Procrastination My Old Friend

I was supposed to meet Terry at 11 last morning, but I woke up to Damian messaging me at 11 instead... Since I had set my alarm for 9 to get ready on time, naturally I ended up on campus at 1. We met up in the 90s computer lab under the architecture building, where we promptly checked our emails, played Hearthstone, and calculated the minimum grade we'd need on our final to get a C and pass the class. Five years ago, in the final stretches of my senior year of high school (with the same case of senioritis), I would have never imagined myself saying that. I had some lofty plans, misguided maybe, but nevertheless I had only known competitiveness and overachieving so they were my plans.

"Here," I pointed to Terry. "This is where my life took a nosedive."

I was pointing at my transcript, which we had pulled out in our distractions. My second year, first semester, where I had only taken four classes but gotten a C in every single one. I think I even deferred one of the exams. Back then, it was fairly devastating. Now I am just glad it didn't get worse until later.

We finally got around to our lecture slides, and I had just finished reading the first lecture (the introduction), when I got a frantic text from Zach, my lab partner.

"Are you on campus? I'm trying to return the lab kit but I forgot my ID card at home!"

Typical Zach. He'd literally forget his brain if he could, and honestly sometimes it feels like he does.

"Yeah," I texted back. "I'll be there in a bit."

"You have to hurry the office closes in 20 minutes!"

Terry and I had two other lab kits from other classes to return too, so we decided to go together. We practically ran up the hill, and when we get there Zach looks at me sheepishly and says, "Oh, I think they're not closing for another half hour."

We gather up our stuff and the Guardian of Lab Materials (the snarky one, unfortunately, who once asked me where in China I was from and got huffy when I only gave him a vague answer) crossed off each item down the list as we handed them to him. I took out the resistors on our breadboard, the last remnants of the microprocessor lab that had us pull so many all-nighters this semester. We gave back the half-broken breadboard that made our microelectronics lab a nightmare (how does a single resistor oscillate? why did our "ground" have a huge resistance?). I said goodbye to the "graphical programming" torture of NI's myRIO.

It was finally all over.

Zach and I went upstairs to return the last of our parts (by dumping them into the mess already on the table), then we parted ways, probably for the last time. At the beginning of this semester I had had a huge crush on him, which actually finalized my breaking up with my last boyfriend, who I just now realize I had never come up with a nickname for. I kind of knew I wanted to break up with him all along, deep inside my heart, however cruel that sounds. Just like with Yuma, there was that sinking feeling that I didn't want the rest of my life to be like this.

It's a bit hard to explain, but like I had said to JJ, when I'm alone, trying to sleep, I imagine all sorts of adventures and all the flawed, moody, damsel-in-distress (or the male version, anyway) kind of men I'd share these adventures with. Warm, garrulous, sarcastic. All sorts of fantastical situations. With Yuma, with my ex, though in the day they kept me company and kept me distracted, when I settled down for the night I always imagined something more. Something else, something different. I only really realized this after I broke up with Khajiit, that when we were together I didn't dream before I slept.

My ex had asked why I was so determined to break up, why he couldn't change to be the person I want him to be. I couldn't say it back then, and I don't know if I ever can. It really is something intangible, something I can't explain fully but know deep down in my heart.

Well, anyway, back to Zach. At the beginning of the semester I had all sorts of plans to tell him how I felt about him after our lab ended (so that it wasn't awkward). Funny how it all ended up. He is great fun to be with and he really gets my morbid obsession, but knowing him more now I think it's better that it ended up this way.

Terry and I tried to study some more but we soon gave in to our hunger. We texted Seth and met up to check out the smoked meat place he raved about so much. We talked a lot about school, jobs, and girls (for some reason these are always the three topics that come up when we chat).

About school:

"Hey, do you want some ketchup?" Terry said, jabbing at the bottle with his iron ring pinky. Seth was the only one of us not graduating yet, and predictably he faked a dramatic sob.

About jobs:

"You're going to refer me at Big Software Company, right?" Terry asked me. Seth had recently gotten a job offer at the place he's interning at, so now Terry feels left out and discouraged.

About girls:

"Summer is coming," Seth said. "Then I can start dating."

"Why summer?" I asked. "Why not start now?"

"I still need to work out more, I'm not quite there yet."

Our food eventually came (after an order mishap and some extra fries to placate us). I had ordered a smoked meat sandwich with Swiss cheese in a sesame brioche bun, and it was absolutely delicious. Seth also shared some of his barbeque chicken pizza, which was also really good but kind of reminded me of Domino's pizza. The sandwich itself wasn't a lot of food, but after two trays of fries I was absolutely stuffed.

"Let's go get bubble tea after!" I declared.

Terry and Seth agreed, so we set off for our usual bubble tea joint. I usually only get jasmine tea, but lately Terry convinced me to try some new flavors. Last time I had gotten hazelnut, which was pretty good. This time he suggested strawberry, and I gave it a spin, but it was way too sweet even with no extra sugar added and tasted like artificial strawberry syrup. Would not recommend.

We went upstairs to enjoy our drinks, and like typical millennials we all went straight on our phones. Seth had recently bought a new Samsung phone (the one where the screen is a bit curved around the edges, I don't know what it's called), and he downloaded a few games to try. The Google Play store recommended this game called "That Level Again," which ended up being really fun. The three of us spent hours trying to figure out each level, and by the time we finally decided to leave it was already 10.

Technically, we were supposed to study today.

Oops.

Old Habits and New Thoughts

I was going to start a new blog, but since this is fairly anonymous anyway (my old friends have probably long forgotten this) and I'd like to have a place where I can look back and see how my writing has grown—or not grown, perhaps—I decided to pick this back up.

I had been working on this for a while, it's not really anything but words spilling. At some points in my life I had felt this way, not lately though because I've been happy in a way I hadn't been in a really long time. I have some plans and it's okay if they don't go really as planned, I am okay with not knowing for sure this time.

Also, since it's probably more interesting (mostly for future me) if I recounted my days instead of only writing melodramatic prose:

Tomorrow I am going to get lunch with my friend, Terry, and then we'll study together for our final next week, then we'll get dinner with our other friend, Seth, who said he knew this smoked meat burger place. I'm not too sure how smoked meat and burgers can be said in the same sentence, but I guess we'll see. Thursday is relatively planless, but on Friday I'm going grocery shopping with my new beau, Damian, and we're going to make an improvised hotpot. Next week I have two finals, and then I'll finally be free (well, hopefully, depends on how these two finals go) after five years of undergrad. Terry and Seth and I are going on a trip to Maine in May, although I do need to start planning that, and my parents are coming for convocation, and I think I'll go visit my family for the summer, but these are far off plans and I haven't really thought too much ahead yet.

There is a lot happening, and I'm pretty apprehensive, but mostly excited. I do have a lot of doubts, but I've been going to a local church lately for their gorgeous music, and they always say to have faith, which is what I think I should do. I just have to keep forging ahead no matter what happens and have faith that everything will be okay in the end.

I'll aim to update semi-frequently, nothing too serious, just a bit of chronicling of my days because it's more fun to keep it up if I pretend that I have an audience.

Well, without further ado:

would you forget me?

I can let you go in the morning as long as you come back to me at night. without fail, without doubt. you can be with the sirens or the witches or the court of roses, as long as you come back.

if you and I have no regrets, nothing to turn back to, what does our parting mean?

. . .

Adieu.

Despereaux’s mother believed in insurmountable fate, and perhaps so do I. Someone once wrote, “There are people in our lives who were only meant to pass through.” To share with us a lesson or a story or a vivid dream before they fade into the ephemeral. Three years ago, I would have rejected that thought with a brief panic. I would have quelled even the faintest hint of it with a sharp breath.

Tonight, I sit in front of my laptop. The illusions have faded, the memories no longer hurt. In my life I only really had one regret. Tonight, I feel that regret slipping away from me.

Decisive. Strong. Courageous. Independent.

Everything I want to be, everything I am not. In writing, I discard the husk and face my demons. You are not good enough, they whisper. You will never be strong enough to shake us off. My poison is reality, and writing is my antidote. Here, I can objectively say what I should do and mix it in with a batch of optimism. I should and I could. And I would.

I will.

I will, surely.

I will, maybe.

For two years, I cried. Long, lonely sobs, the cold truth of who I was and what I had done snaking its way around my heart. I put my headphones on and tried to sit in front of a screen, too, tried to free myself of a ghost that would trace its chilling fingers around my shoulders and sing in my head.

Dark, darker, let the emotions drain until there is only void.

In those dark nights, I could not imagine ever feeling free. Maybe Fate is only pulling me up through another loop in this rollercoaster, maybe my demons will break out of their confines and drag me back to their lair. But tonight, I have lit my heart on fire.

. . .

can I just close my eyes

can I just close my eyes

can I just, the music is so loud, I’m drowning, I’m falling, the halls are hollow, my voice, my voice, can’t you hear me, I’m screaming, I’m stifling, I’m holding on and I’m pushing it all away

. . .

The snow is cold on my face. It melts on contact, of course, but by then it is too late. I watch as they cloud my glasses, my vision fading into my mind.

In the dark, they are always the same. The Queen, her ever elusiveness, her reluctance to take responsibility for the throne. She closes her eyes and hopes that the inevitable will go away. When the knight in shining armor, when the prince of light himself, when the brother of Fate comes, she is one step closer to falling back into her prison.

She runs away, every time, she fights off her pursuers and flees.

Syrena is everything I want to be.

She is strong, she is cold, she can read people’s hearts and not let them get to her. She fights by herself, defeating legions, defeating her captors, defeating the very fabric of reality. She is the Queen, because they will accept no one else, they do not want to accept anyone else.

Yet even she runs away from the insurmountable.

We each have our prisons, the keys tantalizingly out of reach. We paint the walls and call them home and wait until they fade from the jarring. For the longest time, I thought my prison was reality. I tried to run away from it, to no avail. Why did something so innoculous hurt so much, why will it not leave me alone?

The demons come howling. They knock on my doors, rattling the bars as they pass by, whispering, jeering, mocking. If everything is such a big deal to you, then everyone will think nothing is really a big deal, they screech. Why do you cry, they admonish. You should not cry so much, there is no reason to cry. No reason to feel so upset, they laugh, silvery hollows. How can you be suffering if so many people have it so much worse than you?

Are you crazy? You are, aren’t you?

My mind is my true prison.

Reality is only a construct.

There is really no reason for me to feel this way, objectively speaking. There is no reason why the Queen should run away from what is perhaps the greatest honor. No one really understands, unless they too stretch out reality until it hardens into jagged shapes, scraping at the heart until it is raw. Sometimes what you feel is not real, no matter how real it feels, it is only your mind laughing at you as it dangles the key close, close, closer then throws it barely out of reach.

Do you want it, it asks, do you want to be free? Of me?

Yes, you say. I would rather be plain, flat, emotionless, anything but these vivid colors that scream at my eyes and spin me round and round on this false pedestal.

Of course you never had a chance. Once learned, the mind does not forget.

Normality is the key, it does not come to those who lust after it. The more you reach out, the more it falls back, teasing, coy, flirting with those who do not care for it.

Why does your mind torture you so when it is only torturing itself? Why can it not run away from its own trecherous grasp? Why do I stay up so late to spill my thoughts onto paper, only to shove it into the corners when I wake up?

Will I remember tomorrow the cold fantasy I felt tonight?

How long will this illusion of happiness last?

. . .

music like mercury flowing through my veins

take my soul and keep it captive

pillars of light my staircase to a false heaven

steps like feathers covered in tar

deeper, deeper

spiraling

. . .

Doubt is like sand sifting through to the bottom of your heart. Each tumble of grain scratches at the walls, reminding you of the inevitable drop at the end.

In the winter I always order iced drinks. Coffee, tea, even smoothies. Smoothies are of course the ultimate enigma. Why do I keep ordering something that I know I never like? I have unfortunately fallen in love with the idea of them, a silhouette, just enough to keep up the insanity but not enough to make them palatable.

Anxiety is something you can never outrun. When the clock strikes twelve, the stories come. A traffic accident? Criminals robbing at gun-point? Apocalypse come early? The clock taps furiously. When you open the door and stare into a thousand pairs of eyes, the whispers grow frenzied.

Those whispers belie a more grotesque reality: that they are not whispers, but knowing laughter.

The road is long, monotone, I want to close my eyes but this is what I have always wanted. It has been a while since I really enjoyed the journey. Lately, the destination becomes overwhelming, especially how out of reach it is. The trees drag by in lines of green, gray, and black. Fantastical creatures live beyond the canopy, their eyes stalking the car. The mile markers are keys to a great piano that only entralled one. Sunlight filters like fairy dust, landing on the asphalt to make dark shimmering lakes.

My biggest lie is my love for adventure. It is the idea of it, a spell, a lullaby, taking me by my hands and luring me into the bright of day where I inevitably wake up and crawl back inside. Happiness, too, it eludes me, it puts on the airs of a French queen right before her beheading. The vultures of paranoia encircle me, just at the edge of my perception, patient, consistent, waiting for the lull.

Inevitable. Inescapable. Eventually the fears become prophecies.

Insurmountable.

Fate.

. . .

softly, softly, are you a horrible person? am I a horrible person? you say I am heartless, heartless, flitting like a bird through these tangled vines

razor teeth, razor teeth, you hold me down, we spin around, in the mist we wait, we wait to be found, to be found and discarded

I pick up my dreams and set them down, life is art, art is knowing when to move on

. . .

Why would you throw away three years like it was nothing?

There are no teary goodbyes. It is an instant affair, once the decision is made. Standing steadfast. No longing looks. Head held high, pacing forward, always forward.

Sometimes it is uncanny, how all the people and all the places can be such a blur, and how neatly I can pack them up and stow them away. People have dates, locations, expiration times. They turn into oversaturated polaroids stacked in the attic.

Was it a defense mechanism? Maybe I can know with years of therapy.

New places, new people, new adventures, it does not matter what they are or who they are, I always dive deep, head first, no reservations, no holding back. Maybe this time is not quite right, maybe the sand is too dry, or the sun too bright, maybe the best had already gone by; none of it matters because right now I want what is right now.

Surely they will still be waiting for me when I wake up in the morning.

But I will not wait until then.

Falling out of love is not instant, however abrupt the ending. For me, it is always inevitable. I was always never truly in love, so falling out of love is merely a formality, to demonstrate the finality.

What is real is what is in front of me after the night settles, after the whispers waltz in, after I fall back onto the soft void of my bed and stare at the ghosts that haunt me. What could have been, what would have been, what could never be and would never be and yet so tantalizing idyllic deceptive. How real is reality, how real are these wisps of stories braided together like fog?

Uprooting my life is as simple as flipping the page.

Planting it again is as ephemeral as the light dancing across the words.

One day the pages will fray, the binding harden and crack, the paper musty and heavy, sinking into place. One day the wide-eyed girl will no longer visit this library.

Tonight, we lose ourselves in our own minds.

. . .

tell me darling, why do you keep feeding your demons, why, oh, why darling, you try to run but you keep them on such a short leash, you turn to look at me with such a wistful smile, darling, you run, you slam the door but you smash the windows, you jump from the swing but hold on to the rope, darling, why, why do you need them so much?

why can’t you wake up from your past?

. . .

Have I lied before?

I lie all the time, to other people, to myself. Mostly to myself. I had said I have no regrets; that cannot be true, so patently untrue. If I had no regrets, why would I have these demons nipping at my heels?

There are many shades of reality, each one painted by a demon. Each so fresh, so real, their soft pastel watercolors bleeding into the bold acrylic. Rococo and romantism. My two favorite styles. If I close my eyes for long enough, I can almost feel my skin melting into the canvas, my soul weaving itself under the paint, where I too can pretend that I have frozen myself in that perfect moment where everything was just right and everything will go just right.

Which one is real anymore? Does it even matter?

No artist tolerates reality, Friedrich Nietzsche said.

There is no illusion more deceptive than reality, the pamphlet I picked up at the laundromat said. The artist reflects at length on reality and then magnifies it and turns it into a shimmering work to be shared with the audience, a group of strangers harbouring a thousand contradictory realities.

A group of strangers can have a thousand contradictory realities. I, too, have a thousand contradictory realities. My artists are my demons, instead of shining light they shove on shadows, instead of an audience there is only me. I alone walk down this neverending gallery, the long and dark hallway punctuated by angry canvases.

This is what could have been.

Idealistic. Realistic. Fantastical. Grounded. Just a little bit more, I just wanted, I just thought.

Someone once told me, you don’t have to always be happy. Some days you can be sad, and that’s okay, if you were always happy then happy would be normal and you’d be forever chasing more happiness.

Late at night, I feed my demons with greed. Sheer desire, naked, grotesque, I can feel my weak will crumbling against the gnarling teeth. This is my addiction, I get under the covers and I cry, I make myself so miserable until resignation sinks in, and then, then, I reset my expectations, I start the new day without looking back. These demons tear me down and I rebuild myself. Some days I even hold a paintbrush and go over the lines.

I have invited many people to the exhibition, but they simply shake their heads. Why do you torture yourself like this? None of this can be real. All of this can be real if you only tried. They see the art in front of them as art, and the reality in front of them as reality.

To me, art is merely reality in another dimension. Reality is merely art made present.

Soft rhetoric to comfort myself with as my demons drag the curtains over my eyes.

When We Stand on Guard, Even in Certain Death

“All is fair in love and war.”

. . .

Here is the age old moral dilemma: would you kill one person to save five?

What about this one: would you kill five people to save five?

Of course you could say, these five people I am saving are close and dear to me, I will save them no matter the cost. These five people are incredibly smart and talent and will accomplish great things in life if they had the chance. These five people are fighting for the righteous ideology, the one that will save the world.

What if one of those five was a young earl, born of a military family, eager above all else to fulfill the family tradition and loyal to his country? His charming grace and good manners had won him favorable opinions even from those who did not agree with his position.

What if one of those in the other five was an extremely talented speaker, rallying behind the unshakable ideals of freedom and liberty? Even if his motives were shaky and half his supporters had more practical purposes in mind, were they not noble goals?

As I muster up my virtual troops in an Age-of-Empires-like game readying for the next attack against the “bandit chief,” so, too, must a real general have, throughout the ages, prepared his army for an uncertain fate. Perhaps he did not want to fight the war. Perhaps, more than anything else, he did want to sit by the river and fish with his hookless fishing rod.

But, as with all things history, one must decide. Despite John Rowe’s best efforts at peacekeeping, he could not preserve the fine sanctuary where the regulars dined with him and the townspeople kept on their smuggling trade unhindered. And the one hundred and eight heroic warriors forced to leave their hometowns and band together defying an unjust government? They could not hide in their mountain base forever, whiling away the days.

Their leader decided to obey the emperor in the end. Even if it meant one hundred and eight deaths.

Is there really the right decision, the right thing to do?

In twenty years, the right people were the Bostonians who had their Pope Day mobs and overthrew tea into the ocean. History only favors the victorious, and soon their sacrifices are the only ones that matter, their concerns the only ones worth mentioning, their hopes and dreams the only ones to be pursued.

But in the moment, perhaps we can only make the best of two horrible choices and map out our course using the painful moral compass in our hearts.

. . .

I am a horrible decision-maker.

There is no hiding around it. Whenever there are choices to be made, I strive to retain all of them as long as possible. I am the girl who kept multiple bookmarks in her “choose your own adventure” books so she could go back and read every possible ending. I am the girl who has five different variations of the same item that does basically the same thing in a game, because I could not decide which one to pick.

I, too, am the one who always sympathizes with the villain, because what if they had a really good reason for what they did and who am I to judge? I do not want to make anyone unhappy, and yet most of all I do not want to be unhappy.

They say you can’t make everyone in the world happy all the time, but how could I choose who to make happier and whose hopes to crush? Maybe the one who I care about more? But how could I figure that out when all I want to do is curl up and fade away slowly?

If only my misery could bring forth something good.

Then again, I suppose it wouldn’t be called misery, would it?

I know I am hurting everyone in my impasse, but even knowing so I am indecisive as ever.

. . .

The night before Joseph Warren was supposed to take up command as general of a fledgling rebel troop, he stayed up the entire night and fell asleep the next day until noon. Perhaps, even until then, his subconscious was not sure what to do.

But when he woke up, he knew.

He marched up the hill, not as a general, but as a footsoldier, to his death.

Love Is a Smoke Raised with the Fume of Sighs

Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes.

Summer is half over now that my circuits class is done with, and not a moment sooner. Each day I had spent half awake, promising myself that after this, I would get to sleep more than five hours a night, and in a bed too. Sometime before then my cat foiled my plans by chewing apart my phone charger, although to be honest if the only thing that can lure me home is the promise that I will still get to talk to the people I would normally talk to online then maybe I would have come up with some other excuse why I should sleep in a moldy chair in a poorly ventilated basement rather than in a bed, in my even messier, smelly apartment.

This summer I had gone to Boston, the first since I last visited Yuma. We took the train into the city and saw the statues remembering civil war soldiers and the red brick paths meant to be historic. We took a detour from the Freedom Trail into a cafe tucked away in the North End, then stopped by Paul Revere's house, where we saw the bells he casted and the fine silverware he made. We had the obligatory trip to the aquarium, which was under construction and so much neater because they had the sharks, stingrays, and other big fish in the area where they normally kept the penguins, and you could see the daily shrimp feeding much clearer. There was also the trip to Chinatown, the long dinner of hotpot and inappropriate jokes, and the subsequent stay in Cambridge.

I had thought to visit old friends but I had not contacted them in so long I did not know if they were still in Boston or had gone home already. And of course, what would I say? "Hello, I haven't talked to you in over a year, yes, yes, well you know me, I never stay in touch with anyone." That is not strictly true, because once I mailed a letter back to a friend who had somehow found my address, although she never contacted me again and I left it at that.

In a few weeks I will go south, to where Khajiit is, to where another friend of mine now lives, to where my parents eagerly await me. I have not called them in a while now, first because of exams and then because my phone died, but mostly because I am putting things off again. If I did not need to perhaps I would slowly set my parents aside too, like my other once-upon-a-time friends. The thought is unsettling only because it seems true.

Between then and now I do not know. There are tentative plans for visits to the Old Port, maybe some horse carriage rides, a visit to the gallery that never made sense to me, figuring out whether to go to the cathedral or basilica of the same name (and which one is which), a glance at the overpriced touristy cafes and restaurants catering to the old yet not quite old French way. Maybe we will climb the mountain that is really a stumped volcano. Maybe we will see the stadium that is now full of plants and animals. Maybe we will even see fireworks, red and white and glittering bright.

But emotionally I do not know what will happen. If I am prepared, at all, or if I would rather confine myself to my stale basement and microwaved food and the occasional venture above ground to feed the cat that both brings me back and sends me away.

She is oblivious as ever.

I Know You've Read So Many Books

Hot summer night, mid-July, when you and I were forever wild—the crazy days, the city lights, the way you would play with me like a child.

April is the cruelest month, breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain.

. . .

I still remember the first poem that ever called out to me. It wasn't some masterpiece, but it did win a poetry contest—Terra Incognita it was called—and it called out to me like no other poem had. I don't remember the exact details of it, but I remember the elements of charting new grounds, deceptive sirens, and that flamboyant adventurous spirit rooted in some sense of reality. I wrote a poem too modeled after that, one about my desires and fears and hopes and dreams, all stuffed into a hero's calling across an almost impassible ocean, that archetypal plot.

. . .

It may sound childish (and heaven knows I've been called that a lot), but my favorite book is The Tale of Despereaux. Maybe it's because of the tried-and-true recipe of a knight, a princess, and a villain—but more so, it's because the villain is not quite a villain and the princess is not quite a damsel-in-distress princess, and the knight, oh the knight, he is a knight by virtue and courage alone. Here, even with strong veins of fairy tales spun into the story, things never go as planned and even the smallest thing such as a watercress soup can hurt and heal in an instant.

. . .

Oh tell me why / Do we build castles in the sky? Oh tell me why / All the castles way up high.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams / his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream / his wings are clipped and his feet are tied / so he opens his throat to sing.

. . .

I can't help but cry at the intro of The Titanic, when Jack Dawson wins two tickets to board the eponymous ship. I wish with all my might that I could wave my arms frantically in front of him and snatch the tickets away from him and rip them up so he wouldn't die only days later. But had he not gone on the Titanic, would he have ever met Rose? Is it okay to rob someone of a life-changing romance to save their life? How do authors justify it to themselves when they put their characters in peril for that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Do they cry when their noble heroes and heroines die trying to be rather than merely am?

. . .

In The Kite Runner, the protagonist's father claims that all sin can be simmered down to theft. A lie at its very basis is a theft of someone's undeniable right to truth. But what do they call it when you steal from yourself? Every time I read a book or watch a movie, I am lying to myself. I am telling myself that I live in this world—and I very much wish I did. I wish I could live in this constructed world of perfect coincidences, no matter how much pain that might require (and authors do put their characters through a lot), because some days anything seems better than this emotional cyclone I am in, no matter how calm the eye is.

. . .

"Ah, Sharon Lipschutz," said the young man. "How that name comes up. Mixing memory and desire." He suddenly got to his feet. He looked at the ocean. "Sybil," he said, "I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll see if we can catch a bananafish."

That Night We Ran Away with the River of Lights

Now that The Great Gatsby is coming out in movie form, all decked out in the kind of frivolous extravagance to be expected of a movie of that era; now that it is summer, just as it was the year Gatsby constructed the infamously haunting fantasy; now that I am back here, in this basement, in this room, hungry and pained, once again, now that I am in front of the computer typing in front a familiar screen with a familiar pain in my throat—where has the past year gone?

Once again the room is hollow, once again only my shadow steps in place with me. Once again I cannot stand up straight and soldier on, I am instead shivering in the slightly chilled air mulling over the past few days, the past few months, the past few years that have slipped by so silently I barely had a chance to turn around.

Maybe, just maybe, "tomorrow is another day." I have always hated the ending of Gone with the Wind, because I want to believe in the happy endings, but if life must end in uncertainty and heartbreak, maybe we should still stand proud and hopeful. The Ashleys in our world will always remind us of our painful pasts and all the horrible mistakes we have made, but maybe, just maybe, if we are lucky, the Rhetts in our world will bring us to our senses—wake us from our nightmares and save us from our callousness.

. . .

Is it late enough yet?

Lately I have been rereading Homestuck, since the author is on a hiatus. The first time I read it was last summer. I spent a good couple days up all night reading the pages in a dazed fervor, and when it was all over, I had to face what had been tormenting me with my full consciousness again.

Reality.

I have often said that I write to face reality, because in words black against the white, I can slowly take them in without having them burn me alive. In life, the overwhelming thoughts are suffocating, parasitic, and all-consuming. But reality is rooted in life, and more often than not, my writing is merely reactionary.

Is it late enough yet to talk of the nights spent draped under a thin felt blanket, crying into the telephone desperate for the tiniest amount of consolation? Has enough time passed that the stars are now hung high in the sky, cold and out of reach? Are the bells tolling midnight, past midnight, much past midnight?

Is it too late to retrace our steps and pretend we did not just take a detour into a land that tore us apart and rebuilt us with desolation? Even if we do not know where we should go from here on, even if there are a million paths and every but one of them leads to horrible suffering death.

And if we can, could we still build the world we want to see?

Find Freedom On This Canvas

I have been listening to this song about Bob Ross, who happens to be one of my two favorite artists (Turner is the other one). This song reminds me of why I picked Turner's work to imitate for my painting class, and why I spent so much time into it—that sense of endlessness and that a piece of art can express what words cannot. I see art sometimes as a drudgery (after all, I only painted decently on my still life picture because I sat behind a perfectionist that made me feel bad), but maybe I have been going about it the wrong way.

A long time ago, I drew because I liked it—so much I dreamed of becoming an artist. Coming from a family of pragmatists who could not understand anything except academics (I mean this not as an insult, but my parents never even signed me up for the stereotypical music classes because they were hopeless in that field), this was not much of a dream at all. I never knew what my parents wanted me to be when I was young. I don't think any of us looked that far.

Somewhere in elementary school, drawing became a chore. It was a class, after all, and when people like your art they want more and you feel like you can't let them down. One of my classmates was really good at horses, and I tried to learn her style, and when my classmates asked me to draw a horse picture for her I was absolutely mortified.

I never quite did this with writing—maybe I have been influenced subconsciously but I never set out to copy someone else's style. I write from my heart, but I haven't drawn from my heart very often lately.

I drew a picture of what I thought Veronica's character in D&D would look like (she is a grey elf ranger), and it's one of my best drawings lately (in terms of anatomically correctness and expression). But what I really want to do is draw the pictures that haunt my mind, the same way I put them to words. I want to draw that void where the wind blows through, and the grass flows like sand.

I want to paint that quaint town nightscape, with the lanterns glowing faintly under a hazy sky, set against towering rugged mountains. I want to hear the stories from my art.

And maybe it is true, maybe every day is a good day when you paint.

. . .

I had completely forgotten when I gave Sam her nickname how ironic that would be, but this time I want to talk about the real Sam. I am—I won't lie—quite infatuated with him. What started out as simple gaming buddies turned into quite a fiasco. (And talk about a fiasco—Cain, who quite the benign Youtube-watching, Facebook-lurking guy, has now become a fanatic LoL addict on the verge of becoming a rager too.) I'm finding myself logged in to a particular place not for any other purpose but to catch him online—and on his end, I know he's been pretty much glued to his computer to chat with me when he has lots of other things going on (eating, for example).

I know Khajiit has taken this nonchalantly—even with a bit of joking encouragement—but I wonder if that is really how he thinks. Obviously, I don't want this to turn out like how it did with Yuma and I, and Khajiit and I have completely different rules when it comes to stuff like this, but, well, I still have to ask.

Does it count as cheating if I really, really like to spend time with someone more so than I normally would anyone else? If so, is Khajiit really okay with it? And if not, can I keep it this way—just really good friends—because it's pretty nice the way it is now.

Sometimes I feel a bit silly. Sometimes I wish I weren't so flippant with regards to such serious stuff—and yet, I think I have been this way ever since kindergarten when I decided I had a crush on two cute boys in my class. What can I say? I have always matured faster in romantic-attractions more so than my actual maturity.

. . .

Alas, I am hungry again. Must set out for food.

And Who Can Say Why Your Heart Cries

Last week, Dray emailed me for the first time in two years.

Looking back on it, the whole ordeal was ridiculous. I had taken something small and completely blown it out of proportion (and even now, I tend to do that, but perhaps not to such an extent). We still have quite a lot to talk about, even to this day, even after all this time, and perhaps he hasn't changed at all. He is still that hit-on-all-the-girls type of guy. I am.

Well, whatever I am now.

Lately, this blog has been more about my relationships than it has been about anything else. In some ways, it has been inevitable (it's not gossip if no one knows what or who you're talking about). I could write about my university life, but somehow it's less interesting to write about and much more interesting to live it out. I have had so many fun moments (like tonight's outing to see fireworks and have ice cream), but they don't translate to words as well as I thought they would.

My last few stories are all about Nick and Katie, and that is rather morbid to think about.

Katie Scarlett stood on the half-shielded balcony, where the rain touched her bare legs. She looked over the moss-covered steps leading up to the door. A few days ago, she had almost slipped on those steps, and Nick had held out his arm to catch her.

This exact scene I have written about numerous times, but from different time frames. The same steps. The same slippery moss. The same drizzling rain.

The same dead Nick Haverford.

In fact the very title, On the Other Side of Saturday, is the same I have chosen for a variety of stories, albeit not all about Katie and Nick.

Some nights, I lie in my bed and I can hardly believe that Yuma and I were once in a relationship. I think about him and I cringe, although I don't know why. Khajiit and I do not have a perfect relationship, but it is such a wholly different dynamic that I can hardly imagine life now any other way.

It is so unfair, isn't it? I broke such a nice boy's heart and I get to go into another nice boy's arms. If there is one thing I could change in my and Yuma's relationship, it would have to be ending it earlier, before I got to hurt him more.

But that's the past.

Tomorrow evening, Khajiit will be boarding the creepy van to Islandtown. In a month, I will be moving into our shared apartment. Last year, when I had him promise to room with me in the fall, I thought we would just be two good friends sharing an apartment. Things sure have changed a lot.

In my latest version of the story, Joss Ritchell saves Katie from her visions of Nick. Would it be fair to say Khajiit is my Joss? In dealing with our various mental health issues, perhaps that is not too far-fetched.

Joss suddenly stood up, walked over, and pulled one of the gardenias out. He took his pocket knife, slit his thumb, and let the blood drip down onto the petals.

Everyone watched as the blood rolled cleanly off the petals, without leaving a stain.

Or maybe I should just sleep.

Push Or Knock; Or Roundabout Gone

Some things I wish I felt more comfortable talking about, out of principle, because I know part of my inability to talk about them stems from a societal prejudice: my mental state, sex, and my inner dialogues. One of my favorite bloggers of late, The Bloggess, does all of these perfectly, so if I were completely honest with myself it's not just societal prejudice but also me.

Then again, how many of us are brave enough to talk about sex in a public forum?

The other two are harder to write about, for me, but they are easier to hint at. To skirt around the edges, like in Fragonard's The Swing, which I drew once as a book cover for my French textbook. Both rococo and romanticism I learned from my European history class from sophomore year.

The other thing I remember from sophomore year was a hazy mix of staring out windows and anonymous crowds rushing past. I wrote about it a lot before, things I kept locked up in the depths of my laptop and hid for two years before I showed some of them to Yuma.

. . .

There is an old Chinese legend (one thing the Chinese have no lacking of) that a poet, late at night, could not decide whether to use "push" or "knock" in his poem to describe his character's internal battle when opening the door.

These days, the two words together mean deliberation.

When I was younger, around seven or eight, I always wondered how people remembered all of these proverbs and legends and folk lores and idioms. It wasn't merely enough to know a saying, you had to know the story behind it too. There were entire books dedicated to the formal four-word proverbs and their origins that schoolchildren my age were required to know.

That, added to the pictorial nature of Chinese words, and you have to wonder: why is it not fading away in favor of something much easier to learn?

I like to cite the poetic nature of it—because, to me, no language is better suited for poetry as Chinese is—down to each word imbued with meaning, but who am I to say? I am neither a poet nor am I a proficient writer of Chinese.

. . .

Khajiit says the younger generation of French people are slowly abandoning the rigid structures their language imposes upon them in favor of their own blend of French. What the equivalent would be for Chinese I do not know, but I hope it does not happen.

Because it is a language of thousands of years' worth of stories, legends, and lore, and there is a part of me that finds peace in allegories.

. . .

Writing for many people is ultimately a cathartic process. Haruki Murakami speaks of writing as a poison, and writing to overcome that poison. Natalie Goldberg believes you should write "what disturbs you, what you fear, what you have not been willing to speak about." Tim O'Brien uses his writing of a fictitious yet real world to make sense of the absurd yet very real world he had to live in. Andre Aciman repeatedly writes about place as a cover to what he really wants to write about.

For me, writing is about making sense of the past. It is about digging up what I have buried in the past—what I have been afraid to face—and putting them in front of me to finally digest after all this time.

I have been told many times, by many people, that I do not have the courage to face reality. That I am weak, that I do not have the determination. Writing is a cheap alternative, a way to pacify those claims without having to make any painful progress. I can say that writing has helped me to name my demons, but in the end, didn't Seymour Glass still shoot himself? How far can you go with writing when your demon is reality itself?

. . .

It is now six in the morning. This far north, the sun has already risen, although I wouldn't know sitting here in the basement of the tallest building on campus. I woke up yesterday morning at 8:25AM, with ten minutes to spare for my morning class, and with an apathy that has set in lately, told myself it didn't matter and fell back to sleep. The next time I woke up—fully, truly awake—it was already getting dark.

On the bus from New York, I thought about how I used to tie myself to the road. The music I listen to, the colors I love, they all have one trait in common: they're hollow. This emptiness inspired historical fictions, with Vermont and their Green Mountain Boys being my favorite, although any road could evoke endless stretches of fields and the nonchalant wind mussing up my hair.

This is my American dream. The loneliness is only a requisite.

For some people, a vacation is a relaxing break, and when they get back from their far-fetched locations they can settle down and work another half year in their fascinating fields. I am from a family fueled by wanderlust—my father, who cannot settle in any one place for long, no matter how tempting the place; or my mother, who takes to trips as other people take to hobbies.

I can stay in one place for a very, very long time if I had to, and if it were the only option in front of me. I would be okay with an entire year without vacations if it meant a regular schedule and the expectation that this is it. But once I am on the road, no amount of travelling will satisfy me. I have been on day-long trips, and week-long trips, and month-long trips, and it is all the same. If I start, I cannot stop.

. . .

Deep in the nights, we talk frankly. Khajiit about his cuts, me about my panicked nature. He tells me to take a deep breath. We talk frankly but nothing much meaningful ever comes out of it. We revert to the same conversations.

My parents say I never write about anything truly meaningful. It could be because I do not show them the extent of what I write, or because I have not, in their eyes, suffered. I have not lived an entire year on pickled radishes and plain rice because I could not afford anything else. I have not woken up before sunrise and come home way after midnight working in a lab to sustain a meagre way of life. Compared to that, I have lived a life of luxury.

I think it is more than that. When Khajiit and I give someone on the streets a dollar, I wonder where our moralities lie. When we talk so frankly of being nineteen-year-olds and of the world giving us more responsibilities than we can handle (Khajiit more so than me, obviously), of, as he calls it, "Everything conspiring against me," I wonder if we truly know ourselves.

Through this year of tumult, political and personal, can I claim that I know myself?

. . .

The first time I formally learned about allegories was also in sophomore year, when my English class read Lord of the Flies. There is something to be said about things coming full circle.

A Bag Of Bananas

I went to Chinatown with Marie yesterday, because groceries were cheaper there than our local supermarket, and also because we wanted to go to a bakery. I don't know why I did not get my egg tart fill in Flushing, where the bubble tea was $3 for two compared to the bakery's $3.50 for one, but I bought some anyway and Marie bought a large green tea cake and I came back to the office with three bags of groceries.

Now I have bananas for breakfast for the next few days, so I won't starve in the mornings because I never wake up in time to both chat with Khajiit before one of us leaves and go somewhere to buy breakfast. The smart alternative would be to cook, but since I don't know who is using my only pot (the last time I checked it was full of this weird mushroom-like thing that I am pretty sure was not mine) and the fridge is full, this alternative is not very practical.

Some other things that happened in the past few days include:

• Marie, Violet, Henderson and I played Team Fortress 2, which means I have played one more game on the list of games our computer club's recent LAN game tournament hosted (now there is only SCII and DotA to go).
• In order to friend Marie on Steam, I got Khajiit to buy me a cheap $1 game, and of course he chose to buy this game called Puzzler World that had over 500 brainteaser puzzles resembling those of gbrainy which Khajiit and I played a lot on bus rides to several states (apparently there is a Windows version of gbrainy, so I no longer have to only play it on Linux, although why I would want to I have no idea).
• Violet and I picked up several green bean, squash, and pea plants from some guy who was giving them away. One of the green beans is dying though, so Violet took it home to give it some sunlight, and hopefully it will live happily ever after.
• The guy who lives next to me, #26 (as Khajiit calls him), decided his room was too hot and moved all his furniture aside from his loft bed to the kitchen and dragged his mattress onto the ground. Now whenever I walk by his room I can see his feet poking out from behind the door, and whenever I go into the kitchen there is a bookshelf.

I should sleep now, before it gets too late and I won't be able to wake up tomorrow again, and my bananas all rot like the frozen black bananas I found once in the freezer (partially why I don't ever cook anymore).

On The Other Side Of Oblivion

"I have this aunt," Violet said, in her I-have-this-crazy-story voice. "She had chickens as pets. She bought these pedigree chicken eggs—yes, pedigree chicken—and she wanted to hatch them into chicken and have those chicken lay eggs to sell. Except they're pedigree chicken, so they get sick really easily, so she had to buy expensive medicine to keep them alive. She would stab the chickens with needles one by one and force-feed them pills."

We were in the computer lab, eating our large boxes of poutine with extravagant toppings. Violet's boyfriend, Henderson, stole a particularly large piece of smoked meat, and Rosemary turned her attentions towards him again.

Just yesterday, Violet and I were talking about our futures, what little we knew of it. She and Henderson both wanted to be in academia, like her father. Their dream was to get tenure together in the same university. I told her my future was to see if Khajiit would graduate in the next ten years. We both laughed.

. . .

When I first went to Fish Wings, I won't deny this: I thought it was beneath me. I had gotten in without trying, and a scholarship to boot that had seemed to have fallen into my lap. There were smart people here, of course, but I was just as smart as them, if not more.

This past year has been a lot, and I have met so many people who have changed my mind about that. There is Flynn, who could rival Bryant on anything math and physics related (and who infuriatingly calls everything from triple integrals to advanced algebra "easy shit"). Aishan, who programs with three monitors and will be going off to Microsoft this summer (hopefully with no chair-throwing incidents). Sandra, who works multiple jobs and learned French from a retail job so she can support her way through university. Jessica, who is involved in everything from residence council to engineering teams to student society representative.

What had I to be so scornful about?

. . .

In his spare time, Khajiit works on his beloved programs and websites. He works on them when there is work due soon and he does not want to do it. When there is an assignment due in two days he would fix the scrollbars on the a small portion of the computer club's website, or make a Java program more Windows native, or something, anything, that is not his assignment. He says that his procrastination is never time wasted. He is always productive, especially when he procrastinates.

It used to frustrate me a lot. It still frustrates me sometimes. The new meds will probably help, but we both know he has to work hard too. Some days I want to tell him I believe in him, and I know he will pull through, one way or another. Other days I wish he could do it right now, because with every setback I can feel him slipping away.

Khajiit is not someone my parents would approve of. They asked where he was from, what he was studying, all the usual questions. For once they did not ask if he was a good student. Afterwards, when Khajiit told me to take deep breaths so I wouldn't fall into a state of panic, I wondered if it was merely an oversight.

. . .

Khajiit's dad recently asked me, "Do you like it here? No regrets?"

Maybe it is because his own daughter has chosen a college, and he is curious to make a comparison. Or maybe he knows. He has always known things about me before I do myself.

. . .

They smile when I fix the paper jams. They thank me when help them with their computer issues. The other day, I heard a girl explain to her friend the way the printing system worked, and I grinned. I could not have done it better.

There is something refreshing about swinging the keys attached to the network cards, going off to fix a ghost paper jam and hearing people talk about why they need to print so urgently. Sometimes it's an assignment due in ten minutes. Sometimes it's a document they need to file their taxes. Once it was a girl who needed her transcript to apply to grad school.

Maybe that's why when someone knocks on the door I tend to get up to open it. I hold the record for most printing money sold last semester, and although there is no prize or recognition for it, it's surprisingly satisfying. All those hours I've put in this computer lab make me happy.

I had first joined because I saw Flynn at the front desk, and I knew him because he was friends with Sam and Denise. I had stayed because it was fun, dizzying fun, all the late night laughing and crazy antics and large group outings. We are all good friends, I want to say, or maybe we are family. We are a family complete with wise, mature ones and scream-in-your-face immature ones, and the one or two people no one likes and the one or two people everyone likes. Lots of outside drama. Lots of inside tension.

My residence advisor said that living in residence was supposed to give us a feel of home, to make long-lasting friends and to feel like you belong in a group. I never got that from my residence (going home at 2am all the time probably did not help), but it's nice that I found it elsewhere.

. . .

Today is Mother's Day. I should call my parents. I have been putting it off, and the more I do so the more I want to, the harder it is to pick up the phone.

. . .

The title was sentimental me thinking I had sentimental things to write about. It is too late for me to think much, although I have had a four-hour nap today, and should not need to sleep too much, even if sleeping patterns for me are too elusive.