8/26/2011

Alright today...straight out blog moment because I'm depressed, confused and I don't really know what to do. I know I did something like this a few days ago and I'm worried that this might be a bad habit of mine in this starting school year. I don't know.

Let's start back to last last year. I met this blond girl, sitting at an Asian Table. Typical love at first sight right? Wrong. I didn't want to be the same as all the other Asian guys: desperate for some girl who was just slightly closer than porn models.

She was weird. That was my first impression of her. And it still is. She was vegetarian. She was Athiest. But she was more...Asian than I was. She obsessed over grades; that's all she talked about. While I sat awkwardly on the side of the table, not really talking, but just a weird kid. They say immaturity is all in the head, and that if you believe yourself to be an adult, you will change. Will you? I sure as hell haven't, and believe me, I've tried believing I was an adult, but I'm still the same 5th grader trapped in a high schooler's body.

Anyway she seemed interesting. She was childish, more so than me at times, tying one of her friends to a desk with fragile thread-like things (My school's health teacher was weird; he hung balls of threads from the ceiling.). She threw carrots at the cool people at my lunch table. She had some sort of attitude that pissed me off; she was always so stuck-up, always supposed to be perfect, always supposed to be right. She disgusted me. Little did I know, I was no different. The only difference was that she had a social life, whereas I, had a family of Pokemon to go home to each night.

Sophomore year passed uneventfully. I would like to say that, but that's just a lie. I did horrible things to her; "horrible" meaning I regret them now even more so than ever. I threw meat at her. I insulted her, the start of a new habit. I pretended to want to talk to her just to mess with her stuff. After all, children are children, and I was no different from anybody else. If it wasn't her, it would be somebody else. However, this year, it was her.

Junior year swung on by. That summer, I had resigned myself to be a true Christian, a real follower of Christ. I wanted to be loving and kind and strong and faithful. That at least, had been my goal.

We were in the same lunch period, and started tutor training together. I sat near her each time, trying to get close. And when tutor training was over, and we had assigned days to come in to tutor, we sat at the same lunch table. In my head I said, "Love thy neighbor, no matter how annoying she is". However, in my heart, I said "she's actually cool. And I want her all to myself."

Predictably, I had fallen for her. I was such a freaking idiot. Why did I fall for someone who just gave me pity? I hate myself immensely. I am so shallow and dumb. And that's where everything collapsed.

We were in the same AP US history class together, along with one of my four best friends. And already, I began to feel jealousy. Why did she spend time with other people? I thought. It didn't occur to me that it was to get away from me. But paranoia set in, and I was such a fool to let it stay.

I had to release stress. I abused her behind her back, insulting her without refrain, talking about her with friends. I don't know what they thought of it. I don't know what they imagined at all. But it led back to her. And she hated me.

She never showed it. And her forgiveness was so thorough that even now, my heart is hurting so badly. But it soon got worse.

I had some sort of emotional break-down. I like to pretend I was in control, but, really was I? I don't even know why I was so upset, so dark. I wasn't depressed. That's a disease. I was just really upset and I even made up a reason why.

She noticed and her kindness makes me wince even now. She was my only friend who talked to me. Or at least I considered her one. I don't know what she considered me as.

For a while, we kept our distance between each other, due to my loose mouth and idiocy. But she was always the one who apologized, even though it was all my fault. I never once said "I'm sorry" or meant it.

But my desire for her went too far. I used a poor freshman girl like a hungry pharisee. That's a story for another day, but, it hurts me, if not more, than what happened to me recently. Anyway, eventually, I did the stupidest thing I could've done. I confessed to her.

And even then she forgave me and kept her distance.

Finally summer came. I got over her, easily. Lust only lasts temporarily. But once that left, all my disgust and hate returned. And boy, did I hate her. She was putrid to me; she was too perfect and kind. It wasn't fair. She was too mature. She had changed while I hadn't. And this change made me hate her even more.

I insulted her non-stop, despite all her efforts to maintain a positive or even neutral relationship. It got to the point that she didn't even look at me in the hall. Finally, after one mean remark too many, she snapped.

Her email was long and powerful. She swore, for the first time I had ever heard her. She reminded me of all the things my childish mind had long since forgotten. She told me how disappointed she was in me, only in harsher words and a sharper tongue. And then she ended it by asking whether I was happy to finally piss her off after years and years of torture.

And without apologizing, I told her to simply, leave me alone.

She replied, mainly with words to make herself to feel better. But I said the same: leave me alone.

She doesn't hate me. Hate is a surge of passion. What she feels is much worse: absolute apathy. Whether I die or not, she doesn't care. I don't think she ever did care, but now I know this is all she ever will feel towards me. And there's nothing I can say that will make it ok, or any excuse that will justify my actions. I'm in denial right now; I'm not letting myself think about it; I know tears will come to my eyes the moment I even realize the words I am saying right now. Because of how stupid I am. Because of how weird I am. Because of how immature I am. Because just how horrible I feel for treating her like someone, but not a person.

I don't hate her anymore. And for the first time, I want to apologize for real.I want to do something drastic, but I know nothing I can do, for however long, will ever change her heart.

But this time, my apology isn't in words or actions.This is an apology by moving on. We'll never talk again; although some part of me hopes that we do, with a desire to cause her more pain, I am certain that we won't. I need to be exactly like her: warm on the outside, cold and dark on the inside. And the only way I can ever move forward is to stop regretting, and to simply forget.

After all, that's what children do, don't they?

Writing Warm-ups: 8/19/2011

I remember an incident before summer ended, school began, and life began to feel like it would never end.
I was helping settle a dispute between a group of arguing children, and the story begins something like this...

The sun raps down hard on our backs as shouting reaches an unbearable pitch. Two groups of children prepare for battle, drawing an invisible line across the basketball court.Vicious girls and angry boys alike growl and hiss over a small red ball, currently in the boys' possession. However, unlike the girls, the boys are enjoying this. More importantly, unlike the boys, the girls are beginning to pick up rocks and sticks.

"Hey!" I shout, as I reach them. "Boys! Scatter!" I push several of them away. "Move it! Go!" Intimidated, they flinch backwards, and then quickly move away from me.

"But!" the girls immediately respond. I silence them quickly with a glare. Its just too hot for this. Nevertheless, some of the girls are persistent.

"That was ours!" she cries out. "It's not fair! They're mean people!"

"Yeah!" other girls join in. "Boys are dumb! Everyone knows that! They're mean, dumb and stupid!"

"Quiet!" I shout impatiently. It's only until I shout myself hoarse that they finally calm down. And when they do, I ask, "How is picking up sticks and rocks going to fix this? Throw them away!"

Reluctantly they move. Some begin to give excuses and answers, but a single look is enough to keep their fragments from maturing into sentences.

"How many of you consider yourselves to be nice people?" I demand, exasperated by their attitude. "Just raise your hand; tell me if you think you're a nice person. If you don't raise your hand, I'm assuming that you think you're a bad person."

Hands shoot up. I roll my eyes. Nearly every girl who was picking up weapons has raised her hand. However, there is one kind, but lazy girl who has not raised her hand. I don't remember her name, but I remember her face; it was kind and round; she was generally quiet, but always went out of her way to help others out, especially when no one would thank her in return.

After I dispersed the mob, I tracked her. When she saw me she smiled; it was a good sign as it meant that she had been paying attention to me before. If she didn't like me, she would have ignored me in the first place.

"Why didn't you raise your hand?" I asked. "All the other girls did it."

"I'm not very nice, though." she says. Then she pauses.

"Really?" I say. "Are you sure? You help out others all the time."

"I don't know," she says, a bit distracted. "But...being mean means that when I'm mean, it's ok. And being nice means a lot more. I think. " She looks at me, her mouth slightly agape. "What do you think?"

"Who are you mean to?" I ask. "Is it just one person?"

She nods. "I'm always mean to my sister. I don't know why, but I have to blame her and interrupt her and say she's stupid."

"Is she?" I ask. "She's only a year younger than you."

"No!" she replies firmly. "I'm just...to her, I'm really mean. I don't like it. But she is my bestest friend in the world. And all her other friends are mean to her! Somehow it makes her laugh, but when I do it..."

It's a desperate look on her face. Within a moment, though, it wipes away.

"It doesn't matter." She says. "I'm a mean person, and that's it. Mean people never change." Then, as whimsical as the wind, she flickers off to some of her friends.

And I still wonder: how many of her words were her own? And how many were her sister's? And most importantly, how many did she really mean?

8/18/2011

Urgh. I give up. The last 15 or so posts were all writing warm-ups which immediately afterwards I wrote another college essay/edited one.  This one, however, is going to ignore the attempt at trying different styles, to characterize something, to make any attempt to show that I'm a normal human, because, in all honesty, I'm not.

In other words, this blog is going to be the lowest form of writing: a complaint. Girls might call it diary entries, and seeing as this is a blog, its about the same thing. I don't know. But seeing as its you, the reader, who has the choice to continue reading, I guess I'll assume in the next few paragraphs that you want to hear me complain.

Really, I don't care whether you want to continue reading or not, because the real reader who I want to acknowledge these words is myself.

Part 1

As a 17 year old, there's all these stereotypes I'm supposed to be: having a blossoming love life, a courageous social life, and an unbearable excitement towards the future. Or if not that, an all-or-nothing attitude towards work, capable of doing absolutely everything simultaneously and caring less about the consequences of eating Ramen everyday. Or, if I'm not even like that, I'm supposed to be a self-sufficient person, whose self-esteem, motivation, and overall personality does not depend on what other people say or do.

As a child, people are expected to wild, shallow, confused, and could careless about what will happen a week from now, much less a month. They are supposed to flash between being depressed and being wild. They are supposed to be children.

And yet, why I do I still fit the definition of a child?

I am wild; I am shallow, confused and have no sense of the "grand picture". I only want a social life, to work hard, to have a love life because others have it, because it looks fun, because I have never understood friendship, discipline or love and am hoping for a new sensation. I only want to be unique because everyone else is unique. I only want to fit in because who else will tell me "that's funny" or laugh at me? I only want to be an adult because no one else wants to be a child.

Why do I get so depressed when someone doesn't greet me? And then why am I surprised when people I hurt hate me in return, when they don't talk to me, or when they don't acknowledge me? Why am I sad when others leave me alone? Isn't "alone" all I wanted? Did I want to be "alone" simply because everyone else wanted to be "alone" from me?

You know you're shallow when you can't even tell a friend why they're your friend. Their personality? Their humor? Their money? Their car? The opportunity to be superior to another person? Are they an ipod, or even a tape recorder? Or are they just a habit; just like flossing before brushing your teeth? Or are they a temporary measure, like a duct-tape patched back-pack?

I have written about other children this entire time, talking about their actions, as if they were below me. It's just to bad I can't do the same to myself, because I am, if not worse, just as immature as the other children.

Part 2

What’s wrong with me? She makes me sigh, and laugh, and sends warm shivers ripple through my head spinning my heart in circles. Cold sweat collects on my neck, and it takes a few blinks to refocus my eyes, wiping that dreamy smile off my face. But she is still sitting beside me, and it’s all I can do to not stare or move any closer to her. The teacher’s saying something, and there’s other noise in the background too. At least I think so; I’m not certain. I’m too busy feeling comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

She has no expression, normally. A blank face, looking around, telling nothing of all the effort she puts into studying and working hard, she makes everything seem so easy, not minding the existent boredom throughout the class. But when she smiles or laughs, something in me cracks; I feel like I’ve just molted off an old layer of dirt and dust and disgusting skin, and have emerged, metamorphosed and awakened.

But I know it is all shallow. I’ve talked to her before, and frankly, I’ve gotten bored of talking with her after an hour. It’s not that she’s not interesting; it’s just that I don’t know what to say anymore. The mysteriousness that draws me towards her vanishes when we talk. And all that’s left is just empty lust and social obligation.

It may not all be childish and foolish, but for the main part, it is. And in my case, I am only attracted to her because she’s quiet; she is alone. I only want her as a trophy, not as a friend; someone I can target so that I can be just like everyone else. In the end, I’m just thinking about myself; when I see her, I only think of what she is to me, and thereby react accordingly. I’m just in denial.

So who is she? Is she really the one making me feel the way I do, shudder when I see her face, hear her name? Or is she just a trophy who’ll make me desire her when I’m not talking to her, or not in contact with her?  

Writing Warm-ups: 8/12/2011

A quiet voice, hardly heard beyond the white noise in the background, she filled a notebook page with writing, always writing with a pencil—although her eraser sat lonely in the corner of the table, unused and unnecessary. 
After finishing the page, she looked back at previously filled pages; she would need a new spiral soon. They were like little blooming flowers, but instead of colorful petals, there were busy paragraphs, and instead of nectar, there were, as she thought, at least somewhat beautiful words and lines.


"Let me see!" Eva, her sister, said, grabbing the notebook, energetically, but perhaps a bit too excitedly. But she still let her sister and her friend, Rachel read the page, as she secretly smiled to herself. 


She watched the pair read, and saw their faces change expression, slowly from excitement to confusion then to glee. Her heart thumped in her chest; would they like it? Hopefully they liked the main characters' names.


"Yay! You wrote about us!" Rachel giggled. "Even about the faries and the hobgoblins!"


"We asked her too!" Eva said. Then after reading a bit longer. "Oh my God! Why did you make us do that?"


"You told me to." she said, a bit nettled. She slid back into her chair, arms crossed, wearing more boyish cloths than girlish.


Her name was Danielle. She knew school was about to start. She knew most of Naruto manga. She knew that she didn't know anything about junior high school. 


"This Shuriken doesn't have a hole in the middle."  she stated, showing me a four-pointed origami figure, looking into my eyes to see whether she should smile or not.


"Cool," I reply blandly. It's too late, but before I know it, she has walked off, a little more upset than she'll show on her face. No smile. She just walked away, shoulder-length hair flipping around her back.


An hour later, she was watching Naruto episodes on my laptop. Then realizing that her notebook was vulnerable to others, she quickly ran to her seat, took it and came back, hugging it tightly to her chest.


He was pretty, although, to me, not particularly spectacular. However, there was something about her, like a cliche in a good book, that made her stand out even though she seemed so normal. Whether it was that strange chant she made her sister sing for me, or the fact that she responded with "Negi Hyuga" when I asked for her name, there was something mysterious about her, making her seem so much more interesting than any of the Naruto characters. In fact, if anything, I was certain that her story was more beautiful and amazing than any manga at all. 


It's just that I'll never see her again.

Writing Warm-up: 8/4/ 2011

(Poetry Practice)

I loved her; heart racing, too hot

for normal breaths.

I’m comfortable, too uncomfortable for thoughts

Too clichéd for words and me.

I’m still waiting for the sea

To clash back, one wave and again

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.

She was beautiful too

amazing for my precence

And life.

She could care less

Smooth, calm, too cool

To listen to me

I’m still waiting for the shore

The waters too deep and long

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.

She was smart; I hardly knew her

Name.  

Cold like ice. But she never melted.

She never spoke.

Once.

I’m still waiting for the day

The darkness retains its bulky wetness

Ebb and flow, ebb and flow,

I’m still waiting for it to come back again.