This project has showed me in plain sight how shallow our school can really be : /
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Transcendental Unibrows.
Draw in an eyeliner unibrow and suddenly the whole world never views you the same again.
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.
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.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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
Saturday, October 24, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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)
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)
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Untitled
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Monday, October 5, 2009
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
:)
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
:)
Sunday, October 4, 2009
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.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, October 2, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
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.
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.
To be blunt, school should start at 9 and end at 1. 'Nuff said.
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