hello hello hello!! (updates for my own sanity)

hello person!! how was your day?

so this is a story of me, I, a turd, on a journey to become a rainbow turd with sparkles and fairy dust.

recently I’ve been:

  • doing my independent study project! which is really cool but should have spread work more … proportionately throughout the year *cough
  • trying to improve my time management – gosh dammit I’m getting progressively worse at doing things and I HATE IT
  • fighting off senioritis with my bare knuckles & anything chuckable nearby
  • occasionally dabbling in IR & design & photography
  • trying to be better at writing
  • spending WAY too much time on social media >> needs to stop

my big projects:

  • independent study whoop whoop (i get to do it with one of the most talented person I’ve ever met & we gripe together)
  • web design for: independent study, my high school, a company, my own site
  • 2d design for: my high school

things to do things to do:

  • grad speech wow its so hard to write
  • organizing CSC things & certificates
  • thank-yous to my teachers
  • prom prep
  • letters for friends, letters to cool strangers I admire a lot

things to STOP DOING!!!

  • comparing myself to others AND BEATING MYSELF DOWN FOR BEING A TURD
  • sleeping at 2am
  • procrastinating & living in fear wtf mate
  • spending 2-3 hrs each day on social media

OK some personal goals:

  • time management
  • fear less
  • be a critically thinking turd
  • organize your words, your desk, your shopping list, & reciepts

 

i’m scared

I’m 19 and I’m scared.

I’m scared of who I’ve become – overwhelmed, discouraged, a procrastinator; naive, unconfident; always finding excuses. Becoming dependent on and then desensitized to pick me ups. Knowingly making the wrong decision. Over and over; once, twice, thrice, four times, and I lose count.

There’s such a major cognitive dissonance that exists within me: I wish with all my heart to be someone better, but I refuse to take any steps in that direction.

Instead, I procrastinate, I sloppily disregard personal plans and deadlines, then it becomes normal. I know I won’t finish on time. Justifying your mistakes is such a painful process: you’re wrong, are you going to lie to yourself?

I find myself looking more and more backwards. 9th grade, 8th grade, 7th grade; heck, 2nd grade, kindergarten. That kid that read so much, that laughed so much, that dreamed so much; she knew so much. She knew she had to work hard. She knew life didn’t owe her any excuses. She knew what she wanted, a heart so small filled with an imagination of the future so enormous. She knew the whole world couldn’t stop her.

But who would’ve known; she was stopped by herself.

I’m 19 and I’m scared. I haven’t lived up to the idealistic goals that I envisioned when I was eight, but that’s ok, when you’re young you want to do everything. What terrifies me is losing this sense of pushing oneself to improve, to be who you’ve wanted to be, to do what you’ve wanted to do; these important feelings have been absent.

I’ve wanted so much to free myself from rigorous discipline to find honest curiosity, that I’ve also freed myself from this search – sparks dissipate instead of flaring into flames.

g’luck, 19 year old. this life is still yours.

December; subway

I walk past the old man, white beard, wrinkled fingers. Thin gray garments, traditional Chinese buttoning, shoes made of cloth. His hands move the Erhu bow, slightly, weakly; it only shifts the bow 2 inches where it should have been pushed along 5. There’s no sound. His eyes are half-open, or maybe closed; I can’t tell. There’s no sound, no cacophony, no string rubbing with string to the point of screeching.

His hand moves the Erhu bow, faintly, painfully. There is no sound.

The dented ceramic cup sits in front of his crossed legs, a symbol of his situation. It’s a boundary: two feet from that cup, the stream of rush-hour, quick footsteps, earpods, smart phones, human voices bouncing off the gray marble floor, each different but each eager to reach home. The noise is loud and it makes me uncomfortable. The cup is a boundary: a two-feet boundary of cynicism and apathy, a two-feet boundary between exuberant chaos and deathly silence, two feet between this life and theirs. My two feet stand in the boundary.

A week later, I walk past the old man again. Still, the thin beard, the rush-hour, the dented cup before him.

His hands don’t move.

He ran to the ocean

He ran to the ocean.

It was truly a beautiful day. The saturated sky glowed azure and the sand underneath it sat delicately: white, soft, and as clean as the clouds. It dampened to a glossy gold where the waves lapped at it. No one else was here.

The boy paused at the edge of the asphalt, before the sand.

The sun bloomed like a chrysanthemum, steadily pollinating the sea with sparkles and glitters that each only ephemerally decorates the dark crests.

He wished he could lose himself in the serenity, the senseless beauty, the nothingness. And for that moment he did. He plunged into the hallucinatory comfort of hallucinatory content. But he could feel himself falling through his own imagination and again he felt afraid.

And rhythmically, the waves came, crashing, crashing.

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes. Pounding through the sand, he ran, wanting to escape the throat-clenching rawness creeping in his chest, the abyss forming and re-forming to eradicate  anything bright he might hide secretly, unconsciously, the intangible guilt weighing him down, always, always.

His feet beat the sand, and each thud drew him closer to the sea. He could barely feel the grains of sand encroaching his shoe; he didn’t know where he was going; he didn’t care. The salt on his face made his eyes hurt. The howling wind rushed to his ears. 

Finally, there was no where else to run so he stopped. The water reached the boy. Water covered his face and poured into his shoes, seeping into the woolen, white socks he put on this morning. That was a lifetime ago. At his feet, there was the crashing of tides, over and over, over and over. He stared. Perhaps this is why he came here, to seek calm in the chaos.

But all he felt were the tears staining his face, the salt-filled wind ruffling his clothes, the rhythmic rush of the ocean. The loneliness and the hurting and the wanting to not feel anything, but also the inability to forget the perpetual weight that filled inside him, dragging.

He didn’t know what to do.

The boy sat down. He couldn’t tell if the salt that parched his lips was from the sea water or from his tears.

But he didn’t care. Tears streaming down his face, he hit it, he struck it rhythmically, he struck the water again and again and again. And the roar of the rush of the ocean came, louder and louder, but he didn’t care.

The problem with words like “doggies”

(This is a weird piece that I don’t want to finish. Normally I would write in a more self-reflective or at least journal-type style, but I really wanted to discuss linguistic conventions and this is what came out. Pooped out. I’ll prob just take it down later.)

I love Tumblr; I love its memorable memes, social justice protests, and useless trivia, yes. Its run-on sentences & random caPATILIZING in the MIDDle of a word & the Trademark ™, its tendency for typos to convey sof and gentl and certain pruhnunciations. It’s cra . zy . punctuations. also its blatant refusal to capitalize in sentences like what im doing here. I love these even more so.

All these unintentionally craft a sense of authenticity. A confident giving of something erroneous, an instinctive rebel against conventions, a stray from the public stream into something not quite private but more like a secret: we both like the same things. On screen, the symbols you type are the faces of your language.

It has a sense of authenticity because with the run on sentences you can show your excitement for something because you just can’t stop ! and there are no pauses for you my reader to stop tooooo hahhahah so this feeling of excitement is shared not only through words but through their form.

It can show your feeling of boredom because when everything is monotone there is no difference in when there is sound and when there is emptiness since everything is dull everything is devoid of feelings and so no one cares.

It is truly experienced. And even if the words do not resonate, their form drags you through the writer’s mind.

It has a sense of authenticity because oH MY GOSH I CAN FINALLY WRITE I ALL CAPS TO SHOW YOU  and the best part is I CAN aLtErNaTe like hoW MUCH BETTER CAN THIS GET??   See, my initial surprise at being given back this choice was made full aware. And better yet, the surprise building up to joy — this increasing and sublimation of emotion — can be felt because oH MY GOSH I can alternate in the middle of my words.

It shares, not communicates. Feelings are clearer, fuller; readers understand better.

But what is the problem with such linguistic conjures? Only one: they sound immature.

Nobody wants to understand a three-year-old kid.