I never really expected to find myself giving advice to people graduating from an establishment of higher education.  I never graduated from any such establishment. I never even started at one. I escaped from school as soon as I could, when the prospect of four more years of enforced learning before I’d become the writer I wanted to be was stifling.

I got out into the world, I wrote, and I became a better writer the more I wrote, and I wrote some more, and nobody ever seemed to mind that I was making it up as I went along, they just read what I wrote and they paid for it, or they didn’t, and often they commissioned me to write something else for them.

Which has left me with a healthy respect and fondness for higher education that those of my friends and family, who attended Universities, were cured of long ago.

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Liam is well liked everywhere in Neverearth not because of his achievements but in spite of it.

Liam is perfect, it is all he knows how to be, and if there is despair behind it that is his business. Liam notices that his kindness intimidates some of his classmates, so he responds, moulding himself automatically to present the type of perfection they prefer. He modulates his speeches and actions accordingly, and after a while they forget that his eagerness to throw himself in the path of danger used to frighten them, that his curiosity had once been the talk of the school.

He is just like them now, if not always a little above, and he feels himself slipping into the role with despair. It is nothing, really, just as his life is nothing.

He is still as capable as he ever was, spotting the tiniest of inconsistencies and following them, leaping across the landscape of suicidal impulse, but he slows his thoughts, picks his words with meticulous care and is careful in how he presents himself. Hard work, devotion and dedication, not the fact that he simply is willing to die, is the reason he rises above them.

Liam Mirth will go far, they say, and Liam knows it also and does not care. Liam knows that if he just has the right tools he could leave this world, never mind being the greatest wizard, and all his achievements mean nothing with this knowledge.

He knows there has to be a way out, that there must be something else to strive for, but he gave up a long time ago, perhaps even before he fell into Neverearth — what does it matter? He might be broken inside but his veneer is perfect.

Here I was, once again, looking into MBTI and coming across an interesting thread on the internet. What is new?

It is pretty amusing that the users were trying to describe each type with only one word. I applaud their brevity and of course they’ve got to be doing this on an INTJ forum. Conciseness and INTJ do walk hand-in-hand after all.

I am an INFx so I wouldn’t know anything about that. Or, I try to but my indulgence with proses seem to get in the way. Maybe I could ask an INTJ to mentor me to be as profound as they are. I have just got to find one who won’t emotionally wound me too much.

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Boo Jiyoo
The only lookable picture of myself from Jeju

Being stuck in South Korea and having your flight cancelled was the worst thing that could happen to a socially anxious college kid who wished more than anything that she was at home reading century-old novels for the heck of it.

I am not sure how I survived. But I did, and this is a late revelation but isn’t it amazing how we think we can’t do something until after we did it, then realise we can actually do it? Not saying that surviving a cancelled flight is a big accomplishment or anything, but I managed to do that without even being unnecessarily grumpy.

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Most of the time I feel like there is something inherently wrong with me. I give in to self-doubt and anxiety and the nausea of the very thought of life. It is not that life is specially hard, it’s just the idea of it, the tasks expected from you and the way you are supposed to behave and the very notion of existing. Existence pains me. I am not even depressed anymore, at least not clinically. I do not wish to ever return to that state after having endured it for half a decade. It’s just that I am always completely lost. I have forgotten how to live like a competent human being, or at least society’s notion of competency. I keep looking for ways to modify my own head to fly by each day unscathed and productive. I do a lot of thinking about things, of never knowing when the chaos will end or if I would ever be able to grasp the notion of life on earth at all. I do not feel human. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid of my own thoughts.

Knowledge is such a dangerous thing. The more I seem to know about the world, the more I try to understand its people, the more dangerous I become.

I am both weary and wary.

I am afraid of myself.

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War meant little to them. All they knew was that it took lives and that, in itself, was unjustifiable. That didn’t mean much though; everything grown ups did always was either cruel or unjustifiable, but their War meant both.

All Rue knew about War was that it robbed the softness of eyes and the gentleness of hands; War did worse than end people, it twisted them. And Rue knew this because she had seen it (Mrs Platt lost her son to War – she now used hands instead of heart to deal with Rue and the rest of the children), heard it (no longer could any of them bother between rainstorms and gunfires; this was how Rue knew that even she was War-damaged) and read of it (a selected few from the Home were taught to read at an early age; it all stopped after Enemy bombed System one night; any pretences of peace crumbled along with the wreckage. Rue learned much from the books she could get her hands on; she imagined the rest, filling in the gaps where words and phrases meant nonsense to her—what was Tranquility? It sounded a lot like a sister of Quarantine).

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there are nobody to save us. we are already ghosts here, bearing the weight of memories, regrets, lost hopes and dreams. all the heroes have killed themselves, are killing themselves or have already been killed. the age before death is now a broken film reel — memories, across these hollow sockets, flickering; the bittersweetness of names still linger on rotten tongue, past laughters pelt onto trodden skulls like rain. the doom and gloom of happy days — the blind faith, bounded youth and the world, a war-field in disguise — flood these long spoiled lungs.

and we have all been fools, thinking war was the good against the evil, the light and the dark, the rights and the wrongs; if only reality is that simple.

the real battle begins as evil corrupts evil, light burns light, rights and wrongs forming allies to murder part of themselves instead of each other. that is the war — the fight without soldiers, men nor women — the children, devastatingly alone with no one to turn to, grapple for the wrong kind of attention, because any is better than none at all.

to define war is an offer of alias to the demons in us.

deaths have never been the worst of it; war is about hopes dreams and futures long shrivelled under blood and gore, trodden and rotten beyond the marrow of our bones.

the moment we declare war, we have already lost.

Absence is our form of normalcy.

The absence of people that are supposed to stay, the absence of warmth that should have been arms, the vacancy of hearts, the unmade conversations falling onto deaf ears. Routines, murmurs, nods. How do we fill the spaces between spaces?

By stashing in whatever we can — with urgency — to occupy, to blind an eye from what is truly missing. To it exists a sad beauty in which no one can quite pinpoint.

We are the shadow of normalcy — mortality, a plague that follows every man. These things wait at every turn, too close, too comfortable, for even our own skins.

Youth is not the problem, neither is experience.

The disturbing thing about normalcy is its ambiguity. We never seem to have the right opinion on it. It is always there that, once removed, the space that should have been becomes a big gawping hole, always drawing the wrong sort of attention. It is almost concrete, carrying its own weight like a living breathing thing, always wanted when it should be feared.

Normalcy is being sad for so long that you confuse it with being okay. It is eternal happiness short-lived. It is feeling better and feeling worse, it is the social metre of your worth (which in no way is equivalent to your actual worth).

The sort of normalcy I fear is a homeless, hopeless, pointless sort; a starvation that makes growing up a many dotted chaos than a straight line, the kind of headiness that disregards societal concept of time, life, beauty, despair and loss.

Because you cannot lose what you never had — cannot know hopelessness when you never tasted hope, cannot bother with time when it never mattered, nor understand the point of it all when you didn’t have one to begin with. And that’s the beauty (as well as the ugly) of life, I think. This isolation; when ‘better’ had always been unimaginable, life is bearable for the less fortunate, makes it worth living, somehow, turns the ugly beautiful; normalcy spinning itself on its head.

So, yes, life is bearable, not too sad, not too lonely, thus pointless for you to feel sorry in our place; I am okay, I am alive, and maybe that isn’t enough for me, but it shouldn’t matter to you.

lost child of gloom and gold
holds invincibility.
dark child who snuffs out fate
shall suffer eternity.
mind child of things unseen
swallows past harmony.
— part child oldest of all restores what laws divide.

young love shrivels to tomb
by doom affection owns.
hanging child haunts on under
lay bare over death’s bones.
— wretched soul above below to weep its dying tiber.
— every child broken by trial must borne its own murder.

Hello, my name is Boo, and I plan to save humanity from itself.

During the twenty years of my life, I suffered from four different mental illnesses, was handed from doctors to doctors. My life was littered with hospitals, stalkers, physical assaults, more hospitals, media play, and a couple of suicide attempts.

I used to dance and sing, having been misled to believe that to succeed in life, I’d have to beat my way into the limelight. “You’re a fast learner but you are lagging behind!” they said. “Pathetic. Focus.” That was what life was like for years. And school was (“You psycho!”) just as great…

Reality’s more tragic a story than any greek mythology, and I wish I had known that, that somebody had told me something, but instead what did I get? Disney cartoons and fairy tales with princes in shining armours.

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