artist/band: The Civil Wars
telly on: on everything Josh Hutcherson
soundtrack: Summer House - Gold Motel
flick: Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961)
book: Star Girl - Jerry Spinelli


"The fool looks at a finger that points to the sky."

- Amelie





You know I love you, don't be a fool.

Kira de Ocampo. Singer-Songwriter. Creative Writing student in UP Diliman. I am basically a grandma inside a 21-year-old body.



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Staring at a glass of water, I sighed heavily, my eyes sinking, drenched out of pondering thoughts to judge whether it was half-empty or half-full. After a few attempts of undeniable guessing, I then decided that I couldn't care any less. Needless to say how BORING and how POINTLESS it was to stare at its transparent tranquility, and the circle it forms on top--shaking ever almost unsteadily as one puts himself (or, argh, herself) near it.

To entertain my dramatic, devastating boredom, my "hopeless" meter rose again to its point of wanting to drown something--anything.

Will he be there? Questions yet poured inside my innocent mind for again. I do not at all exactly know.

After all, his interest is dead zero on me. It was just too incomprehensibly impossible to even think about it. And it sucks. Too bad.

Lightning struck me. And that was when I then realized something.

As I sit here blankly with this blank of blankness glass infront of me, exerting "zero degrees Fahrenheit" friggin' care about it, likewise does he. That is, not about the blank glass. But about the blank "me".

I mean, who must I be joshing anyhow? He doesn't even know "blank me". Perhaps, worse, even tends to forget my "blank name". What more for him to notice?

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