tomorrow finds

questions

2010-05-28T23:48:00.000-04:00

After GMC Rally I was compelled to give Christianity another try. I have been re-reading Crazy Love by Francis Chan, hoping it will give me a fresh perspective on a God whose existence and nature I have never understood or fully accepted.

As I read each night, I know that I have heard these beaten phrases many times before. “The Beginning and the End, He who was and is and is to come, a love that loves regardless of your past and what you’ve done, a love so convicting that you can’t help but drop everything and follow Him.” These phrases - these words I have heard from many people’s mouths, from many texts both credited and unfounded, from many a poster, from many a video, from many a testimony - they resound like nails against blackboard, choking and unbearable, but perhaps most strongly, they resound dry.

These words are dry to me. I have circled clockwise and counterclockwise on arcs that keep on telling me the same things, keep on giving me answers to questions that provoke yet more questions. Circles are counterproductive, because they get you nowhere. In the end, you’re still on a forever bending curve, one that seems full of direction. But it’s easy to be deceived by robustness, by movement, by the illusion of robust movement.

Christianity is a comfort religion. It is appealing because it offers love to the broken. You trade in joys for sorrows (familiar phrase, no?), death for an afterlife, darkness for light, dust and ashes for streets gloriously paved with gold. Yet all that glitters and shines is not gold. But what’s there not to love if ignorance is an option? Incentive is rooted deep in human nature - we gravitate towards choices and actions that will reward us in some form or another, that will give us pleasure, happiness, and the least amount of regret. So naturally, Christianity would garner the greatest support, those strong and feeble minded alike see the highlights of following Christ, and Pascal’s Wager tops off the present, gift wrapped in bright colors and metallic ribbons.

I will continue to read, but I can’t seem to shake thoughts like those detailed above off my conscience. And what to make of the absolute commitment that Christianity asks of us? It really is an all or nothing deal - after all, isn’t there a huge emphasis on the importance of wholehearted worship and devotion? It’s scary to me that lukewarm Christians seem to be criticized by the church more harshly than blatantly blasphemous Christians. I think Christianity asks of the individual the surrender of a certain degree of individuality, ambition, and character. With a template to follow, default settings to live by, how can one really establish one’s own definition of the good life? I could end up being a lawyer or a reporter or a public administrator, but won’t my guilty Christian conscience always ask of me to be a missionary? How much should I give without giving too little or too much? I don’t see how it’s possible to have sincere dreams/passions and still be a committed Christian. Because your dreams turn into idols and your passions turn into pride, both of which are unacceptable from a Christian standpoint. The only realistic way it’s possible is if your dreams are the same as Christ’s - and isn’t that the objective of every Christian? To be Christlike in thought, manner, action, etc. So we become mimics of perfection, yet are always pathetically far behind him in our growth and maturity. The cycle of Christian highs and lows makes us forever frustrated in our walk with God - we feel inadequate yet continue to chase. We are mutant creatures, whipped, pursuing the unattainable. There is no such thing as a satisfied, good Christian. Christians must always strive for the next level, all the while acknowledging sinful nature. No Christian is happy with his/her relationship with God - if a Christian were to declare satisfaction with it, others would see that Christian as ignorant, one who does not understand the infinite grace and power of God. The disciples of Christ were so compelled that they gave up their livelihoods in fishing and marched onward bravely behind Christ’s footsteps. So are sacrifice and pain interchangeable, or are sacrifice and reward interchangeable? Or perhaps all three form a triangle trade whose net gain is zero?

I am repelled by the lack of defense from Christians of certain questions that I try to tackle. It’s not that I’m poking holes at what I believe most easily exposes Christianity’s contradictions; it’s simply that these questions are the ones that bother me the most. If homosexuality is one day proven by science to be genetically rooted, (mind you, the same science that proves the existence of the Milky Way and infinite galaxies created by the hand of God), who and what should I then be in awe of? The God that loves straights and gays, whose religion is founded on love, but does not allow certain types of love to take hold, or denies a gay’s ability to love? Is a gay’s love wrong - but who are you to tell him how to love and who to love? And what about the Gospel itself - an omniscient, all powerful God who has to prove himself to the world by crucifying His son? If not prove Himself, then what was the point? Why crucify His son - why not just save us from our sins by simply uttering the words from His mouth, equally powerful just not as emotionally appealing? Thus I have returned full circle to the argument of Christianity being the most sell-able religion - we are convicted by emotion at the story of a Father who gave His son, by a love that knew and knows no end, but how much of this belief is founded on truth rather than emotion?

I mean no criticism whatsoever to Christians by this post, but I just find that it’s much easier to articulate my thoughts in writing rather than to verbally or internally jumble thoughts in my head. It’s already confusing enough to begin with. And I'd love to clear the polluted air in my head, if you could help me, feel free. There are also those who will read this and shake their heads in pity, pray for my salvation and turn around, wonder what tragedies bred such cynicism. Well, I've done the same thing at one point in time, pitied and wondered and prayed for other "lost sheep." I can't say it did me any good.

on fate

2010-04-27T20:36:00.001-04:00

I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in soulmates, in destiny, in meant-to-be’s and all other forms of false hope. I think it’s all a pathetic excuse for the human state of neediness. For our inability to cope with the idea of the unknown and to cope with loneliness. Our fear of silence and our dread of physical absence. We are overwhelmed with the mere idea of isolation. In our legal justice system, we would rather suffer capital punishment than bear solitary confinement to life in prison. We think we are weak, useless, and incomplete if we are alone. But this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Sadly, centuries of accumulative disillusionment have conditioned humanity to think and behave this way, upon the premise of needing others for existence to bear meaning.

Humans gravitate naturally towards insecurity because of the idea of loss. Ironically, we know that nothing we possess, aside from ourselves, is really ours. Material possessions may, in name, be ours. You “own” your car or your house, but it cannot pulse through your veins and float alongside your soul in synchrony with who you really are. You can scribble your name a million times all over something, and it's essence still wouldn't be yours. We adorn ourselves with jewels and clothes and drawings because we want to establish a sense of identity in the way we put together our outer appearance. We think that one’s style may speak loudly and proudly down the streets, others timid and meek. But that is not who we are; the knapsacks we carry, the layers upon layers of yarn meant to replace skin and conceal scars, flaws beneath - these are worthless testimonies and failed impressions of who we really are. (I am by no means, however, saying that material possessions are destructive or negative. I am simply saying that they should never be associated with identity and self-perception.) Possessions are but labels of virtual power and conditional happiness.

The concept of “people possessions” - saying he or she is mine or we mutually belong to one another - is another manifestation of the insecure human condition. Love and hate are real, but fate is not. Chance would have it that falling in love rarely occurs, thus prompting us to believe in the idea of destiny or soulmates. But really, it’s just a process of trial and error. Love is built on luck, and thereafter built on trust. I can be equally compatible with one person as any other, but my compatibility matches may be scattered in other countries and circumstances that make it impossible for us to actualize our compatibility. The chances come and go, but so do people.

My thesis remains that you’ve only got yourself. You are your constant companion, the one and only unconditional promise that does not break, fortunate or unfortunate a circumstance, however you may regard it. You cannot abandon yourself, even if you want to. You are born alone, live life alone, and will die alone. Sooner or later, somewhere between birth and death, you must discover yourself, unearth your potential, understand your flaws, and ultimately fall in love with yourself. (Not in a vain, narcissistic way, but an all-embracing, universal way.)

An individual mind is much more powerful than the united minds of intellectuals and fools alike. History has shown that collective thought only becomes stupider and stupider with the ages. By now, most progress is counter productive. The new forward is backward. The lone genius usually accomplishes more in his lifetime than the unified front.

I’ve never had a problem with being independent. It’s always easy for me to get along alone, with or without encouragement from others. But I’ve always had a problem with accepting my independence. Even if it’s easy for me to be independent, I’m usually unhappy while at it.

My goal is to vow a happy independence in mind and soul. Rather than constantly regarding my existence relevant to others, I will regard it relative to self. The standards and expectations I set for myself will be based upon my personal bests, not world records or attempts to out-do a neighbor. I want to cleanse my mind of comparisons, in measuring happiness and self-actualization. I think that’s the only way I will learn to truly love myself.

a wandering eye

2010-03-21T23:54:00.001-04:00

It’s warm and it’s sunny. The dry kind of sunny. You know, the kind that’s light, golden yellow? Like feathers and the wind. The kind of sunny that makes your skin crinkle a bit. Makes cold orange juice taste brighter, taste fuller. Makes flower petals droop and wilt, but just enough to still be pretty. He kneels down and picks one out of the ground. She watches as he uproots it. Can’t help but notice how the petals match the sunlight. How thoughtful. Like saying, my love for you is warm and yellow. Cool as honey, my dearest bumblebee. He puts it in her hair, nesting it safely behind her ear. Always gentle as can be. No wonder it’s his legacy.

She tilts her head a bit to the right. Half-smiling, eyes glistening. A classy neckline, an ivory broach, a strand of pearls, a simple heart. He can’t seem to take his eyes off of her today.

I’ve always wanted to roam an old, empty house on a day with that kind of sunshine. A house with fewer walls than windows, fewer closings than openings. One with tall, tall ceilings, kind of like what you see in Victorian-inspired movies, the ballroom floors and crystal chandeliers. Porcelain vases and royal crown molding. Women wearing small, white gloves and their lips reading elegance. I imagine it to have no furniture at all. Just big, empty rooms. And every room would have windows spanning the height of the walls, sunlight pouring through. Endless rays of sunlight, so strong and so much that you could see all the dust floating in the air. And the wood panels on the floor, those too. Aged and rustic, but glowing. Basking in the sunlight, bringing out every shade and hue of brown never known to exist.

You and your wandering eye. How could you ever understand why I’d love such a moment? And to think, to fathom, to ever spend it with me.

But even if you did, I doubt that you could see it the way I do, with my eyes …

flashback

2010-03-15T22:28:00.001-04:00

There is time for everything under the sun. Time for work, time for play, time for anything but rest. There is never time for silence, for stillness, for sleep. The pace of the world is faster than you and life is a frantic race, a time bomb waiting to explode. Ticking forever, a relentless battle.

You will feel swept up by the waves, the constant surge forward, and somewhere along the way you will lose yourself to the tides. The speed of fatigue is numbing; you simply allow yourself to be dragged along. A limp, lifeless body trailing the pavement, flanking wooden wheels and stones. Curse the clocks, try as you may, but nothing can slow down the pace of each day.

in a nutshell

2010-03-04T23:40:00.001-05:00

I’m scared to death of what will happen. I can already fast forward to the pivotal moment; a thin, crystal clear sheet of glass that will separate us. Like the prisoner and his visitor seated in the chamber, divided by something so transparent, yet so impossibly dense. Shackled by his crime, but brought to forgiveness by her love. Brought to redemption, another chance against reason, a blind benefit of the doubt. That’s what I gave him, and so far he’s done nothing but make me infinitely glad that I took the chance. But come June days and graduation, come the splintering of a million threads in the string of life, the scattering and uprooting of childhood to Lord knows where, what then?

In already knowing an end, is there a point? The worth of the journey relative to destination. Distance or farewell, all or nothing, blind trust or another abandoned what-if. I’m really struggling, and every passing moment I stay, I know I’m falling deeper and deeper. Flowing in unison with what feels like an irreversible current of what I never want to end. Won’t this just make it hurt more when goodbye comes? The longer I stay, the more potential pain I’m racking away in the warehouse of my heart. Filling every last corner, flooding every square foot put to optimal use, such are the charming days and moments spent with you in the trade-off.

I admit I’m young and all too far from understanding the true meaning of waiting. I don’t know what it takes to wait with all my heart, to trust with eyes sealed shut, but I do know what it feels like to miss. Missing, waiting, wishing - a league of three either strong enough to bridge the enemy of time or collapse under its slow torture.

And on your side, in your thoughts, I wonder if you think the same way. If you were to tell me that you would choose distance over farewell, I would surrender myself and commit in a heartbeat; it takes two to trek the distance. But my fear is that you’d only choose so because it’s what you think I want to hear. And that is, by far, the ultimate misunderstanding nightmare, a manifesto of self-sacrifice at the hand of self-preservation. I’ve never felt this way before, been put in a situation like this, or even felt compelled to contemplate in such lengths at so early a time. But you make me feel this way, you put me in this situation, and you compel me to contemplate lengths translating to the future.

Such foreign a feeling goes not well with first times. Then again, there never were any easy first times. Tick tock, so goes the clock. The rush of love, the approach of the countdown. Brace yourself, Tiffany, for in 3, 2, 1 …

certainty

2010-02-13T22:00:00.002-05:00

Feels good to find something that I’m finally not half hearted about. Something I know I really want, something that I can’t afford to lose or let loose. Affirmation that passion still exists in me, somewhere. That it hasn’t seen the last of me yet, that I still have the ability to love - with all of my being. Not just my head or my heart alone, but something to love with my eyes, my hands, my happiness, my inhales and exhales, my footsteps, my thoughts, absolutely everything.

I think I’m ready to let go of the hand of hesitation. What's there to lose? (Only your stability and independence in exchange for vulnerability, says the cynic.) But too much stability locks my knees up; I'd rather be weak in the knees. And sometimes independence turns into dizzy self-exhaustion; I'd honestly rather be dizzy with butterflies.

No turning back, because for you it’s free fallin’, baby.

lifeline

2010-01-30T11:04:00.001-05:00

It saddens me, it really does. I just want to reach out to you - grab both of your hands and clench them tightly in mine, clench them as tight as I can in hopes of showing you how much I care; what I wouldn't give for you to find yourself, to save you from your lifestyle of stumbling blindly in the dark. Look you in the eyes, those glossy, lost eyes screaming for a second chance, but just can't seem to gaze in the right direction. Eyes that turn to temporary outlets of pleasure, momentary euphoria conveniently replacing the broken reality of your insecurity, your past failures, and the failures you fear tomorrow will bring. You find it easier to shove real life on the back-burner than to confront it, because I know the truth hurts more when you're in constant denial.

A pretty face, a sweet smile, and a graceful heart - what's not to love? But it's all been lost beneath coarse layers of what you think the world expects of you. Don't you see that you no longer have anyone's respect? Where is the girl I once knew? The one who once eagerly told me of her hopes and dreams for the future, the one whose head lifted dignity upon elegant shoulders, the one whose heart bred passion rather than vulnerability? Are you so easily fooled, so easily taken advantage of? Childhood is over; I wish you could see that there's no time left for compromise, for lowering your standards to excuse impulsive mistakes, for indulgence to smother individuality.

A display of public humility; the exhibit that's oblivious to her own disgrace, so much that others feel embarrassed for you because you don't feel embarrassed for yourself. Yet you continue to embrace the flocks of fake attention. Attention that comes and goes, but never sticks around for the right reasons. Sure, they love your flaunting, but they don't love you; they don't see anything beyond your skin and flesh. Whatever happened to security through self-respect?

There's more to life than living it up - when you lose sight of love and it's place in your every day, you're getting nowhere. I hope you find yourself again, because until you do, your head will still spin with the pain of being the disposable one, your heart will be trampled over by games and manipulation, you'll still ask yourself every night why you're alone even though you gave him your all, and you'll still let traitors take charge of a life that is rightfully yours. But I promise to be your lifeline, no matter how far you stray away. When you reach your dead-end, when you run empty from exhaustion, I promise to be the first one to help you start over.

At the end of the day, without direction, you're no more able to love another person than you are able to first love yourself.

decency

2010-01-26T20:36:00.002-05:00

Please have some. Don't let the emotional dictates of someone else control you; don't let vulnerability be the death of identity and focus. Just because you're happy doesn't mean you're supposed to let go of priorities. Carry yourself like you always say you will: a posture that fluctuates with purpose rather than impulse. Posture that reflects direction, even when the prospects seem often foggy. Dignity and self-respect over the wretched hole of pity. You're more than that, in fact, everybody deserves more than that. To be told and to fiercely believe in human willpower; don't let the second and third guesses trail your paths, cling to your ankles, gnawing at your conscience. Let their merciless stares drown in their own hatred; after all, hatred is the most exhausting of emotions and it eventually self-destructs.

Just a note to self, another constant reminder for accountability purposes, and of course, this tender thing they call self-preservation.

automatic engimatic ..

2010-01-13T20:35:00.001-05:00

You come and go like the mist. I never see you or feel you anymore, but somehow when you come around, it’s an imperceptible, barely tangible feeling. Yet it clouds my vision and cools me down, pauses my life for a moment and brings me back to the same thoughts as always. Where are you? Your life in pictures? Your thoughts locked in a box? Your secrets and seclusion - why? Is it easier for you not to tell anyone anything than to spend the effort telling, even if it means alienating the people who know you best? And how “well” is “best” - does anyone really know you? Side 1 or 2. What are you?

I wonder all the time.

perhaps i should take my own advice

2010-01-05T00:09:00.000-05:00

So the assignment in Creative Writing today was to give advice to your young self, pretending that you’re old and wrinkly 50 years from now. I kind of had an epiphany .. not necessarily the greatest self discovery, but at least it’s something to work on.

My dear, stop wishing for a time machine. A time machine to take you forwards, to take you backwards. To take you anywhere but here and now – today. Why is the past pulling you apart, stronger than your passion for the present? And why do the coming months matter more than the current month? Tiffany – you will get nothing out of your absent-minded existence; start living for now, and stop worrying. You think life is a cycle, a vicious one, at that. A cycle that drains you of vitality, takes away the pulse of your dreams. Sure, you are a far-sighted girl; you see the future clearly and the direction you want to go. You also see the past and acknowledge that it has molded you into who you are today. But you never see your current identity, the one that is constantly evolving, opportune to change – thirsting for change. Your lukewarm lifestyle of simply going through the motions will never satisfy you, no matter how much you look forward to the future. The future will soon become the present, and if you continue living this way, you will always find yourself empty-handed, wondering to where the possibilities fled, always one step ahead, a thin grasp away. Don’t simply peer through glossy eyes, observing the world and never participating. Dive in, thrust your soul into the seas of diversity and exploration – stop wishing and start living. A half-hearted mentality will get you nowhere in life, regardless of intellect or talent. What is human life without its breath? – all kinds of breath, the kind gasping for air, on the verge, the kind deeply inhaling a clean breeze, even the kind barely noticeable, light crests and troughs: the breath of a night’s peaceful sleep. Do not blink your eyes and gaze around with a blank stare, without truly breathing.

a rainy night in town

2009-12-26T20:13:00.003-05:00

A few photos that I took tonight.

la lengua

2009-12-22T19:57:00.000-05:00

Currently Listening: Yael Naim - Levater

There’s something captivating about listening to music in a foreign language. It’s a beautiful paradox - you can’t understand a single word, but magically, you still understand everything. Lost in translation? There’s no such thing. You know exactly how the artist felt when the song was written - you know what it means. You can feel every last feather’s weight of emotion buried beneath the notes, it’s not hard to dig up. You can sense the direction of the melody: the climb of an uphill scale, the freedom of arpeggios, the circular waves of rotating chords. It’s just like feeling the wind - you don’t have to open your eyes to know which way the air is blowing; where it’s colliding with your face, nipping your ears, fluttering your hair is already evidence, enough. The subtle touches of every moment of the music do the translation, by themselves. It’s like slowly (but freely) connecting dots between the stars at night, forming your own masterpiece of imagination.

So, no - I have no clue as to what “Levater” translates to in English. But frankly, I don’t want to know. Leaving it a mystery, out of my grasp in a sense, makes it that much more fulfilling to the ear. I’m free to run away with it’s mood, to drown myself in its remarkably powerful chorus, to adjust my interpretation of the music to good mornings, good nights, and good byes.

for better or for worse

2009-12-22T14:46:00.001-05:00

.. I’d still have you first.

There’s some things you can never forgive yourself for, never stop regretting, never stop remembering.

The world feels pretty empty. My mind feels empty, my soul feels empty. My hope feels empty. You could see it as a good thing - light as a feather, no maybes, no worries, no expectation. Or you could see it as a bad thing - empty to the point of blankness, of forgetting what makes you smile and losing what you once thought you couldn’t live without. Empty to the point of disposable, useless .. and yet, you could care less.

I don’t know where I’m headed anymore, and these few weeks have taken a bulldozer to my original plans and hopes for the future. Why wake up in the morning when all you do is confront another day full of passing - passing faces, passing classes, passing time, passing yourself on by without even realizing it, yet going through the motions regardless. I look in the mirror and wonder who that girl is. Bags beneath her eyes from lack of sleep and worry wrinkles that can’t be erased by a million Alpha-Hydroxy treatments. She doesn’t even try to look pretty anymore - there’s nobody to impress, not even herself. In the end, she still comes home every day to her bed and takes a nap to forget about the stillness of life, how trapped she feels amongst these cyclic, crashing tidal waves of boredom.

I have yet to find what fuels me, what makes life more than an apathetic masquerade. I have yet to find what makes me more than just another child, clutching onto cotton candy for dear life, on a hollow merry-go-round.

fool's gold

2009-12-07T23:27:00.001-05:00

There aren’t many things I look forward to nowadays. And there are fewer things I look forward to that actually prove to be worth the wait - they’re usually not nearly as great as I anticipated. Like fool’s gold, they sparkle from far away, drawing you near in metallic whispers. And once you get down to the core, they’re just as worthless and unsatisfying as the last fake rhinestone.

But there’s one thing I know for sure that, when it happens, will be so much better than I can hope or imagine. It’s going to be better than even all the fancies and daydreams of the wait, all the time spent envisioning its happening. It’s going to be so worthwhile, so surreal, and so unforgettable. There’s no way it could go wrong - I just hope it happens sooner or later.

That’s my driving force.

fine lines

2009-12-04T19:43:00.002-05:00

Tread the line as it treads itself
an unraveling fit for kings and queens
ceremonies laden with love and coated in gold
beneath the realm of backwards progress
He says between sips of a tin beer can
Did you know God is everywhere?
Did you know He’s in my drink? In the stink of my breath?
Between the dirty seats of this train
and the ugliest smog of night?
In the lost fog of insanity
and the clean air of clarity?
I saw Him once then never again
A glaring light, the kind to blind you
the kind to strip and cleanse you
of the stink of your breath
and the dirty seats of this train
and the ugliest smog of night

I said to him I never saw
such glaring light, the kind to blind
Where could I find it? I asked him gently
Between the edge of night and day?
Tell me the splendor inside of the secret
On the corner of left
and the crosswalks of right?
Scribbling the lines of heaven and hell
the ones that tell you where to go?
He said to me, you cannot find it
but for the sole reason
that you do not try

wakeful

2009-12-02T19:58:00.004-05:00

The new OneRepublic album is phenomenal. They keep 100% of their talent without losing the signature style that makes them so unique, to begin with. If anything, they’ve refined and perfected their style - sanded off a few bumpy edges. Primed, polished, and toned the balance of instrumental vs. electronic elements. They’ve synthesized features of classical, hip-hop, ambient, and rock genres into one stunningly colorful masterpiece. And this album, even more so than the first album, is not only metaphorical social commentary on the brokenness of the world, but also on the hope buried deep in humanity’s drive to change and revolutionize itself. Listening to it makes me feel the potential leadership charisma inside of music.

"OneRepublic adds many production flourishes to their second album Waking Up: sawing strings, children's choirs, minor-key piano, cavernous U2 reverb, long ponderous instrumental sections of piano and orchestra duets, a title track that bears echoes of the Killers. Despite all these new additions, OneRepublic's calling card remains Ryan Tedder's blend of atmospheric modern rock and rhythmic modern R&B affectations, creating a coolly slick collection of power ballads of love lost and won."

Bravo for music that is pivotal in both message and sound.

liberty

2009-11-24T20:46:00.001-05:00

Free from expectation … oh, how i long to be.

I’m not quite sure who has the highest expectations of me. But my gut feeling says that it’s myself. And that, kind sirs and madams, I hope to change.

Because lately, I’ve found that expectation (although it doesn’t necessarily create false hope) creates false identity. I refuse to be defined according to expectations. I am not a byproduct of empty standards glued to my forehead. I hate being labeled according to ambition or potential, to “her future’s possibilities.” I am not a perfect porcelain doll or a dictionary or a coat-rack or a blank slate. I am not your disposable brilliance, not an exhibit at a museum to gape and gawk at. Googly-eyed, drooling fools don’t understand that I am not my brain. Just like they say: “a heart ain’t a brain,” well, a brain ain’t a person either.

I’m waiting to crack the ivory because I can’t stand rosy cheeks and the ‘thank you’ of forced modesty much longer.

lately . . .

2009-10-27T19:54:00.001-04:00

A few more moons, a few more winters
A few, or perhaps many –
they come and go.
Numberless as time, rise and fall with tides.

A few more moons, a few more winters
will bring us together, my dear!
But until then, they keep us apart,
two hearts, one dying echo.

The distance is far, the wait always long
but the wait and the walk of the distance is ours.
For the stars you see are the same ones as me,
and our eyes share a sky that holds the same sun.

Good morning on my side is goodnight on yours
and while worlds apart, the wind,
ever faithful, blows my kisses to where you are.

Not so far, after all
Not as far as we thought
Same day and age, just not the same place.

The patience of a few more moons,
the worries of a few more winters,
I pray will bring you back to me.

---------------

. . . I can't tell you how much I miss you.

gravity

2009-10-19T22:52:00.002-04:00

Blank Verse

I stand in the icicle cold tonight
wrapped in frozen moments and memories,
crystal beaded tears and smiles made of glass,
a porcelain doll abandoned on the shelf
whose empty grey eyes stare into grey dust.
Such are the companions of my silence,
the hollow friends of a lost, broken night.

Take me somewhere the air is full of life
and hellos and goodbyes and - my oh my -
the adrenaline of a chase, the rush
of change, the thrust of time, the lift of love.
Set free the colors to roam in my world
and bear the dead weight of an uphill climb
towards the sky, forward, further, higher

‘til horizons are crossed and oceans sailed,
‘til my heart trusts enough, to fall back down
gravity to ground and into your arms.

between a hundred years of solitude and heaven once

2009-10-16T20:51:00.002-04:00

"It's for the deaf kid in the aisle of the symphony who hears it through the rumble of the tuba and the timpani." - George Watsky

Every once in a while I stumble across true lyricists. People who by their words reaffirm the thumping heartbeat of life that can be found in music. And meanwhile reaffirm the empty hollow burned-out sunken melting corpses of what are the pathetic remnants of today's "mainstream" hip hop.

Somehow, these lyricists resurrect the death of truth. They rewind past the timely ignorance of a generation who is blind to the crusty gold spray paint plastered to its face. They tackle real issues. Well, no. First, they define what is "real," set it as undeniable, and then tackle it with this crazy mix of bravery elegance urgency and wit all at once.

They point lasers in the eyes of corruption, blaze fire in the face of oppression, shine spotlights on the mute minority; they are the long-forgotten conscience of society.

----------

but perhaps there will always be you who prefer standing on the corner
hustling till your bone marrow and veins drain empty
and the valves and chambers of the hearts
of those who love you shatter into a million parts
with your shiny silver rims that cost you money (that you stole)
digging deeper into the mess and mud of your own (grave) hole
writing pride on your arms, signing two initials on your chest
naive enough to believe one worth is precious, more expensive than the rest
but nobody comes out on top when everybody's thinking "dey da best"
so give up on the vanity, 'cause vanity comes in vain
and then comes the pain of your unresolved yesterday
the gain of burden on the shoulders of tomorrow
self pity before the vultures embark, then land to feast on all your sorrow

sonnet

2009-10-08T22:58:00.004-04:00

The ships embark; they’ve got somewhere to go,

The planes lift off, away today they fly.
What’s the rush? seems like the last hello
to a story barely begun – goodbye.
Early endings bred this bitter farewell,
what-ifs and who-knows of what could have been.
Always the time to go, so chime the bells,
the rude dictators of our every when.
You count the hours, time’s edges frayed,
the minutes add up, but never enough
for the tempo of your reign, so we fade.
This is not what it is to be in love.

The clock can wait, its debts we can borrow.
Just once, let’s leave it all for tomorrow.

-----------------------------------

Just a few thoughts lately about finding composure and happiness within the rush of life.

lost & found

2009-09-30T22:41:00.001-04:00

Villanelle - Creative Writing Period 1

The sun shines brighter since you’ve been around,
for every tear, ten smiles, fears a million miles away.
The lost beat to my heart, I’ve finally found.

It skips a beat, flutters a bit and finds the sound
of your voice at the end of these long days
when the sun shines brighter ‘cause you’ve been around.

You unearthed it, buried deep in the ground;
underground, out of sight, hazy and gray,
that lost beat to my heart, you’ve finally found.

Vision blurred, head hurt, on the verge yet down
you pulled me out of harm’s way, a safe place to stay
in, I swear the sun’s brighter since you’ve been around.

We’re out at sea now. Everyone thinks we’ll drown
in the waves and waters of love, oh - but they
don’t know the lost beat to my heart that you’ve finally found.

I can barely remember the times where I wound
Right and left, inside out, upside down in a maze –
but these days, the sun shines since you’ve been around.
You’re the beat to my heart, lost but now found.

sooner or later

2009-09-18T00:04:00.002-04:00

Bits of cloth lay scattered on the ground. Strips of white lace, blue velvet, shiny black silk – you name it. Classy fabric, trashy fabric, fabric fit for playing in the sun and playing in the mud. Little needles and pins stood buried in the carpet, like bombs littering a warzone, waiting to rupture on your heel. If cloth were corpses and needles were missiles, then World War III had already taken place in that tiny sewing room. Anyone who laid eyes on it for the first time called it a nightmare. You couldn’t walk, or even tiptoe, for fear of being stabbed in the foot.

But, she called it paradise – maybe even heaven. In her sewing room and that room only, she was unstoppable – fifty years younger, a hundred times happier, and one secret lighter. Every fabric was a masterpiece waiting to be made into something beautiful, especially this one.

Grace, the only one in the household daring enough to enter, crept in. She glued her back to the sides of the room, trying her best to miss all the needles on the ground. “What are you workin’ on over there?”

“Oh, just finishing up something.”
“Well, what is it?”
“A dress.”
“What kinda dress?”
“Wedding.”
“What? Nobody’s getting married, Grandma.”
“I am.”
“What do you mean, you are? I think it’s a little too late for that.”
“It’s never too late, Grace. Never too late for anything. So long as you really want it.”

Then there was silence – not the kind that made you feel at a loss, though. Her two hands, over the years, had grown old. Threading string through the eye of a needle never seemed quite so hard, ‘till recent years at best. Hands trembling, eyes squinting, she brought string and needle close up to her face, painted in wrinkles whose crooked paths outlined every joy and every sorrow of her secret.

“So you’re finally marrying him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, dear. In my heart, at least.”
“Why’d you wait so long?”
“Cause now he’s gone. He’ll never have to know I loved him the whole time. He’ll never have to know he was the one I really wanted.”
“Well then what’s the point? Isn’t it too late if he’s gone?”
“It’s never too late. Never too late for anything. He’s gone, but I’m still here.”

until

2009-09-07T22:30:00.003-04:00

She is counting down the days. Counting them down, marking them off one by one with a big red x on the calendar. Each x hoists her upon its shoulders, bringing her one step closer to where he is. What a flimsy handful of papers tacked to the wall. Flimsy but powerful nonetheless; papers that dictate space and time, and most painfully, the spaces between times.

She does not have the heart to take down the calendar - surrender is unheard of to a longing heart. But nor does she have the heart to wait much longer. Absence brings agony matchless, unbearable for even the most steadfast of hearts.

The date reads a whirlpool of numbers and letters, distorted by magnifying glasses, coffee stains, and heartache. Tomorrow, yesterday, today, forever – what difference could it possibly make? A year might as well be a light-year. She reaches for the red marker lying motionless on her desk and marks off another day. It's all too familiar - the x, the wait, the distance between.

Lay yourself to sleep, dear. As her eyes shut and she enters a realm where time shackles none, another x embraces the fleeting day as it did the night before. A rush of blood to the head and to the heart, perhaps enough to pass the time.

hide & seek

2009-08-17T23:32:00.001-04:00

Hide –
Under the table, beneath the stairs, catch me if you can. Glue guns, melted molasses, masquerades. Silence, waiting to be broken - like the droning of a smile waiting to form, life waiting to breathe, love waiting to be found. Head-on collision of anticipation and the unexpected. Motion sickness of the heart, let’s rest here for a while. Let you in? Keep you out. If it was in my power, if it was in my control, your cup would be overflowing. I would give you all and more, I would be yours to keep. Your name embossed on my heart, inside out and upside down. But we are weighed down by stones, wrapped in sheet metal, floating in ice water. Perhaps one day, the gap may be bridged – that these chains will be one by one unlatched, unraveled, unclamped. We would at last be undeniable. Forgive me for this halfhearted heart of mine.

Seek –
In the closet, behind the door, adrenaline of the chase. Blinding lights, mirrors, tired eyes. Fists pounding on the door, demanding entrance, demanding existence. Still the deafening sound of silence – a road leading to who knows where, but crossroads for sure. Make space, scoot over; there’s plenty room and more for two. Breathe in, breathe out. Take me, will you? On purpose, please. Not by chance, not a hint of reluctance in your resolve. Yet your voice falters, cracks, stutters and stumbles over syllables. Hesitation demoralizes; it robs me of my courage and cheats me of my sacrifice. But if worst comes to worst, come back when you can, because I’ll be waiting on the other side of this brick red door, hand clutched on the golden knob. What cannot be changed can either be accepted or waited upon. The wait is mine, the fight is ours, and all the while, my heart is yours; wholehearted.

exhilaration

2009-07-28T21:00:00.004-04:00

Things That Make Me Feel Alive:
Blinding white
Pain
Bear hugs
Dreams
Orange suns
Honesty
Receiving voicemail
Peanut butter
Humidity
Boredom
Wind in my hair when driving
Writing
Belly buttons
The smell of new books
All-nighters
Power outages
Secrets
Sunburn
Missing the bus
Blood
Heartbreak
Cold showers
Second chances
Listening to pouring rain
First times
Elevators with mirrors
Ugly days
Making eye contact
Bravery

Things That Drain Me Of Life:
Cycles
Dry skin
Stale pretzels
Clothes shrinking in the wash
Misunderstanding
Cluttered rooms
Getting white shoes dirty
Uncomfortable sleeping positions
Ignorance
Too many pennies in my wallet
Unflushed toilets
Secondhand smoke
Rude children
Getting the bottom of my pants wet
Stuffy nose
White noise/static
Holding the door for someone who doesn't say thank you
Slow left lane drivers
Accidentally touching chewed gum

Realizing I messed up

bye

2009-06-09T23:27:00.006-04:00

The plane took off precisely as the departure schedule had read: 2:10 PM, June 9. Just another numb lift-off, up into an endless expanse of blue shrouded in white. She sat on the right window seat, passenger class B. In her right hand, she clutched a red iPod nano, scratched on both faces, scratches marking the times she had used it for comfort when nothing but music could fetch and shoulder her heart home. Now was another one of those times where therapy was valid only in the form of rhythm and melody. In her left hand, rested a locket mirror, large enough only for the clutch of a small hand. She unfolded the mirror and remembered what he had told her. From the reflection, his words seemed to emit back a gaze as strong and fixated as the gaze she gave it.

You are powerless if you believe yourself powerless. You are powerful if you believe yourself powerful.

She shifted her gaze from the reflection - that was all the while poking holes at her conscience and spitting an image of his face, rubbing salt in the wounds of decaying memory - to out the window. The surreality of the clouds against such blue backdrop made her heart leap bounds. The colors seemed to splash beyond their normal thresholds, an intensity she was unable to characterize or since, relive. Way up here, 10,000 feet above ground zero, everything was 10,000 times more beautiful. Could life down there ever be lived as it were up here, basking in glory and beauty, timeless? She wondered if his words would truly validate her potential or wholly confirm her doubt. Regardless of outcome, she was glad enough to have known him and everything he had managed to show her about herself, intentionally or unintentionally.

3 and a half hours and what seemed like infinite contemplations later, flight 647 landed in sweet compliance to the forces of gravity, at her destination. She dragged her luggage off the plane, each step growing heavier, but barely perceptible. She stepped in the airport, alongside hundreds of other faces. Each face had likewise left someone behind, had left the known for unknown. Each face loved someone or was loved by someone. For her, airports seemed to always affirm the common thread of humanity in mankind, let alone strangers from scattered corners of the world.

Then, she saw him. He was leaning on the wall, already looking at her. Why was he here?

And what if saying goodbye is, in some underground, impossible way, really saying hello?

patience is

2009-05-08T20:35:00.003-04:00

She is teetering, wobbling on untreaded territory. Spinning a quick 360, yet still no familiar faces in sight, no warm smiles, no humble abode to call home. Her strength is fueled by the slow deadening of desire. Her quiet patience has been bred by several a defeat and many a disappointment. She has come to terms with the absence and tries her best to embrace independence.

He is wandering, blindly clawing at colorless, shapeless silhouettes. His perspective of time is drowned amidst disproportional yesterdays and tomorrows. Every day interchangeable for the next or the last, it all fuses into one ugly blur. He is master of his conscience, controller of his greed. He suffocates memories of her smile, extinguishing any leftover, burning embers.

But behind her ever-fading shadow, he wants her to know that she's done nothing at all to make him love her less. It's a pity she's already realized that she does not deserve to love anyone else if she cannot first love herself.

Tonight, they lift their tired gazes up towards the street lights. Those orange, glowing pendulums of what they would like to believe is hope, shine throughout the night. At the first hints of the sunrise, they dim low and greet darkness, with conviction.

too good to be true?

2009-04-22T21:22:00.007-04:00

Too much sugar, too little salt. A little too bitter, not quite sour enough.
Too much charisma, too little charm. A little too nice, not quite naughty enough.

I thought I knew what I wanted - that I had it all perfectly mapped out in my mind. A visionary, almost a prophecy, one that I told myself could ultimately be fulfilled by someone. Well, I'm beginning to question the blueprints. It seems like they are crumbling at the creaking base, fraying at the loose ends, peeling at the crusty edges. Paying for his mistakes, others are having to apologize for him, make up for what he stole and never returned. Worst part is, they get nothing out of the deal either. False bargains and frauds, I feel more of a wanted criminal with each repeat and every echo.

Sometimes it's easier just to not answer the door. Let the chimes ring, let 'em finish their little clockwork melody. Don't forget to close the blinds, just don't close the case.

... And all the while waiting, ever so patiently. All the while, clinging to dwindling promises.

gaze

2009-04-14T21:15:00.000-04:00

Your eyes, they teem with burdens. Burdens unspeakable, heaped beneath layer upon layer of densely-packed, coarse hues and gradients. These stacked and shaded gradients, you keep sealed tightly at the seams, just so there's no room for poking holes and crushing air bubbles. Perhaps I'll never know how it is that you bear the sweat and ache of burden, how you muster the courage to liberate others before self. Jaded to the feeling, your affliction becomes familiar. Self-neutralizing, maybe even numbing.

I've hoped you're alright and not horribly disappointed, carrying all that by yourself, with but a scanty pool of souls in the world to stand alongside you. Upon the raw flesh of one back, lays the weight of the whole world.

restless

2009-04-14T00:35:00.000-04:00

I can't fall sleep. Maybe it's because trying to sleep means having to remember how fleeting yesterday was, how empty today is, and how unsung tomorrow may be. Anything leading up to sleep is as much a blow of reality, as sleep itself is an escape from reality.

My thoughts tonight are scattered, fluttering pieces of garbage in the wind. I'm at a loss as to where to go from here before it's far too late. Too late to turn back without putting someone else's emotions on the line.

Playing with fire?

deep city lights

2009-04-09T23:06:00.000-04:00

I'm glad these days the sun shines a bit longer, so the days feel a bit more liveable. It's harder to get lost when the lights are guiding you, igniting your bones.

click for larger image

for reasons unknown

2009-04-03T20:08:00.000-04:00

click for larger image

pulling heartstrings

2009-03-29T20:12:00.000-04:00

There are strings dangling from my the chambers and valves of my heart, attached to little puppets. Quite animated, quite they are. But I have not the slightest idea by whom or to whom these puppets come to life, prancing around, flailing their lifeless limbs.

At times, the little puppets slumber like children for days on end. I come close to forgetting them, altogether. Other days, it seems they are pounding with indignant fists on the inner walls of my chest, demanding release into the open. May they burst and reap explosion, or suffocate a death mocking as it is slow, I cannot say.

Charlotte O'Connor - Just Like You Love Me Again

until

2009-03-24T22:10:00.000-04:00

"dying is easy
it's living that's so hard"

scholarship entry frenzies

2009-03-20T17:53:00.000-04:00

“If you could rename yourself, what would your new name be and why?”

I proudly dub myself the name Anonymous.

In the history of nomenclature there have been names of both typical and atypical nature, of both glorious and disgraceful meaning. History has yet to encounter wholehearted absence of name. I believe that name does not confer upon the named the virtues of Greek gods and goddesses, nor does it bestow particular fortune or calamity. A name fosters not concrete identity, but virtual, futile identity. In essence, it is emptied of meaning when employed in the context of the moving, breathing commotion of life. Within life’s bona fide realm, little does it matter what my name is, so long as I can show you much better than I can say.

Sooner rather than later, akin to trivial specks of dust particles diffusing into nullity, engrossed by sunlight’s captivation and darkness' absorption, a name denotes naught.

one hundred forty four thousand

2009-03-17T22:28:00.000-04:00

cause when the trumpets blowin'

I have spent so much useless time in the past trying to please others.
I have found that I will end up either stranded at sea or shipwrecked on shore.

24 elders surround the throne

What things would we say if we had not a care of how others regarded or judged us upon? How fervidly would we love? Would we at last cease to ferment amongst moldy bits of bread crumbs, made sheepish by our vile instincts - our want of acceptance and recognition?

only 144,000 gon' get home

1 + 1

2009-03-10T19:46:00.000-04:00

I made a time capsule in 4th grade and found it in my closet today, buried beneath a heap of the past, among other flimsy old valentine's day cards, photographs, printed conversations, or whatever else have you.

And I have always wondered what my PostSecret card might one day say.

"I finally got what I always said I wanted. And now I realize I don't want it at all. But the worst part is that I'm powerless already."

Too bad I didn't think to glue big, red 'Rewind' and 'Fast Forward' buttons on my time capsule back then.

= 2

withering flowers

2009-03-08T11:20:00.000-04:00

The coming and parting of spring infests me
It's the happiest and saddest time of the year

mercy on men

2009-03-02T21:36:00.000-05:00

"forgive them, forgive they know not what they do"

If we didn't know that forgiveness was endless, we wouldn't bounce back comfortably onto second and third and thirtieth chances as acceptable avenues of redemption. That God would still consider excuses "repentance"? But even though He sees us manipulating His forgiveness, given the choice, He would still save us a thousand times over.

Paid the full cost plus tax, so long as we still got it all for free.

masterpieces on blank canvases of silence

2009-03-01T20:19:00.000-05:00

Music speaks in the world's only universally understood language. There need be no fear of precious meaning, lost in translation, forever irretrievable. Zimbabwe, Tokyo, Paris, Buenos Aires, Cairo - you name it. No matter where you're from, you can feel the bounce and rhythm of a song. You can tap your feet to the beat, that is, unless you are melodically handicapped. (Such poor, unfortunate souls.) You can get goosebumps listening to silky smooth vocal runs, like I do.

Gets me every single time.

We are a people with whom the majority have been equipped the ability to empathize with music on a crazily sublime level. To be moved by notes and voices from all ends of a revolving 3-D spectrum of hues and colors. Some identify better with the raspy throats of hoarse soul artists, others with the striated timbres of violin and viola, and yet others with electronic synthesizers and voice box technology.

Sometimes I wonder how beautiful the world would be if words were sung, rather than spoken.

So that expressing how you care for someone wouldn't amount to meaningless mumbles, but to rhythm, chords, and ultimately, divine melodies. Imagine if there were soundtracks for every emotion. Soundtracks for joy, fear, anger, hope, despair. After all, don't we always say that how we feel "can't possibly be put into words"? Words apparently don't serve proper justice to the intensity of human emotion. In no way can it capture the fine lines, and the unfathomable depths between those fine lines, the way music can. Words can't overlap and layer and interweave and contort like the notes of a root chord and all its variant chords - the seventh, fifth, ninth, diminished, major, minor chords.

I believe that ears can shed tears, can bleed convulsing in pain, can smile wider than the heart can grin. I'm so thankful that I'm not deaf. If and only if God willing, I were ever to go deaf, I suppose I would paint quarter and eighth notes in the air, in hopes that they would magically come to life and reverberate the airwaves surrounding my eyes. Perhaps I could use those digital, visual metronomes so I could sing and play, if not audibly, then at least visibly.

Until then, music will always speak for me when hurt penetrates so deep that I am numb at the mouth and frozen at the feet, drowning in my own miserable pool of writer's block.

grip

2009-02-23T23:26:00.000-05:00

She is not a nameless
face, encapsulated identity, gasping for
sky and all else lack thereof

And for reasons still largely
unknown to her, is beginning
to see that it is okay, on behalf of

A face with a name,
her identity, locked not in dusty
containers of hollow glass jars

She is mopping up all
else and the sky, rhythmic inhales with exhales
buried deep chested, at peace

no more sinking ships

2009-02-18T16:04:00.000-05:00

There are two kinds of smart:

1. Smart that you squeeze.
Like a tart lemon, this smart bears its face only when pushed to the edge. It won't magically appear at its own inclination or in an organic manner. You have to fight with it - sear, rip, lacerate, strangle. Essentially, you get your ass kicked. This involves studying into wee hours of the night, re-editing as a necessity and not at discretion, memorization as a wrestle with death, himself. People call you smart, but little do they know it's a product of countless years of toil against an only average intellectual capacity. It's pushing through the ceiling and roof when you know fully well that you maxed out long ago. It's trying to stretch brain matter as far as it will inflate without ripping. It's a constant struggle between weighing cost versus gain. Only blood, sweat, and tears brings the sugarcane. Your smarts aren't cultivated naturally out in the fields soaking up rays of sunshine. Your smarts are cultured in a laboratory specialized in synthetic experiments, with trial and error, failure and success.

2. Smart that oozes.
Shake up a full Coke can with intensity, and an explosive fireworks effect results. Even after the fireworks are over, Coke bubbles still eagerly rise, dancing and oozing around like a little, industrious ant colony. This type of smart simply comes with the package, like one of those plastic toys or beanie babies that come with the cereal box. You needn't study - study is, after all, a rather foreign word to you. All your pre-test preparation resides snugly in your head. You retain and soak up material from class like an extravagantly porous sponge. And likewise, all post-test harvests reap only the most pleasing of results. Your smarts are 100% organic, whole wheat. No need for artificial steroid syringes.

My brother got into the Blair Magnet Program. Something inside me always knew he would. He's one of those genuinely rare smart kids (type 2, refer to above), who carries his head nice and balanced on his shoulders, despite the brutal beatings it's had to endure (pun intended, just in case you were wondering). In the realm of everyone in my sphere of influence, both the old and crinkly as well as the spirited young, my brother is the strongest. Not necessarily strong in the physical sense, although, for the record, he can effortlessly run a 6 minute mile and spar a 6 + foot brown belt.

I am proud of him. There is nobody in my eyes that deserves more to have a chance at happiness. Don't we all? Why is it that some people can seize it and selfishly store away in locked chambers complete with a whole ring of iron locks and keys, while others come back with their head buried in their hands, fingers burned and blistered, when they so much as reach out to try and touch it? I want life to be fair to him, for once.

So Dustin, when you read this, I'm sorry that I didn't say congratulations. My pride seems to get the best of me, half the time when I least want it to. Where I failed and wasn't accepted into Richard Montgomery IB, you have triumphed. A part of me feels redeemed, in knowing that you proved Mama wrong. Another part of me feels infinitely jealous - is this a reaffirmation of my shortcomings or simply a mark of final surrender? I know well enough, although I have difficulty admitting, that you can outdistance and surpass me academically and in every other way for your future, hands down. Heck, you're nearly taller than me now. (I never thought the day would come when you would be in my direct line of vision.) You're type 2 and I'm type 1. God blessed you with something He chose to withold from me, for His good yet unfathomable reasons. If you value my advice at all, even after every bloodcurling scream that has chilled the living daylights out of you, I say: simply do what you think will make you happiest. Forget about the unnerving idea of keeping up your GPA while maintaining Cross Country, Karate, Chinese School, college options, and all that jazz. Everything will fall into place, so long as your face and heart stay smiling.

:) I love you BRO.

coming full circle

2009-02-16T23:37:00.000-05:00

feel, feel inside
so burns the pain
so floats the joy

run, run away
so shrinks behind
so swells forward

steer, steer angles
so curves the road
so bends the bridge

feel, run, steer
moment's paused none
if only to where

we may learn to breathe
breathe one day the ugliness we see
so much as love will be like breathing

we will rise and fall with tides
wane and wax with moons
cycle alongside seasons

come and go, all the while flanked,
coming full circle

mother goose & co

2009-02-09T23:19:00.000-05:00

Today, my sister asked me to read to her the story of Humpty Dumpty.

As I was reading I realized - be it by coincidence or by a quite striking dose of reality - that Humpty Dumpty and I would likely be the bestest of friends, were he only real enough for me to identify with.

He sat on a wall and by a most unfortunate turn of events, as fate would predictably have it, came crashing to the ground. His remnants lay scattered like broken glass about the ground, irreparable by even the combined efforts of all the King's horses and all the King's men.

Humpty Dumpty probably built that wall and sat on it because he was terrified of letting anyone in. Perhaps if he let someone in, it would disrupt his equilibrium. He would inevitably lose his balance, and in oblivion at the falling moment, blame himself for not sitting upright enough. Or maybe it would just make him feel as if his efforts in constructing the wall went to vain, in and beyond their entirety. The intruder would not even begin to imagine how many painstaking hours Humpty Dumpty had spent building his wall with the all too dependable mixture of mortar and tears. His hopes had already climbed the highest crags and leaped over gaping crevices. Was it so wrong for him to wish that his final product be resistant to wear and tear, bullets and bombs, thunder and lightning?

I understand Humpty's thought process - his path of logic and attempts at self-preservation. I find myself doing the exact same thing. I build up walls, swearing never to let anyone in, in fear of the past bearing its atrocious face, the ever so mocking flag of my own vulnerability. My walls are built so high that they tower with an almost ominous glare, as opposed to the protective purpose I had initially intended for them.

And with karma flanking me left and right, one day, the walls just crumble. With a few words, a look, a smile – anything even mildly suggestive of anything beyond nothing – they collapse. The burning embers recoil around what once were strapping walls, until only the putrid smell of grey ashes remains.

Time to rebuild again, I guess. Hopefully I can find the right proportions of mortar and tears so my walls serve more faithfully to their purpose this time around.

wishful thinking

2009-02-03T22:17:00.000-05:00

I can't seem to put into words how I've been feeling lately. Nothing seems to serve proper justice in capturing how I feel. I know this because I've been here before, seen the same insanely enticing sight, and walked away the same way. Walked away the whole road home battling heart and head, wondering if it would have been a rising or setting sun - a luck of the draw or one just to find you've picked out the shortest clover in the bundle. Walked home the whole time trying to convince my two feet to make a 180, carrying me backwards to that familiar crossroads.

I can't say if you make me happy. But I can't say if I'm sad because you can't make me happy. I can't say if I want you enough, that I might face and embrace my flaws in hopes that you would, too. I can't say if I could ever see you wanting me enough, flaws and all encompassed.

I can't say because I've never seen and would hate to falsely imagine what it looks like on the other side of our wall.
But I can say that I want you to know and desire everything that there ever existed to know and desire about me.

Perhaps this is all beyond my means. Inside my dreams.

the root

2009-01-25T22:55:00.000-05:00

It's cold everywhere. Frost dangling off the limbs of trees, awake among the yellowness of dead, brittle grass before dawn creeps in.

The cold is infectious and in being infectious, also thorough. Infects everything thoroughly. You can't be cold and warm at the same time. You can't stand in circles of stabbing winds and say that it feels like you're basking in a pool of summer breeze. You can't stand, drowning in pouring rain and say that you can't feel the drench. You can't ignore it when the water soaks up hair, penetrates into the depths of skin, weighs down clothing to a dripping overflow.

There's a name for that. Crestfallen denial.

igniting airwaves

2009-01-19T23:51:00.000-05:00

There's something piercing about watching a candle flicker in a dark room on a wintry day.
Piercing because in awe of the irony of it all.

You see, the candle maintains complete composure even though it burns away at its own existence. Burns away, quite possibly in pain .. but nonetheless with that same upright posture. Burns away until only a pool of miserable, dried wax at what once was it's feet remains. A bit as if on it's knees worshiping what is no longer physically tangible, but in another unseen dimension, worshiping what is still .. there.

The leftovers from the candle are all still there - the heat, the smell, the ambiance, the suggestion, the quivering shadows that, just a few moments ago, were bouncing off and across the walls. It's amazing how something invisible to the eye can still have such emphatic presence to the remaining senses. It hasn't disappeared, just willingly changed in silhouette from gorgeous to grotesque. But all the while, there's no doubt that it was once there. Such are the marks of true divinity.

Funny how when we ask for reminders, He answers in the most unusual yet unforgettable ways. One or two breaths of fresh air in cities choking under pillows of smoke.

bittersweet

2009-01-16T18:17:00.000-05:00

Have you ever been so happy with something that you're deathly afraid .. of losing it?

I can sense that fear creeping up on me. It's like molasses. Sticky, so easily attachable, but horribly difficult to get out of. An accidental mess .. a painstaking clean-up. I don't want to drown in another pool of my own molasses. It's rising tide engulfs like quicksand and before I know it, I'm ten feet under and upside down. Bittersweet is a beautiful thing, but only when the balance of it isn't disrupted -- too much bitter and too little sweet.

As opposed to unbalanced, let's keep it beautiful. Please don't let the scale tip.

on blossoming

2009-01-07T22:19:00.000-05:00

I must admit, without shame but rather with relief at this final liberation, that I have always been jealous. No, not particularly of the Barbie doll girls, glamorized drug dealing, partying, or sexing it up, but of people who know what they want and, by all means, get it.

No, not in the sense that they know what they want to eat for lunch or what they want to purchase on their next shopping crusade.

I am actually green with envy of people that know what they want to be when they "grow up" - their profession, their life's culminating apex stretched out over forty, fifty years. People that have laid eyes on, pinpointed, cherished, and are determined to grasp a tight hold upon their life's purpose. I am so jealous of their absolute and emphatic KNOWING - they made a decision already, pick and chose, came out satisfied with self.

I, on the other hand, have never been able to picture myself in a serious profession ten years from now. I have passively fluctuated between a countlessly long enumeration of future job possibilities. I wish I was more assertive. I realized recently that I have always been in rather pathetic denial about the fact that I am utterly afraid of commitment. Be it commitment in taking on a job, investing in a relationship, spending more than 10 dollars on anything, engaging in daily after school activities for more than 45 minutes - I shrivel into a wad of cowardice at the sight of commitment. At times I know this is because I do not have enough grounded faith in my own potential; I usually, with a compass of particularly short length, inscribe myself within a circle of likewise short radius, dictating my dead ends. I tell myself that if I try to venture beyond the edge of the circle, into such unfamiliar territory, I will surely lose myself along the way.

But really, I think it's time to muster courage to battle what is not fear, but apathy and lazyness. Simply put, the acclivity leading off a cliff is not a dead end, but the avenue less traveled.

I have finally realized what I want to do with my life!

I would like to be a writer. I'm not quite sure what type - journalist, columnist, broadcast reporter, novelist, translator, etymologist, the list goes on, only to name a few. I just want to mold and glue and shape and twist and paint and create with words - a blank canvas to be filled with multitudes and waves of language. Aside from basic emotions as love and pain, language bridges a universal gap of expression (given the assumption that nothing is carelessly or masterfully lost in translation). It interweaves and overlaps entity with entity. I can't imagine investing my life's purpose in anything aside from using language to make what sparse impact I may upon my bubble of a universe.

Let me not turn back upon my resolution in fear of failure or judgment or slight (but in my head, intensely magnified) obstacles. Let everything I work so hard for now, be of ultimate contribution to what I one day see myself as. For once, no backing out or hesitations allowable, you shaken little girl.

square one

2009-01-01T15:11:00.000-05:00

They say that love will take you higher, farther than you ever could have dreamed; towards unfathomable heights and away from unfathomable depths. They say that love blurs your vision in a glorious way, turns black and white into scintillating metallics. They say that love assembles an army of belief that convenes at its own will without prompting or incentive, and the army can conquer all, not just by a slim victory, but by triumph in immense disparity between the spoils of vanquisher and vanquished.

Perhaps most importantly, they say that love is genuine. Authentic as a first-edition, tore-worn series of playing cards, natural as rain comes in drops and not jagged pieces. Inborn and spontaneous, the way a laugh or smile or frown can unfold over one’s face when caught off guard. So I can’t help but ask then, if they say love is genuine, should it not lead to action? How is it that they say someone loves you, but their actions only place them on the opposite end of the spectrum, at the burning red banner of hate? Love and action hold hands, tightly; they are one in the same and have not the slimmest chance at survival, if in want of the other.

Never believe someone if they say they love you, but do bounds less than nothing in demonstrative testimony to their “love”. I wish we could attest love, the way they say love really is.

knowing is half the battle

2008-12-15T17:02:00.000-05:00

when they say that "nobody is perfect", they really do mean it. it embraces a profound truth i that never really realized 'till now .. and even now, i feel that it's just beginning to sink in - on the surface and not yet plummeting deep.

i used to think it was just a cliche phrase that served as a general disclaimer for all our worldly stumbles and mistakes. "nobody's perfect" so forgive me for my faults, forgive me for all the times and ways i've hurt you. "nobody's perfect" so it's perfectly excusable for me to compromise what i once thought was right and alternate at my own whim, what right and wrong really is. "nobody's perfect" so i can console myself wholeheartedly with my shortcomings and shove all the blame anywhere, so long as it's away from myself.

it's logical to ask then, if nobody's perfect, then why even try to better yourself? indulge, be the ideal epitome of what you've always wished to be? nobody's perfect, so efforts gone to vain - training all for a victorious loss, appeals in exchange for blatant denial.

but i think that's precisely what i'm missing; a motivation to achieve without reward, a drive without pushing will, an attempt without support. why is it so human to want something in return? true, "give and take" surely keeps the world spinning on its axis, but maybe after all, it's okay to do and not receive anything back. to give myself and not expect acknowledgment.

i need to come to terms with the fact that it's okay to come away empty-handed, sometimes even when you initially arrived with arms over brimming in possession. walk in championing your treasure - everything you can't imagine living without - come out with nothing. are you okay with being depleted, with being a vacant wasteland of the tangible? honestly, i struggle so much with that.

i've avoided it longer than i would have liked; i've turned my head and told myself it can wait, it will inevitably take care of itself, that i have tomorrow, the day after that, next week, next month to come to terms. how foolish to think that a tangled, rotten mess would untangle itself without prompting or contribution at the very least.

it's time to face it, head on .. with the comfort in knowing that i'm truly not the only one who feels this way. thank you carolyn and eden for opening my blind eyes and helping me understand this crazy parallelism - you who i thought was absolutely perfect, 360 degrees all around. i felt ten steps behind everyone who i looked up to, as if i was the most pathetic of the ignited worship leaders i knew, especially inside and behind the scenes. it was discouraging to the utmost when i measured myself in comparison.

but "nobody's perfect" - all too real now; i could never have fathomed the similarity in our .. frozenness, in the way we feel. still though, a strange gut feeling tells me that we'll never reach a point where we want to be, where we could say we have a real, selfless desire for God. if we ever did, we could claim His spot right away, so i guess that's just part of the separation that comes hand in hand with desire. nobody bridges the gap aside from Him, even if we ourselves would like so much to cross the bridge single-handedly and claim all the "fire", yet lacking sincere intentions at heart.

unbelievably alone, but even more unbelievably together .. please hunger and thirst and struggle alongside me in this second half of the battle.

blurred

2008-11-02T21:26:00.000-05:00

i guess it's safe to say i'm allergic to ignorance, to half-hearted belief, to knowing without fully understanding, to assumption without justification. i've always found conformity irritating. i don't believe a person should be bounded by the ideals of others because self-discovery is limitless; you can't draw borders around something that was meant to grow, and expect the borders to remain intact.

i try so hard to define myself, to individualize . . . but there are always those days where i wonder if all the things i've invested my heart and soul in will matter, ten years from now. matter in the slightest. might i not even remember why i exert my whole being into them?

ten years from now, will it really matter what university i ended up attending? how successfully i may have killed GREs, law board exams, PhD dissertations? how fully and frequently i lived in carnal pleasure during short-lived high shcool and college years?

to be completely honest with myself, i am sick and tired of not knowing WHY i do what i now do. seriously, it nauseates me how i don't have the answers to this. if i do end up taking the SATs again just to get a higher score, who the hell am i ultimately trying to please? my parents vs. myself - i could care less if it goes up 40 or 50 points. and knowing my parents, nothing will ever be good enough. nothing deserves praise or warrants the least bit of encouragement that i do.

it's okay though, because i've learned to depend solely on myself for drive; if you're lucky, someone holds your hand through every raindrop or crazy blunder you encounter, and if you're not, you learn to be your own source of love. sooner or later, you're bound to realize that the only one who can and deserves to live your life is you.

but then again, if you're the only one wielding absolute power over your situation, what fuels today's actions eventually exhausts itself into extinction, before you know it. then, why be motivated for anything? i know for sure that my tank runs on E more than half the time; don't know about you, but it's draining to the point of numbness. you'd maybe say, i'm speaking in terms of nihilism at it's rawest and most vulnerable. but i'd say, this is where that crazy concept of friendship comes into play . . .

recently, on another late night car ride home from piano, i had one of the deepest most intense conversations with my dad. i was telling him how frustrated i was with relationships in general. how to maintain relationships that i value, how to let go of relationships that fail to build either side up, and how to choose the right ones to begin with. he told me something that i will never forget:

"if it's one thing that i've learned about true friendships, the kind worth fighting for, is that my only real friend is the one that, if i were to die tomorrow, i could go to today, and look him in the eye and ask him to take care of my family. and i know he would do it. he would take care of you, Julia, and Dustin like his own. he would make sure you have food to eat every day, that you get the things you want, that you go to college where you want. he would treat and love you like his own because i can no longer do that. he would fill in the rest of my vacant life as father and provider. and i don't have even a doubt in my mind that he wouldn't do it, with all his heart."

his words chisel into me because i never asked myself if i would doo that for someone. if i were married and already had a family one day, and my best friend told me to take care of her family after she died, would i really do it? treat her kids like my own and genuinely care with all sincerity i can muster, to do that?

my conclusion is that when it comes to it, you are only as good as the love you have for others. if all else fails to show you life is meaningful - like right now in my life, the studying and working and repeating and cycling and monotony and pressure and lack of fun - count on real friendship to guide you home. when all is lost and fuzzy beyond recognition, i've got you and you've got me (: kick my ass back in line when i can't even count on myself.

look up and see the sun; gravity pushes down equally on everyone. you can't escape it, even if you imagine that you do. but i guess we all like to daydream once in a while.

blind acceptance

2008-09-16T19:53:00.000-04:00

i've never wondered the way i'm wondering now .. i've never doubted the way i'm doubting now. maybe it's because in the past, i never took the time to take a step back - look in from any perspective besides my own - ignorance? i can't say that doubt has never crossed my mind, but right now it's hitting me head-on, full force. i know well, already, that a lot will regard this as a "stage" or "phase" in every Christian's path of faith - perhaps an ongoing struggle that never entirely ceases; never fully overcome. but i am so scared that the more i think and the more i poke at the holes, this foundation beneath me will crumble to ashes and everything that i have rooted my life in, for the past four years, will all be lost in a vain upheaval. i know i think too much for my own good .. but what's the point of not thinking, given the fact that i have a brain/intellect at my disposal? where does one draw that ever so fluctuating line between faith in what cannot be seen, versus blindly accepting everything one is told as true, holy, pure, and God-glorifying?

sometimes, i find it so profound. that i am .. inside my own body, looking out through my eyes and seeing the people around me. i wonder if they wonder the same way i do - the thought of looking out into everything surrounding them and realizing how amazing it is that they can see others, but cannot see themselves. we need mirrors to see ourselves, but can so easily see and judge those around us. i wonder if it's all too good to be true, if it's one gigantic nightmare or daydream, depending on the days and moods. i wonder if i'm not alone in this, you can call it, insane, endeavor to find my own truth. to each man his own.

"He replied, 'You of little faith, why are you so afraid?' Then He got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm." - Matthew 8:26

times like these demand from us leaps of faith. endless, boundless, almost infinitely crazy leaps.

up & up

2008-07-16T15:48:00.000-04:00

luckily, i don't feel any older, wrinklier, or crustier. nevertheless, inside i do feel a tremendous push to grow and start living. for once, i am completely content to be where i am, choosing the people i want to love, and spending my every waking hour doing what i'm doing. i hope i'm closer to finding myself, getting by with help from people who actually care. you never really realize how blessed you are to be you, just as you are, until you see how much grace has been poured and exhausted on you - just to make you realize the rawness and realness of his masterpiece in the making.

i hope i gain more wisdom, REALLY. cause i'ma fooooo'. no joke .. it usually feels like world war III; battle of my conscience vs. whatever i actually want to do. i hope to learn and put myself in the brightest of brightly lit places (:

yesterday is not quite what it could've been
as were most of all the days before
but i swear today, with every breath i'm taking in
i'll be trying to make it so much more

cuz it seems i get so hung up on
the history of what's gone wrong
that the hope of a new day is sometimes hard to see

and though i'm finally catching onto it
yeah, the past is just a conduit
and the life at the end is where i'll be

cuz i'm on the up & up, i'm on the up & up,
and i haven't given up, given up on what i know i'm capable of
there's nothing left to prove

cause i'm trying to be a better version of me, for You
i'm just trying to be a better version of me, for You

may the vision of You be the death of me

such the love

2008-06-27T23:28:00.000-04:00

when clouds veil sun and disaster comes, oh my soul
when waters rise and hope takes flight, oh my soul
oh my soul, oh my soul

my skin is calloused, thick - inside and out. i've spent so much time letting the dead layers accumulate that i've reached the point where it just starts peeling off by itself - i didn't even ask it to, i don't think i genuinely want it to. but it can't stand my neglect and ignorance anymore. it seems like i always have to hit rock-bottom in order to see anything clearly.

even though i'm surrounded by bounds upon bounds of great people who really care about me, i've always felt really alone. every weekend i look forward to seeing you guys, look forward to the laughs and the warmth. but i still feel alone - not lonely, because loneliness is marked by the want of another person, whereas alone-ness is just, well, me myself and i. i have a hitlist of people i could talk to about virtually anything, but i barely do anymore. sometimes now i purposefully put myself in secluding situations, just to be away from the crowd - as alone as possible, though i know it only makes me feel worse. i feel like i set myself aside because i'm dissatisfied with where i am, and searching for something. alone in some strange fight - for what? looking for .. Who? in the back of my head, that voice screams at me it's God you're looking for. you won't stop running 'till you've got your arms wrapped around Him and actually want to love Him, for once. yet time after time, i blow Him off, fearing to lose what i foolishly believe this world could "offer" me.

but what sparkles more brilliantly than His blood? i still vividly remember how undeserving and redeemed i felt, when the reality of this blood first set in .. august before 8th grade. for days on end, i would always pray in the form of apologies - apology after apology after apology until i drained my entire being of apologies. now, my apologies to God are meager and weak, actually, non-existent to be truthful. talk about an ever-fleeting passion ..

where'd You go? but the better question to ask is - where did i go? although i felt tested at times during the last two years, i was never pushed to the extreme edge, where i just wanted to drop everything i loved and charge back. i was never forced to face myself and what i have become. yet the ironic thing is that the entire time, i knew that if i wanted to go back, He would not have turned his glance away, He would not have slammed the door shut in my face, He would never forsake - even me, one who had already long forsaken Him.

"Oh God, I don’t love you, I don’t even want to love you, but I want to want to love you"

is the one most amazing thing about grace that it is infinite? never-ever-ever-ever-ending. googleplex times ten. maybe one of the reasons why i'm so scared to come back is that my being can't possibly grasp God's infinite grace. i can't begin to comprehend why He would want to offer such an overflowing supply of that which i least deserve. nothing about it makes sense -- God must be out of his mind. but, connect the dots, that must mean He's out of His mind in love with me; isn't that what i've always wanted? someone to lose their mind because they're so madly in love with me? admittedly, i guess it's really been here all along.

i'm standing on the edge of me
i'm standing on the edge of everything i've never been

the past five days of vbs have awakened me - suprisingly, there were no miraculous "signs", nor did i particularly feel God breathing through and around me ... it was the polar opposite. i felt the lack of God in my life, the lack of that pure joy in me which i saw in my kids. i was almost jealous of their joy - "Jesus saved me! whoopee!" - you could tell their hearts were smiling, no fake smiles. like dropping ice cubes into a glass of orange juice in sticky, hot weather, this week has sparked inside me a thirst. a longing to be by His side again - if not by His side, then at least running and turning towards it. His "orange juice" will never expire - all perfect, almighty grace.

it's a wonder He hasn't struck me down with lightning for so long. from now on, my promise will carry weight and mean. mean something - at this point, anything is better than this wholesome nothingness. i hate feeling hypocritical inside, even if to not a soul observable. so many times, going onstage to lead worship was such a tortuously self-condemning cycle - who am i to lead anyone into God's presence when i can barely muster the courage to show my face in His light?

you are not the only one, who feels like the only one
night soon will be lifted, friend, just be quiet and wait for the voice that will say
come awake from sleep, arise
you were dead, become alive
wake up, wake up, open your eyes
climb from your grave, into the light
bring us back to LIFE

we're all "alone", figuratively. alone in trying to reach God, in trying to get ourselves to want to reach God, in trying to get ourselves to even give God a second thought, 5 minutes of our day. just one breath out of every thousand breaths He has given us. i hope to still feel alone, but surrounded at the same time. surrounded by the thought of us all in a struggle - or, an eventual triumph - to reel in ourselves towards God's line. in the end, it won't matter that i felt incredibly alone. i think i was too consumed with how alone and forlorn a turnaround would be, but all that will matter is that my heart is as right with God as it can be - i want to be molded and stretched beyond limits imaginable to my naivete.

oh, the glory of it all ..