Looking back...

Every year, I look back at the year that is reaching its end and reflect. On the things that happened, the things that could have happened, the if's, and's, but's, maybe's. On the coulda, shoulda, and the woulda. Every year up to this, I'd make a list of all the things that happened. This year was no exception, but after all this time, I've realized that so much happens in a year, the events blur together and embed themselves into the mind, swirling together until you're not sure if the memory had always been there, or if it was a new addition.

This year taught me a lot of things. This year made me realize the pain of losing a close friend, I learned to appreciate that tomorrow is not really guaranteed, and the short time we are given must be spent to the fullest, always, not only under threats and adverse situations. I realized that we are not independent islands, but at the same time, we must learn how to be strong on our own. Whoever forbid we ever need to be, but just in case, it is wise for all to develop self-sufficient ideals. This year, I observed the failures and successes of many relationships around me. I was not in one myself, but I've learned a lot, and there were most definitely experiences that I felt so strongly about, they may as well have happened to me.

I collected another anthology of quotes that will follow me for a while, I met people I don't know how I survived without knowing before, and I realized, finally, that it's not always wise to trust unconditionally. I realized that you may love your friends, but at the end of the day, you must love yourself, too, enough to defend yourself against any criticisms that others may pass against you. I realized that family is a whole other level from friends. Family is the people who will support you no matter what, family are the people who will piss you off in every way you could possibly imagine, but who you will still unreasonably love at the end of it all. Friends, though, are the family we choose. I have become closer to many this year, and I am thankful for every single one.

Every year, I superstitiously associate the New Year with a whole smörgåsbord of "new". However, this year, I've learned that like nail varnish that lingers stubbornly at the corners of your nail, tiny flecks of pigment clinging to your cuticle, the past does not disappear, it merely makes way for the future. A simple, obvious message, perhaps, but one that is hard to fully comprehend and accept.

This coming year, I've no idea what to expect, but I know I will have the people I love behind me, in front of me, all around me, because a new year may stand for new starts, but it also stands for further reinforcement of the old.


Who knows if this will be the year when love finally comes to me, or if I'll suddenly become extremely immersed in my schoolwork (most likely not), but whatever is there, I can't wait.


Here's to another fantastic, wonderful year, more spectacular than the last.

love is like a butterfly, hold it too tight, it'll crush, hold it too loose, it'll fly away.

PROCRASTINATION.
always catches up to me. I've yet to do anything that I had planned on completing before the week's end. Now, it's Sunday, and I continue to waste time. I'm pretty sure that I'm going to regret this by the time it's Tuesday. Okay, so it's almost 2008, and here I am again, I'm pretty sure that I'm tired of this unrequited business. I've started so many various blogs on this thing, I've got to keep better track of my virtual identity. Anyway, I still have a ton of stuff, but why get started on it when I can just wait until the last possible second?

i am selfish i am wrong i am right i swear i'm right

if i shut my eyes tight enough,
your face will fade away,
replaced with another,
one more pleasing to me.

if i close my heart away from you,
its possible to pretend that
this isn't reality,
just a passing dream.

if i slip between your fingertips,
perhaps i can salvage
what isn't too damaged to mend.


souls dipped in saccharine lies
will emerge dripping with falsity,
just like those with freshly painted
truths on their lips will
break the surface clean of sin.

a cut barely deep enough to break skin,
will not bleed enough to stain,
but when the skies open up to darkness,
the stinging cold of rain
will slice through all pretenses.

washing away facades and made up faces,
the truth will fall through
like a loosely secured floorboard,
careful where you step
you might lose your balance.


Blah, I've been having such writer's block,
but I have all these beginnings and scraps and pieces brewing in my mind.
but none of it is coherent, and it's mostly just puzzled together into nonsense.

anyway,
I spent an hour and a half doing my nails, and waiting for them to dry.

led by your scent to fairer climes at last.

People like to tell people of a certain age, say thirteen to nineteen, that they aren’t fit for the real world. That they are “too young”, that they are “teenagers”, that they are “naïve”. They like to assume that innocence is synonymous with these years, which in actuality are tumultuous and exposes many of us to the most explicit situations we will ever find ourselves in. Our parents, our teachers, our esteemed town officials will say to us, “Make the right choices—hang out with the right crowd.” Their preaching is prefixed with dos and don’ts. As we ourselves grow older, we look backwards to the thirteen and fourteen, and fifteen and sixteen year olds, wondering when it became okay for them to be living the life of a twenty-two year old. We frown upon the barely developed girls wearing low-cut shirts, too-short skirts, and provocative amounts of makeup. We wonder why people start acting older at younger and younger ages each year. What we forget is that at that stage in our own lives, we were doing things that those older than us also disapproved of. We thought nothing of it. It was the thing to do, it was modern, it was normal. Falling in love was something that was highly sought after, and we all had high hopes for it.

Adults like to assume that “children”, as they refer to us, have no idea what real love is. They like to say, “You’re too young to fall in love.” What they don’t remember is that from the day we are conceived, we begin to learn of attachment. As embryos, with not even a full identity, we come to depend upon our mothers’ bodies, feeding off their nutrition, learning to live together. When we are born, we cry for affection and love, becoming attached to our parents. We come to recognize their touch, to slowly register the unique tones of their voices, their facial expressions. We come to know these people who care for us, and this is the burgeoning of our true first love. As we progress through the years, we learn a different kind of love. The kind of love that comes from absolute trust in a friend, in a companion who talks to you, and gives you the much needed time away from hectic stresses of everyday life. Young girls would spend hours upon hours concocting the perfect prince charming, daydreaming of white weddings and breathtaking wedding gowns. They would indulge in Disney Princess movies, twirling and dancing, fancying themselves a fairy tale character. They would play dress up, wearing their mother’s jewelry, feet swimming in a pair of heels, awkwardly making their way down the hallway, their imaginations rampant. Once these young girls grow into young women, their ideals may conform to that of their peers, as well as what they feel is required of a girl their age. They begin to dress a certain way, to talk and laugh flirtatiously, hoping to catch the attention of a boy, or two, or three. At this point, their fairy tale dreams have been pushed to the back of their minds, making way for a new kind of fantasy.

This kind of fantasy is the dangerous kind, the kind that results in unplanned pregnancies and shattered ideals for the future. New ideals are born, and dreams are altered, if not altogether evicted. It is the enticing kind of “being bad” that makes us all want to do it. Every kiss feels rebellious; every touch is another exciting step towards adulthood. We are all reaching for independence, of being treated like we’re all grown up, ready to do what we want. Not for a second do we think about exactly what growing up means—the responsibilities, the day-to-day routines that take the place of our spontaneous, childish antics. All we want is the sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll.

Those of us who feel left behind, loveless and lonely build up insecurities and frustrations. We spill our hearts out over the liquor and beer we unlawfully consumed, letting it burn our throats and slur our speech. For some, a rendezvous with alcohol is a chance to finally let go, and be honest for once. For others, it’s an excuse to reach for the nearest comforting body. Still others will enter a state of distorted consciousness, not quite understanding exactly what they are doing, saying out loud every thought that enters their impaired minds. We go home, maybe a little heartbroken, thinking that every rejection will be the end of the world. After time, the real growing up begins. You begin to realize that it’s okay to lose. It’s okay to experience the stinging slap of being turned down, because you’ll be okay. Like a paper cut, it’s a shocking kind of hurt. At times, it may not hit right away, but when it does, it hurts more than much deeper wounds. The next day, it becomes just another memory, something you cringe at the thought of, but no longer hide from. Perhaps, like a scar, it lingers, and we might softly trace a finger along it, recalling the incident that led to its existence. Every scar, every cut, however, is a learning experience. It serves as a souvenir of the flesh that, like a highlighted section of text, conveys a main idea, a lesson learned the hard way.

Sometimes, for the ones who do find love, or something like it, it becomes a necessity, like water and oxygen. We come to need our alleged ‘other half’ more than food, more than anything in the world. We trick ourselves into believing that it would be okay if the entire universe ended, as long as we still have them. We push away everything that doesn’t have to do with them, turning a deaf ear towards those who oppose us. We lash out at anyone who tries to tell us it’s not real. ‘It is real’, we will angrily protest. ‘It’s real and it’s going to be forever’, we inform them. We say it over and over again, until we have completely persuaded ourselves in to believing that any other scenario would be impracticable. We think we are going to marry every one we go out with—every one is “the one”, every one is “true love”, every one is the first time. I’ve never felt this way, we say about each ‘true love’. It would be too cynical to say that this is a permanent condition. Certainly there are times when the lucky ones do find forever. There is that sweet love that everyone is jealous of, that everyone prays and wishes for. Even the pessimists, the “love isn’t real” types look to the stars, daring to open their hearts to fate. At eleven-eleven, the lucky ones thank whoever it was that led them to this wonderful, magnificent person that they can’t picture their lives without. At eleven-eleven, the lonely hearts will clasp their hands together; close their eyes, and whisper to all the entities above, “Please, send me true love.” To find this kind of love so early on feels like winning the mega million dollar jackpot. It’s almost too good to be true, but we scowl at those who try to tell us so. If ignorance is bliss, then young love is absolute ecstasy.

Somewhere close to one’s twenty-something birthday, the thought of aging any more sends a shudder down the spine. Every frown becomes a new enemy of their faces, no longer as firm as they used to be. They swear gravity is getting the best of them. Sometime during the last decade, it became the norm for a woman of forty to look much younger than a woman of twenty or thirty. Sometime during this last decade, it became commonplace for young adults ages eight to twelve to engage in activities that would make the elderly people of this age clutch their hearts and gasp for air. Slowly, it is getting to the point where it is no longer taboo for little girls and little boys to know what sex is before they even know their times tables. The educational television programs are replaced by mindless, brain-numbing shows that are reminiscent of how one might picture an acid-trip. Obesity, not the alphabet, is the main concern of these producers, who wish to make Santa Claus resemble the ‘after’ picture instead of the ‘before’, and demand the cookie monster to exchange his cookies for celery sticks. These people are the same ones who encouraged everyone to indulge in McDonald’s just half a decade earlier. They want to retire Elmo from Sesame Street, as if the furry red creature is any more harmful to children’s wisdom than shows with talking appliances.

With each passing generation, the polished, shiny lives of celebrities inch closer to center stage. Already we make exceptions for anyone with a name we recognize, excusing them from the law all because they once appeared for a nanosecond on our favorite show. We flatter them with attention, begging for their signatures, for a picture, for anything. We immortalize them with merchandise, putting their faces on all kinds of paraphernalia and attaching their names to products in hopes of attracting consumers. It is becoming harder and harder for the optimists to defend the intelligence of this country, and every crisis only supports the talk of critics, fueling foreign nations’ hatred for our homeland.

So what, exactly, do we have to believe in anymore? If love hurts us and makes us cry, and money has upstaged morals, then what do we have left? We are all striving for happiness. Some of us give up too soon. Some of us wallow too long in self-misery until we begin to drown in it, losing our way, unable to find the surface. Those who are willing to put aside the failed attempts, brushing off the dust of rejection, soldier on. They gamely push against the current, struggling through the fierce winds of misfortune. We find things to be thankful for, develop remedies for unhappiness, manage to make ourselves smile, and search for ways to make others okay, too. Faith has almost completely been pushed to the back burner, and many of us scoff at the silly religious propagandists who try to sell us their beliefs. We haughtily shut our ears to their sermons, sitting only in church to gain the status of confirmation. After that, how many will dedicate the same amount of time? Regardless, it is crucial that we harbor hope. When Pandora released the demons that plague the world, she also let out hope. Though overpowered and outnumbered, it fights hard in the hearts of people everywhere. It keeps us going when we think there is nowhere left to go, carving out hope-shaped boxes in the obstacles that impede our paths. It slowly melts away the negativity that, if left alone, will take the shape of our souls and trap us forever in its hold.

Of all the age groups, people have the most misconceptions about teenagers. They say we do not know, that we can’t possibly know, what it’s like. We retaliate with this same attitude, accusing the adults around us of being oppressors, keeping us from freedom. What we forget to do is appreciate that they are merely trying to protect us from the destructive decisions that attempt, at every opportunity, to seduce our highly impressionable minds. Many succumb to the beckoning of this powerful siren, turning to all things that our D.A.R.E. guests warned us to beware of. Neither side can be completely right, because those who claim to have been there can not possibly know what it is like for their children. At the same time, those of us who are still ‘there’, still in the midst of living through it, must remember that there is no way for us to know everything. We must confess that sometimes older really is wiser. But to those who choose to fool themselves into thinking that we do not know anything, that we are “too young”, please understand you are hardly letting yourself see the whole picture.

-Christine Zhao, December 2007.

Home sweet, polluted home

Back in NY and I can already feel the pollution. or smell it anyway.
Still,I missed it. Good to be back not good for school :/

Plane

Our plane is delayed by an hour and a half because the weather in NY
is dreadful. Outside my plane window there is bright sunshine, blue
sky. I am going to miss FL

Hi

Sent from my iPhone

Test post

I wonder if this works