Another Childhood Nostalgia Goes "THBBBBTTHHHH"

I can't write for crap when I don't have any inspirations.  I really just can't.  I've tried.  It's hard.  It's like trying to break a really bad habit; you rarely succeed.  Maybe I need to read more.  Or could it be that my creativity has disappeared along with my childhood?

I remember that I was always writing in a journal or a notebook of some sort when I was a kid.  Always scribbling away and drawing in ridiculous cartoons in accordance to the stories that I had written.  Creativity overflowed within me when I was a kid.  There was not a day in my life that I failed to write a short story or finish a funny little drawing.  

I don't write like that anymore.  Neither can I draw so freely.  Hell, I hardly draw these days.  All I do is mope and complain how the world is out to crush me and divide me into a gazillion bits so that I will never again have the motivation to rise up and face my fears.  Or is it because I'm just lazy?

Talk about deterioration.  Gone are the times when we were curious about everything, when we were truly thirsty for knowledge, when we were active and alive.  Now look at us.  We look withdrawn, jaded, and dead.  Zombies and sluggards.  We don't even have the willpower to read books anymore.  We prefer to listen to audiobooks.

How many times have I heard people say "I'm working on this play!" "I'm filming a movie!" "I'm writing a novel"?  How many of those projects have been finished?  Hardly any.  

I hate how people, myself included, have so much creative energy, yet they never do anything to make their creativity become a reality.  When will this cycle end, this endless Catch-22 of innovation, procrastination, and resignation?

The reason for the downfall of innovation is because we are afraid of failure.  We are afraid that the amount of time and commitment we put into a project will turn to dust when the project does not turn out favorably.  And even with creativity bursting from within our minds, once we set out to initiate the preliminary procedures necessary for the successful outcome of the project, we feel the gravity of the workload and effort required for the creation of a magnum opus and we procrastinate and give up our dreams.  I have experienced this predicament many, many times, and so have others.

Why do we fear failure so much?  We never felt this way when we were children.  It did not matter who won or lost.  It did not matter who was better or worse.  Is it our competitive academic environment that has destroyed our child-like thirst for knowledge and achievement?  Is it the pressure from our parents?  From society?

Why do we have to ace our SAT's?  Why do we have to ace anything?  Why must we study for exams three hours a night every single day?  Why can't we be allowed to rest for a change, to sleep, to breathe, to live?  Everyday I come home and I devote myself to hours of aimless studying and review.  I would much rather watch a movie or read a book during that time. But duty calls.  It's all a phase, I tell myself.  Just do it, or fail.

Guilty Pleasures?

Sometimes, all I want to do is shut myself up in my room and read books all day.

Terrorist

Novemeber 18, 2009.  The sun rose at 6:00 AM and greeted the slumbering residents of a New Jersey suburban town with its warm embrace.  At 7:00, approximately 1100 students of the local high school had emptied their breakfast bowls.  At 7:35, they were in school, shuffling through hallways to get to class.  In the mean time, teachers straightened out desks and chairs, anticipating another bustling session in the midst of an even more bustling environment.  Janitors began their grueling work, and the school kitchens came alive with the salty aroma of French fries and hamburgers. Yes, it was just another typical day in West Windsor Plainsboro High School South.  Everything was going according to the schedule.  Then a terrorist paid a visit.  That terrorist was I.


I wore thick sunglasses, a white surgical mask, and a purple hooded shirt.  My objective was not to simulate terrorist activities nor demonstrate my ignorance of Halloween’s actual date, but to challenge the common belief that a masked identity indicates terrorism.


A mask holds many meanings.  It can mean secrecy.  It can also mean sickness.  But many times, people associate masks with illegal activities, the most favorable one of them being terrorism. 


Terrorism is omnipresent.  In the news, we see Al Quaeda militants beheading innocent bystanders.  In the movies, we see Russian extremists hijack Air Force 1.  In the papers, we read about American soldiers getting mangled by the dangerous traps set up by the Taliban.  The motives behind each terrorist organization may vary, but one thing for certain is that all terrorists wear masks.  So says society.


I put on my mask because I wanted to show other people that underneath my disguise I was still Minjeh Lee, a 16-year old Korean American sophomore at West Windsor Plainsboro High School South.  No one believed me.  They all thought I was a terrorist. 

“Who is that kid?  Is he a terrorist?”

“Oh my god, a terrorist!”

“Dude, you look like a terrorist.”

“Why are you dressed like a terrorist?”

“Hey, when’s the next Jihad?”


I didn’t understand.  Why did my mask make me a terrorist?  Don’t non-terrorists also wear masks?  Take superheroes for example.  Batman, Ironman, Green Lantern, and Spiderman all wear masks.  Nobody calls these guys terrorists.  So why did not people think that I was a justice-defending, liberty-loving masked hero?


I walked into my American Studies class to find out why.  My teacher, Mrs. Schomburg made no initial comment on my appearance but stared at me for a good amount of time.  Then she began teaching.  After five minutes, she paused abruptly and asked me to take my mask off.  I asked her why.


“It’s creeping me out.”


I tried to reason with her why my mask should not disturb her in anyway. I was not pretending to be a “creepy” figure nor was I trying to gain attention from other people by blatantly acknowledging my new “outfit”.  I was only sitting in class, listening to her lecture on the Continental Congress.   I also told her that my external appearance had nothing to do with my objectives.


“I don’t care,” she replied.  “You look very intimidating.”


Still, I did not take my mask off.  I just did not understand why she could not disregard my appearance and continue teaching.


“Please, please take it off.”


At this point, I felt compassion for the lady, because from the way she was begging me to take my mask off, she must have found my appearance genuinely frightening.  I acted accordingly, and took off my mask.


The next day, I put on my mask again and went to school as usual.  I had chemistry first.  I walked in nonchalantly and settled down on my desk.  Mrs. Jaworsky, my chemistry teacher, glanced at me and then told me to take off my mask. 


I did not answer her.


“You have to take it off or you will get a zero.”


I still did not take it off.


“Look, you stay here with the mask on you will get a zero.  You really want to keep that thing on, you will have to go the counselor’s office and tell her why you were excused from class.  You will still get a zero though.”


Way to hit my weak spot, Mrs. Jaworsky, I thought.  I did not want to give up on my project easily, but I did not want to take any academic repercussions either.  I thought hard with both hands on my head. 


“Stay here!  Stay here!”  My classmates exclaimed.  The room filled with raucous chants and hoots.  I knew what I had to do.  I took off my mask and stayed in class.


The purpose of transcendentalism is not to conform.  Had I stayed in class with my outfit on, I would have conformed to the desires of my classmates.  Instead, I followed my inner thoughts and concluded that academic excellence was the priority motive.  I took off my mask. 


“It’s the rule,” Mrs. Jaworsky said.  “You can’t wear anything like that in school.”


Why? 

Because it obviously means you’re up to no good with that thing on your head, you pesky terrorist.


Her harsh blue eyes seemed to bore that thought into my head.


My friends thought I was terrorist.  My teachers thought I was a terrorist.  Pretty much everyone in WWPHSS thought I was a terrorist.  I only had to put on a mask and shades to enjoy such a grand conviction.  I came to realize that people associate masked figures immediately to terrorism because society makes them believe so.  The media shows countless images of battered streets and destroyed buildings, followed by even more images of masked men with guns and knives.  The media pumps fear into people by consistently channeling information of the latest terrorist activity on screen.  Even the Board of Education prohibits the wearing of hoods in campus.  Why?  It is because they are afraid.  They are afraid that a hooded or masked student will come to school and shoot everyone, because that is what hooded and masked people do on the television.


What is surprising though, is that not all terrorists mask themselves. The men who were responsible for the 9/11 bombings did not wear masks. They were dressed like average businessmen.  The men who bombed the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City were not masked.  The gunman Charles Carl Roberts did not wear a mask when he held the Amish school kids hostage.  The two boys who wreaked havoc at Columbine High School did not wear any masks.  They headed right in with their guns and shot at everyone.


If my peers and teachers at WWPHSS had reasoning skills, they would not have associated my disguise with terrorism.  Instead, they blindly believed what society told them to believe.  Mrs. Schomburg’s remarks and Mrs. Jaworsky’s icy looks were not derived from their thoughts.  They were reflections of society’s stereotype on terrorists.  If I were an actual terrorist, I would not have elaborated my appearance in such a way to draw so much attention.  That would have greatly hindered my motive in destroying the school or kidnapping a faculty member (hypothetically, of course.  I would never do such things).


Fear of terrorism comes not from a genuine fear of terrorism, but from the crude images that society provides for the masses to absorb.  Because of this irrational fear, people continue to believe society, as if believing is the only protection from harm.  Yet, people “must not be hindered by the name of goodness, but explore if it be goodness” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”).  They must see through the masks and the headscarves and find out for themselves what truly defines a terrorist.  Once they realize the true characteristics of a terrorist, they must work to understand the mindset of a terrorist.  Through peaceful negotiations and tolerance, the violent urges of even the most vicious terrorist can be pacified.  It has been proven that FBI agents were able to extract much more valuable information from terrorists and terror suspects by speaking to them in their native tongue and treating them with respect, than the CIA who tried to milk the information from the terrorists through water-boarding and other forms of torture.


As the project came to a conclusion, I realized that transcendentalism was an impractical and overly idealistic concept for the 21^st century.  I certainly agreed with the idea of self-reliance and some parts of civil disobedience, but I noticed that the general concept of transcendentalism did not stress the importance of being compassionate towards other people.  I am not one to ask, “Are they my poor?” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”) when I am asked to donate for charity.  I took off my mask when I realized that I was tormenting my teacher. 


I had stood up for my beliefs at the expense of making others feel uncomfortable. When my peers avoided me and called me terrorist-related names, I held my head high and thought myself as a rugged individualist.  As my experiment progressed, no one accosted me.   I certainly did not like that.  I learned that I greatly appreciate human interaction.  I realized that I am much more sociable than I thought I was, and preferred developing friendships to obsessing over personal convictions.  Emerson said, “It is easy in solitude to live after our own, but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude” (Emerson, “Self-Reliance”).  I am not courageous enough to follow this philosophy at a daily basis, and I certainly do not wish to alienate myself from other people just to convey my sense of self-reliance and civil disobedience.  I love my friends and I love life too much to become an insensitive hermit.  After all, even the most self-reliant person cannot do everything on his own.  His nonconformist ideas will not take care of him when he is ill, but his friends and family will.  Sorry Waldo.  I think it is time you went looking for a different audience. 

SNOW

I absolutely love snow
There's something about it
The way it changes how everything looks
And somehow smooths the edges, makes everything look cute and happy and sparkly and clean

I remember in elementary school they would always make us write those fun little poems
Nowadays we only write essays (my transcendentalist essay was a pile of whale crap) and essays are not fun at all because really who cares about how much I fail at being Emerson? Exactly. No one.
So anyway I'm going to write a 2nd grade poem (I suck at poetry but it's still fun, even if I sound like a retarded 8 year old)

Soft fluffy blanket
Pure and white
Giving the world
A great big hug

YAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYY

I really wanted to just go and do a bellyflop into the snow this morning
But I decided that it wasn't worth catching pneumonia
So I put on a million layers of sweaters and a gigantic puffy jacket that electrocutes me and waterproof gloves that make my hands bigger than my head and waterproof snow boots and a hat so that my ears wouldn't fall off
And I drew a whale in the snow
And I helped shovel
Even though I hate shoveling because it ruins the beautiful continuity of glittering whiteness :(
Then I went inside
And I was all cold and my toes were tingling
Only to discover that WE DIDN'T HAVE ANY HOT CHOCOLATE
I was pretty devastated
Because hot chocolate is an integral part of my life
Not really
But sometimes when I'm really sad my sister makes me hot chocolate
I'm not sad though
Because it SNOWED
And snow makes me happy
So do whales and goats and chocolate and yarn and cookies and michael jackson and queen and singing and casting and sparkles and birthdays and happy endings <3

The Kids Are Not Alright

Never felt so empty in my life.  There was music playing, uplifting, sonorous melodies swirling in the atmosphere...faces lit from glittering lights and the children, the dancing children.  Dancing and singing, more lights and more songs to enrich the occasion.  I should have been smiling.  I should have been singing.  I should have been dancing.

But I could not feel the music tonight.  My friends were enjoying themselves and I told myself  "Hey man, it's your night.  Let it all hang out!"  So I did.  At least I tried to.  I smiled and laughed and joked with the rest.

I like making people laugh.  I get enthralled when my friends giggle at my stupid jokes.  I feel an unexplainable joy when the room roars with laughter after I do something ridiculous.  But I'm not a clown.  People think I am, but I am not a clown.  I only act like one.

The clown's sole purpose is to humor people.  His personal convictions and emotions do not matter as long as he is funny.  So the clown puts on an everlasting smile, while his heart deteriorates slowly from his unspoken anxieties.  I am not like a clown.  I put on a smile, but my heart bulges with contempt instead of sadness.

In the cosmic sense, people's anxieities are completely irrelevant.  But we center our lives around our worries and become self-absorbed.  I'm one of the most self-absorbed people you will meet on this planet.  Yet, I berate other people for being selfish and apathetic.  Forgive me for my inconsistency.  I am only human.

But nonetheless, hurt is hurt.  And one knows when he is deeply hurt.  I don't know what got me tonight, but it was certainly a deep stab to the heart.  I can't quite explain.  The music was playing, children were dancing, people were laughing and loving one another.  I should have been happy.

When am I truly happy? Is it when I'm playing music?  Is it when I'm writing?  Or is it when I'm talking to the people who mean so much to me in my life? 

I don't know.  Come to think of it, I don't think people mean that much to me anymore.  I'm a void.  I don't feel anything.  I just suck in everything that solely benefits myself at the expense of hurting other people. 

Do I feel bad?  Yes...sometimes.  Not always.  As I've mentioned before, I tend to be inconsistent.  I'm the kind of person who would stuff a 10 dollar bill into a homeless man's can and then proceed to destroy the people who I love. 

But no one cares.  That's fine.  Apathy is a great protection.  If you don't care, it can't hurt you in anyway.  I care too much.  And I hate the word "care" with a passion, because to me, it sounds insincere and empty.  I'd rather have someone openly express his hatred for me right in my face than have him "care" about me for sometime, then stop caring about me all together. 

I must sound like a self-pitying bastard right now.  But everyone has a self-pitying bastard within them.  Whether it be the greatest man on Earth or the worthless beggar in the streets, we are all on the same boat.  We are all trash sometimes.

Although I smile, my eyes remain rigid with animosity.  Contempt is my best friend these days, and I've never loved to hate before.  Contempt is my protection against my fears.  It does not always work, for there are times when I wished that I've never been born at all. 

I don't want to listen to anyone anymore.  All the past advice and tips and bullshit that people pumped into me in the past few "exciting" years of my life have no right to exist in my soul.  Only I know what I know.  I'm going to make my future.  Only I can accomplish the grand task.  Hence, the beauty of ego rises far above the masses. 
To my self-absorbed, arrogant, insecure, superficial, and emotionally disturbed brehteren.  If there is hell below, we are all gonna go.  So keep on smiling and dancing and singing.  I will join in this time.

It's okay though.  It's fine.  That's how life goes for me.  It will get better hopefully, but really I'm fine.  I'm okay.  Guess it's better to turn this way than become another Pagliacci.

"Dad we are gonna be okay aren't we Dad?  Dad why won't you wake up?  Dad, there's singing...we are gonna be fine aren't we?  Don't worry we are gonna be fine...don't worry we are gonna be fine...don't worry we are gonna be fine.....Won't we?"

Motivation

Well.
I'm glad that's over.
NaNoWriMo turned out pretty oddly for me. I ACTUALLY WROTE 50,000 WORDS IN A MONTH!!
But as I was writing the novel, I discovered that I had more plot to cover than would fit in 50,000 words. So I finished, but I didn't finish. I got the goal, but not the novel.
During the month of November, I was under a lot of stress, thinking about word count and how horrible it sounded and how I might not finish. But all of this stress also allowed for a sort of creative fervor. I needed to crank out that many words each day, and I bashed my brains around until some idea came out. No matter how stupid, it was still an idea, and I would write as much as I possibly could about it. I didn't worry about logic, I didn't worry about how it sounded, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.
Now I'm really relieved that it's over, and I can stop freaking out over trying to find a way to make up random bs out of thin air. I can relax and write about whatever I want. But the creative rush that came with the freakout is gone too.
I still want to finish my novel, but every time I open a word doc, I find other things to do. Eat chocolate. Study for my math test. Actually practice piano for once. All these end up taking priority over writing now that I don't have a word-o-meter to fill.
I don't know why numbers and goals have such a strong effect on me, but that crazy goal ended up being reality because of the extreme satisfaction I got out of updating my word count added to the normal happiness that comes with writing in general. Somehow, just enjoying the story I'm writing is not enough to get me writing it again.

Priorities.
I do things that I need to do, things that will make me feel bad if I don't do, rather than things that I want to do or things that just make me happy and relaxed.
Unfortunately blogging falls under the second category and I have a math test tomorrow. So much for finally being able to write about what I want to again...

ugh

nanowrimo is killing me
I haven't had any time to write anything I want to write about
All I can do is crank out more words toward that rediculous word count
It's driving me up the wall
I'm not feeling it at all right now
But I need to write 5,000 words today if I'm going to make it
Even though I really need to rant and vent out my extremely turbulent emotions
I'M SO FREAKING STUPID
That would have been the thesis of my rant
So I guess I'll go back to writing words and words and words

The Greatest Man on Earth

I am the greatest human being that I know.  Every word I speak, every move I make, and every thing I touch holds an atom of my greatness in it.

I am the most important person in this world.  Therefore, I am entitled to everything that benefits solely myself.

I am not bound to any promises, obligations, or expectations from the others.  I exist only to please myself.

Don't get me wrong.  I am not a hedonist.  I mean to please myself by following my passions.

Am I selfish?  Yes.  Am I egotistical?  Certainly.  Am I arrogant?  No.

Allow me to explain.  Contrary to popular consent, there is a difference between ego and arrogance.  When an individual acknowledges his self-existence and develops deep self-respect, he lays foundation to his ego.  His ego further develops as he discovers his passion and pushes on to perfect it.  The perfection of human capabilities, or at least the progression towards such a goal, is what constitutes to ego.

Arrogance is the embodiment of insecurity and low-self esteem.  I sense it in every arrogant person that I meet, a sort of  lurking emptiness and depression.  Arrogant people have no self-respect.  Their actions are the results of what other people think of them.  They don't have anything of their own to be truly proud of.  They hate what they do, but never relinquish their position in fear of losing their place in society.  They solely rely on their arrogance to remind themselves that their existence on Earth holds some value.

Arrogant people are one of the most tragic and despicable beings in this world.  Their understanding of their low-self esteem is so tremendous that they develop a fake identity and devote their lives to impressing other people, instead of doing what they truly enjoy doing.  In their meaningless quest for acceptance, arrogant people make a lot of sham friends, but even more true enemies.

People with ego, myself included, have many enemies, but close, true friends.  I couldn't really care less what the others think of me.  I do not care if I appear to be different.  I do not care if I sound obnoxious.  I do not care if my actions establish me as an arrogant individual.  All that matters is that I see myself as who I am and that I respect myself.

If you think this is just another embodiment of the thoughts of a typical, idealistic, nonconformist adolescent, think again.  I am not idealistic.  I am not nonconformist.  I only think what I tell myself to think.  I only do what I think I should do.  I do not force myself to conform or not to conform to society's demands.  I am me.  I do not represent any collective reason or ideal.  I live only for myself.  I live only to enjoy life.  

My goal in life is to prove to myself that I can live it to the fullest and utilize my capabilities to the maximum.  All else do not matter.  Life is too short to get immersed in self-pity or pessimism.  I am selfish.  I am egotistical.  I am ambitious.  I am passionate.  I am the greatest man on Earth.    

To My Comrade

My comrade is gone.

His rifle lies on the ground forgotten.

But remorse I have none.

My comrade is gone.

Holes cover his helmet.

But fear I have none.

My comrade is gone.

His body has been blown up to bits.

But loss I feel none.

For my comrade will live on.

He will march on endlessly,

And strike fear into those who try to stop him.

My comrade is gone,

but he lives forever.

My comrade is gone,

but sadness I have none.

To Jihoon 

best of luck

-Minj

Fairy Tales

Once upon a time... A beautifully sculpted castle made of rainbow glass glistened in the ever-sunshiny world of fantasy. Towers and turrets competed with each other in a race to the sky. The ballroom was immense, with rich fabric and ornate mirrors adorning the walls. On the ceiling, murals of all her favorite musicians were watching from their larger-than-life vantage point. She had a wonderful prince waiting for her, the sort of prince who was sweet and caring and adorable and handsome and loved her more than anything else. She had a perfectly beautiful face and figure. Golden, shimmering satin and whispering soft silk draped over her in harmonious layers of skirts.
She had just come home the victor of epic battles agaisnt evil. The forces of darkness had been beaten again by the brilliance of goodness. Cute talking animals danced around her, making witty remarks, and ALL FAIRY TALES SOUND LIKE THIS!

For some reason, I read them, over and over again. It's never the same book but the story is always the same. I can tell from page one who will end up together, which side will win, and who will be the witty character that makes adorable remarks at the funniest times. I guess the reason these stories that have been engrained into my mind still appeal to me is because I really wish my life was like a fairy tale too. I want to be beautiful and wear glamorous dresses. I want to have a fantastical castle. I want to consort with adorable and witty people (or animals). I want to nearly-single-handedly defeat the forces of evil with my brilliance. And mostly I want a wonderful guy to love me more than anything else.

Transcendental Unibrows.

Draw in an eyeliner unibrow and suddenly the whole world never views you the same again.

This project has showed me in plain sight how shallow our school can really be : /

Nostalgia

I remember a time I found a dead bird.  I was six years old, and my home at that time was a monolithic apartment complex that loomed over all other structures in the neighborhood.  My best friends and I were darting about the proximity of our home, yelling, laughing, and making silly faces.  Our bellies were full of rich ice cream and fried oden and the day was just splendid.  Then I found a dead bird.

No, no.  Not a roadkill.  Just a bird.  At first I thought it was only sleeping, because it looked so serene as it lay still on the cracked pavement.  I stopped running and knelt towards the beautiful bird.  Its feathers were of a lustrous blue and yellow, and its tail was shaped like a folded fan.

I had never seen such a bird before, let alone a dead one.  I was usually frightened of animals for I was a rather jumpy child back then (I still am in someways), but something about this bird allured my attention.

But it was dead!  What value does a dead creature have?  Without a "soul" or "life" circulating within its body, an organism is a mere shell.  Bodies are like machines.  Just as a machine would have a malfunctioning component or a missing screw, a body is wrecked with flaws like allergies and cancer.  Without an operator, the machine becomes a piece of junk.  Without a soul, a body becomes a rag doll.

This bird was dead.  Yet, how beautiful it looked!  It's round eyes were closed softly, as if it were slumbering on a good dream.  Its feathers were folded delicately to the side.  I knelt towards the bird, and gently placed  it on my palms.  My friends shrieked, "You're touching a dead bird!  You're touching a dead bird!  Ew, ew, ew you're gonna get rabies!"

Without saying a word, I walked to the playground across my apartment with the bird nestled in my hands.  My friends trailed behind, still expressing their disgust quite frankly and loudly.  When I felt the soft, sandy terrain of the playground, I knelt down once more, carefully placed the bird aside, and began digging a hole on the playground with my bare hands.

I dug, dug, and dug some more.  With every scoop, a second passed, and my friends watched me tensely.  The sun was scorching hot, and I began to perspire profusely.  My shirt clung to my back and I felt wan from the heat.  Still, I kept on digging.

I finally stopped when the hole was as wide and deep as a pot.  I peeked in, checking for any extraneous material that may disturb the bird's rest.  There were none.  Then I picked up the bird once more, and gingerly placed it in the hole.

I stared at the bird one last time.  Sweet dreams.  I filled the hole with my bare hands.  My friends helped me this time.

These days, I don't have time to appreciate the small things that make life meaningful.  I don't "play" anymore.  I don't even run around with friends.  And if I were to come across a dead bird right now, I'd probably walk on or cringe.  I would never, ever bury it with my own hands, let alone kneel towards it.

Thinking back on those days, I can't believe just how much of a fun-loving, radiant ball of energy I used to be.  I was an angel, a sweet kid who had enough sympathy to bury a dead bird with his own hands.  I am nothing like that now.  My innocence has deteriorated and my compassion is no more.  I've become a cynical egoist.

I wish we could go back and experience our childhood one more time, the time of our lives when we always knew each other, when we always loved each other, when we always forgave each other.  The time of our lives when we never had to worry about anything, when our parents were truly loving, when our teachers were amicable.  The time of our lives when we were really free, when we we didn't have to concern ourselves with conformity and nonconformity, when we didn't have to sacrifice anything for a cause.  The time of our lives when play was available all the time, when ambition wasn't included in our vocabulary, when we were never hurt from our shenanigans.

What is this?  What is this that we smell of?  Nostalgia.

The Key to Invincibility

"Do not be an unwise churl and rail at society nor so worldly wise as to condemn solitude.  But use them as a condition.  Be their master, not their slave.  Make circumstance, all circumstance, conform to the law of your mind.  Be always a king, and not they, and nothing shall hurt you."

                                                  

                                            -Ralph Waldo Emerson

Junkyard

I hate the suburbs.  Contrary to the common belief that the city holds the worthless scum of society, I believe that suburbia is responsible for that role.  The suburb that we live in, this foundation called "West Windsor" reminds me not of a community, but of a garbage dumpster.  West Windsor's superficial appearance is aesthetically pleasing, but I've met the worst kind of people here.  The bloated ignoramuses, the arrogant assholes, the robotic peons.

Freedom or the Mental Chemistry of A Highly Aggravated Adolescent

I am never free.  I go to school and I feel as if all the so-called "educators" are trying to render my personal insight into meaningless jargon.  I walk the hallways with this strange chill lurking on my shoulders, as if a sinister entity is scrutinizing my every move.  I talk to "friends" and all they do is inhibit my expressions and frank opinion by suppressing my image and forcing me to adopt a victimized sentiment.  By the end of the day, I feel pretty worn out, and just when I think the worse is over when I step into my abode, my parents waste no time in initiating their every day routine of tormenting me with their authority.  They watch my every move and make me feel as if I've done something wrong.

I've gotten used to this though.  I just don't care anymore about what my parents, peers and teachers have to say about me.  They think it's good advice.  To me, it's manipulation.

Do not ask me why I feel this way.  I don't always have to have a reason why people look like shit.  I am not asking for people to change themselves for my own satisfaction.  I've given up on that.  A friend of mine told me that "a piece of shit will always be shit, no matter how much you yell, scream, and vent at it".  This is possibly one of the greatest advice given to me by a friend.

I have a lot of friends, but for the majority of these "friends" I strictly withdraw my genuine compassion.  See, I am not an advocate of unconditional friendship.  It is a very irksome flaw, because so many of my "friends" never reciprocated their friendship the way I've done for them.  I ended up getting hurt like this.  But then you see, by reducing my expectations significantly, I've learned how to "adapt" to the circumstances.

This is the reason why many people see me as a two-face.  A selfish manipulator.  A cruel prestidigitator.  I don't really mind.  I think those characteristics really fit my description.

In reality however, I am not being malevolent.  I am only acting like this because I want to be free.  Free from authority, free from superficiality, free from animosity.  How ironic, for I apparently possess all of these qualities.  But that's just opinion from delusional imbeciles who hold an irrational grudge on me.

How could I possibly be free though?  Does pursuing one's happiness guarantee freedom?  Would one have to relinquish his freedom for eternal happiness or sacrifice freedom for the sake of being happy?  I do not know how to answer these questions.  The only thing I can say is that I feel controlled and manipulated, and that I am nowhere near to being free.

I am going to work for my freedom though.  I am going to conform and endure manipulation.  I am going to play the jester and set everyone at ease so that they laugh at me instead of seeing me as an agitator.  They would think I am the idiot, the attention-deprived rascal, but in the long run, I will be the one to surpass all boundaries and fly away.  They would be the ones to stay and rot.  Goodbye, I am setting course for freedom.

dreams and dreaming

Is it worse to dream wonderful dreams and then have them all come crashing down around you
or is it worse to kill all of your dreams to avoid disappointment?

When I'm feeling good, I think it's better to feel things; I feel like any pain I have felt is worth the joy that comes at certain other times. I feel like the rush that comes from dreaming is worth plunging off an emotional cliff later when all those dreams are popped like shiny bubbles that are impaled on the dead spires of summer grass. But it really sucks to be sad. It's not fun at all to be hurting, to feel like everything you ever wanted is a lie and everything is hopeless. When you try your best and just keep failing, it's incredibly hard to keep trying. It's incredibly hard to keep caring. It's incredibly hard to keep dreaming.

It seems that dreams nourish the heart and soul. I don't want to have an emaciated heart and soul. So I guess I'll just keep trying. Keep caring. Keep dreaming.

WW-P

Everyday, I stare into the faces of my peers. The variety. The diversity. It is immense. A sense of pride crawls through my veins. Where else can the paragon of America be seen besides WW-P? Where?

On Writing

The painter brings life to a canvas with masterful strokes from his brush.  The musician creates landscapes with his sonorous tones and delectable harmonies.  The writer however, weaves his words, just as a spider would weave its web.

I am not a good writer.  I am however, an improving writer.  If I were a spider, my web-weaving abilities would be placed at a rudimentary level.

Writing is never writing.  Writing is rewriting.  It always is.  It is renewal.  That is the reason why writing is so difficult.  It requires immense concentration and discipline to be a good writer.  I admit that I lack those two qualities.

The one thing I am deathly afraid of when it comes to writing is when I cannot convey my thoughts with words. To make up for the lack of quality, I use quantity.  Henceforth, my writing looks impressive due to its bombastic superficiality and length, but lacks direction and meaning.  For example, if I were to write "the cat, feeling as if its personal boundaries were encroached upon by the irksome intentions of the mouse, was aroused by such extreme aggression that it proclaimed its initial impulse through a rather unorthodox negotiation which consequentially removed the mouse from its existence," no one would have known that I actually meant "The mouse pissed off the cat, so the cat killed the mouse."  This sort of writing really, really annoys me and most people.  It's a tangled web of words.

However, I adore subtlety.  Let me cite an example.  "You called down the thunder, now reap the whirlwind."
A perfect metaphor for a nuclear strike.  Damn, that quote just runs chills down my back whenever I read it.  It's very simple.  Anyone can read it and understand it, yet it holds so much meaning.  Ahem, I am NOT endorsing nuclear warfare by any means.  I just picked the quote because it just impressed me so.

I wish to write concisely and subtly at the same time.  However, being concise requires analysis and being subtle requires creativity.  Analysis and creativity do not always go hand in hand, because it is difficult to be analytical while being creative, and vice versa.

Analysis requires concentration.  Creativity requires exploration.  The master writer takes analysis and creativity together an forms an alloy of the two.  That alloy conceives great, beautiful writing.  And if I could do that someday, I'd be the happiest guy on Earth.  No joke.

an epic romance (NOT)

Well
Once upon a time
There was a girl
Who kind of liked this guy
Because he was nice
But then
She realized
That guys
Tend to be dicks
And she had just had her freaking heart
Broken
Guys just make you cry, right?
So what was she even thinking?
And then
She talked herself out of it
THE END.
(even though secretly she's not really sure how she feels, she's pretty sure the best way to play it is to deny it to herself, her journal, and absolutely to everyone she knows, because she's got enough things to cry over and guys are just not worth the tears)

Untitled

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Chocolate Dance

I've been having such a great day. I decided to top it off by eating my last Lindt Chocolate Truffle. (This means I now can start nagging my mother to take me to the Lindt Chocolate store again :))
Eating chocolate makes me SO HAPPY. Usually I eat chocolate when I'm depressed and need something to keep out the boggy sad reaches of my mind, but today I ate chocolate when I was already on an emotional high.

I'm really really really hyper right now.

I was listening to "The Way You Make Me Feel" by Michael Jackson <3>
I could hear weird cracking noises being emitted from my protesting back and the ground shaking from my elephantesque feet. I got a stitch in my side and my hair was flying around like a deranged mop come to life. My arms were spazzing wildly and my neck was not handling the strain well. But despite my lack of grace, flexibility, or general ability to do anything that remotely resembled what dancing is supposed to be, I had SO MUCH FUN.
There's something joyous and free about dancing to a song that you know and love. There's no need to be good at doing it. I'm probably the quintessential NON-dancer. But I still dance. In the privacy of my own home. Where there's no one but my sister who doesn't count because she's my sister.
I would never scar the world by trying to dance in public. I'm really self-conscious of my lack of coordination. I'm such a klutz. I fail at all things requiring hand-eye coordination or foot-eye coordination or movement of the body in general. So this is such a departure from my normal, sedentary lifestyle of sitting there writing, reading, knitting, crocheting, or singing, it's like finding a dragon in your bathtub. Not really. I don't know where that came from. It's the chocolate acting up again.
But sometimes
With the extra stimulus of a Lindt Chocolate Truffle
I channel the force of Michael Jackson
(the spirit of Michael Jackson, not the skill)
And rock out
:)

The Runner is Not a Lonely Man

I went running on my own for the first time in two years, and I'm not gonna lie, it felt great.  Yes, my legs felt like lead and my chest hurt from non-stop jogging, but the relief that followed the rigorous workout was quite rewarding.  It felt like a miracle drug without the nasty side-effects and addictive substances.  

I wish I had gone running sooner.  Instead, I had wasted countless hours in front of the computer, looking at facebook, watching porn (ahem, that's what guys do in their spare time so...) and being passive like a vegetable.  You see, I am giving up on artificial things as a means of entertainment.  Video games bore me.  Youtube bores me.  Nothing really amuses me on TV unless a really good movie is playing.  But the movies I enjoy are rather antiquated and ambiguous compared to the movies that the majority of us adolescents enjoy.  I have yet to meet a friend my age who has seen Kagemusha or a Bout de Souffle or the Seventh Seal.  Forgive me if I sound a bit pretentious, but I have great difficulty discussing movies with my fellow peers, because none of them know what the hell I'm talking about when I mention these movies in our conversations.

Today, I was lying on my bed reading "Selected Writings of Ralph Waldo Emerson".  I had finished reading his journal entries and letters and had just begun to work on his essays.  The first chapter was about nature and its relations with humanity.  Emerson criticized the artificiality of modern life and encouraged handiwork and transcending the material world.  As I read passages that emphasized these points, it struck me how artificial my life had been so far.  Staring at the computer screen for hours, texting away as if there was no tomorrow, doing banal school assignments and labs and other pointless whatnot that our educational system forces down our throats...I got up immediately, put on my sweatshirt, and went running.  

As I ran, I passed countless trees and bushes and branches and acorns and grasses.  I passed rocks and mosses and lichen and fungi and bark and deer and squirrels and dogs.  I also passed people: individuals who also wanted to escape the banalities of their everyday lives and experience something new for a change.  

Nature itself is mundane due to its omnipresence.  Yet, compared to this artificial world of ours, nature is far superior.  In my room, all I hear is the monotonous drone of the computer, the incessant scratching of my pencil, and the artificial crackling of the stereo.  I am all alone.  But when outside running, I am surrounded with life.  I hear birds, I hear trees, I hear water, I hear wind, I hear everything.  This is enough to tell me that I am not alone in this world and that my existence has some value.  

I wish to go running again, only this time I wish to run with friends.  I want it so that my friends, my dear good friends, could also take part in this delightful experience and realize that there is more to life than what society has to offer.  

You're A Genius

In every person lies dormant a genius.  Once conceived to this world, it is the sole purpose of that individual to discover his genius and hone it to the proximity of perfection.  Perfection is impossible, but it is certainly worth a lifetime to attempt it.  


When genius is mentioned, we immediately think of child performers and wizards.  In my opinion, there is no such thing as prodigy.  Prodigy merely defines an early achievement of advanced status.  It does not define character, piety, nor discipline. Scary talent amazes me just as anyone else, but what truly awes me even more is the amount of blood, sweat, and tears an individual sheds to sculpt his talent into genius.


The reason why we believe in prodigy is because we are delusional.  We fail to see, let alone believe the hard work that so-called "prodigies" put into their field of expertise.  We are inclined to acknowledge that their amazing skills are merely inherent.  This delusion therefore discourages the majority to hone their genius, because their negative mindset that genius is an innate concept diminishes their will to match their skills to that of prodigies.    


Innate concept?  Quite the contrary.  Genius is attainable by everyone.  When one looks for his genius however, he is consistently faced with an arch-nemesis: laziness.  Laziness is the poison of progress.  It wastes time.  It discourages people.  It creates regrets.  We are not willing to overcome our laziness and surpass our bloated selves to perform to our fullest potential.  To succumb to laziness is to relinquish your genius.  Relinquishing your genius is equivalent to that of yielding your happiness, for it is our genius that we are able to pursue our passions and live happily.  


Even though we find the heavy chains of our own laziness cumbersome, we sit still with those chains on our legs and let the consequences of indolence act upon us.  We lose interest in our passions.  We lose interest in life.  We lose interest in happiness.  We become sluggards, mediocre people, fat bloated imbeciles.  


I am not averse to lazy people.  In fact, I am friends with many of them and I too am quite lazy.  However, my biggest turnoff is when a person who has already discovered his genius neglects to perfect it.  The negligent one lies on the couch, his eyes glued to the television, his mouth hanging open like a cavern.  Every minute of his wasteful life, his genius deteriorates because he refuses to pick up his instrument and practice, he ignores the work that he is obligated to complete, and he shuts himself from the advice of his peers and parents.  


"You're so smart and talented, if you just got up off your lazy ass and tried you'd be brilliant!"  How many times have we heard that?  How many of your parents say that increasingly annoying pet phrase of theirs?  It may be annoying, but it speaks the truth.  To neglect your genius is to neglect yourself.  If you neglect yourself, no one should be obligated to any favors from you.


Genius requires patience and perseverance.  It is a tedious task but immensely rewarding.  However, to be a prodigy and be negligent and apathetic is not genius.  It is pure stupidity.     




        

Scrapbooking Life

I am a memory collector. It's a little bit like scrapbooking. You find the prettiest pictures, the coolest souveniers, and you arrange them on the page in a way that captures a moment of your life.
I don't actually take many pictures or save many little souvenirs, but in my head I have an epic scrapbook of all the little moments of my life that make me glad I'm alive.

I tend to have mood swings. I'm either really happy and hyper or depressed and on the verge of (or having) a breakdown.
When I'm feeling depressed, feeling drowned beneath all the pressures of life, I generally break down and cry. (This almost always happens at home, though. I hold off breakdowns if I feel them coming on during school, and wait till I'm alone to cry.) Sometimes it takes a really long time, but when I dry away my tears, there's always something that makes me reach into that dusty corner of my mind and take out the scrapbook of all the good times I've had.

Little things, like a song I sang with someone, a note someone wrote me, a random drawing someone did, an epic book discussion, a cast of characters, a shared conspiracy, a rant, a compliment, a card, a story, a secret, a joke, a smile, a promise, a word; these things are what make life worth it.

In the end, when it comes down to it, your life won't be measured in what grades you got in school, how popular you were, how many boyfriends you had, what college you went to, or how much money you have.
It will be measured in how many smiles you shared.
How many lives you touched.
How many happy memories are in the scrapbook of your life.

School is Hell

12:11 am.  Should go to bed.  Eyelids feel like lead weights.  Fingers itch.  Face hurts.  Pretty much half dead.


I'm hungry too.  Didn't get to play my clarinet at home today.  Played  a bit at school.  Damn, school's taking too much time away from my artistic ventures.


I've mentioned in one of my previous blog posts that I advocate hard work and diligence.  In this entry, I shall criticize how we students are overworked and screwed over by our school system.  

You may think I'm contradictory.  You may think I'm a hypocrite.  You may even think that I'm full of shit (which is true) and will cease to read this blog.

I do not believe that I'm being contradictory nor hypocritical.  I admit that I am a full-time bullshitter but my BS is substantial.      

I am merely trying to convey my sense of balance in our academic careers.  You may disagree with me.  I do not care.  This blog is open to interpretations and contentions.

Let me begin with the basics. School starts too early.  WAY too early.  Everyday we get up at 6 or 7 in the morning to brush our teeth, get dressed, and wait for the bus.  Around 7:45 school starts.  This morning routine doesn't seem that bad at first glance.  But in context to an average high school kid's life, it is quite a drudgery.  

Due to the immense amount of homework and rigor of extra curricular activities, we sacrifice countless hours of our free time to fulfill our obligations as students.  The problem is, we are not given enough time to do all these things, let alone any time to relax.  

Study halls are futile.  They are noisy, distracting, and too crowded.  Consequentially, we flock to the school library to study but the admission to the library is strictly limited.

Why have study hall when no one gets studying done?  This "class" is unnecessary and only fills up time in our high school schedule.  It should be omitted.  

Lunch time is too short.  It should be at least an hour long everyday.  We have 6 classes in one day, each class being an hour long and only a 45-minute lunch period?  Preposterous.  Lunch, or any other meal is something that should never be rushed.  We spend a good deal of time, at most 10 minutes to buy inedible school lunch and grab a seat and eat.  That leaves us with 35 minutes to relax.  That is NOT enough.  We should be given an hour each day in school to completely lose ourselves in our own worlds and forget everything about grades and tests and quizzes.  This is not called slacking off.  It's renewal.  Sharpening the saw.

The reason why we burn out is because we are constantly overworked.  I am not saying that we should screw high school and be idle the rest of our lives.  I am a hard worker.  I think everyone should be a hard worker.  But our school system wastes our time with such unnecessary crap such as poster projects and regurgitation of reading assignments, while simultaneously cramming our schedule with stupid study halls and labs.  We don't learn anything new by repeating what we did in elementary school, and our brains don't function properly without sufficient relaxation.  Please, lose the trivial ceremonies and let's get some real schooling.  Let us have a bit more fun and we will repay you by being better students.
To be blunt, school should start at 9 and end at 1.  'Nuff said.