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?