The Sunday Mornings of a Lifetime

mother-and-child-fine-art-print-nursery-room-pink-mom-and-baby-prints The first Sunday morning. Braided aureate hair glittering, green floral dress flapping in the subtle wind. A violinist is performing under an old oak tree with its leaves newly birthed, his enchanting music slipping into her small heart.

The second Sunday morning. Red maxi dress and sandals, her rosy cheeks blushing as the violinist kneels down and pulls out a red velvet-wrapped box.

The third Sunday morning. Hair pulled back into a low bun, an oversized
cotton dress embracing her growing belly. She is whispering a tune, one that was played with the violin so long ago, one that she can hear no more.

The fourth Sunday morning. Strands of gray hair hanging loosely on her forehead, a baggy teddy bear costume, colorful balloons and a birthday cake. A kid stands laughing in his silvery voice as he watches her dancing his favorite cartoon song.

The fifth Sunday morning. White hair tightly pulled back, she has on her glasses and an old pajamas. Here and there voiced the story of beautiful Snow White and her Prince, under the reddening leaves of the autumn.

The sixth Sunday morning. There is white outlining the barren trees, white dropping from the sky and rippling in funny little circles as the wind swirls its way in, white hushing the soft tunes buried under the snow, under the tombstone, yet rising still to dangle in the air like a stubborn little girl.


The Broken Penners

High school love is like a broken pen. Sometimes you see the words you write, sometimes you don’t, and when you hold it in your hand and toss it the ink rushes out all over the place.

Even when it works you think about whether you really want to write, because after a while you’re just like “hey, maybe I should read instead.”

Writing is an urge that comes and go, but the ink isn’t. It comes without you asking it to, it goes without you wanting it to.

Maybe one day you go out and see this person holding your pen as if it’s theirs. Or you go home and see it gone on your table—it could be in your laundry, under your carpet, or inside your bag. Even if it’s there next to you as you lay in bed you may not be able to see it.

A little story for people who want a pen, have a pen, have lost a pen, are a pen: don’t worry if you mess your writing up, because with a pen you can always cross it out and make it right again. It’s broken, but you don’t like it perfect anyway, do you?1524534493_8320ca5ada_b

The Secret of Solitude – A weird teenage approach to philosophy

I have learned to never feel lonely. Never to need others’ company to cheer me up, never to need them to appreciate who I am, simply because I have learned to enjoy myself before I learned to love anything or anyone else. This is the only way one would never feel lonely, because one will have to be alone at some point and at a certain frequency in one’s life, and not having to depend on anyone for happiness is just about the most powerful asset that can ever be possessed. Learning an instrument, reading, writing, doing one’s nails, gardening, those are all things that a person can learn to occupy his solitariness. Now this is not something I just came up with: I have struggled with loneliness my whole life, battling it until there’s nothing else but this one solution. I learned it the hard way, but it works.

However, this little thesis of mine was challenged on a summer day several weeks ago, when I was rambling through the chaotic pool of people in the streets of Vietnam and suddenly a sole image of a girl froze my mind. She was a teenage girl wearing a high school uniform, hair pulled back, shoulders dropping and pulling her sullen face with it. The girl struggled to climb onto her bike, clutching her clumsy shivering hands on the wheels, liquids dripping down her face that soon became so overflowed I couldn’t quite tell if they came from her eyes or her forehead, or both. And the thing was, the girl wore the saddest face I had ever seen. Her face was quite pretty, but her black eyes were void and paralyzed with something I couldn’t tell—a touch of something that was incredibly, overwhelmingly sad that I couldn’t quite describe, probably because I registered that feeling with feelings of my own and not my head. Her lips were a pale purplish gray, and the outlines of her nose were so pathetically flat her face looked like wet paper towels, the sad ones that were crumbled and stepped on on the ground. Surprisingly enough, as I came closer I figured she wasn’t crying. When I thought about it again that day I didn’t find it surprising though: I guessed when I myself was frustrated, hurt, broken, angry, I poured my heart out with tears, I screamed, I crawled on the floor, my throat dry and my face wet. I erupted with emotions. But when I was sad I never did those things. It was more about suppression as opposed to explosion, oppression by either a solid being or figurative forces—so much nothing really got out of me. No tears, no words, no vowels. Sadness was an inactive emotion. It groaned timidly, wept covertly, and sighed softly.

That was why when I was sad I seemed to swell up while looking like I wanted to shrink down. Into an infinitely small creature that I felt like I was.

Anyway, I approached her and asked her what the problem was. She said everything in her life fell apart. Her boyfriend just left her, her mother did a long while ago. She didn’t know why because no one told her why, but for some reasons her breakup left her angry at herself and not the guy. She had no one to blame, nothing to break, but herself.

“But you have yourself left, right? Only yourself can be enough.”

“But he is here no more.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

When I told mom this she told me I was wrong. She told me I didn’t get it because I had never been in love.

“What does love have anything to do with it?”

“Love is giving and taking. Love takes away a part of you and fills it in with substance of its own. When love leaves, it takes that part away with it, so you’re left with a void. Sometimes that void can never be filled on your own.”

I thought about it the next morning when I was looking into the mirror the next morning during my hygiene routine. “Love becomes a part of you”, was as much as I could grasp among all the things she said. I guessed it meant that it would grow into something much more than “a part” of you, like the part that you loved the most about yourself. It became your identity, which was why it became irreplaceable. It would even grow to be the only part you loved about yourself.

Should it though?

I say that if love makes you something less than yourself, it’s not love. My mom is right that after experiencing it love makes the game quite different, because it does make you feel incomplete. However, you can totally grow that missing part out again. When you are in love, with someone that loves you back, it is the art of giving and taking, but it’s not just one part of you—it’s diffusing each other’s bodies, fulfilling every molecules with this new substance, so that when the two separate something leaves but everything stays. That substance, that influence the other has on you is still here even though the person isn’t here anymore. Anyway, what I mean to say is that you are still you, not a broken, partially lost you but a new you. A new you with a touch of this thing you’ve recently been through.

Now this has turned into something quite different than what I had intended it to be, but the bottom line is, you should learn to love yourself first and foremost, and loving someone else shouldn’t interfere with that self-love. Don’t feel incomplete when someone leaves your life, because they were there in the first place just to leave that little substance in you. When they’re done they leave, when they’re not they stay, and it’s ok either way. So love your own company, that’s the only person you ever really have.

This person I want to be

Everything created for adolescents is supposed to have been made for one sole purpose: for them to develop their identity. They need to know what things they’re passionate about, what traits they want to define themselves with, and really not who they want to become but who they are. Have humans always been the same persons as they were two days ago and ten years ago? Is there really a difference between “the old” and “the new” Miley Cyrus? So does this person that we always, at some point in our life, aspire ourselves to be, even exist, or is it just a more version of the younger us, a more mature version whose traits are not invented but fully exposed? I think it fair to argue that the core values we define ourselves with have been inside us this whole time, and it is always about whether we recognize its existence and resolve to bring its presence to broad daylight and at the same time be proud that we did. And maybe it’s always just the matter of time, because one seems to realize sooner or later, although it best be during our teenage years when a little misunderstanding doesn’t lead to the collapse of a business or someone going to jail. Or is it that those hidden values don’t wait until we discover them, but rather wait for a time when they want to come out?

However, it’s true that this person we want to be still exists. It calls for its existence every single day, when our clumsy legs send us flying to the ground, when we study for physics and fail anyway, when our hair just won’t straighten even after hours and hours. Whenever things just don’t work no matter how hard we try, we wish we can change some things about ourselves. We know those stuff they talk about, that we should be proud of who we are and embrace ourselves because everyone is unique and all that shit. Oh but how hard it really is to understand that there are limitations to what we can change about ourselves, that there are certain things that are just meant to be, and not to feel desperate or disappointed, because the more important thing to understand is that maybe, those things that we want to change don’t need to be changed. That it’s better this way, because what difference does it make? Okay but what difference does it really make?

It’s hard to get this person out of our mind because we want what we want. The real problem is that we never see everything we want when we want one particular thing too badly, and I guess it’s really why you can only acquire nirvana when you’re free of desires. That’s basically the definition of regret. We want so many things in life, but the wants that have been fulfilled suddenly lose all their values. Until we lose them, and then get sucked in this endless cycle of sacrifices and dissatisfaction.

Well, but do I want to rid all of my desires, for so-called freedom and salvation?

No thanks. Not when I’m fifteen, when I’m the only child in the family and my dad not having pension when he retires. Life is not all about myself, and it’s not a complaint. We as human beings live in a community and we usually don’t have a choice about it, not that it’s troubling with me because I wouldn’t want a life with just myself anyway. And coming along with the joy of company is the responsibilities of membership. Looking back on my life, it has always been about those responsibilities. 80% of the decisions I’ve made are with regards to others. And I don’t mean to say I’m a kind person, because doing things for others is to me, and probably to many others, not at all a kind and nice thing but a responsibility, a default mind set. Now that really goes for many things, including fulfilling expectations, which really shapes this “person I want to be” rather than who I really think I should be.

This ends sort of abrupt, but I really have no more to write. What’s the point of writing without wanting to write. (It’s funny how I keep getting back to the point of everything. It’s in fact kind of a funny word).