy. I didn’t know what to expect. If it was just some other shrine, I promised myself I’d mourn. It was a three-hour drive from the airport. And then we arrived. And then I took back every single bad thing I had said about the place.

Enclosed in a quiet forest was a brilliantly designed house on top of waterfalls. Under, a river bellowed. If you looked up you’d see branches curling against the sunlight. Birds chirped and the forest intrigued me with various paths.

It was, by all means, beautiful.

The house itself was undoubtedly radiant. But if it were placed in some random, big and rich village in the city, I wouldn’t have had the same response. Then what was it about the house that made me glint with awe?

It was definitely the environment. Who wouldn’t love to fall asleep to the music of the flowing river that went on and on? Who wouldn’t love to continuously hear the tapping of water under their floor?

Nature. There’s just something so relaxing about it, that it makes me want to be hugged by my favorite, navy blue sweater, delight myself with some hot chocolate, curl up into my favorite book, take pictures, write, and do everything all over again. And all of this makes me so happy.

So. I carry this misjudged, enriching and amazing memory to remind me how I define true beauty.

It’s the view of the whole city from an airplane window that I catch on a few seconds before I disappear between the clouds. It’s that item on the top shelf of my favorite store that I’ve been saving up for my whole life. It’s when I finally overcome what hurts me most. It’s the quietness of Nature, its genuine beauty and how it makes me swoon. It’s my emotions—and what lets them come out.

It’s both the big things and the little things.

That’s what beautiful is to me.