The Grudge

It frightens me how one can invoke a killing intent over petty reasons.  All thought process and emotional stability cease to exist when a person is overwhelmed by the desire to kill.  He does not bother to think about the consequences nor does he think about how he will cover up his crime.  The only thing that moves him is the incessant chanting of his brain, "kill...kill...kill."

How many times have we said "I'll kill you" to a friend while horsing around?  Sure, it may seem like a joke at first because killing someone in the act of making merry is highly unlikely.  Yet, what are the ramifications of that statement, "I will kill you?", even when just having fun?

Could it be possible that people are inherently murderous creatures?  Maybe that is the reason why we gain satisfaction from bullying and threatening others over trivial things. 

Formspring is a prime example of the manifestation of the killing intent.  There were people who apparently found it amusing to write "Why don't you just kill yourself?" on my friend's wall.  Just what did my friend do to deserve such treatment?  How can any teenager, their life full of ambitions and blooming with forthcoming possibilities for greatness, be urged to give up their lives for the satisfaction of crude, immature individuals?

Life is something that cannot be taken on a whim.  Yes, the idea of a despicable person being liquidated is temporarily satisfying, but remember that even the most disliked person has friends, lovers, and dreams. 

Today, I was the victim of my own killing intent.  I rose from my bed, half-frenzied from sleep-deprivation and stress, and grudgingly boarded the school bus to begin my day.  When I got to school I encountered my reagent to my killing intent.  It was a girl that had used her good looks and charm to screw with my head and make a complete asinine out of myself.  She was chattering away with another guy, who was completely unaware that this cute-looking girl had hurt countless number of other people with her persona. 

I looked at the girl.  Her face broad with an ingratiating smile and her body curved in a coy posture, she resembled a teenage Mrs. Robinson.  My anger at her boiled over.  She seemed so nonchalant about herself that it made me want to smash the glass door through which I was observing the whole scene.  My hands curled into fists and my jaw began to ache from being clenched so hard.  I imagined myself running her through with a knife.  As I envisioned this, my lips twisted into a crooked smile.

Then the killing intent dissipated.  For the rest of the day, I felt awful for having had such cruel and violent thoughts.  I wanted to cry when I got home but I was too numb from my killing intent to do so.  I never imagined that I could have had such a vivid murder scene conjured in my very own head just because some girl had irked me with her insincerity.  God, I felt terrible.  I almost wished that I was the one who was dead.

Today, I had demonstrated that I too, am crude and immature.  The only difference between the Formspring bullies and I is that I had kept my killing intent to myself.  But otherwise, we are all the same.  We are always at each other's throats, ready to strike at the moment a bare spot is unveiled.

Can we ever be freed of this killing intent?  Can we ever learn to genuinely love each other?  I wish I could forgive people and move on, but to no avail; I still hold grudges against people that certainly don't deserve them.  I get annoyed even at well-acquainted friends when they reveal their flaws out of the blue.

I'm afraid I've steadily deteriorated in both character and maturity.  Hopefully there will come a time when this downward spiral comes to an end and a new chapter in my life brings to me the true meaning of virtue and happiness.  I'm not going to stop searching for that time.  I will make it happen, for no one is as miserable as the vengeful, grudge-fixated individual.

Laughter

 I heard the laughter of children.  It cured me of all my torments.  My weary heart was afflicted from the day's share of malediction, but the sound of laughter of the jubilant children next door stomped out all my inner-demons.  All thoughts of contempt, sadness, and anxiety vaporized.  I was smiling for a change.

What is it about children's laughter that stirs up such sentimentality within the human soul?  Is it the innocence and nonchalance in the laughter that puts us at ease?  If everyone could laugh like a child, would the world be a better place then it seems?

Laughter indicates many things.  Love, fun, merry, mockery, and even contempt.  But neither mocking nor contemptuous laughter is a genuine manifestation of joy.  Welcome to my world.  Whenever I laugh, I'm always laughing at someone.  Never with them.

Why can't I laugh so genuinely these days?  When was the last time I had a good smile or a laugh about something very humorous, yet poignant at the same time?  When was it when I looked at children without viewing them as mobile lumps of annoyance?

 I'm just a crude person.

Whenever I laugh, it's always at something crude.  Something perverse, sensual, and offensive.  Why do these things bring me joy?  What is there so amusing about sexism, racism, and stereotypes?  Why do people ridicule things that should never be ridiculed in the first place?  I am overwhelmed guilt for I laugh uproariously at these tasteless jokes.

Can't I laugh about something nice for a change?  Can't I just laugh out of utter joy for no reason?  Do any of the little things in life make me joyful?

I want to splash water on a friend's face and laugh about it because his wet hair makes him look like a mop.  I want to pin a flower on a girl's hair while she's asleep and chuckle because it makes her resemble Anne of the Green Gables.  I want to see how much of a submarine sandwich I can fit in my mouth, and then giggle uncontrollably after seeing just how much of an idiot I look like in the restaurant mirror with half the thing wedged in my mouth.

I want to learn how to laugh again.  I want to learn how to laugh again.  I want to learn how to laugh again.
So please laugh with me and spread the warmth in this forsaken world.

"When the drugs don't work and God doesn't respond, heed to laughter my friend.  Heed to laughter."

This Is It

I can never resist throwing in a Michael Jackson quote :)
This Is It
This is the start of a new year
A new decade

...And I'm sitting here, pretending to do my homework, posting, feeling bored and wishing that the new year would bring me some new inspiration or something
haha
didn't work
I've played wii until my arms lit fire
I've youtube binged for hours and hours and hours and hours
I've gone through my entire itunes library until my ears started crying
I'm like freaking j-j-jaded
My mind refuses to move
I'm like a giant fat lump sitting here, being eaten alive by boredom
and it's gonna suck even more when school starts again
OH JOY
okay well I'm back to stalking pictures of that adorable frog from princess and the frog
I'm officially in love with that movie, by the way
It's the sweetest thing I've ever seen
Makes me wish I was black haha
Really, though, what I would give to have a voice like that!
And since when were frogs that cute?? The way froggy Naveen looks at Tiana melts my heart. And he's a freaking FROG! (although Kermit is a frog and he melts my heart too...) Anyhow it's just such an adoring look that he gives her, and he has that goofy smile, and it just makes me so happy <3
Maybe all it will take to cure my zombieness is watching a few Disney movies

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.

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.    

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.

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.

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.

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.  

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.

Help me...

Why is it that I can never stick to my morals?