There is no rush

     The rush we feel everyday, the rush to go outside, to do things, things you do in a rush to go back to bed. Do not waste time. There is no such thing as time. Everything around us sedentary, because that is the way life is.

     If all humans were to suddenly disappear, life would continue and take over our Capitalist means. Human versus nature. But the ecosystem thrives on, and so is nature invincible? Is there really a struggle between man and nature? The flow of water echoes the flow of blood into our arteries. Photosynthesize, the plants photosynthesize everyday, and nature thrives on while the remains of our past rot on.

     But all of this is a process that takes years. We all feel the need to rush decisions in our life because we should not waste time. Yet, time is not wasted, if you take some time to look around and appreciate the little things. The coffee I tasted in the morning, the kisses I received, the smile on my mother’s face. The more I learn from these things, the more I can create infinity, because those little moments are the moments where time completely stops, and I am able to feel what it truly is to be human.

     Appreciate these things because you truly don’t know if there is a tomorrow. Yesterday is forgotten, and what is important is the now.

I wanted to write a poem

I wanted to write a poem, but my mind won’t let me

Mind, you have eyes of the ocean

mind you, I never wanted to feel this way

way to let me feel insecure, Mind

so in the end I wounded up with a wound

wounded by the words my mind won’t let me write

words that do not exist because they are in my mind

and because they are in my mind, I

I thought I could not fly, but fall

fall into the abyss, yet greeted by the arms

of my bed. Mind, you are my enemy and foe

but why do I always end up kissing you?

the graveyard

    I think my thoughts become the most unsafe when I am back home. There is something about being in the environment you have grown up in and have become accustomed to, that when you return to, a myriad of memories come seeping in, both good and bad. There are usually two types of memories: the ones of my intimate childhood, memories that I won’t remember unless I am forced to or randomly reconcile with, and memories of my less-awkward stage in high school, which are somehow less thought-inducing and emotionally potent because those four years went by too fast for me to remember. Though my childhood memories are more emotionally triggering, my high school memories have created a more stable foundation of who I am as a person. 

    I have some huge pine trees in my backyard that seem endlessly reaching towards the sky. I would climb up the stairs in the hill in my yard, past my pomegranate tree and up the treacherous wooden stairs to the top of my yard. There, I would see the vacant pool which was filled with dirt and weed, remnants of the couple who moved out. Overlooking my house, I can see the entire San Mateo Bridge. I used to take my closest friends up there, and joke about how I will be safe if a tsunami comes, and perhaps even be able to watch it. But I didn’t think about how I would be watching death come alive. 

   On the other side of my yard lies a trail that I would climb with my best friend C, who actually lived in the house above me. We would climb over the fence, and go to each other’s houses to do artwork or play with our pets. She moved out in fourth grade to North Carolina. When I was a sophomore, sometimes when I would feel lonely, I would walk up that little trail and wait, and sometimes a big brown furry labrador would come greet me, and my sit there while I pet it. I don’t think the neighbors knew. 

   I named my turtle after C. These turtles, C and S have been with me since fourth grade, when my parents bought them for me from LA. Later, little Edward (yes, after Cullen) joined them. Sometimes if you’re lucky, you can see all three turtles stacked on top of each other. I hope they outlive me. In fourth grade, we also welcomed my first hamster Orlando (yes, after Bloom) who died a year and a half after after. After the death of two more random hamsters who died after a week, we welcomed two more hamsters, Cookie and Cream, who died a year after. My cemetery is a tombstone of love, but the memories that were created are still alive. At least in my mind. 

   I have this statue of a cupid pouring water into a stone basin, surrounded by stones and bricks in my backyard. In the summer, my brother and I would play “potion,” where we fill the basin with water and add magical ingredients such as berries and leaves to create a potion. I remember one time, we made a potion and dared V to drink it; he did and demanded water immediately after. In the summer, the basin would be filled with baby mosquitos who desire to inhabit my basin. I hated those mosquitos. Last summer when I was playing basketball alone, the ball it the cupid, and knocked the whole statue over. My father and I lifted it back on, but it is still broken. 

   When I was little, I always had this secret bet to myself. I would wonder what would happen if on of my tall pine trees in my backyard fell: A) Hit the house, or B) fall safely. Last night I discovered that my tree had fallen, but did not hit the house. Almost all of the things that I have grown with in my house are gone; it is a graveyard, but not a graveyard of sad stories, but rather a yard of unforgettable memories. It is just time for me to move on and hopefully one day, have children who will bring back these memories if my childhood for me. It is all a circle. 

My shadow doesn’t belong to me

    I was sitting in front of the law building, studying human beings and their pattern of movement through space and time for my architecture class. My concept was the various stages of consumption. As I was sitting on the concrete, I saw a line of clusters of pink flowers. Noticing how strong they looked, I plucked one when no one was looking, and observed it. They were eudicots with the flowers attached to the stem with a thin lining of epidermal layer. I didn’t like that layer, so I began peeling it off the stem, but as I did so, the whole cluster of flowers collapsed. And I was just left with a stem. I tried to piece together the two entities joined by a fragile net, but I couldn’t, so I let it die on the pavement. I felt like a failure. I could not do such a simple thing so carefully without harming the flower. You see, the plant is a human being, and I had just killed it. 

    I plucked another flower, and this time, peeled off the layer more carefully, and it stood tall and proud. Though it was already dead, it felt alive, and I had more hope. Then I shredded the cluster, leaving the petals to rot on the pavement. I felt a unnatural sadistic pleasure from mutilating the plant. I felt anger, and then remorse. We humans are all flowers, and though we are fragile, we do not deserve another chance to live. So be careful with what you do, because there may not be another chance tomorrow. 

   And so I continued watching. Eventually I turned back and saw that the wind blew all the petals away. The existence of the flower dissipated, reminding me of my own mortality. And then I saw my shadow on the pavement, and did not recognize it. 

    People tell you the truth, and most of the time the truth stings. Words you never anticipate hearing, words you wish you hadn’t hear, and the truth of the facade that hangs before you for the last eighteen years. 

    And now I feel disorientated in the world that I have tried to organize in front of me. No sacred space, no temple of direction, no pillar for me to revolve around. Don’t feel loved enough, and feeling too much love, always giving and not giving enough. Paradoxes rule the world, and everything that once seemed so orderly and parallel is chaotic.

    Now the ground you’re walking on seems like uprooted grass of a cemetery, living beings struggling to survive six feet under. And while you try to appreciate the snowglobe of the world you live in, you wonder what would happen if your world was inverted. If beauty is ugly, and death is beautiful, and love is pain and unnecessary. 

A poem, by me.

who am I?

I am who I am

am I who?

who am I?

who I am is who I am

am I who I am?

who I am is who?

Is who I am who I am?

I am I

who I am

My day.

The Earth is beautiful when the rain falls down. Walking with my umbrella locked in the wind, two dancers merging beautifully. I look at the man walking towards me in leather shoes, his feet shuffling, paced more in the right side than the left. Lights flickering as he is backlighted, his shadow fleeting away from him into a morbid figure. The he crosses the street paralleling my cross across the street. The rain makes everything scenic. I like to look at the streets, because all I see are lights. The people aren’t people anymore; they have turned into ants crawling in the background under a black veil. They are just silhouettes because they are anonymous creatures. I don’t see these ants, I just see the lights. The Campanelli lurks behind me like a stranger, almost a voyeur, as it stays in the same place but still rings the haunting bells every sixty minutes. I then went to the art store to buy some Micron to make me feel better. There’s a quality about art stores and book stores that make me automatically happy. It’s like they’re my home. Sometimes my thoughts scare me, but I let them turn into something beautiful. I think that being alive is being dead. Because when you’re dead, you’ve downscaled into becoming nothing. And when you’re nothing, you feel everything. 

The World is Black

     The streets we walk on are black. The liquid we put in our cars are black. There are several ways for the world to be black. Firstly, every soul on this earth as a black pushpin stuck into them, with a black cord tied to that pin to every other soul that they are connected to. Connection, the basis of development of the human race. Without connections, we would be nothing. When you tie all of these humans based on their connections, the world is black, one moving spool of yarn, with drowning beads of shrinking souls yearning to survive in this corporate world. Secondly, the world is black without the sun, which is now affirmed as the center due to the Copernicus theory. What are we without the simple, yet complex ball of gas that one day shall explode? We are nothing. We are black. Maybe when we look out into the night sky, which is a black blanket poked with holes by pushpins the night sky looks back at us, thinking we are black too. Thirdly, the world can turn black when our hearts turn black, not just dripping with the lust for petroleum, but mainly with the loss of touch with our inner selves. A world where people may as well be replaced with millions of Watsons, programmed robotic-like beings because sometimes I feel humans have gone to the point where we aren’t humans anymore. We don’t have souls, we just have bodies. 

     But haven’t you already heard? The world is already black. And it’s too late to turn back. 

two paper birds

   People have often questioned my reason for naming my blog “two paper birds.” I guess it all comes from Regina Spektor’s song, “Two Birds.” The song speaks of two birds sitting on a wire, one wanting to fly but is”just a liar” while the other one watching. Regina says she’s experienced enough to understand love and life. “I won’t let go of your hand.”

    My interpretation of the song is also about two birds in a relationship, two birds in love. The song talks of love but also about life. One tries to find freedom, but is too scared, and the other one watches in an amalgam of hope, fear, and support. It’s a relationship of two people, a ying and a yang in a world that is pulling them apart. Inverse gravitation and de-magnitization. It’s a world of reality. We would like to imagine two birds madly in love, eternally until death, but sometimes things out of control get in the way. Unintentional things like lack of courage, fear, and non-commitment. 

    But once that bird lets go of that wire, the two are free to find themselves. And they go on this journey not alone, but with their soul mate. I created my blog not to have beautiful and inspiration photos online, but as a personal diary of sorts for me to figure out where I am, where I am going, and where I will be. I don’t know where I will be in the future, but I’d like to know that I won’t end up alone. This blog is a blog for self-exploration, growth, and journey to actualization, and I channel all this through writing and photographs that sometimes have deeper meanings than on the outside. Just like the bird is attempting to fly into reality, I am doing the same. 

    In a way, you all are my other bird. I know that I have found some people who are supportive of me, and are watching me attempting to spread my wings. People who will tell me not to fly too close to the sun or else my wax will melt. 

   We, birds, are fragile, just like paper. Humans are fragile, animals are fragile. We seem larger than ourselves when in reality we are just dots moving on a star map of dust. But we still exist, sometimes in our own minds, and sometimes in reality. And even if we don’t, then that’s alright. At least we created a wonderful, beautiful dream. 

   So this blog isn’t just a blog. It’s a diary of my life, my volatile heart, my life long struggle for my other half, my fear, journey, and experiences, and my buildup to that leap I will take one day. But most of the time, this blog is just a blog. It’s a story of two paper birds. 

Anonymous asked: Take a risk you have 150 words.

   Words are a waste of space. It’s internality versus externality that captures the gist of our emotions. What we really mean versus the diction we chose. Words are just empty shells of images. Words are dreams, un-existent and un-pragmatic because words are the things that we want to happen. Expectations versus realities.

    We string words together to form sentences that we stumble over. Fallible ornaments on a string that we wear around our chests to protest ourselves from other people, what other people perceive of us. But somehow, people still manage to break our strings.

    Then we make a jumble of sentences and phrases in our head, essays of love and hate, senseless descriptions and useless fiction to create fantasies. Fantasies to make sense of what we don’t understand in the world. But in the end, you made it all up in your head, because words are just empty shells. 

But where’s the snow?

       I have always wondered how it feels to be Tiny Tim. Visage so lively, physique so diminutive, and heart so genuine, yet he lives in such a dystopian reality of a world that we all neglect because we avoid the undisturbed, the unknown, and the unwanted. And in this world, I really wish I could enjoy the holidays, but every time they roll around, I always find myself feeling the same way. 

      In my head I always have the same story aching to be told, a brain child of a fantasy that needs to be molded. In my head I smell a whisk of cinnamon and chocolate, see a plethora of gifts under the tree that are begging to be unwrapped, adorned, and swooned over. 

      In my head it is so clear, so bright. I see a white landscape picture taken of voluptuous trees dressed in ivory ice, gloves and steam, red lip stains on oversized mugs and laughter erupting, dissipating into the chilled air. 

      The images in my head were once reality. The ugly, dystopian reality that was beautiful. Because beautiful things can come out of ugly situations. 

      This time it is not my fault. This time, my body decides to become a Sally and sew itself shut and let the germs invade me. This time the weather gods have decided that they are not sad enough to give me my picture. Why won’t they let me have my picture? 

      And so I lie here, restless because I have the unfulfillable urge to swim and run, yet my body likes to take its time molting, to first evade my toxins and bacteriophages. I feel like I am falling into retrograde amnesia, a miser losing a battle between the past and the present. But I am no Scrooge; I appreciate all the people who have drifted in and out of my lives, and those who have somehow managed to stay in my life. And I am thankful for every impact that they have made on me. 

     When I get my white Christmas, the first thing I will do is make a snow angel. The angel is made by a human being that has left a seemingly ordinary trace on this world, but that human has not yet realized what an impact he or she made on nature itself. That human is something extraordinary, and left behind a ghost of an angel, a ghost of purity and kindness, something we all should leave when we die. 

    It’s the story of molting on an ivory wonderland. 

De-stressifying catharsis writing time…

I’ve come to some internal consensuses about myself that has allowed me to cope with my life and stress over the last couple days. I’ve come to a revelation that I believe that people should do what they are passionate about. Haven’t we all been told this several times? The problem is that we refuse to listen to our hearts, refuse to listen to those teachers who tell us to follow our heart, and instead because we are fickle beings, we lock ourselves up mentally in a certain mindset that we must do certain things to achieve a variable amount of results that will be satisfactory for security of your future and happiness. 

I’ve come to believe that a person can have numerous passions, some stronger than others; however, I think that passions can be worked upon and advanced, or mixed together for your ultimate dream profession. Some people are lucky and have always had a passion that they’ve discovered when they were little, and their parents are in support of. Others may take years to discover their passion, or are in the process of carrying out their dream.

As for me, I think I have always known what my passion was deep inside, but I let expectations, misconceptions, and judgements guide me to where I am today. It’s so funny how paradoxical of a person I am; I naturally love learning, love going to school, and love competitive-ness to a certain degree. I like being at the top, yet that reign has been stripped of me because when you’re in a high school bubble, you really have not had the chance to see the rest of the world yet. And that is a big world, coming out to get you, trust me. I’ve come to peace that I am not an academic person however: I hate deadlines, I hate tests, I hate lectures. I told my friend and he was shocked to hear this. “But you did pretty well in high school and got good grades!” I try hard when I want to, and I give up when I need to. But I’ve discovered that my passion isn’t academic (there are different degrees of academic, I can talk about that later.) There is a difference between being good at academics, and being passionate about academics. I have a certain level of both that needs to be balanced— but currently this homeostasis is off. 

But who knows, maybe this will all change within a year. My passions are overriding each other and it’s physically and mentally exhausting. I think the problem why I can’t re-discover my identity, is the fact that I’m searching for it. It should probably come naturally, and when it does, whether it’ll take days, months, or years, it will be worth it. Is this zen? 

I woke up today with an essay in my head

So here goes.

    He has won third place in the county spelling bee in second grade, awarded first place in a local math competition in third grade, can play the trombone, piano, violin, saxophone, and clarinet. He is keen with his scrutinizing eyes, spending his free time winning Jeopardy games, doing crossword puzzles, and defeating almost every level of minesweeper. He is everything I wanted to be, and next to him I was always second best. 

    My brother is two years older than me, but in my perspective, two years were like two decades, and I felt like he was always cradling me like my protector. I envied him because I could see how proud and accomplished he made my parents feel. My relatives always talked to him about politics and science, and disregarded me because I was believed to be naive because of my love for the arts rather than sciences. My brother has adapted my mother’s musical talent, my mother being a well-known piano teacher in our community. She always boasted on how my brother achieved the highest standards in piano level exams, was one of the lead violinists in the highest Peninsula Youth Orchestra groups, and achieved all 5’s on his dozen or so AP exams in high school. I was known for being the girl who always drew, acquiring talent from my father who is a graphic artist. Though I had my few accomplishments, I still stood next to him, a bit taller this time, yet still second best. 

    There was a local Chinese newspaper contest where kids aged from 5-12 were allowed to compete, creating drawings with the theme of seat-belt safety. My brother and I worked day and night creating our masterpieces, asking our father for help to perfect our work. My brother was not as adept as I was, so I constantly helped him fix his drawing and ended up spending more time on his drawing than on my own because I wanted him to do well. However, the day came where the winners was announced, and my brother ended up winning second place while I got a measly honorable mentions award. I was furious. As much as I wanted to contain my anger, I was disappointed in myself for giving so much to my brother and letting him dethrone me in every way possible. At that moment, I began to despise my brother’s success and began to thwart him every way possible. 

    I was not a good sister. Although I wish I could go back and undo the vilifying hatred I had for myself, I knew I was and would be always jealous of my brother. I began to fight with my brother constantly, sending him discouragement, and my jealousy took over my previous undevoted love for him. Living in a dominated Asian community, success in the science and mathematics led to award and achievement. While I won distinctions in some art competitions, I constantly felt belittled by my brother because I knew that my parents spent more time in molding him to be successful. I knew they had given up on me. 

    I began focusing more on art myself because it was the one thing I knew I loved doing. When my brother went to college, my parents spent more time nurturing me and making sure that I was going to be okay. Although he was in college, he would stay up until 3am with me, helping me with my homework and editing my essays. I began to remember the reason why I love him: the expression on his face when I showed him our new puppy, our glee when we woke up on Christmas and ran to open all the gifts under the tree, the times we would watch The Sound of Music over and over again. At that time, I realized that there was no reason for me to be jealous of my brother; we both led on different lives and had different experiences. The heartwarming memories I have with him will always stay in my heart no matter what, despite the difficulties I have experienced living with him. 

    My brother and I still fight now and then, but he will always remain one of the biggest role-models in my life. Instead of being jealous of his knowledge, I converse with him and ask him questions to learn how to become a better person myself. I began focusing on art because it is the one thing I am truly passionate about. While my brother has discovered his love for the sciences, I have discovered my love for aesthetics, and nothing was going to get in my way. Through this process, I have erupted with a new sense of self, like Poseidon rising from the sea. Now I stand next to my brother, first place, because I am the winner in my own competition against self. 

I’m just going to write.

    I hate the weather here. I like it when it’s cold because it gives you an excuse to bundle up with your one, an excuse to just sit on your bed and watch a movie and cuddle with your dog, an excuse to drink hot chocolate with marshmallows, an excuse to wear big sweaters and wool hats all day. I like to step out and have the the wind’s fresh breath hit me in the face, yet I don’t worry because I am warm and I am loved. The weather here is like my mood: it can change from being sunny one second, to cloudy the next. The sun reminds me of all the happiness I had in the past, and the sun reminds me of hope, something that I need more of in my skin. The clouds remind me how alone I am, and the clouds block me from seeing those dots in the sky. The clouds make me feel empty, yet clear because the whiteness of the sky makes me want to get up and paint it, or shatter a glass so I can use the shards to create a mosaic of my life. The whiteness of the sky makes me want to scream and create waterfalls of my own. The emptiness of the sky reminds me of my own emptiness, and so I cannot do anything but wait for it to rain. And when it rains, I feel like I must hibernate until it is warm again. And when the clouds vanish, I am able to see the clear moon again. It’s like the sky is an eye. It cries when it rains, and the moon is the iris and the deep dark blue is the blanket of white. And the dots are humans, all humans embedded within the eye of life, each taking turns to look through the moon and discover what it means to live. But who’s eye are we looking through? We are looking through the eye of humanity, the eye of consensus and the eye of our souls. 

      I don’t like the sun because it blinds me all the time. The sun is always up, taking its pedestal in the glory sky, while the moon sits and waits to be seen. The sun is selfish, like we all are. 

     Now I drink coffee because I need to stay awake. I miss the feeling that I get when I see people I know, people I love, and people who make me happy. When I see those people, I smile and I get this beautiful feeling in my stomach. I don’t know how I am still sane anymore. I need more of those people in my life. I need them next to me, hugging me and telling me that everything’s going to be alright. But I know that we can’t always get the things we want. 

     I bought a watercolor set yesterday, and I am going back home to get my art supplies. I’ve lost my identity, but that’s okay, because the purpose of life is to continuously search and develop who you are, right? We, humans, aren’t meant to be built happy. We have to go on a tumultuous, terrifying and heart-breaking journey to find happiness. What if there is no such thing as happiness? Then we just keep fighting. And if we find that happiness, then it’s worth the world to keep it. I need to resurrect myself and all it takes is an hourglass of time. Yesterday, I discovered that the best combination for breakfast is a slice of pumpkin bread and coffee. It just takes time to find that best combination. And if things aren’t right, then that’s okay. 

     The best thing about my roommate is that she understands. She understands everything that I’m going through, and she’ll give me my space. She listens, she knows when I just have to lay in bed and cry, she knows how to make me smile, and she knows exactly what to say. I feel extremely luck to have such an understanding friend. 

     The reason I brought my guitar back is because I need something to fill me up again in life. Playing the piano isn’t enough. I need my passion back, my drive and my inspiration. I need everything to go away and I need my fingers to hurt and I need that music, that soul. 

     And when I find pretty things on the ground, I like to pick them up and study them. Where have they been? What have they gone through? And when I find weird things on the ground, I like to pick them up and accept them for who they are, because they are beautiful no matter what. 

    And I sit here and write to myself and waste time because the truth is, I don’t know who else to talk to. Nobody understands this, not even me.  I may not understand myself, but that’s alright. 

    When I lie on the grass and feel an aphid crawling on my toe, I think of the world beneath me, the microscopic and miniscule world that we don’t see. Because we, humans can’t see everything that’s happening. We tend to focus on what destroys us, and what makes us happy. And when I think of that world beneath me, I feel less alone because at least I know that there is something else out there who might listen. 

    Sometimes I am sad at home, and I just sit on the couch and think. My dog senses my feelings, so he crawls over and curls up into a ball on my lap, and just looks at me or sleeps. I like animals because they give you companionship, even when you’re at your worst. They understand. And I like to hold him in my arms and kiss his nose because he’s my baby, and he understands. He won’t talk, or argue, or whimper. He just looks back at me and listens. 

    It’s terrible how many insults I throw at myself everyday. It’s terrible how much I hate myself. And I know that nobody can help me but myself, and that’s alright. And when you all ask me how college is, I say it’s fine. It’s beautiful and terrible how much I am like the weather. I keep changing and it drives me insane because when can I just stay still to think? I know I’m going to be okay. I’m working on this, and I will be okay. Because now I see how complicated the world is and now that I’m on my own, and I have nobody to guide me, I realize how the things I used to take granted for are some of the most important things in my life. 

    These words that you’re reading, these words are secrets that I don’t and haven’t told anyone. 

boxes

You pack your life in them. You store unwanted things in them. You treasure important things in them. Boxes. Are made out of cardboard, are made out of metal, are made out of plastic. Boxes. Come in all shape and forms. You can only fit so many things in them before it overflows. It’s like your life. No matter how hard to try to do something, there are always limits that stop your fantasies. And that’s when you must come back down to reality.