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The Garden of Songs
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[user: cxspre07]
she/ her | 17 | a friend had convinced me to make this. what i will use it for is a mystery to even myself.
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The Garden of Songs
[user: a_rose_withthorns]
Maya | 18 | Welcome to my blog, where I ramble about school, books, writing, and all things me…
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About me! <3
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A nice picnic day
Why we judge books by their covers
To my dearest friends…
“You two are pretty alike, you know?” Gabi says as we sit down. I do not bother with the pretence of outwardly pondering who she could possibly be comparing me to– it is evident from the way she glances at Maya’s retreating back.
Today we have found a nice rounded table in the corner of the cafeteria, relatively secluded as neither Gabi nor I care too much for crowds. Somewhat ironically then, my response to Gabi’s words is not unlike a performance; my smile appears hesitant, my huff of laughter bashful and shy. I shake my head.
“If you’re saying that because both she and I write then I don’t really think we are,” I say. “She writes more than I do.”
“That wasn’t really what I was getting at, but I’m guessing you guys get that a lot,” Gabi says. I wave my hand noncommittally. Gabi purses her lips in consideration before she continues: “And that’s just because she actually uses her blog anyway— you’d write more if you used yours. No, I was talking about the way you both express yourselves.”
“So, writing,” I say, in part to annoy. The unimpressed look I receive in return only vindicates me. Gabi opens her mouth to elaborate, but is interrupted by a whirlwind of energy. Or, more literally, by Maya, who has seemingly walked over as fast as she could have without spilling her food.
“Guys!” she says, accentuating her words by setting the food tray down with a soft thump. She is, as she tends to be, the definition of the word ‘alight’, complete with a sunny grin. “I have the best idea for a new post.”
Strange sickness brews inside my chest. Simplified, it would be called envy, I suppose; Maya’s blog has been a subject that she often speaks endlessly and enthusiastically of, and being happy for my long-time friend’s success does not negate the fact that her blog only allows for more points of contrast to be drawn between us. More accurately, it allows for my own inadequacies as a writer to become more wonderfully highlighted.
“And that is?” Gabi says, seemingly faintly amused, though it is always rather hard to tell with her. I smile at Maya in a manner that I know she takes as encouragement.
Maya giggles, evidently revelling in our expressed intrigue. “You’ll see!” she says, in a sing-song voice. Fondness and annoyance and something akin to anger battle within me. I remain smiling.
Gabi snorts, standing. “Well you better get to work on that post then. Wouldn’t want to keep us in suspense for too long,” she says to Maya. To me, she asks, “You wanna follow me to grab food?”
I nod, and stand too.
By the time we return, trays in hand, Maya has already pulled out her laptop to furiously type away on. Her tray of food sits to the side, forgotten.
Talking to Maya while she’s in this state is never a good idea, which leaves Gabi and I to finish our food in between conversations. I have never considered myself the talkative type, especially around newer friends, but I find talking to her to be easy. I suppose it’s the shared love for dry humour that bonds us.
Just as I begin to make a joking comment about the quality of the cafeteria food, Maya stands from her chair with a cry: “done!”
“Shh,” Gabi hisses. “You’ll have half the cafeteria staring at us.”
Though I agreed with her sentiment, her words are rather redundant, in my opinion. Maya has never been the type to quiet down for anyone, as evident by how she ignores Gabi and pushes her laptop towards us, practically bouncing in her seat. “Read, read!” she’s saying, and Gabi shoots me an amused look and shuffles closer to do just that.
The screen is alight with a draft post short enough that it’s displayed in its entirety without needing to scroll:
The Key to Communication
[Draft | Changes saved just now at 12:32pm]
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You know me, no dilly-dallying. Let’s just cut right to the chase here: I hate how people dull themselves by not being true to their heart.
Now, I myself am not perfect. But I’ve been told that I’m very honest, brutally so. If I have a thought, I share it, if I feel an emotion, I express it. And I know everyone is different, but I kinda hate how some people just… don’t do that. How they hide their beautiful differences just because they’re a little scared of what others might say.
And that translates into writing. I’m a very to-the-point writer and boy do I know it! My friends always say I could do with some longer sentences. But that’s a tangent for another day. What I’m getting at is, you can tell when a writer isn’t sure of themselves, and you can tell when a person isn’t being true to their emotions. And you’ll know when someone is being upfront because they’ll make it known.
Just to give an example… Right now, I’m a little nervous about posting this. I almost don’t want to hit “post”. But I’m doing it anyway, because I have a voice and I need to be heard. You guys know I’m always trying to uplift people, but sometimes you gotta push people down to pull them back up.
Love, Maya.
Words are being tossed back and forth around me, but their meaning is lost between the air and my brain. Coiling in me tightly is a pulsing sickness and washing through me is something akin to pain. Vaguely, I think to myself that it cannot be anything but pain— the thought is quickly thrown away.
Phrases from the post dizzy me as they bounce around in my head. I think Gabi is frowning— saying something— if she is, I do not respond. Ironically, I do not speak for the rest of lunch.
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greetings and hello
By user: cxspre07
Published: 7/12/20XX
Salutations. That is what one says when greeting a reader, is that correct? Truth be told, I have deliberated in circles the opening line to this post, round and round ‘till my vision near blurred. They say first impressions should leave a mark, in which case I must apologise for this mockery of a dent. So anxious was I that I outlined a checklist, outlining a step by step content to maximise— of which I have already strayed from and will thus not be following. Instead, I will begin by listing some facts about me, as I am, in this current moment. A time capsule of sorts.
There is an underlying ironic twist in my writing this that I am well aware of. It giggles and laughs in my ear. That twist being, I have never once in my life found myself able to adequately express my inner thoughts, not in a way that does not dramatise or bend the truth. Fact: friends of mine would scorn if they knew just how truly dishonest I am. Truly dishonest— isn’t that a wonderful little oxymoron? Even these very words you are reading feel only loosely genuine, an adaptation of sorts. To paraphrase what my closest friend has recently said, this translates into my writing. Flowery, in sacrifice of the obtuseness that modern audiences seem to crave. My prose then, is rife with hyperboles and dramatic flair to mirror well my demeanour. There is no true point in writing this, for no amount of expression will ever capture my inner complex in an honest fashion.
So why then, do I insist on writing this? Despite my insistence that not a soul would find or read this at all, I find myself deep inside hoping for a saviour, one that I need not know. Like two ships passing under midnight they shall never know me— nor I them— but my heart will remember. If I could reach someone— anyone— if I could be seen. Well, maybe I would not feel so ashamed of my being after all.
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The Beauty of Self-Expression and Writing
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The Beauty of Self-Expression and Writing
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Contrary to my inner bleakness, the day after Maya made her post had begun sunny, and this sunniness persisted even when the bell rang for lunch. Rather uncharacteristically, I had made no effort to reread the post once it had been uploaded, although I knew it was up thanks to Maya’s customary raving texts about how well it had been doing. The brightness of the day only served to compliment her disposition, I suppose. I spared little time in enthusing about the post with her, as I might have once done whilst swallowing my self-loathing.
If the air seemed even remotely more quiet or stifled Maya paid no heed— she spoke at length about what I assumed to be the post’s reception, barely stopping to breathe. This too was customary. Though on this particular day, I had barely a mind to comprehend my surroundings, knowing Maya for half my life meant I knew how she worked. I paid her no heed and stared, near-unblinking, at the passers-by.
Lost as I was, I did not notice that Maya had left the table until I felt a tap on my shoulder accompanied by a soft, “Hey.” I flinch, misty reverie torn apart, and am met with the sight of a concerned Gabi when I turn. Her eyebrows are pulled together and her lips are pursed. A sense of guilt curdles within me when I realise I had forgotten her presence entirely.
I make to stammer out an apology, but before I can get a single word out, Gabi gestures at the empty seat next to her. “Finally got her to take a break to get food,” she says. It takes me more than a moment to realise she’s referring to Maya. “About time too— she’s been ranting for half of lunch already.”
Something about Gabi’s wording strikes me as odd. I nod, mulling it over before it strikes me: “Ranting? Is the post not doing well?”
It is only then that I realise I have forgotten to cover up the fact that I had not been paying attention— though I doubt it did not go unnoticed by Gabi. Never have I thought of her as a merciful person, however in lieu of pointing out my mistake, Gabi merely explains in her usual casual, somewhat monotone fashion.
“That response post,” she says, then tilts her head at my continued confused expression. “I sent it to the group chat. Did you not see?”
“My phone must have been turned off,” I say. It wasn’t a lie, though I made no move to explain that I had turned it off to avoid seeing Maya’s messages. “There was a response post?”
“Yeah. She’s been pretty upset about it all day.” Gabi shrugs. “Personally, I don’t think it was too scathing— most it did was imply that she was out of touch and stuff— but I guess she’s never really been told she was wrong before. Or maybe she realised that her post was a little hurtful and is trying to cover up how much that hurts her.”
I give a little scoff. “First one maybe. Second one’s a little far-fetched, considering what she wrote yesterday.”
Gabi stares at me for a few seconds, seemingly searching for something. I squirm, discomfort bubbling in my gut, before she looks away.
“Well, regardless, you should probably read the post,” Gabi says. “It might help you understand why she’s upset, if nothing else.”
My responding hum does not promise that I will. But, I note to myself, it does not promise that I won’t either.
Sometime after classes day, in the comfort of my room, I bite the bullet and open up the post on my phone.
The Beauty of Self-Expression and Writing
By user: _shortfora.angel
Published: 8/12/20XX
(Note: this post was written in response to another post by a different user, who will not be linked here, although I fully intend for them to read it.)
It is a fact of life that we will encounter many different characters throughout our time on this planet. As fiction often reflects reality, this is well expressed in the media we consume. Specifically, character tropes. We all know them: the quiet one, the smart one, the angry one with a sad backstory. The way these character differences are expressed in fiction is often a point of discussion. Or rather, to relate this more to real life, the way each person expresses themselves and should express themselves ought to be discussed.
The first thing I would like to address is the term “self-expression”, mainly, well its definition. More precisely, I would like to call attention to the word “self”. Though it seems rather obvious, the word “self” would connote that the way one expresses their individual differences is entirely up to them. It is my belief, therefore, that when addressing how one should or should not express themselves, a more complex view is needed. A more simplistic view might even damage one’s ability to express themselves.
To draw a comparison, it is somewhat like the black and white view of “good” and “evil”. As children we are fed the narrative that good always wins; that evil is simply sinister and irredeemable, and good is simply pure. As we grow however, we learn that there can be facets and complexities, and sometimes things cannot be boiled down to a simple label. Sometimes, yes, it is clear cut, but other times there exist explanations for wrongdoings. Think about white lies: as a child you are told that lying, in general, is wrong and should be avoided. But as you grow, you learn about lying for the sake of sparing another’s feelings.
Finally, I will say this: it is one thing to undermine the way someone chooses to express themselves, but to pretend that you are doing so for their own betterment is another thing entirely. By doing so, you have only revealed your own sense of self-righteousness and your naïveté.
Once more, the sun is adamant in shining, however I find myself minding it less today. Though nausea still sits low in my gut it seems less profound, less distinct.
It is for that reason, in conjunction with the fact that I have known her for years now, that I realise Maya was in a sour mood as soon as she sat down. There is a tightness to her smile, and even her usual cheeriness feels forced.
If yesterday’s chatter had been somewhat awkward then today’s is entirely so. Neither Gabi nor I are used to comforting Maya while she is upset— and I realise, belatedly, that Gabi’s comment about Maya being hurt had been almost certainly right. I nearly marvel at the revelation, before snapping back to the present; whatever has happened to worsen Maya’s mood however, remains a mystery.
Eventually, Gabi, being the more candid of us two, asks her upfront: “Something wrong?”
Maya blinks. “Hm? Oh, it’s nothing.”
So, evidently, it’s everything.
I do not press, though Gabi continues to do so in between idle conversation. Eventually, she switches from gentle probing to not-so gently encouraging Maya to take a walk to clear her head. In this endeavour, I join her— in part because I have a matter to address with Gabi alone, and in part out of true concern for my friend.
When Maya at last acquiesces, I speak, careful to avoid eye contact with Gabi.
“Forgive me if I sound ungrateful, but why did you make that response post?
Gabi blinks, mouth falling open in a picture of momentary surprise. “How’d you know it was me?”
“You’re not particularly subtle. The post didn’t mention or link Maya’s at all, and you’re the one that sent it to her.” I rest my hand on my cheek. “It was wrong.”
“Wrong is a strong word. Maybe petty.”
“Petty, wrong.” I gesture vaguely. “However you’d like to label it, look at the result.”
Gabi shrugs. “She needed the wakeup call.”
“You should’ve said it to her face.”
Silent for several long seconds, Gabi gazes in the direction of Maya’s empty chair.
“Maybe,” she relents. “But I was angry, mostly on your behalf.”
“And I’m honoured,” I say, “but now I’m upset on hers. She’s naive, yes, but you should have tried to talk to her first.”
Gabi gives a laugh dripping with disbelief and shock. “I suppose.”
I press my lips together, and sigh; it would take more than that to convince her, I knew.
swift resolution
By user: cxspre07
Published: 9/12/20XX
And for now, that’s that.
Interpersonal relationships are a strange thing, a delicate balance between your role and others. For the longest time, I assumed merely being accepted enough to stand in another’s vicinity was enough. I’d forgotten that I myself could speak, metaphorically, in my cadence and tone.
In essence, this is farewell— though to whom, I am uncertain. To the form of myself, perhaps, that I have always been discontent with; to a form of Maya definitely, that I have always held on a pedestal.
Farewell then, to my false idols— my self-imposed rules and fictional characters. You have served me thoroughly.
Sleep well.
Written By: Sereen
Edited by: Ryan
