Whew.

I wish I didn't cry when the choir seniors had their last fifth period. It made me sad, though, because I'm so sensitive to emotions running through the air. I think it's just a habit of mine, to try to figure out how the rest of the world is feeling. It's almost as if I'm living life in third person, and whatever happens to me only catches up to me when I read the inside of my eyes at night and realize how I spent my day. Sadly, that means the undefined vein of clay that runs through the right side of my mind spends a lot of its time molding and shaping into the past, trying to find a bit of relevance in the present. Most of the time, it tends to filter out the problems that shape reality and leave in those sticky sweet thoughts that can brew a nice batch of dreams, but are otherwise useless.

I was confused whether it was the sentimentality of the seniors, or simply my own delusion. Perhaps it was I who brought this misery upon myself. Perhaps it was because of my own shyness and unwillingness to be bold that I never quite knew everyone.

Why else would someone I haven't talked to this entire year just come up to me to take a picture with me? And then another random person followed, and then another. I'm not sure whether this was out of politeness, ritual, or simply turning off the drama-filled, jealous, teenage blindfolds of high school and embracing the world as an adult. I simply couldn't understand. I didn't feel the coldness that I had felt for most of the year, when everyone seemed to know the music better than I did and had no room in their lives for someone like me. At times, I wondered whether they wished someone else had been picked to join the choir instead of me. I'm regretting that I let myself think this way, because it seemed that they were all such nice, sweet people. I went too far before my time, and my immaturity couldn't help but get in the way.

I know this isn't going to be an easy hole to patch. I still have some reasons to stay here among these people, even if I didn't handle this year as well as I could. I'd be a year older and a year wiser. Still, I know that this isn't exactly what I want. Scorn never dies where delusion never dies and fear never dies. As with everything in the world, such bad things are replaced where they are deserved. Nothing less will come, and nothing more. In some ways, I'm glad that this can be seen as an end, even if it's not mine. I live in third person, after all.

Dear someone,

(Note that writing is my only form of release, so just let me get this out there. I promise I'll stray away from the personal stuff soon enough. I just need this right now)

I'm so sorry that everything happened the way it did, that I believed I was doing the right thing by following my own doubts instead of my certainties. I had the best of intentions that things would turn out better that way, and I would be preventing pain by doing so. Now, I'm alone and you'll be missing something in your life as well. This letter isn't about me, though. It's about what I did to you, and what I want you to know. It's so cruel that I won't be facing the consequences of my own actions head on unless I choose to dwell on the past, and yet you'll be hit in the face with the reality every day in the future. I hope I'm not important enough that it should hurt you anymore than it absolutely must. I wish I could take the pain away. I would in an instant if you showed me how. I didn't expect this to happen, but that doesn't make up for the fact that I wasn't true to you.

I'm only held by my conscience, and you will be saddened by reality long after I get over this, simply because of the nature of the crime. Next year was supposed to be a year of memories and pictures, words unsaid and said to fill up insecurities and blow the time away. Even if I needed to do what I did for my own sake, I really didn't have to. I was selfish, and I'd choose the suffering route over the easier route, now that I look back. You're worth it, and they do say that whatever can't kill you can only help you. I was impatient, and I wish I did prolong my internal conflict, if only to experience external comfort.

Even now this situation confuses me and makes me sad because I care for you so much. I wouldn't have gotten so close to you if I didn't see you as such a good friend. I can say that you'll make friends without me and be happy without me, but I genuinely believe that we aren't like everyone else, because we're a pair. I know I've hurt you, letting fate take over when the odds were so terrible. It's my fault.

Hopefully that made sense. There are so many harsh words that fill my mind and mix with my intentions, so have mercy on me if this isn't clear. I swear I wouldn't take the pains that I did to get this all out if I didn't think something valuable was at stake. I hate how this turned out, if I haven't already mentioned that. Yet, I don't know how to make it better. All I know is to say sorry and understand as much as I can about how you must have reacted to this. I want to make things right, or at least break this horrible anachronism that dominates my mind right now because I'm so helpless in the mess that I threw into the past, only to watch it catch up like some ugly shadow to its subject as the sun rises and sets. I'm tortured and confused (not that it matters), but because I'm so sure that I love you and I really let you down.

I don't know how to make this any easier, but I hope I didn't make this any harder. If there's any hope for me, just let me know. I'm a drifter anyway, so I'd be happy to come see you as often as possible if you still want me around. It's not like a friend can be replaced, after all. Hopefully I don't sound even more selfish in my writing, because I wrote this with you in mind. If there's anything that you need, just tell me. Otherwise, an "I hate you" would be fairly appropriate response for the time being, don't you think? Punish me, and maybe I'll be able to fix myself.

Much love,
Me.

Dreamers

Usually I have some idea of what I'm going to write before I write, but I think it might be more interesting if I just type whatever comes to mind. I'm supposed to have a creative mind, aren't I? That statement alone shows how cynical I've become, which really does worry me. I almost miss my dreamy self. I'm still dreamy, but I've become needy of someone to dream away with me. Anyone want to volunteer? Activities include staring at clouds, talking irrelevantly and yet deeply, and staring at the corners of the night sky trying to see a bit of hope here and there, with the idea that our dreams actually lead somewhere.

I especially would like a companion for the last one, because it seems unsafe to do something like that alone, even if I feel safe in my community a majority of the time.

The night sky really does interest me. I mean, how far can we really see from where we are? And yet, just by trying to look, we see farther than most. It's one of the few things in which one is so easily rewarded just for trying. All of the right words seem to fall out of the sky, bouncing on the earth and whisking away if one's hands are too hesitant. Speed doesn't matter in this equation, for there's no competition, unless everything absolutely must be a race. It's quite a glorious thing to witness, even if perfect peace must be given up for safety, and peace cannot be achieved without safety.

I wish my mind didn't have so many shadows of its own, so it could find shadows elsewhere and fill in the blanks where all of the dark spots are missing. One's own imagination seems bright, at best, even if dark imagination seems to go farther, like the night sky seems to hold so much more weight than the sky of the late afternoon. At whatever time of day, each moment spent in the sky and about the sky is a new mystery, a gift in the seas of the mind waiting to be stumbled upon whenever one is lost in that storm and needs some refuge. It'll never be an island like some things are in life, but it will be that little connection to home that makes one go forward, like fair winds in a bag.

I almost feel like I could have written a poem or something on this topic, but perhaps it's better to leave the mysteries where they belong and my thoughts to rest. They've already been solved anyway, so there's no point trying to pin them down. They're just not like that.

dilemma

Where does "You're supposed to understand" and "Okay, it's kind of my fault that you don't understand" really differ? Is there a distinct line? I guess I should have asked these questions a long time ago, when my deadline wasn't so close. Still, is there a sense of responsibility in the writer's mind that goes beyond what the reader knows, but to what the reader can figure out on his or her own?

Of course. That is what I think. Otherwise, I would not mention it.

However, despite my knowledge of this dilemma that separates the good writers from those subpar, I seem to consistently be tettering on the balance between incomprehension and comprehension.

In other words, my work is dull and my mind is equally dull from trying to read it. Hopefully I come out victorious in this irritating process.

But then, what is this dilemma to anyone but myself in this present moment at this present time? All things pass eventually, whether one decides to seize the opportunity or not. It is simply that I made the more difficult decision and I now suffer the consequences. Otherwise, I reap the reward. Either way, my official future does not benefit. That's comforting, is it not?

poems

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I would post them, but they wouldn't fit in the window.

Words on My Soul

I'll find my love, the words on my soul
When I find the thrill to ask.
Whether he laughs or answers back,
It'll be my finished task.

Once it's time, I will guess
Those words that he should speak.
Serves us right if he gets it wrong
But they'll silence me, so meek.

You see, I've forgotten those words,
So kindling, playing with my ember keys.
Until I forgot to lock my heart
And unleashed those dousing seas.

Comfort (a bit of prose)

The world has been cruel to you. I only need that much to know why you cry this way. You come to me, afraid. Perhaps someday you'll know better.


When someone else decides to caress you in such a horribly familiar way, it won't upset you. You'll enjoy it, and then throw it away unless it's really worth something to you the next day. Things like this come once in a lifetime, after all. You won't cry this way again. I can't promise you the world, but I can promise you that. Learn. Now is the time for others to fear, and for you to trust.


They'll hold you so very close because you're so beautiful, and they'll be afraid that your gossamer dreams will become wings and carry you away, leaving love behind. They'll feel you in and out and up and down because they'll be so surprised how easily you bloom, day in and day out. Yet, the shadows in your smile will change, depending on the time of curiosity. They'll wonder what else it was about you that their dreams really held. They'll find something new every time because "everything" keeps growing once it becomes a label. That's all in a good way, as long as you can grow your own wings. Then, maybe you'll cry again, but can't you see what's beginning?


The horrible pleas you made may not come true, whether there was a shadow of doubt behind whatever you really wanted. Words fall flat all too often, after all. Yes. Someone telling every time of day will find half-formed words and sweet, soft phrases within you and you'll both feel young once more. You'll suddenly have two pieces of the same half instead of two halves of a whole, unless you figure out how to put a little something in between two halves so that they meet only every once in a while. It'll be more than enough, whether you want it all or not. Whatever you get, it'll last you every moment you need if you spend it wisely. Anything else you want can wait until it's someone else saving the ground below your feet.


We were never good with numbers and times, though. What's the job for two people working on figuring out half of one lifetime? Not that it matters. We'll know where to end and where to start. The rest will take care of itself. Here goes.


The pain comes only once, when you actually forget the other half of the words your mouth decided to invent on its own. Just like the waiting future, you only half-form the words because you know there's someone better to fill in the rest. Of course, half-formed futures and half-formed promises will all come along as you leave the door half-open. The thing is, the half-shares of joy will remain if you're careful enough to give just half of your heart. Congratulations, you'll never be whole. Chances are you'll keep trying until you lose part of the half you had, and the person who saves you will be very good at fractions of this sort.


Hopefully that will be enough for every mismatched memory to find a safe place when you decide to blow your mind away for the perfect night. Otherwise, it might be quite a laugh to watch them all run for cover, however they trip when they see the present. Whatever the present is to you, I'll do my best to grant you all of this while I still can. I'm a part of this whole wicked fairytale, after all. My words have been nothing less, nothing more prominent unless you really are the butterfly of my spring and you're going to fly away. Cruel, that I should see truth this way.

Perhaps it's better this way, but must it be this way? That's why I ask you to learn, and yet to trust, because I don't like the faith that I have in these words. I don't want this letter to end without me, before the words come alive and see their last serenade. I say this because I need you and I want to share this with you. Otherwise, this is a gift.

Destiny?

I tried to define destiny today. I was running up and down the stadium stairs, and I was rather wary when I looked over the edge to see the ground so far away. This was when I was at the very top, mind you. I'm not too fond of heights, especially when stairs seem to play a trick on my mind. It's almost as if every step up is a potential fatal fall downward, no matter how close to the ground I may be. So cautious am I. Thank goodness I couldn't see the ground below me. So, the metal railing seemed to be too low, and the sky way too close and raw for my liking. However, it did drop an interesting question into my head while my head was out and open from sweating away all of my unused worries.

If I were standing on the highest point in the world (imagine building the world's highest tower atop Mount Everest), and I had no intention of jumping, could Fate itself be so powerful as to bring me down to the ground.

I believe in Fate, if you haven't realized. I've never doubted it, yet I seem to arm wrestle with it every day in its existence. Perhaps that's exactly why I believe it. I play my cards against myself every day. Most days it's on my side. I'm called "lucky". It's irrational, but yet in my mind the very existence of such a concept seems rational. After all, why is it that I seem to be possessed with "luck", when there is no such thing unless it is tied with an entity such as "Fate"? I digress.

So if I'm not quite suicidal or emotionally at peril, could Fate hypothetically compel me so much as to make me jump or fall off of that high point? In such an isolated place, in which there would be no one to push me and no bad disasters or bad weather to stray me from solid existence, could the power of Fate be tested? There, are we in charge of our own destinies, or is Fate able to prove itself in such an instance?

I guess I should try answering some of these questions, since I had reason to raise them. I genuinely believe that they have value, even if it may seem like fluff. It would be so nice if I could create my own definition of Fate. Perhaps then I will understand life, and how life is to be led in correspondence to such an open concept. I think that Fate can only be proved in a vacuum, just like all principles of physics begin in a vacuum state and work best in such a state. If Fate as a concept truly has value, then it must show itself in the physical sense. This means that luck and mercy are not enough to explain the existence of such a huge web of time and heart.

I can see how human weakness could be the thing compelling me more than Fate, because I might get to feel so hopeless and reckless as to jump because there's no other way down. It seems a lot more likely than Fate itself doing the job, doesn't it? Even the most fervent fatalist would doubt the credibility of his or her philosophy in such an instance. Yet, I know that it cannot possibly be so concrete. Strangely, this paradoxical dominance of humans in our small spectrum of time is pessimistic. It shows exactly how weak we are. Those who believe in higher powers will agree that there will be other reasons to stay strong in such a sad position. Keep this in mind, as this is only part of the paradox.

Fate can bring me down. Fate in itself, I mean. How does it do this? There is no Invisible Hand, after all, as there is in uninterfered economic process. Fate outside of human emotions cannot have greed, or a need for fairness, or a need for revenge. It simply is. Perhaps that is what makes it so fascinating to me. Well, Fate is powerful in that it eggs on outside forces that are beyond individual control. It may bring in awe (in the most basic way), as one is suddenly caught by the details of one's surroundings to a manner that only the most hard-hearted humans can resist. It may bring in the absurdity in such a devised realism, as one would never have managed to climb so high if one did not have a way down (it is only logical, in terms of architecture, unless the builders took out the stairs). Of course, devising any alternate scenarios would be even more unrealistic, as I tried to simulate a vacuum.

Now, for the other end of the paradox in the former hypothesis. There must be a positive side to the idea that we are in charge of our own lives. As you can see, I'm hardly a philosopher. Fate in itself is a power that disguises itself, in conclusion. It comes in the form of outside interferences (emotions, people, and others fairly independent of our own internal processes, which cannot become any more specific), because it has no physical being. How else could it interfere, in that isolated situation? It cannot exist without human touches, so to speak. Even a hermit would not be drawn to fall by Fate alone. It would be processes in his mind as he reflected on his loneliness.

What can Fate do? Something that it can do to all of us. It may bring death, as one may very well not come down (refering to my tower on the mountain situation), but let natural processes take over. Yet, the fact that such an end can be prevented shows what power we do have.

There is Fate, if that comforts us. It is our logic, and our reasoning, and the odds that we create for ourselves. There is the optimism, within reason, of course. That was what my mind was getting at. It's strange how my creativity is generally dark nowadays, and yet my Freudian slips show that I actually embrace light. I could very well have turned this stream into a river of fire and frustration, but I did not. Would that count as bringing this sort of optimism into reality as a justified way to see things? I hope so.

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?

Fail

I seem defeated. It's not as if I've lost anything or won anything. It's simply that I didn't try, and therefore I have faced defeat in the face of my own awful ambition. It's a rather horrible aspect of life, like facing your past self over and over again until the future finally rears its ugly head and drives all beasts of the past and present far away because it's so horribly new and fresh. I do find time considerably slower, even if I'm wasting it away. How very dumb of me to be doing that when there are so many better things to do. Perhaps I should try writing, even if I've let go of just about every thread that I've had in the past month in either panic or utter sloth. Both seem so wrong.

Mother's Day didn't go so well. Apparently my Chinese typing was not appreciated, as my mother would rather see me write in Chinese. It's one of those things that has been stapling pains into the back of my head right now, even if the bulletin board in that area's quite outdated and useless already. There seems to be nothing that I can do about it. I would only look more pathetic if I sent my mother an apology about the gift.

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.

A Window Into a Soul

A soul not far from my own,
The sun shining in a different place,
In a different time zone.
A different caution we all create and live,
Of course, for no two tick alike,
No two have the same cogs...

Those things that push us forward
And wind us back,
Grinding forth when we must meet
Ourselves, and two ways to run
The same route, the same process;
Writing, if for the world it is.

Flat dimensions do run forward and back,
After all,
Sifting down to find the "up",
Falling down to rise elsewhere,
Such this life, an infinite stream
Of words, words that live apart.

PS: This was an activity from the Writer's Guild meeting that I had today. It was to interview someone else and learn about them, then write an autobiography for them. This took about four minutes, give or take. I meant for this to be a bit of a portrait.