I wrote this entry about a week ago, and hesitated to post it because of how incredibly personal it turned out. But at this point, it doesn't matter anymore. There's nothing left for me to lose or worry about.
“I don’t want you anymore.” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said on the sixty third day after I fell in love.
I suppose the Sunday morning church bells people are attempting to entertain the crowd by turning the monotonous dongs into a quirky melody, but that just adds another layer of sadness. And they stop, enwrapping the bleak dusty church windows into a silence, letting the car honks and the cart rattling and the wild November wind drown out any hint of a symphony.
Though they’re like a symphony of their own. The soundtrack to the [insert typical adjective here] New York City. If I had to describe the soundtrack in three words, I would say cold, restless, and lonely. It can be ninety degrees outside, and all you have to do is just listen to the city to see its coldness. There’s no time to stop on the sidewalk and read a poster because the crowd is permanently following a dogmatic unchanging rhythm. There’s no time to pause and think of where you’re going because they expect you to know that in advance. There’s no time for anything, including emotion.
Is it just more practical to resort to callousness in a city like this? Isn’t there a place for people with an emotional span of Europe who welcome walking down an avenue holding hands just for the hell of it or skipping around puddles without the scowl of a businessman? For people like me? Or do I actually have to become an emotional rock like him and close my heart to intimacy?
We think love is this concrete, significant state of being into which you fall and everything becomes rosy-colored. Truth is, it’s just a human emotion as transient as anger or shame. People fall in and out of love all the time. Where is the constant? Passion is always fleeting, constantly re-imposing itself on people and objects and places and more manmade concepts. If we can be angry with someone one day and then make up the next, what makes love different? The answer isn’t black and white, but it’s not all that complex. If we want to hold a grudge, we are only hurting ourselves; if we want to stay in love when it’s time to let go, well, there’s your answer.
They say you fall because you can’t help it. Personally, I think breaking up feels a lot more like falling. We try to deal through all the problems and approach them as rationally as possible, but in the end it turns out we’ve been slowly dying a little for a while and the breakup couldn’t be helped. So we fall down, down into a land of might-have-been’s and regrets, which is, from my experience, always a depressing place to be in. Then every time you see or hear evidence that your ex-significant other is doing well, it’s like a pang in the stomach when you’re already lying on the floor in defeat. Your eyes become murky and blurry. Insult to injury.
If they say love is irrational, how come people try so hard to rationalize through the reasons why someone doesn’t feel it? If it’s easy to accept that we can’t help who we “fall for,” why is it hard to understand that we can’t help waking up one day and not loving someone anymore? It’s gotta be the same going in and out. Logical or senseless. And if you ask me, since every other damn feeling out there – through rooted in logic – has no substantial reason other than impulse of thought, I’d go with the latter. Love is smooth, but it’s not logical and it sure as hell isn’t constant.
We raced through a fragile honey-colored plane of impossibilities. There were problems, but love is tricky like that because it makes you think it will conquer all. If any human emotion could conquer all, we’d be in trouble; the world spins round because we learn and grow and change our minds. And then I couldn’t take it anymore and threw a fit, and perhaps we rushed with the breakup. But he knew. He knew how I felt and he went on living the single life in front of my face. I remember one day, way back when we first started dating, I told him I’m worried because I feel like I’m falling too hard, and he smiled and kissed me and said our relationship just became serious. I should've known right there love was bullshit. But I wanted it so damn hard to be real, so I believed.
On the sixty third day, I told him everything. That I still loved him and was mad at myself for giving up so easily. He listened with a completely grave expression on his expressionless face, and after a few seconds of silence he buried his face in his hands and said “I don’t want you anymore.” His reply didn’t shock me – I knew what the verdict would be before going into the conversation – but I just wanted him to know, even though he already knew. I wanted him to hear it from my mouth in case there was an ounce of a chance that he still felt it. Because up until that moment, I believed love could be constant. And in the realm of my daydreams, I suppose it could have been; but in the real world, there is nothing permanent except change. His emotions were not hidden or even all that complicated. They were as transient as anger and indifference. You can look at a pretty box all you want, but eventually you’ll have to open it, and it will be empty.
So I’m going out on a Sunday evening. I will put on my new button-up overthrow and brown high-heeled boots, and I will go into a coffee shop and read “The Picture of Dorian Gray” and flaunt my independence. And if some cute (or, more likely, creepy) guy flirts with me, so be it. Because life’s not about trying to hold on to one thing when the world is madly spinning around you; it’s about, for example, how the New York weather knows exactly how to appease your mood when all you want to do is listen to the never-ending car honks and watch the cold city lights change colors. It’s about the people who don’t know the worth of something until it’s gone forever.
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Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Saturday, November 21
Wednesday, August 12
First step to happiness
Trust is tricky because you can't really love without trust. Even after my mother catches me lying to her, the next day she still takes my word for where I'm going that night (though with more suspicion) because she loves me unconditionally. A love without trust is tainted, and an honest relationship of any kind is impossible.
I rarely believe in successful relationships after one of the partners has cheated. The other tries to overcome the past because "I'm still in love", but except in rare cases where the trust is fully regained after a certain period of time, there will always be a slight sense of discomfort regardless of how benevolent both people's intentions are. I'm not criticizing - I've been cheated on in the past, and though I broke it off, I always gave another chance. But I'm also not denying that it won't be the same. Every time I see him messaging a girl he's messed with in the past, I flinch. Every time he stays out past midnight, it takes a big effort to drive away the slight paranoia that won't let me fall asleep. Why bother, if it's such a big stress case? Because "I'm still in love". But after weeks of the same scenario I can honestly say that it sucks.
A relationship is successful if it continues to make you happy, and true happiness is a long-term sort of contentness. An emotional roller coaster of tears and ecstasy is all fun when you're, like, 15, but after a while you want something that brings you security. What I'm doing is about as antonymic of security as milk and Campari, and yet I stay. And here's a fun fact: I've been crying every night for the past week. Every damn night - about moving away, my parents' scandals, getting yelled at at the post office (yeah... seriously), being the emotional baggage girl in college, and how I'm losing this fight. I feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot when I tell him my insecurities, but that's wrong, because someone who truly cares about you won't love you less for your insecurities. Those nights, I feel helpless and can't think of a single step to take in the positive direction.
Then there are times like now, when I think I know what that step has to be. It is to trust, no matter how badly you want to keep your guard up. Either trust, or leave. I don't have much experience in love, but I think in the long term, it's better to be the person who puts themselves out there and gets hurt rather than the one who always lives in suspicion. Because pretending to be happy is about as helpful to you as knowing that tulips come from Turkey.
Continue reading >>
I rarely believe in successful relationships after one of the partners has cheated. The other tries to overcome the past because "I'm still in love", but except in rare cases where the trust is fully regained after a certain period of time, there will always be a slight sense of discomfort regardless of how benevolent both people's intentions are. I'm not criticizing - I've been cheated on in the past, and though I broke it off, I always gave another chance. But I'm also not denying that it won't be the same. Every time I see him messaging a girl he's messed with in the past, I flinch. Every time he stays out past midnight, it takes a big effort to drive away the slight paranoia that won't let me fall asleep. Why bother, if it's such a big stress case? Because "I'm still in love". But after weeks of the same scenario I can honestly say that it sucks.
A relationship is successful if it continues to make you happy, and true happiness is a long-term sort of contentness. An emotional roller coaster of tears and ecstasy is all fun when you're, like, 15, but after a while you want something that brings you security. What I'm doing is about as antonymic of security as milk and Campari, and yet I stay. And here's a fun fact: I've been crying every night for the past week. Every damn night - about moving away, my parents' scandals, getting yelled at at the post office (yeah... seriously), being the emotional baggage girl in college, and how I'm losing this fight. I feel like I'm shooting myself in the foot when I tell him my insecurities, but that's wrong, because someone who truly cares about you won't love you less for your insecurities. Those nights, I feel helpless and can't think of a single step to take in the positive direction.
Then there are times like now, when I think I know what that step has to be. It is to trust, no matter how badly you want to keep your guard up. Either trust, or leave. I don't have much experience in love, but I think in the long term, it's better to be the person who puts themselves out there and gets hurt rather than the one who always lives in suspicion. Because pretending to be happy is about as helpful to you as knowing that tulips come from Turkey.
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Friday, May 29
It starts in my toes, and I crinkle my nose
As we drove down the road that was more twisted than a pair of untangled headphones, he laughed at my “focus” face. Both eyes ahead, eyebrow muscles slightly strained. I could only afford to crank the car up to 40 – anything faster guaranteed a run-in with the mountain slope. We didn’t talk much on the way up; I remember “Birthday Sex” came on the radio and we sang along in our mutual tonedeafness. How easy it all was. I knew I was going to be home an hour late and I knew I would never hear the end of it, but I went anyway. So I pushed away all thoughts about what I was going to tell my mother and enjoyed the view that was starting to peek through the treetops.
The view was amazing. More stars than I’ve ever seen concentrated at one dot, and others thrown around like dandruff on a black suit. The entire bay area slept under a soft thin fog. A few lights here and there, but mostly it was black, with a barely perceptible red glow that I could only assume were the diffused street and bridge lights. It was surprisingly warm. Four other cars were parked next to ours, whose owners leaned against the railing smoking and laughing and talking and kissing. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of us, so everyone had their privacy.
There, with my feet on the ledge, cigarette in one hand and his hood strings in the other, was the first time I felt a goodbye. What a perfect place to bid farewell to the last nine years in this town. This – the town, the warm air, the rough skin on his hands – felt like home. I did not think about talking as words glided effortlessly through my mouth, and everything that was said was just right. Just enough. Then again, there isn’t enough time in the world (especially not a week and two days) to say everything. But that’s just how it is, and how it always was.
“What will happen on this very day in five years?” I asked. He pressed his lips to mine. “You’ll be in my apartment, telling me about school,” he decided. “And I’ll hopefully be telling you about my school. Not hopefully – I will be telling you about how I accomplished my goal.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t get into my hair. “And what exactly is your goal?” “Easy – to be successful,” he shrugged. “I know I’ll get there in five years.” No, I thought. Easy was what we were doing now. It really only gets harder from here. But nothing else needed to be said, so we looked at each other in silence as the wind played with our jackets.
There are many times when I think I deserve better. Many memories of pain and disappointment, and countless promises to myself to never go down that road again. And while I’m sticking to that promise, part of me desperately wants this one last week. And that part of me wins the age-old battle of brain versus heart. Because if this is as good as it gets, then it gets pretty damn amazing. It brings charm and comfort to any ordinary thing. Where will I find comfort in the crazy, chaotic New York City?
And then I remember how much we’d give up for each other. Screwed could not even begin to describe our condition that night with our parents, and if you don’t count the drive there and back, the entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Was it worth it? Hell to the fucking yeah.
I know I’ll get used to it, sometime in the next year, eventually. I just have no clue how I have to bear the separation now.
Continue reading >>
The view was amazing. More stars than I’ve ever seen concentrated at one dot, and others thrown around like dandruff on a black suit. The entire bay area slept under a soft thin fog. A few lights here and there, but mostly it was black, with a barely perceptible red glow that I could only assume were the diffused street and bridge lights. It was surprisingly warm. Four other cars were parked next to ours, whose owners leaned against the railing smoking and laughing and talking and kissing. It was impossible to see more than five feet in front of us, so everyone had their privacy.
There, with my feet on the ledge, cigarette in one hand and his hood strings in the other, was the first time I felt a goodbye. What a perfect place to bid farewell to the last nine years in this town. This – the town, the warm air, the rough skin on his hands – felt like home. I did not think about talking as words glided effortlessly through my mouth, and everything that was said was just right. Just enough. Then again, there isn’t enough time in the world (especially not a week and two days) to say everything. But that’s just how it is, and how it always was.
“What will happen on this very day in five years?” I asked. He pressed his lips to mine. “You’ll be in my apartment, telling me about school,” he decided. “And I’ll hopefully be telling you about my school. Not hopefully – I will be telling you about how I accomplished my goal.” He blew the smoke out the side of his mouth so it wouldn’t get into my hair. “And what exactly is your goal?” “Easy – to be successful,” he shrugged. “I know I’ll get there in five years.” No, I thought. Easy was what we were doing now. It really only gets harder from here. But nothing else needed to be said, so we looked at each other in silence as the wind played with our jackets.
There are many times when I think I deserve better. Many memories of pain and disappointment, and countless promises to myself to never go down that road again. And while I’m sticking to that promise, part of me desperately wants this one last week. And that part of me wins the age-old battle of brain versus heart. Because if this is as good as it gets, then it gets pretty damn amazing. It brings charm and comfort to any ordinary thing. Where will I find comfort in the crazy, chaotic New York City?
And then I remember how much we’d give up for each other. Screwed could not even begin to describe our condition that night with our parents, and if you don’t count the drive there and back, the entire meeting lasted less than twenty minutes. Was it worth it? Hell to the fucking yeah.
I know I’ll get used to it, sometime in the next year, eventually. I just have no clue how I have to bear the separation now.
Continue reading >>
Sunday, May 10
Black Coffee
By Cathy C., Damascus, MD
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me on the sixty-third day after I fell in love.
It started quickly, but it always starts quickly. Love was classic, and love was smooth. If there were a soundtrack to those first four months, it would consist of nothing but Frank Sinatra songs. The cover would be black and white. A picture of a coffee house. And that’s where we met: a coffee house. Classy. He ordered a medium coffee, black. I ordered, well, I don’t remember, but I remember he ordered his coffee black.
After the quick start, after the laughing and the crazy nights and the dreamy eyes, everything slowed. It always does. But mostly you just don’t notice what speed you’re going. Once I fell for him, though, it was all about which love song on the radio reminded me of him. Love is like that. It’s waiting in line to check out in the grocery store and taking all the lovey-dovey quizzes in the trashy magazines. And it’s all about those music videos full of slow-motion shots of two people running their hands along each other’s skin. Once I had fallen, I kept falling – like Alice down the rabbit hole. Incoherent objects and instances flew by me as I fell, for what seemed like eternity. Contrary to popular belief, eternity is actually only 63 days long.
It doesn’t matter anymore what started it. It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, it doesn’t matter why we said it. But I gotta tell you, coming out of love feels a lot more like falling. And I stood on his door step, after the screaming and after the tears. Calm, collected I stood there for a good four minutes. Not moving, just letting the rain soak into my white shirt. Of course it had to be raining; it rained like someone had just died in a Disney movie. And of course I had to be wearing white, because everyone knows you have got to look the most pathetic after a breakup and I don’t think standing in the rain for four minutes in a white shirt could be any more pathetic. It didn’t matter how it ended to me, just that it ended.
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” he had yelled. A cup of black coffee was all I could think about. If you are ever in a coffee house and a man is drinking his coffee black, don’t be intrigued. It’s not a sign of mystery, it’s not a sign of suaveness. Because his heart is as decorated as his coffee. He is empty, which is tricky because even when you attain something empty, you still feel like you’ve gotten something. Don’t be fooled. You can marvel at the pretty package all you want; but eventually you will open it. Empty.
So I got on a plane to the East Coast. I am gonna go wherever I want. I am gonna do whatever I want. When I land in New England, the first thing I’ll do is put on my cutest outfit. Then I am gonna go to the nearest coffee house and stand right next to the cream and sugar.
© teenink.com
Continue reading >>
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” That’s what he said to me. That’s what he said to me on the sixty-third day after I fell in love.
It started quickly, but it always starts quickly. Love was classic, and love was smooth. If there were a soundtrack to those first four months, it would consist of nothing but Frank Sinatra songs. The cover would be black and white. A picture of a coffee house. And that’s where we met: a coffee house. Classy. He ordered a medium coffee, black. I ordered, well, I don’t remember, but I remember he ordered his coffee black.
After the quick start, after the laughing and the crazy nights and the dreamy eyes, everything slowed. It always does. But mostly you just don’t notice what speed you’re going. Once I fell for him, though, it was all about which love song on the radio reminded me of him. Love is like that. It’s waiting in line to check out in the grocery store and taking all the lovey-dovey quizzes in the trashy magazines. And it’s all about those music videos full of slow-motion shots of two people running their hands along each other’s skin. Once I had fallen, I kept falling – like Alice down the rabbit hole. Incoherent objects and instances flew by me as I fell, for what seemed like eternity. Contrary to popular belief, eternity is actually only 63 days long.
It doesn’t matter anymore what started it. It doesn’t matter anymore who said what, it doesn’t matter why we said it. But I gotta tell you, coming out of love feels a lot more like falling. And I stood on his door step, after the screaming and after the tears. Calm, collected I stood there for a good four minutes. Not moving, just letting the rain soak into my white shirt. Of course it had to be raining; it rained like someone had just died in a Disney movie. And of course I had to be wearing white, because everyone knows you have got to look the most pathetic after a breakup and I don’t think standing in the rain for four minutes in a white shirt could be any more pathetic. It didn’t matter how it ended to me, just that it ended.
“I don’t care where you go or what you do!” he had yelled. A cup of black coffee was all I could think about. If you are ever in a coffee house and a man is drinking his coffee black, don’t be intrigued. It’s not a sign of mystery, it’s not a sign of suaveness. Because his heart is as decorated as his coffee. He is empty, which is tricky because even when you attain something empty, you still feel like you’ve gotten something. Don’t be fooled. You can marvel at the pretty package all you want; but eventually you will open it. Empty.
So I got on a plane to the East Coast. I am gonna go wherever I want. I am gonna do whatever I want. When I land in New England, the first thing I’ll do is put on my cutest outfit. Then I am gonna go to the nearest coffee house and stand right next to the cream and sugar.
© teenink.com
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Wednesday, May 6
Whoever thought of chicken soup obviously never had Bailey's
Because, let's be honest, the soup kinda tastes like oil and shoelaces. Bailey's, on the other hand, tastes like chocolate wrapped in sunshine. The taste of alcohol is almost unnoticeable, but the mixture still has that dazed-dizzy-but-completely-relaxed effect on the body and the mind.
The reason I bring this up is that I'm having a hard time dealing with what happened. I want to think about all of it at once and never remember it again at the same time. To avoid falling into a mopyteenagercoma when I'm left to myself, I do what I do best - draw, write, paint, sing, play, make, bake, whatever - but all of that somehow seems to relate back to the brooding thoughts that pound at the back of my mind where I left them to rot and fester. So I decided there's no use fighting them anymore. But there is a healthy way of letting them seep out on their own, and that's why I'm creating a special segment in my blog that will hopefully let me express everything I want implicitly. It's a collection of poems, paintings, and short stories, some by me and some by people who've had similar experiences. I'm hoping to recreate that feeling left by Bailey's that is so carefree and intoxicating, you'd swear you just jogged off five pounds of cellulite and are now having your celebratory cake.
As a side note: it's difficult to publish stuff that's very personal. The reason I created the blog is because I wanted people to hear what I had to say, but there are many things I write every day that will never be seen by anybody else. I could just as easily have kept these poems and stories private, but I think it'll be easier for me to get over if I'm not the only one looking at them. Maybe if I allow it to fester out there rather than in here, under the judgmental condescending eyes of people who probably don't relate and will likely misunderstand, I won't feel confined to my own contemplations. Or maybe I'll find people that do relate, and help them out as well.
Here is something to start things off (and also because it's 11:46 in the night before my morning english lit exam). Who needs poultry? I'll take a shot of the Irish Creme.
Chalk by Rebecca Ann Brown, 13
Love is like a piece of chalk
First it's brand new
Never been used
Then
With time
It fades away slowly
Until there is nothing left
But a small, tiny piece
That cannot be held anymore
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Saturday, May 2
From the confines of a dark, stuffy bedroom
So I caved - I did do some thinking in the past 48 bedridden hours. Because after my stomach was full and my eyes started burning from the TV, there was nothing else left for me to do.
In all this thinking and contemplating, I've figured out the meaning of life. Honestly. I understood the reason we are all here on this earth, living and breathing and avoiding death, the reason we're all struggling to get ahead in school and work and love. The point behind everything. And it's simple. Ready? We do it for happiness. And this isn't a discovery, it was pretty much the first thing we learned in ethics class (after Jahshan's rendition of Plato's "is this a real desk, or isn't it??"). But, just as with all good things, it gets more complicated than just being happy.
For a long time, I used to think love and relationships were the most important thing in the world. Like that quote from Heroes: "So much struggle for meaning, for purpose. And in the end, we find it only in each other." What good is a load of money without anyone to share it with? For me personally, I don't think this outlook will ever change. But lately I've been around different kinds of people - scientists, librarians, donors - people who live for another cause. And then I get to thinking about people like Tibetan monks - I mean, they sit in one position for days and weeks and YEARS and get more kick out of doing that than anything else.
Then maybe happiness is relative for every single individual. This seems like a obvious statement, but someone whose ultimate goal isn't finding love? To me that sounds absurd, to them it makes complete sense. To the people whose craft is the most important thing in their lives, the people that give it their all. And that's where they choose to focus their love: the scientist in his creation, the librarian in the world of knowledge and imagination, the donor in alleviating pain for the greatest number of people. And with all the love they give to their work, they can't possibly equally share it with another person. And this makes sense. They've found their happiness.
Then there are people like me - and I'm assuming this is the majority of us - who really will only find meaning and purpose in each other. When life throws us lemons or limes or whatever other shitty bundle of bitterness it has, we turn to our that one other person for comfort. And if we do find someone who can give us that comfort in any shitty situation, we can say we've truly achieved happiness.
But wait! It still gets more complicated. There is not a single functional relationship without problems. Like a stand-up comedian once said, "if you've never contemplated suicide, you've never been in love; if you've never contemplated murder, you've never had a divorce". Just when we think we've hit that happy peak, everything comes crashing down in another fight or misunderstanding.
And that, right there, is the point: nothing in this world that's worth having comes easy. The scientist goes through countless failed experiments, but calls it 'success in finding what doesn't work'. The monk has every part of his body fall asleep ten times over before he feels that special tingly feeling monks are supposed to feel to reassure themselves that what they're doing is the greatest of all. And we hurt. A lot. We get cheated on, ignored, deserted, forgotten about, taken for granted, lied to, replaced, and rejected. But we put ourselves out there again, and again, and again. And the only reason for that stupid risk is the extremely ridiculous, incomparable happiness that is right up there with love.
So don't give up. Things don't just work out for people even if they are in love. You have to fight for it, work through it, breathe in it. Forget all the "if it's meant to be, it'll work out" crap. True - it does require some chance and luck, and sometimes second chance. But that's all you're going to get - a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Will you stay engaged to Lon, or get into the car and drive your butt back to that town to see Noah?
Don't wait until the chance is gone. Then you will just end up sitting in a dusty classroom as the summer leaves give way to cold September, wondering how in hell two years flew by so fast.
Continue reading >>
In all this thinking and contemplating, I've figured out the meaning of life. Honestly. I understood the reason we are all here on this earth, living and breathing and avoiding death, the reason we're all struggling to get ahead in school and work and love. The point behind everything. And it's simple. Ready? We do it for happiness. And this isn't a discovery, it was pretty much the first thing we learned in ethics class (after Jahshan's rendition of Plato's "is this a real desk, or isn't it??"). But, just as with all good things, it gets more complicated than just being happy.
For a long time, I used to think love and relationships were the most important thing in the world. Like that quote from Heroes: "So much struggle for meaning, for purpose. And in the end, we find it only in each other." What good is a load of money without anyone to share it with? For me personally, I don't think this outlook will ever change. But lately I've been around different kinds of people - scientists, librarians, donors - people who live for another cause. And then I get to thinking about people like Tibetan monks - I mean, they sit in one position for days and weeks and YEARS and get more kick out of doing that than anything else.
Then maybe happiness is relative for every single individual. This seems like a obvious statement, but someone whose ultimate goal isn't finding love? To me that sounds absurd, to them it makes complete sense. To the people whose craft is the most important thing in their lives, the people that give it their all. And that's where they choose to focus their love: the scientist in his creation, the librarian in the world of knowledge and imagination, the donor in alleviating pain for the greatest number of people. And with all the love they give to their work, they can't possibly equally share it with another person. And this makes sense. They've found their happiness.
Then there are people like me - and I'm assuming this is the majority of us - who really will only find meaning and purpose in each other. When life throws us lemons or limes or whatever other shitty bundle of bitterness it has, we turn to our that one other person for comfort. And if we do find someone who can give us that comfort in any shitty situation, we can say we've truly achieved happiness.
But wait! It still gets more complicated. There is not a single functional relationship without problems. Like a stand-up comedian once said, "if you've never contemplated suicide, you've never been in love; if you've never contemplated murder, you've never had a divorce". Just when we think we've hit that happy peak, everything comes crashing down in another fight or misunderstanding.
And that, right there, is the point: nothing in this world that's worth having comes easy. The scientist goes through countless failed experiments, but calls it 'success in finding what doesn't work'. The monk has every part of his body fall asleep ten times over before he feels that special tingly feeling monks are supposed to feel to reassure themselves that what they're doing is the greatest of all. And we hurt. A lot. We get cheated on, ignored, deserted, forgotten about, taken for granted, lied to, replaced, and rejected. But we put ourselves out there again, and again, and again. And the only reason for that stupid risk is the extremely ridiculous, incomparable happiness that is right up there with love.
So don't give up. Things don't just work out for people even if they are in love. You have to fight for it, work through it, breathe in it. Forget all the "if it's meant to be, it'll work out" crap. True - it does require some chance and luck, and sometimes second chance. But that's all you're going to get - a chance. What you do with it is up to you. Will you stay engaged to Lon, or get into the car and drive your butt back to that town to see Noah?
Don't wait until the chance is gone. Then you will just end up sitting in a dusty classroom as the summer leaves give way to cold September, wondering how in hell two years flew by so fast.
Continue reading >>
Thursday, March 12
A day in my life, in haikus
Since I've unfortunately fallen ill this morning, I've taken a couple hours to catch up on writing some poems. This one is about Monday, March 9th.
0:41 AM
Took a leap of faith.
Talking is fun after dark,
Among other things.
5:08 AM
Don't make any noise.
Put your shoes back on downstairs.
"I made it in. Night :)"
11:32 AM
Phone call woke me up.
Do homework? Hell to the no.
He wants a lighter.
12:10 PM
Breakfast at Starbucks,
By myself, contemplating.
Wrote this post right here.
2:29 PM
Still drinking coffee.
"What are you doing?" phone beeps.
I reply. No answer back.
4:41 PM
Invites me to watch
"Kung Fu Panda" at his house.
Different couches.
5:10 PM
Why is this awkward?
We know each other like the
Backs of our hands. Bleh.
6:21 PM
"Wanna have dinner?"
He asks, "in like two hours?"
Hm. What to expect?
6:30 PM
Get home, finally.
Called mother, she's working late.
Killed time on Facebook.
7:30 PM
Homework? Hahaha.
House is eerily quiet
As it waits with me.
8:18 PM
I could eat a bear.
"Meet me outside in three mins".
But I look like shit!
8:21 PM
Cleaned the living room,
Washed the dishes, made myself
Pretty. I am good.
8:40 PM
Deliberation.
Mediterranean? Thai?
Italian? Gah!
8:57 PM
Ordered meat kabob.
Good conversation. About books.
I didn't think he read!
9:23 PM
It's an itch we know
We are gonna scratch, when oh
When will this egg hatch?
9:52 PM
Under the full moon.
Smiles by the little playground.
Arms lock. You smell nice.
10:05 PM
Big plans. Can people
Really change? Priya says so.
Today, I agreed.
11:49 PM
Best weekend ever.
Time to descend from the clouds.
What could go wrong now?
© Me, 3/12/09 Continue reading >>
0:41 AM
Took a leap of faith.
Talking is fun after dark,
Among other things.
5:08 AM
Don't make any noise.
Put your shoes back on downstairs.
"I made it in. Night :)"
11:32 AM
Phone call woke me up.
Do homework? Hell to the no.
He wants a lighter.
12:10 PM
Breakfast at Starbucks,
By myself, contemplating.
Wrote this post right here.
2:29 PM
Still drinking coffee.
"What are you doing?" phone beeps.
I reply. No answer back.
4:41 PM
Invites me to watch
"Kung Fu Panda" at his house.
Different couches.
5:10 PM
Why is this awkward?
We know each other like the
Backs of our hands. Bleh.
6:21 PM
"Wanna have dinner?"
He asks, "in like two hours?"
Hm. What to expect?
6:30 PM
Get home, finally.
Called mother, she's working late.
Killed time on Facebook.
7:30 PM
Homework? Hahaha.
House is eerily quiet
As it waits with me.
8:18 PM
I could eat a bear.
"Meet me outside in three mins".
But I look like shit!
8:21 PM
Cleaned the living room,
Washed the dishes, made myself
Pretty. I am good.
8:40 PM
Deliberation.
Mediterranean? Thai?
Italian? Gah!
8:57 PM
Ordered meat kabob.
Good conversation. About books.
I didn't think he read!
9:23 PM
It's an itch we know
We are gonna scratch, when oh
When will this egg hatch?
9:52 PM
Under the full moon.
Smiles by the little playground.
Arms lock. You smell nice.
10:05 PM
Big plans. Can people
Really change? Priya says so.
Today, I agreed.
11:49 PM
Best weekend ever.
Time to descend from the clouds.
What could go wrong now?
© Me, 3/12/09 Continue reading >>
Monday, March 9
When love is just short of enough
I will warn you from the very beginning that this post will probably end up sappy, unnecessarily dramatic, emotional, and reek of unhappy.
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
Continue reading >>
I'm sitting in Starbucks designing the header for my new blog for journalism class. It will be news-oriented with a weekly fictional story, but whatever about that. I'm sitting here, still shaken from last night. I can't say what happened because I'm afraid that no words in this language can accurately depict what took place. I'm afraid of wrong words. Truth is, I wish I could find the right way to express the situation at least to myself, but the part of my mind that's devoted to (over)thinking is a big fat clouded mess.
It's times like these when I wish I left the country next day. Like a one night stand, I want to keep the memory of what happened exactly the way it is without the morning-after crap. I want to sit on a plane and savor the details, mentally storing it into the favorite-moments bin, and many years later recall it with a few girlfriends over a bottle of wine. What I don't want is to be sitting in Starbucks trying to decide how to deal with the consequences, where to go from here, and whether I should keep waiting for something that kinda really won't happen.
Last night was the release. We were balancing on the tip of a dagger, and last night we fell. It was absolutely bound to happen, but then again, so was this the next day. I don't know why we drive ourselves into the same cycle. I swear, we are self-destructive. Or maybe it's just the way humans are built; maybe once we get it all, there's nothing to want anymore. If last night was so good, why is running far away all I can think about? Because I know it can only go downhill from here. This has happened too many times; I know the pattern too well.
There's something missing. I can't drive the feeling away that this is not how things should go - that if you want to be with someone, you wouldn't get tired of their company. And it's not only him. As much as I listen for the text-message beep on my phone, I want solitude. It's hard to want everything and nothing at the same time.
And then there's that feeling of the inevitable: we should just give it up because it's not going to work. We're not right. We don't fit like puzzle pieces, don't complete each other's half-empty glasses. We both know damn well that we're going on completely different paths in life, and it's only a matter of three or so months before those paths divide forever. Then why bother? Why make goodbye harder?
I can't do this to myself, again. I just can't.
"You know something?"
"Hmm?"
"Every time we're at this point, when things are this good, we think - nothing could go wrong. But it always does."
"I know. I forgot how good it felt to just lie here."
"But why? Why do things always have to go wrong?"
"I think it's because we say it every time. We say, what could possibly go wrong from here? We're jinxing it."
"Mmm."
"It's a vicious cycle."
"But you know what? Screw it. Even if it gets worse, I don't mind as long as we end up back here eventually."
"Yeah. Me neither."
Continue reading >>
Sunday, March 8
Wednesday, February 25
Oh summer, how I miss thy overconfidence
I was recently going through a journal I kept this summer while I was in Russia/Turkmenistan. Things I write in journals somehow always seem to amuse me. They're different from the things I type, even if it's just into a word document no one looks at but me. On paper I seem so much more vulnerable, naive, and sure of myself. Also, a page is something tangible - it is so much easier to acknowledge that it's history, that the tantrum of feelings has passed and my views have matured. Still, every now and then I come across something so gold I can't let it collect dust with the many forgotten notebooks resting on my bookshelf.
This was written on July 25, 2008:
It's funny how things are completely different now, yet somehow they're the same. We're the same old egocentric cynical self-serving creatures, we just grew up a bit.
And you know what? Between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Continue reading >>
This was written on July 25, 2008:
In the seventeen years of our existence, have we figured out what we need? It seems everyone is running around hooking up, breaking up, making up, and in general obsessing over the complex infrastructure of the opposite sex. And for what? You’d think that out of selfcenteredness, the majority of us would pull stage four [talking about our psychological stages of development, stage 4 being our attempt to figure out who we are, stage 5 focusing on our significant other] out for as long as possible. But it’s having the opposite effect. In your case, stage five is the last legal type of slavery left on earth and, hell, girls are a whining sobbing nagging nerve-wrecking machine of commitment that are good for screwing and maybe making dinner. On the offhand that chick is “cool” – gets wasted in the daytime, regular cop trouble, all that jazz that makes your friends laugh and applaud – she might get an invitation to smoke at Jack’s. Yes, the infamous Friday afternoons at Jack’s. I’m not even sure Jack’s a real person, probably just a code name for a blunt.
Then there’s me. where do I fit in your UrbanDictionary of life? Search term: Masha. Results: doesn’t smoke, drinks rarely on occasion (like New Years with my mother), refuses to listen to hardcore rap, can’t cook to save her life, and says more words per minute than all your pothead friends put together have in their vocabulary. But you loved me and said you'll never stop. I didn’t buy that last Tuck-Everlasting bit then, nor do I buy it now, but I think you naively believed what you were saying.
Then what do we mean to each other? Underneath our cynical responses, our steel masks made to conceal – jealousy? pain? – our egocentric “luv ya”s and “baby, suck my dick”, our words thrown at each other like stones wrapped in fuzzy socks (dirty socks, in your case, that you leave in my room and I have to hide in my CD opener), underneath our smirks, our sarcasm, our vodka, your weed, are two people. Without an armor for our tender bodies and without any defense mechanisms. Yes, there are people that care about me more than you do, but it’s your love I want. And underneath your mad fits of jealousy, I think you need it just as much as I do. In the sappy stage four of our imperfect lives.
I’m almost seventeen years old; it’s time to find a balance.
It's funny how things are completely different now, yet somehow they're the same. We're the same old egocentric cynical self-serving creatures, we just grew up a bit.
And you know what? Between us, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Continue reading >>
Sunday, February 22
Life's pleasures are illegal, immoral, and fattening
I recently bought a book that's called "11,002 things to be miserable about" from the humor section at Borders. It was apparently inspired by a bunnies-and-rainbows book called "14,000 Things to Be Happy About", a comprehensive list of life's small joys. While I find its dark opposite way more hilarious, I'm saving that list for tomorrow's List of the Week. As for tonight - in honor of my (rare) happy mood - here's a small insight on little things that make me happy.
Waking up to the smell of bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese
A good, make that awesome, hair day
A Milkyway bar
Making a real dinner and not burning it
Finding a song that is sing-alongable
Getting daisies
Driving without parents
Text messages
Wednesdays
Cracking open a brand new book and burying my nose in it
SNL skits that are actually funny
"Hairspray"
Drooling over sexy British men
Really bad "that's what she said" jokes
Laughing at your terrible, terrible voice as you sing along to Ne-Yo's "Mad" but joining in anyway, when we're in my car gulping down Tapioca drinks and speeding down El Camino
Just to reiterate a point in an earlier post, don't leave those you love! You never know what kind of crap life will think up next and when you'll ever see them again. Honestly, this is a very rare mood for me, so I'm going to get this out there while I'm still on an emotional high:
Waking up to the smell of bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese
A good, make that awesome, hair day
A Milkyway bar
Making a real dinner and not burning it
Finding a song that is sing-alongable
Getting daisies
Driving without parents
Text messages
Wednesdays
Cracking open a brand new book and burying my nose in it
SNL skits that are actually funny
"Hairspray"
Drooling over sexy British men
Really bad "that's what she said" jokes
Laughing at your terrible, terrible voice as you sing along to Ne-Yo's "Mad" but joining in anyway, when we're in my car gulping down Tapioca drinks and speeding down El Camino
Just to reiterate a point in an earlier post, don't leave those you love! You never know what kind of crap life will think up next and when you'll ever see them again. Honestly, this is a very rare mood for me, so I'm going to get this out there while I'm still on an emotional high:
Take too many bad pictures, laugh like you're a psychotic poodle, and throw yourself out there like you've never been hurt. Because every 60 seconds you spend angry or upset is a minute of happiness you'll never get back.
<3
Continue reading >>
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