Trial

Trying to accomplish the impossible may be one of the most human things to do. Not that attempting the impossible itself is natural to humanity, rather the courage and determination that prompt such attempt comprise our uniqueness. 

Fortune telling is, in a way, one of those impossibilities we often deceive ourselves to be achievable. Yet, what would become of our world if the future was as accessible to our consciousness as the past? Why try to accomplish anything then, if the future is detailed in pages of great books, because all marches onward to atrophy anyhow? Why bother continuing towards the crumpled, desolate void the laws of the universe dictate to be inevitable? 

We manage anyways. We tell ourselves that somehow, signs and inclinations grant us a chance at playing peekaboo with the future. We lure ourselves into believing the special senses that “came” to us can bring forth the outcome of a situation important to our causes; then allow that belief, eventually disappoint, or uplift us.

A week’s time isn’t short, neither is it long. For me, it’s a wait that I’ve anticipated this entire summer, and the summer before, and will the summers to come. It’s knowing that eventually I will go through that door, and the passiveness and ache, and onto the next stage. It’s comparable to the convicted before a trial, for the date is set and the only thing left for them, is the time before the inevitable.

Not that I’m attempting to predict what’s to come. For I know the outline, after some repetition, that I will be back at school, and the next chapter is unveiling, just like so many chapters before, as they revealed the opportunities I’ve had.

Or maybe I am foolishly trying to predict the unpredictable, scheduling things without having actual control over the precession anyways. They tangle and ravel in my mind, only substantiating my anxiety for the things to come.

As if I’m waiting for my trial. A trial that will inevitably arrive, a week later.

Am I ready?

Soon

The human spirit is incredibly resilient. 

Though they say hope is above all thing the most dangerous, as it gives the meek courage, the weak strength; yet its fragility is at the same time marvelously apparent, for the future is at its core, unpredictable. And when that delicate yet powerful gem breaks in desperate hours, with it explodes devastating shocks.

Yet we somehow live, because, as humans, we like to make sense of things. Because when we can reduce a situation down to the most understandable forms, the most explainable, we can endure the cruelty of its reality.

I’d like to pause sometimes, to think about what tomorrow holds. It’s exciting isn’t it? The possibility to move beyond the present, to welcome the next state of being. The next stage of our metamorphosis. 

More than anything, at this very moment, I’d like to pop out of this cocoon and fall into the dubious hug of tomorrow.

Connection

It’s hard to fathom the reality of things at a place where clarity isn’t the virtue. While definitive answers, being extreme as they are, stop the mind from wandering down the dangerous path of what-ifs, being left without one isn’t as big of a curse as I had once imagine it to be. 

Am I being truthful in saying that I don’t have the answer to some of the questions I’ve been plagued with since that night? (It’s excruciating to even attempt putting a name to what it was, which maybe why questions crawl through my mind with such savage rage.) Albeit the pain that I’d like to think I’ve suffered, I’d be lying if I say I don’t know why I’ve been in the same gloomy, blue state for the past couple of months. 

What wonder is the connection between everything in this world? Be it human interactions, chemical bonds, food chains, or economical relations, we can’t escape inter-connectivity. Not our persons, not the atoms in our physical forms, not the way we perceive the world and consume the world.

Memory is a tricky thing. Even though I’ve thought time and time again that, my memory has been compromised by my own choosing of intoxication, certain things that I’ve thought slipped out of my perception, will still resurface in my memory. Like a disease that you don’t remember contracting, but the consequence will still scorch your body, reminding you of the ravenous nature of its being. 

Maybe it is a blessing after all that, as a human being with a functional memory, I don’t get to forget the people who’ve influenced me and touched me and connected with me. I will forever remember that little gesture, that playful wink, that illuminating conversation, even in the darkest of night, or in the brightest of day. 

And of course, the emotions attached to such connection, the pain or the joy, eventually find its way back to me, after moments, days, or years after it had happened. 

I guess I’d rather… not remember as well as I do now.

Irritation

Children have the power of curiosity. So they take things apart, and make discoveries along the way.

It almost feels as if I had more clarity as a child, because of that power, those curiosity-driven journeys.

At least I understood myself.


I wasn't afraid.

I mean, at least I didn't think I would be afraid of breaking myself down to be enlightened. Not until when I did break down.

And as that process of stitching myself together goes on, I couldn't help but feel a little... irritated.

It wasn't that the whole thing took me by such surprise, that it killed me and left me in the dark. It wasn't that I hated myself for wallowing in the well of shame and embarrassment.

I am irritated because of how much I've made it about you.

If only shaking my head could somehow shake all my thoughts into the right order. I do know one thing though. It was always about you. How you felt; how you thought.

I've wanted you so badly. Yet, because of your own insecurities and your own demons, you pushed me away with your unnecessary shield; and you, vulnerable and paranoid, hiding behind the shadow.

Be mine?

I asked. You smiled, and turned away.

It slices. The words you threw at me. Scolding me for perfectly logical things that I should have never apologized for.

You were never brave enough to claim me anyways. So why pretend that it meant something, that my mingling with other free souls somewhat violated rules that we never made up?

I begged and I begged.

I did.

Even then I kept it about you.

No more.

Ruins

How do you stand within the entanglements of events and feelings, and still maintain a perfect sense of balance?

I'm quite lost in this sequence. This foggy, empty, and consuming mess.

I mean. Am I ever going to be able to take a step back and pinpoint the wrongs?



I already know.


Sex is addicting.

It lies to you and convinces you that, regardless of everything you are, in that tense arching of the back, in the quiet force of thrust, or in that moment of ecstasy, you are loved and wanted.

Lies are all titillating and alluring, it's the glossy candy to a child's heart, and it's the longing look from a passionless lover. You grasp in a knuckle-buldging manner, hurting from the sharpness of your nails, yet it escapes, reminding you of its nature.

Lies are empty. Useless. Detrimental.

The sweetness eventually vanishes, leaving a bad taste in your mouth; and the lover at long last looks away, mocking your acceptance.

I'm living a lie.

And that lie, though passive and sublime, is ever the same as any other.

It tramples. It ruins. It steps on the last bit of hope for happiness and then I can see who I am.

I am a liar.

Singles

I don't like singles. Especially the way the clang against each other in your pocket as if their compiled weighty-ness doesn't already remind you of their existence. 

I don't disregard their value though; in the same way that I do not disregard single souls, lost in a sea of turmoil. 

Convince yourself of practicality. Be my guest. 

But I do want to suggest that, maybe fate/karma has already made a visit to your mind creeping through the back door. 

I call it being "spiritual but not religious" and states my practicality that way. But I'm ready to say that I'm comfortable, at least, with being by myself always, if fate so decides. 

Chances can be numbers, irrational and illogical. 

But I stand at this point and say that chances are quite decided.

And I'm ready to accept mine. 

Quit

I'm trying to quit smoking.

It scares me, the feeling it creates, this viscous and short-lived aura of delusion; as if I can afford to live recklessly.

I never thought of my self as ambitious. It's a latent ambition that does not compel, but rather glares.
My ambition glares at me as I tilt my head back and draws another breath of nothingness.
It glares at me when the sequence of my favorite past eerily dissolves into incongruent pixels and frames.

I can't think of why I fell into that fountain when I was 5 anymore.

I'm slowly losing my presentness.

I can't recall the mess from last Friday.

I can't remember what I said to my mother from before I departed.

I can't smoke anymore.

Down

I am that obsessive lover.

I am that clingy type.

I am the emotional juggernaut that leaves ruins in silence.

Burn

As I ride this flying metal box soaring through territories so foreign to me, I can’t stop but look back at the day, the week, and the semester before me. As much as this post is about reflection, I still can’t quite understand people’s need for reflection. Why do we have to constantly remind ourselves what we did yesterday and spend this grief-worthy amount of time making attempts at understanding our own histories when all this generation wants is to YOLO? 

Time is a sequence, mimicking that of DNA, where segments interlock in accordance and therefore producing the sequence we came to understand as our reality. And though I don’t possess the knowledge equivalent to that of a microbiologist, I, as do many others, am still hooked on pulling this intricate sequence apart and judge the shit out of each moments and each broken phrases. We actually think we are some forensic genius who spend each living moment gathering and deciphering the mundane details of the even more mundane daily activities which we so pride ourselves in. Gag.

People like to play gods. I don’t mean having the power to alter physics or warping times; but the ability to control every aspects of life. Who said what and how they felt and who did this to whom and blah blah blah. Standing, or rather ironically, sitting in this viewpoint and peeking at my semester, it’s quite a joke how much I overanalyzed, over-interpreted, and over-planned in just a short span of four months. Regardless of how much I tell myself I am over different things that occurred, I still contemplated so very hard at grasping reality from other people’s angle. 

I can sure tell myself that, you know, I’m smart enough to let go of it. But fuck. 

Fuck.

Remember that cliche all those legends created and re-created, the saying about how we all are touched in some shape or form and are therefore impacted as seen in For Good from Wicked? Fuck that. 

I don’t dismiss it completely though. Cliches withstand the trial of time because the truth within, no matter how insignificant and overlooked, has the ability to stand as long in history as they make you believe that diamonds last forever. Fuck that, still. Because I was not just touched by Tyler in some glamorously metaphorical way, it hurt more like a burn. It was almost like that time when I thought it’d be a good idea to touch a turned on iron. What set them apart is that, with some toothpaste and “roughin-it”, the blister on my thumb eventually learnt to retreat and heal; but this one doesn’t. It does not just “take time” or can be “waited out”. 

I don’t believe the Weekend narrative where true romance can happen over a one-night-stand. I do, however, wholehearted think that this narrative should be the way love happens with the one-night-stand part being optional. It’s the true connection between two lost kids in a crowded park, that instant recognition that makes you believe things would be easier now with this new-found relationship and someone who’s always going to be confident in you no matter what. It’s the connection and recognition that just really piss me off; because I thought I found it. I thought I effortlessly, just, I don’t know, earned it? 

Maybe it was a shift in focus that I positively convinced myself of making. I was that dummy who believed in the reinvention bullshit those self-help writers churned out in some grim self-help-books factories.

Damn.

Reinvention doesn’t happen according to your will! Most of the time you recognize change in yourself because somehow you were touched and it impacted you so much you took time off from looking at your face and those ever-present zits. It impacted you so much so that even you sense the change. It’s a gradual process no college-aged naive kid can just compress into a four months session, though I did believe I could. 

It doesn’t matter anymore though, whatever “coerced” me into taking that leap as I would like to tell myself.

Haha. Coercion. As if that was actually it.

Nah. It was only my over-interpreting and overanalyzing. Regardless of how untruthful Tyler was and how much of an [insert insult] he was, it was I who thought I really saw the big picture and had a feeling that it was going to turn out as I planned. That whole over-interpretation grasped my attention so intensely I swallowed my subconscious and deceiving idea of being with him down. I set up a trap followed by lies I told myself and jumped in ever so willingly.

That doesn’t obscure the utter aloneness and the deep and unbelievable loathe I had against myself in those tears I so pathetically cried. I laugh at myself though.

But above all, it was the true emotional turmoil that I underwent, which all sprang from a deception, that really irritates me and completely destroys what courage I have left in me to believe I am strong and mature. Because I was touched by a fictional and intense love I created myself from a deception. 

Fuck.

Sonder

It's actually kinda funny.

I was sitting in a final twisting my brain trying to find an answer for a question. It felt so clear to me as if I could almost just reach into that little drawer in my brain and pull the answer out. As I was sitting there having this mental struggling, I found myself distracted somehow and my eyes were unconsciously focused on some strangers' head.

I was unknowingly staring at this person's head long before I started to wonder what, at that exact moment, is going on in that head. Are they searching, like me, for an answer to some question, or are they planning out the perfect weekend schedule.

I don't know.

Sonder is a funny word. It hugs the fine line between genuine curiosity and utter creepiness; but I do it anyway.  Others' stories are always more interesting than mine right?

Reminder

I am never afraid of honesty. When that bitter air flows around, bringing currents made of knives, cutting me into fragments, I only taste the sweet, sorrowful, but honest scent. 

If that stands true, if that’s what I expect of passerby’s in my life, why do I personally fall short of that hollow statement? 

Why can’t I be brutally true and naked in the eyes of others when I so desperately desire their looks to be revealing and just?

I only look into myself and find that poisonous mirror reflecting only what I want to see. No. It reflects what I want to become; and I see this slender, elegant, yet pretentious and vain shape giving me a haughty smile so hollow it haunts. 

But I look closer. I look past the blurry outlines of that shape and the feigned smile, and I found this vileness pooling in the sockets of whose face I recognized as my own. It creeps down, through the curves of my cheekbones, pouring out from the pair of ajar lips that twitch in disgust. 

And that vileness cries out, in agony, of imperfections I found so aggravating within my soul. It mocks, in roaring silence, that shallow figure appearing in the mirror and threatens to burn and shatter it in cruelty unimagined.

What keeps this vileness and this facade apart, as I take steps back, is my insecurity. This minotaur stretches its rippling arms and stops the collision, and then stares at me in utter arrogance; because its so powerful and invulnerable. 

I must kill that beast.

I must drain that vileness.

And I must blow away the smokey facade and shatter that poisonous mirror.

And then I can truly inspect this world, with bright eyes in such curiosity. 

I shall have tougher skin. I shall have clearer vision.

And I then will learn love. I will learn intimacy.

Like never before.

Beginning

Yet another fall, yet another semester.

This is a new beginning indeed.

Not in a metaphorical way though. This is tangible. It's differences I can see and feel, not simply numbers comparing the "before" and "after". 

And I feel revived. This revitalization seems to bring back some hope and happiness that are much needed and desired in my life right now; and I can see it and feel it because, this cheerfulness, is real to me.

Looking back at all the things that disappointed me so much, I don't sense that dark scent of bitterness. It only leaves a alerting pinch in my mind enabling me to look at these incidents from a critical view. 

This reflection thing, does bring me a nonchalant mood; because they paint a story about how much one person can mature in one year; and I am that story. I matured so much in one year.

That is why I am proud of this beginning.

That is why I call this a new beginning.

Idle

I was asked yesterday by a close friend what is the point of living. To be quite frank, at the moment I was intoxicated and was unable to reply anything but mutter the meaningless phrase "talk to me if you need it"; because my initial reaction was that he considered suicide.

Though the scare that he might actually consider taking his life is cleared, I couldn't help but still ponder his question. Was I unable to give an answer because I was intoxicated or was I unable to give an answer. Period.

The truth is, I have been up for 3 hours today, and all I have done is idling, wandering from place to place, doing nothing but satisfying some of my basic needs as a human being.

I don't want to blame this idling that has been consuming the past two weeks of my life on the fact that I am somehow "forced" to be alone in an environment that so closely resembles confinement; because that would imply that this idling is given to me and I have no choice but to silently accept it and pretend that, at this moment, there is a point to my livelihood.

People has discussed and always will discuss, even fight in a heated argument, the point of living and if our mundane activities, in fact, have significances in the flow of history.

I rather not look beyond this period of idling and shout out empty words, saying how I will be making a point of my living by doing so and so; because opportunities come in the most random occasions and none of the talks will make sense even if I plan out my life in a hundred and one ways.

Even if this sentiment can be interpreted as negative and depressed, I nonetheless wonder, within this period of time before I take off for Japan, if my life at this moment has a point.

Waking up only to find emptiness within my skull and every cell in my body; making plans only so I can go back at night and think how hollow those plans are. It is quite pathetic.

They haunt me though.

This emptiness that consumes me, nonetheless, reminds me how there is the possibility of change; and it pains me, as if a sharp needle is slowly and fervently piercing the back of my neck, and threatens to eventually open an empty, hollow hole in my throat and take my life.

It pains me, because I can change. I can use all this time to do something much better than idling, than whining. I can learn something. I can do something. I can improve something.

And it pains me, because I am not doing any of those things.

Rather, I idle.

Young

I feel young.

Wrapping up this first year of college was... whimsical. The prolonged winter and its depressing weather had definitely an saddening effect on my mood.

I'm not complaining though.

This... 6 months long winter had definitely blew some calming winds in and chill my mind a little so I'd actually look back and think a little.

I am young. And I'm growing. Experiences I gained this year are not definable. They nonetheless contributed to this growth; Even though I wouldn't necessarily cherish it.

There are definitely moments of piercing wind hitting my heart, making me question if I was in fact, young, if I can actually play care-free.

At this moment, however, with all my belongings packed up and boxed, and my wall all bare leaving no trace of my being there, I feel.. young.

Weird

Fascination is a weird thing.

If you carry it a little further over the line, it becomes another F word - fetish.

I have this fascination.

It's nothing big. It's like the little mole on my thumb, the odd shaped freckle down my spine and some scars covering my knee cap.

It sometimes worries me. My fascination with people that is.

I think I am fascinated with the way my fascination with particular humans functions.

It creeps up my neck, through my spinal cord, and comes into the center of my brain as if someone gave it authority to do so. Like a rash if you will.

It doesn't irritates much, but it bothers you a little.

Just a little though.

That's my fascination.

And like a rash it displays a glorious yet sinister splash of red, then like a rash, quietly, yet violently exits and disappears leaving no trail of evidence that it was there moments ago.

My fascination is that rash.

At this present moment, my body and my soul are swallowed up by this inevitable rash that presents itself once in a while.

Screaming and displaying authority.

Telling me that it is taking over my thoughts and turning me into this fool that can't be bothered by anything but a weird fascination.



A fascination for a particular human.

Late

I think humans are obsessed with the idea of a journey because of the possibility, opportunity and uncertainty this journey symbolizes.

I have been on many journeys. As a young child, I was forced to move from schools to schools because of the financial situation my family was in at the time. Each time we moved, I was faced with a journey. I can't quite recall the exact emotion I had as a child about these journeys forced upon me, but I do know one thing, they made me who I am today.

Then there's the journey that took me to the place I am today. As difficult as it may appear, the journey that took me across oceans and continents didn't quite give me anxiety or fear that most would assume one might have. I remember feeling peaceful and calm as I took the offer to go study abroad all by myself. No tears nor struggles. I just said yes.

The journey I took to New York City, however, went exactly as I expected ‑ filled with anticipation and anxiety. These are the kind of emotions that you experience as a child, when you wait for the moment to tear open a gift on Christmas day, or getting ready to see your favorite grandma.. I don't know. 

Nevertheless, the city brought back in me this childlike excitement that I have lost connection with for a long time. 

Despite all the cliches about New York City, the city itself overcame me completely the moment I stepped off on 34th street. And for the next five days, my journey was filled with endless glamour and made-true fairytales that I used to watch on TV.

As I return, however, back to reality, I found this emptiness, for lack of a better word to describe this state of being, inside of me;And I kept thinking how I want to indulge in the liveliness and endless energy that seems to fill every corner of New York City. I want to be in that environment where tired faces and labored bodies are buried under the bright city lights and see the pretend beauty in every silhouette turning in the busy streets trying to find a piece of earth where they can call home. I want to climb to the top of Rockefeller Center and behold twinkling stars from below while trying to feel some aesthetic inspiration granted to me by that experience as if I was somebody important or of great intelligence and artistry; and ultimately, fitting into the sweet city air permeated with scents of sweat, fumes, smokes, greed, desires that very accurately paints the lowest of human nature and the most joyous aspects of humanity.

I guess what I am trying to say, this late at night sitting in a small room by myself, is that I am ready to take on this ongoing journey called higher education and hope for the best that I come out of it with something to prove my value and be equal to the standard of New York City.

Ready

This blizzard and whatever is left of it are creating an enormous amount of desire for summer in me.

I am ready for summer!

Something about summer just brings sweetness, whether in your mouth when you articulate the word, or in your brain when you conjure up that mental image of a golden sunset followed by a warm and calm night.

The sweetness is real still.

Especially as summer approaches in late April, the searing and passionate scent start to flow in the air and people on the streets begin to free their bodies and let them breathe. Those are the moments I love dearly, almost as much as I love summer itself.

Summer is so much more than just drops of sweats looking like diamonds under rays of sunshine, shades of bronze on thriving bodies of youth bathing in the warmth of air, or the thick, rich and fresh ice-cream melting away on eager tongues while filling those mouths with the icy delight they long for. Summer signifies the passion for life, passion for the freshness and hope that permeate the atmosphere that is baked under one energetic sun, and passion for the precious vacation times and adventures it brings.

For me, summer also means home.

And I must say, at this very moment, with piercing cold wind raging outside my window and the pricking noise from the radiator, I am ready for summer.

GoodBye

I am no stranger to saying goodbye.

But not in the sense of saying goodbye because you simply can't see someone anymore; which makes saying goodbye so much more difficult.

As I sat there on my bed, staring away from his gaze, I muttered out the words, each piercing my throat, "I don't think I should see you anymore". I even took a moment to let these words, sounding so extremely dry and pathetic, resound a while in room, clanging and banging each time they hit my own eardrum as I said it. Then I looked down, afraid to receive an answer, or any answer at all. I looked down because I was ashamed, I was hurting myself while trying to manage my desire to just hold on to him. I looked down, because I was afraid that all the time we shared meant far less to him than it meant to me.

He didn't sign any contract. He didn't make any promises. He didn't even clarify what it was.

I didn't care, because he gave me warmth; Warmth that might have been absent for what seems like eternity. No. That is not an exaggeration. In my darkest moments, I thought it was indeed eternal. I was doomed to eternal loneliness.

Even though that was extremely childish of me to think that I was deemed to be alone for forever, it was indeed real to me, the despair.

Then there he was, with arms open and accepting.

And he made no promises.

And I was immediately drawn to him, as if he was the tantalizing spring that eventually appeared in front of my unquenchable thirst.

 And that is why I must say goodbye.

Decision

It seems that there are many decisions for me to make as of late.

To be honest, being 18 and in college isn't quite as easy as they put it. Even though I know indeed that going to school is far less stressful than, say, working and providing for your family while trying to come up with your son's tuition. Thanks Dad.

I still have these decisions to make nonetheless. 

And these decisions, quite frankly, are what make me feel so vulnerable at this moment and what make me state that "being 18 and in college sucks". 

I never think of myself, for a second, as someone who would spare some time to do thinking in the form of updating a blog; but here I am, driven by the complexity of these decisions. 

I like exploring. I adore new experiences on the way of my wanders. Even if new experiences take me to places I would never otherwise think of; And that creates problems. 

You never know what your boundary and limit is, until you are thousand miles away from it. Then you take a deep breath, and say"wow, I really have gone far". 

I quite fit that description.

Dangling with alcohol, drugs and sex, I have found my limits; and they leave me with one decision: to continue, or to stop.

Fuck this decision.

I am finding common ground, digging hard into the realm of logic, and trying to negotiate these two choices I have. 

Why, you ask?

So I don't have to feel ashamed of myself when gathering recollections of what happened from people other than myself. So I don't feel empty when I try to find gems hidden in the hours of wildness, which I don't recall. And most realistically, so I don't spend money on intoxicating myself.

But all of the above is exactly why I indulge myself in it.

Struggle.

- -

Then there is, of course, the outlook on the future. Or more accurately, next semester.

A sophomore in college.

What an identity. Even if sophomore is still regarded as underclassman status, to me, however, it is quite a thrill; Because it symbolizes growth, progress, and, in more physical terms, better dorms.

I know it is no way comparable to graduating, but I still think it is quite the accomplishment.

If thrills and pride are put aside, however, I, again, see decision. Decisions I have to make on direction of my academic career, on residence, and social relations.

I rarely think of myself as controlling in any sphere of my life. Not until I start thinking about putting together an apartment/dorm full of people I want to live with for the next year. 

The reason why I say that I am controlling is because I want to know what everyone is thinking on this particular subject. I don't want to cause any drama within any circle of friends. Apparently, this roommate selection dilemma is, however, causing drama. And I want to know what everyone thinks.

And this all make coming up with a final decision the more difficult. 

- -

I can't say, that after all the rants above I have now know what to do, that I am thinking clearer.

But at least, I have ranted.

Ah.

Decision.