She rages, loves, laughs
Through my gray somber eyes-
Caught in our own spell,
Neither of us see too much.
At once, fire and ice were one,
Unable, in their natures,
To find the sweetest bloom, not one
Amid their finest forces.
We steal time- it comes empty,
In clean scooped puddles without her.
Barely drained in her warm tones,
They only glow richly, beautifully
Beneath her smiling, full moon.
About Me
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Showing posts with label happiness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happiness. Show all posts
Friday, July 16, 2010
Monday, July 12, 2010
The Heavenly Plane
Angels are to be dreamed of,
And aren't so far away at all.
They talk so strange, some say,
One finds they rarely call.
It's not so fearful, not so strange,
To be silent, and to hear
Simple words, simple tales
As pain we know so clear.
The kindest souls we come to be
When to us are fortunes clear-
When we dream as reading hearts
And not as mirrored fear.
And aren't so far away at all.
They talk so strange, some say,
One finds they rarely call.
It's not so fearful, not so strange,
To be silent, and to hear
Simple words, simple tales
As pain we know so clear.
The kindest souls we come to be
When to us are fortunes clear-
When we dream as reading hearts
And not as mirrored fear.
Emotions
Are we meant to cry
Just as we laugh- easily,
And so well?
Breathtaking, it reaches
Our very core- we shake,
Possessed, are gone
By trajectory of thought;
We close our eyes, our ears
So caught, redhanded-
The art of living.
Only in dreams, though,
Have I trembled in such sorrow.
Life- we lift so high, then plummet
To grow our wings
Until, at last, we barely recall
Just when we're due to fall.
Just as we laugh- easily,
And so well?
Breathtaking, it reaches
Our very core- we shake,
Possessed, are gone
By trajectory of thought;
We close our eyes, our ears
So caught, redhanded-
The art of living.
Only in dreams, though,
Have I trembled in such sorrow.
Life- we lift so high, then plummet
To grow our wings
Until, at last, we barely recall
Just when we're due to fall.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Journal Entry
I don't think I've ever produced this amount of work before in such a short period of time. The proceeding works that I will post will be ones that I wrote within about an hour and a half, in total. I literally started at about 11:30, when I got to the hotel where I was staying. My friend had a birthday party, which took place over the course of two days. Yesterday was mostly spent at Disneyland, as well as checking in to the hotel near Disneyland. It was a nice hotel, though not the best that I've stayed in. I prefer depth and simplicity over fancy buildings within buildings, even the architectural ingenuity of it did surprise me for a moment when I saw how concisely everything had been done. Even if it was a five star, I think the mood was less than relaxing.
Still, that does result in productivity. I do better when I'm stifled. Mildly, that is. After my creative side was trapped within me as everything in Disneyland was just so meticulously seamed and unquestionable, save for a few vague concepts of physics, I was helped only by a poetry book that I carried with me as I went through the rides. I'll present pictures later, but let's just say that it was really a refuge for me while I was in line and waiting to have my brains tossed around.
Perhaps the most interesting ride was Winnie the Pooh. It was hardly the most thrilling, or the most well-done of rides, but it certainly had its appeal. The rest of my group didn't quite enjoy the psychedelic colors and shards of mirror everywhere, but I really enjoyed the craziness. I guess that was because of my mood, as I had put on my brightest tye dye shirt that day. I truly did feel like a free spirit, even if I still envied the aura surrounding the raving people with their multitude of bracelets and colorful clothing. I think that sort of behavior shall be my reward after I finish IB. It was incredibly appealing, even if I was surrounded by very eccentric people.
So that particular ride opened up my mind, but still my juices hardly flowed while Disney Magic was still being shoved down my throat. After riding Thunder Mountain Railroad four times, I was shaken enough to be thinking unworldly thoughts. Still, how could I think straight? I could barely see straight after going on Teacups with some of the wildest people I've ever met. I literally felt ready to hurl. So much for trying to take pictures on that ride. :[
When I got back to the hotel, I was quite ready to go to bed. Of course, my roomies decided to stay up very late. While they watched TV and played video games, I sat and wrote a while. At first, I was in a panic. I'd forgotten my pen and pad!!! Fortunately, there was a pen and pad in the hotel. It's strange how I tend to surge forth easily with my words when I'm not in my usual territory of RSVP pens and high quality paper. It's as if my inner starving artist is emerging. Who needs expensive things when I can just write on a 3x6, unlined pad with a hotel letterhead and a medium-point pen? I usually use fine point pens and college ruled paper. It could be called unnecessary indulgence, then.
I decided to write a while, until my roommate warned me that Resident Evil was about killing very realistic zombies. Such graphic images seemed like a bad idea before bed, so I decided to write in the sitting room. It seemed that writing with poker tournament background noise from the TV would be easier than bearing the noises of zombies dying and rifleshots. Still, I got sidetracked in conversation. I went back into the video game room, as I deemed the room full of gamers, and wrote some more. Not that my brain was completely invincible, after such a long day. I got tired after a while. After I realized that it was actually midnight, despite my caffeinated state of energy, I decided to sleep on the sofa-bed, while my roomies played Resident Evil and Nintendo DS. The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, so I actually used sofa cushions instead of the mattress.
The next day, I was the first one to get out of bed. It took a long time to do my morning routine because I had to do it in darkness so as to make sure that no one would be woken up. Not that I woke up too early. It was 8:30, based on my Zune clock. I went downstairs and got myself a cup of green tea from the Starbucks, and wrote for another half an hour in the luxurious, huge lobby. I then went back upstairs, to find my life filled with noise once more. Until the quiet car ride back to my friend's house, I hadn't had a single moment of silence! Even now they're making a racket. I hope that won't affect my grammar.
This qualifies as a journal entry, but the next few things that I post will still present portraits of my mind and my weekend. The only thing that I fear right now is that I used up my creative juices too fast and it'll be a while before I can write so much again, which would be extremely depressing. So, then, the journal entry doesn't end here.
Still, that does result in productivity. I do better when I'm stifled. Mildly, that is. After my creative side was trapped within me as everything in Disneyland was just so meticulously seamed and unquestionable, save for a few vague concepts of physics, I was helped only by a poetry book that I carried with me as I went through the rides. I'll present pictures later, but let's just say that it was really a refuge for me while I was in line and waiting to have my brains tossed around.
Perhaps the most interesting ride was Winnie the Pooh. It was hardly the most thrilling, or the most well-done of rides, but it certainly had its appeal. The rest of my group didn't quite enjoy the psychedelic colors and shards of mirror everywhere, but I really enjoyed the craziness. I guess that was because of my mood, as I had put on my brightest tye dye shirt that day. I truly did feel like a free spirit, even if I still envied the aura surrounding the raving people with their multitude of bracelets and colorful clothing. I think that sort of behavior shall be my reward after I finish IB. It was incredibly appealing, even if I was surrounded by very eccentric people.
So that particular ride opened up my mind, but still my juices hardly flowed while Disney Magic was still being shoved down my throat. After riding Thunder Mountain Railroad four times, I was shaken enough to be thinking unworldly thoughts. Still, how could I think straight? I could barely see straight after going on Teacups with some of the wildest people I've ever met. I literally felt ready to hurl. So much for trying to take pictures on that ride. :[
When I got back to the hotel, I was quite ready to go to bed. Of course, my roomies decided to stay up very late. While they watched TV and played video games, I sat and wrote a while. At first, I was in a panic. I'd forgotten my pen and pad!!! Fortunately, there was a pen and pad in the hotel. It's strange how I tend to surge forth easily with my words when I'm not in my usual territory of RSVP pens and high quality paper. It's as if my inner starving artist is emerging. Who needs expensive things when I can just write on a 3x6, unlined pad with a hotel letterhead and a medium-point pen? I usually use fine point pens and college ruled paper. It could be called unnecessary indulgence, then.
I decided to write a while, until my roommate warned me that Resident Evil was about killing very realistic zombies. Such graphic images seemed like a bad idea before bed, so I decided to write in the sitting room. It seemed that writing with poker tournament background noise from the TV would be easier than bearing the noises of zombies dying and rifleshots. Still, I got sidetracked in conversation. I went back into the video game room, as I deemed the room full of gamers, and wrote some more. Not that my brain was completely invincible, after such a long day. I got tired after a while. After I realized that it was actually midnight, despite my caffeinated state of energy, I decided to sleep on the sofa-bed, while my roomies played Resident Evil and Nintendo DS. The bed wasn't exactly comfortable, so I actually used sofa cushions instead of the mattress.
The next day, I was the first one to get out of bed. It took a long time to do my morning routine because I had to do it in darkness so as to make sure that no one would be woken up. Not that I woke up too early. It was 8:30, based on my Zune clock. I went downstairs and got myself a cup of green tea from the Starbucks, and wrote for another half an hour in the luxurious, huge lobby. I then went back upstairs, to find my life filled with noise once more. Until the quiet car ride back to my friend's house, I hadn't had a single moment of silence! Even now they're making a racket. I hope that won't affect my grammar.
This qualifies as a journal entry, but the next few things that I post will still present portraits of my mind and my weekend. The only thing that I fear right now is that I used up my creative juices too fast and it'll be a while before I can write so much again, which would be extremely depressing. So, then, the journal entry doesn't end here.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Oh, the irony!
I was suddenly compelled to think back into the past, today. I recalled a particularly significant quote that someone said to me in seventh grade. My older brother saw that I was getting a B- in Algebra I, as well as some pretty nasty looking grades on my tests. We sat down and had a talk. I literally cried before I was dragged to the sofa. He threatened to kick me out of the house if I didn't listen to him.
When I calmed down, he said (in Chinese), "Without math, you're not going to get anywhere in life. Maybe you'll become a writer, but you know that doesn't go far. All of the real jobs involve math. You must excell in math. You are a student, and your duty is to study. Is that too much to ask? What else are you supposed to do? What else should you really do in life?"
It's ironic in that I actually wouldn't mind having a writing career and doing nothing else. I actually like math, now. It's strange how bits and pieces of wisdom wear through the years, while other words prove to be more cruel than bright. I do agree with him at some points, but in others I simply can't see why someone would want to follow something other than what their being tells them (for the heart alone is not enough). It may not be a direct cause of misery, but I'm sure it's up there on the list.
In a sad way, the statement is not so ironic. I'm not going to be a full-time professional writer, despite my dreams. I really do want to be, though, and cold reality doesn't mean that I will never get what I want. Meaning, I'm going to try anyway. I think I'm going to major in both pharmacy and writing, if possible. If not, I can always have writing as my minor. It's not as if good writers really need a degree in creative writing to be good writers. More than once I've been mistaken for an English major ranging from 18 to 23 (because my other blog used to be strictly poetry/prose and said nothing about my personal life, at least for about five months), until I brought in a little bit of my annoying personal life with a sudden spurt of immaturity and I showed myself otherwise. That really taught me a lot about my dreams, though. They're more powerful that I can imagine.
I actually live by the idea that a student's duty is to be extremely studious, except I see more than that in the definition of a student. A student is not only a student in the eyes of the teacher, after all. A student is a student in the eyes of the world, in his or her own eyes, and in every aspect of his or her existence. A student's duty is not only to be faithful to the school system, but to be faithful to lessons of heart, society, and reason. All these make up the voice within. What is this voice, you ask? It is a mix of heart and reason, with mirrors and lights to make a nice show for the world to see. Yet, at best it is not a show. It has something that even the best reality shows will never have. It has personality as the mixing spoon. It can be either firmly gripped, mechanized by one of those new electronic blenders (though I feel quite sorry for people with this sort of grip on their lives), or left for the flies to suck at.
We are forever pupils, even after school and after we seem to know what ever we want and need to know. To me, even if my school life isn't up and great, this is what makes life worth living. We fall hard, but we're all heroes in the greatest way when we learn to get back up: we are our own heroes. Ironic, or no?
When I calmed down, he said (in Chinese), "Without math, you're not going to get anywhere in life. Maybe you'll become a writer, but you know that doesn't go far. All of the real jobs involve math. You must excell in math. You are a student, and your duty is to study. Is that too much to ask? What else are you supposed to do? What else should you really do in life?"
It's ironic in that I actually wouldn't mind having a writing career and doing nothing else. I actually like math, now. It's strange how bits and pieces of wisdom wear through the years, while other words prove to be more cruel than bright. I do agree with him at some points, but in others I simply can't see why someone would want to follow something other than what their being tells them (for the heart alone is not enough). It may not be a direct cause of misery, but I'm sure it's up there on the list.
In a sad way, the statement is not so ironic. I'm not going to be a full-time professional writer, despite my dreams. I really do want to be, though, and cold reality doesn't mean that I will never get what I want. Meaning, I'm going to try anyway. I think I'm going to major in both pharmacy and writing, if possible. If not, I can always have writing as my minor. It's not as if good writers really need a degree in creative writing to be good writers. More than once I've been mistaken for an English major ranging from 18 to 23 (because my other blog used to be strictly poetry/prose and said nothing about my personal life, at least for about five months), until I brought in a little bit of my annoying personal life with a sudden spurt of immaturity and I showed myself otherwise. That really taught me a lot about my dreams, though. They're more powerful that I can imagine.
I actually live by the idea that a student's duty is to be extremely studious, except I see more than that in the definition of a student. A student is not only a student in the eyes of the teacher, after all. A student is a student in the eyes of the world, in his or her own eyes, and in every aspect of his or her existence. A student's duty is not only to be faithful to the school system, but to be faithful to lessons of heart, society, and reason. All these make up the voice within. What is this voice, you ask? It is a mix of heart and reason, with mirrors and lights to make a nice show for the world to see. Yet, at best it is not a show. It has something that even the best reality shows will never have. It has personality as the mixing spoon. It can be either firmly gripped, mechanized by one of those new electronic blenders (though I feel quite sorry for people with this sort of grip on their lives), or left for the flies to suck at.
We are forever pupils, even after school and after we seem to know what ever we want and need to know. To me, even if my school life isn't up and great, this is what makes life worth living. We fall hard, but we're all heroes in the greatest way when we learn to get back up: we are our own heroes. Ironic, or no?
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
No More
I write no more (nothing worthy lately, at least), and yet I've never felt such an urge to put my pen down on paper and scribble my life away. It's as if I live for the paper. The paper does not simply live because I live and I choose to give it life. The paper and I are one and the same when I write. It's most dangerous when I become my pen, but it seems that the starched, simple comfort of new paper is nothing but a world, a colony of my thoughts. When I hand a handwritten item to someone, something that I needed to think about and discuss, I'm trusting them with a piece of me. Perhaps that's why I'm so hesitant to share, nowadays. Perhaps that's why I hate to be the one to have the first word, for fear that the last echoes will be completely out of my control and corrupted further.
I do give my mind away, though. All too often, it seems. Perhaps such a treasure, that vicious sensitivity of mine, has been abused, or otherwise neglected. Either way, this is a stream of consciousness in the sense that I see it. I do not speak clearly, after all. Speech runs into too many things along the way of reaching the concept of sound. It seems that the true words I create seem to run through the very highways of my blood, raging and storming their way...home. Home, where they will finally be understood. I am the paper, after all. My life is based on those words, for better or for worse. I've become something that I want, even if it's not the best that I want.
Perhaps it is the new pack of five, beautiful, unused pens that speaks to me right now, and not I myself doing the writing. It has been my audience for quite a while, now. It sits in front of my flat computer screen, watching with its jealous sparkle as I type away and disregard its regal presence. They're five missiles, almost, deemed to have the simple, modest honor of a long peace mission, for which they sacrifice everything and take upon my sadness, my trials, my joys. In turn, when they have reached the pinnacle and get ready to feel the drop, they get a chance to be me, whichever me I had contributed to that particular pen in my usage.
I literally looked into the emptying ink tube of my pen and saw my misery there, yesterday. I saw the old dreams trying to escape through the narrow hole, as if they would be a benefit for the world to hear. In sooth, in sooth. The world, or at least the starched, pinstripe dealings of the paper I adore, will hear the scrawling trials and they will ring loud and clear. Someday, if not now. Someday, when they have grown tired and reclining from the endless stream of passive revolution. Someday, if they do not die out or let me reload in their wicked persuasion to fire at the dark spots within my heart. Otherwise, I feel safe seeing them there. It's like I literally carry them with me and my heart is heavy unless they decide to ride and spend elsewhere.
I do give my mind away, though. All too often, it seems. Perhaps such a treasure, that vicious sensitivity of mine, has been abused, or otherwise neglected. Either way, this is a stream of consciousness in the sense that I see it. I do not speak clearly, after all. Speech runs into too many things along the way of reaching the concept of sound. It seems that the true words I create seem to run through the very highways of my blood, raging and storming their way...home. Home, where they will finally be understood. I am the paper, after all. My life is based on those words, for better or for worse. I've become something that I want, even if it's not the best that I want.
Perhaps it is the new pack of five, beautiful, unused pens that speaks to me right now, and not I myself doing the writing. It has been my audience for quite a while, now. It sits in front of my flat computer screen, watching with its jealous sparkle as I type away and disregard its regal presence. They're five missiles, almost, deemed to have the simple, modest honor of a long peace mission, for which they sacrifice everything and take upon my sadness, my trials, my joys. In turn, when they have reached the pinnacle and get ready to feel the drop, they get a chance to be me, whichever me I had contributed to that particular pen in my usage.
I literally looked into the emptying ink tube of my pen and saw my misery there, yesterday. I saw the old dreams trying to escape through the narrow hole, as if they would be a benefit for the world to hear. In sooth, in sooth. The world, or at least the starched, pinstripe dealings of the paper I adore, will hear the scrawling trials and they will ring loud and clear. Someday, if not now. Someday, when they have grown tired and reclining from the endless stream of passive revolution. Someday, if they do not die out or let me reload in their wicked persuasion to fire at the dark spots within my heart. Otherwise, I feel safe seeing them there. It's like I literally carry them with me and my heart is heavy unless they decide to ride and spend elsewhere.
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