love, read, write

there is this look in the eyes of that woman
she has grubby hair, freckled cheeks,
her lips curled but frayed at the ends into a miniscule frown
a minute ago she was hollering jokes with her customer,
the one who had two loaves of bread,
a jug of milk,
a box of yogurts and
white skin.

she says nothing.
my mother fidgets with her wallet, grabbing for her credit card and i--
i can’t do anything. i just stand by and watch as
the woman frowns (with those frayed ends)
pushes the cart unhappily and
shoves our yogurt box down and it hits the edge with a slam.
hasn’t said hello, or how are you, or anything at all.
no joke.
those frayed ends sit back and watch
my mother scurry to put our groceries in the cart again

“hey, what’s taking so long?”
“i’m trying,” and that smile, that smug, knowing sort of smile she gives
to the customer behind us,
the one with two boxes of cereal,
a bag of fruit, two jackets, and
white skin. and she returns to looking at us,
smile gone,
just that look in her eyes, crossed arms,
those frayed ends on her lips.

in that moment i hate white skin. it’s like they team against us,
like we are a lower race. like it is of no worthy respect
to come here and speak in scary tongues
at grocery stores, doctor’s offices,
school events,
with neighbors.
like my mother has no language because she does not have
their language,
like there is no merit to her being a teacher of Korean,
staying up late creating new curricula,
no merit to her high esteem when she had a job back at
home, no merit to her studious attempts to learn

there is no merit to that. what she does
does not matter because
how she speaks
ruins it all.

my mother feels the anger but she knows not how to express it
in a language they will understand--
intellectually,
or linguistically.

It seems that these days I am following my own trend of starting my essays with "On." Perhaps it is a side-effect of my writer's block (my constipation in creativity). I cannot think of a better title than to, well, call it what it is. An essay on the perception of happiness. And it is not just any kind of happiness. I am talking about happiness as it often pertains to students, my peers, my friends. I dedicate this to my friends K, C, and the endless other people out there who have bumped into moments of doubt and unhappiness.





Often, in our lives, we reach obstacles. Sometimes, they come in the form of a human, sneering and bigoted, or perhaps snide and rude. Sometimes they are places, like a stadium or a stage. Sometimes they are times, such as the future or the past. But sometimes, the scariest of all, it is us ourselves, our own minds which create the obstacles. We are afraid to act, to speak, to move forward. Or perhaps we curl inwards until our own nails begin to scratch our insides and we feel the blood flowing internally in places they should not.

The biggest and often most difficult obstacle we run into is the obstacle of the self. There may come a time when you (yes you) will sit down and wonder what your own worth is. Perhaps you will feel ugly, stupid, incompetent, or selfish. Perhaps you will feel like you are not a good person. Perhaps you will feel like there is nobody out there who believes in you; perhaps you will feel like there is no worth in being alive.

Moments like these are arguably the most difficult moments of life. Because when you convince yourself that you are not good enough, no material gain or loss will suddenly lift this thought off of your shoulders. Suddenly, when you feel like you lose this thing called "worth," you are degraded to something less than human, something that wallows in the subterranean world among worms and dirt. Because you are not good enough. Good enough for what? For working? For getting As? It doesn't matter. If the feeling starts, you are unhappy enough to decide that there is no hope. Zilch.

In a world like today, in a country like America (with hyper-capitalism), worth is a big deal. Society puts it up on a pedestal. I admit that I, too, am involved in this exchange of "worth." Perhaps we compare worth with grades; perhaps we compare it with money. Perhaps we compare it with popularity, with likes, with comments. At the base, we compare ourselves with numbers. Do numbers create a concrete scale for us to compare ourselves with others (and since we are animals of logic, we naturally latch onto this "objective" measurement)? Or does it somehow validate our existence? Whatever it does, this measurement of "worth" suddenly takes over our lives and convinces us that a lower number means a lesser worth and a higher number means a greater worth.

Friends around me struggle because of worth. It is natural; we are adolescents, our consciences, our maturities, our perceptions of the world still blooming. We are premature fetuses barely getting a glimpse of whatever is the "real world" (if there is one at all). As we try to figure out our own existences and begin to open our eyes to the greater places outside of our homes, we begin to cower because of this societal construction of "worth." And often, in the case that our measured and compared "worth" is suddenly perceived as low compared to the "average" or "good" worth, we are suddenly unhappy. We wallow. It is terrifying, in that moment, to suddenly realize that you are not good enough for the world. One day, you were walking around, happily doing whatever made you happy, but then the next, you suddenly realized that whatever you do doesn't matter because, well, you're just not good enough.

This societal construction of worth is what often grabs the neck of students, adolescents, and even adults. Perhaps after a certain point worth is GPA. Perhaps then it is income. Perhaps it is beauty (as it is perceived by society). Whatever it is, we begin to compare our own selves (an entity that is separate from the physical world) with the materials and the numbers. The concrete.

The fact is that each one of us are priceless. We are priceless in the very sense of the word that there is no possible price, or number, that can be put on us. There is no "good" or "bad." There is no higher end or lower end. We simply exist as we do. To be "good" or "bad," "worth a lot" or "worth little," are all petty arguments; our physical beings themselves cannot reflect accurately to even the largest degree what we have inside. So there is fact one: you do not have a worth. But not in the way you might think. You don't have a worth because your existence does not allow a measurement to be made. It is like asking for the longest edge of a sphere. It's round! What am I supposed to say?

There was a time when I, too, measured my "worth" with numbers, with others. I mean, I still do (though not as much). I learned this the hard way. (But perhaps I was meant to learn it that way. I am a stubborn soul, and without this kind of experience, I may have lived my life believing that smart is better than stupid and rich is better than poor. I could have lived my life depending desperately on "worth.")

So what happened?

There was a time in my life, during my high school career, when I was not the stellar student. Of course, those around me did not recognize my downfall because they always perceived me as the high achieving student I led them to believe I was. But it is true; there was a time when I hit an obstacle so large that I could not possibly cross it by myself or with others' help. I began to descend into a sudden sinkhole that engulfed me until it had me by the neck. Before then, I had lived believing that I was "worth" much. That I had high "worth," that my GPA and my intelligence and my grades and the pluses after my As were all reflective of who I was, reflective of what a great student I was.

But suddenly, I began to bring home 50s on tests in more than three subjects. I studied, but I fell asleep before I could read more than a paragraph. I did my homework, but always I found myself behind. Somehow, something had gone wrong. I was confused. I refused to accept the numbers in my gradebook. Because according to my beliefs, this meant that my worth had suddenly, in the snap of someone's fingers, gone to near zero.

The first time I came home with an F, I cried in my own bed and hurt myself in ways I should not have done. After all, is it not natural to feel desperation and hopelessness when one's entire treasure chest has disappeared to nothingness?

Yet nothing changed; I continued to fail. I fell asleep during tests; I fell asleep during class; I got zeroes and 50s and 30s. I could not concentrate. I was a mess. I doubted myself. I suddenly realized, then, that I had reached my end. This was it. I had reached my limit, and henceforth, I would live knowing that at the measly age of fifteen (or was it sixteen), I had already reached the dead-end of my skillset. Suddenly my throat felt clenched and my future seemed fogged. I was incapable and utterly, utterly devastated.

During that time, people (adults) around me told me that I was good enough. What are you talking about? Don't measure yourself with your grades! You are still an amazing person! That's all that matters! Sometimes, these adults became angry. They were impatient. I don't understand. Why are you like this? You shouldn't be feeling this way. How can you say grades define you, for the millionth time? How many more times do I have to tell you until you can actually stand up for yourself?

It felt like a joke. How could they be saying this when they themselves praised those who got 100s and told the ones with 40s to "do better"? How could they be saying this when they left in our brains an inherent belief that intelligence is the highest form of life? At that point, I did not understand. I had misunderstood. All that mattered to me, then, that I was no longer at the top of my class. That I had suddenly lost my worth, the one thing that had held up my confidence (very unstably). This loss of worth, in itself, was an indication of my failure. I latched onto the word "failure" like it was a life raft in an overflowing river. I was a failure. A failure. A failure. A failure.

But after time, reflection, and a bit of medical intervention, I came to a spot where I realized that worth was not really worth. I learned that the measurement of worth was foolish. I began to understand (to a small, small degree) that perhaps life wasn't really about colleges, grades, intelligence, or education. Those were small things on the side. I realized, then, that in the end, colleges and grades aside, I was who I was, and there was no changing it. This was integral to my regaining of confidence about myself and my life--that I was who I was. Nothing more, nothing less. Just me.

The only constant in my life wouldn't be my intelligence or my grades or my college. It would be me. My essence. And in order to feel confident for a long, long time, I would have to trust this essence of myself. Me at the core--this small, intangible dot sitting at the very center of my existence. This dot would be a dot, no matter how talented or how untalented I was, how high or low my IQ was, or how pretty or ugly I was (as perceived by today's society). This dot was me. The Celine dot. I would have to believe that this dot of mine--this me--would simply keep moving. There was nothing more to believing in myself than simply trusting that I would move in a way that would make me happy.

It was hard. It is hard. Even now, I have very low self confidence. But somehow, this trust and letting-go of the situations around me has opened up my eyes to the fact that what happens to me will happen to me, whether I want it to or not. That my worth does not exist and that no matter what other people say, as long as I am who I am and I am okay with this, everything in the world (or at least my world, or at least my perception of my world), would be okay.

Tomorrow is unknown, so I will hope for the best. And what tomorrow brings, in the end, is what is best for my existence, my core. My dot. Whether it means failing a test and learning to study harder, or whether it means dropping out of college to redefine myself, or not getting into all of my colleges and taking a year off, or going to my state school and meeting new friends, or moving out of town because of a sudden issue, or dropping out of college to start a business, or transferring into an easier school because of workload, or graduating until the end, blah blah blah--what will happen will happen whether I want it to or not. And I will embrace it. Because good or bad, I will learn from it. If life will offer me a good experience, I will be happy. And if it will offer me a "bad" experience, after it is done, I will simply learn and gain wisdom for future reference. And I will move on. No exchange of worth involved.

Let me ask you this: what is the point of being alive? What is the meaning of life?

If you have thought long enough, you will realize that life is not really about anything. Nobody knows what the heck the meaning of life is. Nobody knows who put us here or why we're here or what we're "meant" to do, if there is even a "meant." If there is a single "answer," we will never know (42?). And if there isn't, well, so be it. Everyone on this planet earth only recalls their current life and thus are all newbies on their first try. All we really know about life is that we'll exist, and then, after some time, we'll stop existing.

So what? We will all die. It's no surprise. But if you ask yourself this question again (what is the point of being alive?), you will realize that there is an eerie feeling in knowing that somehow, everything we have done here will disappear when we do too. Because the only life we are sure of is our own. Suddenly it becomes important not that we hoard as much of the "good stuff" (talent, beauty, intelligence, etc.) as we can before we die, but that we are satisfied with this hoarding of items. Or whatever we have with us. Because otherwise there is really no point in doing all of this, right? If it made us sad or indifferent, why would we do this, right?

Happiness. We pathetic, small humans, with our finite lives and our fear of the happenings after death, want happiness. Because happiness is something that is positive. It is, in the simplest terms, "good." And good makes us feel alive. And we want this thing, this good, before we die, because otherwise, a life full of sadness or indifference before death is not much of living.

But happiness--happiness is an illusion that happens within one individual's own head. We believe we are happy because we convince ourselves that the current situation we are in is worth feeling happy about. Alright, then. What defines what is happy worthy, and what defines something that is not happy worthy?

One answer: society.

If a loved one passes away, society determines that this death is not a happy-worthy situation, right?

If I get a job promotion, society says that getting a promotion means better pay which means a higher income which means more money which so clearly indicates a happy-worthy situation, right?

Well. Society is not the only answer. You are. I am. The individual is. Happiness is defaulted by society, but can be overridden by the self. Override the method! Why should being rich be a happy-worthy cause, and why should being poor be a happy-unworthy cause? Or why should getting a C or a B be a happy-unworthy cause? What if we overrode it to be null? What if we dissociated worth with happiness?

Happiness is a sensation, but it is also a product of perception. We perceive happiness in places they should often not be perceived. Of course, there is nothing wrong in being happy about being rich. But to latch onto it as a cause for happiness and a reflection of self-worth is unhealthy. Because always, always, materialistic things (even talent!!!) are temporary and not guaranteed to last forever. But one thing always is: your essence (your dot!).

It is easy to perceive happiness-unworthy situations in places society deems happiness-unworthy. The lack of talent in often prized areas; the lack of willpower to do something; the lack of passion; the lack of empathy; the lack of beauty; the lack of anything, perhaps. But all of these are simple constructions of society. Why accept it as you? Why accept it when you can deny it, override it, and decide that "who cares about society, I am who I am and I choose to like myself"?

Self-doubt can be poisonous. To decide that you are worthless or less than others is undesirable and tragic. But such is the natural course of things, sometimes. The feelings you have now are one hundred, two hundred percent valid. Perhaps your life has determined that at this point in your life, you should feel this way. But more importantly, after you overcome this, you will become stronger. You will be more confident in facing issues in your future, because you have already won over one test. You will realize, after continual (and albeit sometimes completely empty) self-encouragement and steady patience, that your perceived worth should not affect your perceived happiness.

Happiness is an illusion that is closely related to societal constructs. But once you recognize these societal constructs, happiness can be created wherever you want it to be created. You can be in power of your happiness. Although the greater meanings of life still have unknown things planned for you tomorrow (like maybe sorrow), when the time comes, you will be able to control your happiness and remember that your price is priceless and that you are worth nothing and everything in the world, all at the same time.

there was a time when i thought i knew who i was. there i was, sitting, staring out into the world thinking that all i saw was exactly as it was. and in the mirror--there i would be, round-faced, small, tiny fingers, bony limbs. but things never stay the same. i guess change is ingrained into our nature; evolution rather than extinction, progression rather than stagnation. i guess the peace in which i found myself was of no matter to the greater Meanings of the world; they did not care how content i was--they simply needed change to happen again, as it cycles through this world. and so i bid myself goodbye.

i look in the mirror now and perhaps i see who i see all the time but somehow something is different. there are things going on which i cannot explain. things i am too afraid to open up, things too dark to extract. can i let people know? can i open myself up? the roof under which i live is not a safe one; there is a storm coming.

there is a storm coming.

i am not comfortable but it is not time for this kind of change, apparently. this kind of change must wait. there is a storm coming, but this storm must wait.

To write without a true purpose is to not write at all.

I view myself as an introvert because I feel more comfortable when I'm alone. I used to be ashamed of this fact, but I realize now that this is foolish. Statistically speaking, the percentage of introverts in this world is at around 50%. I am not alone. It embarrasses me that I was once ashamed of my temperament, always wishing to be the extrovert. Perhaps I still am, internally. It certainly seems easier to be able to speak to others with ease. But introversion is no sin; there are many merits to being an introvert. Sometimes it's worth sitting back and listening and observing. And sometimes it takes a great deal of introversion in order to conjure a world-changing idea or to finally come to terms with an unknown concept.

Writing is an extension of my introversion. It is a sort of remedy, a making-up of, a medium through which I, introverted, can be loud and extroverted. It creates an empty room for me where I can hash out my ideas, express them clearly, and speak them with no ear-splitting worries echoing in my head about "what if I say this wrong" or "what if I say that wrong." I can put time into my thoughts and simply publish them when they are ready. To me, this is incredibly empowering.

My timeline with writing stretches over a long period of time. My first stories were in first grade, misspelled mishaps about librarians and butterflies of some sort. It's hard for me to understand now because I am no longer in the infinitely creative mindset of a first grader, scribbling words that extend beyond the scope of simple English.

As is the characteristic of most writers, I was a reader. First, second, third, fourth grade and onwards, I was constantly reading. My mother complained to her friends that I read "too much." They'd scoff or secretly despise her for this (for she noted it to me later on), but they had no idea what my mother meant by "too much." I'd be reading under the covers late at night (which is what led to my first prescription glasses). I'd be reading in the car. I'd be reading during dinner time, even though there was a strict "no books at the dinner table" policy. Reading was where I first learned to love literature. Reading was what first put the seed in me: what if I could create stories, too?

So, from unclear butterfly librarian stories began my timidly written chapter books.

I started with chapter books. Short stories, then, were foreign. After all, a seven or eight year old was more likely to read books such as Magic Tree House or Horrible Harry, which weren't exactly your usual Raymond Carver. I wrote for discovery, for creation. It baffles me that, even at such a young age, I had this thirst for creation. I wanted to write stories as interesting and funny as Horrible Harry, as enticing and magical as the Magic Tree House series, probably my favorite chapter book series of my early childhood.

In third grade, I wrote a chapter book called "The Twenty Dollar Lie." It was written into a yellow notepad which my father had bought from Staples (in a set of six). It was about a boy who borrowed his friend's money to pay for a vase he had accidentally broken. But he had lied to his friend to get the money. Their friendship became tangled in a mess afterwards, but in the end, mistakes were resolved and the main character befriended the lonely new kid at school. (It's quite a wild ride.)

Writing has always been a friend of mine. I remember in fifth or sixth grade, I tried to start a group blog which would create writing prompts and receive "submissions" from my peers, who at that time, also were dabbling in the field of writing. It was called something like "yourstoryhere". I would post a prompt weekly. It did not last long, for dedication and participation were two lofty things to ask of measly fifth graders.

It was then that I began this blog. If you go into the earlier posts, I was reading and writing, just as I am now. Anyway, I continued to write, churning out stories after stories. Most were unfinished. Emsred, Natalie, Survivors, to name a few. Ideas were never-ending; it was the patience to finish these "novels" that burdened me. I was still writing fantasy stories, trying to recreate the excitement that I read in the novels that I read.

And then came the summer of 2014, when I attended a writing course at a university in New York. It was a three week course but somehow, in those three weeks, my perspective of writing changed drastically. I did not realize it then, but in retrospect, I see that without those three weeks, I probably would be in a completely different place and position now. This was when I truly matured in my writing.

My writing itself, unfortunately, is still in its fetal stages, crying and kicking, yearning for attention, not yet quite independent. There is still a long way to go, yet I am now more assured about my philosophy of writing.

In those three weeks, I was exposed to a variety of different types of writing. I met avant-garde writing, such as the poetry of Tao Lin. I read the enigmatic short stories of Raymond Carver. I read Langston Hughes, I read Emily Dickinson, I read Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction script, I read dictionary definitions, I read one-sentence stories. The scope of possibilities, suddenly, widened drastically. It suddenly struck me that writing wasn't just writing for fun, or writing for selling, or even just writing to amuse people. I no longer had the obligation to write compelling chapter books like those of Margaret Peterson Haddix, one of my favorite fantasy/sci fi authors. I could write wildly. I could write art.

There it was. There was my discovery--writing was art. Writing is art. I've always known, but I didn't really know until 2014.

2014 was a year ago.

Now, my philosophy of writing is much clearer. I can't say it's crystal clear because knowing exactly what I want out of writing at the age of seventeen is probably something nearly impossible. Foolish to claim. But there is no denying that after a year of accumulated contemplation, my idea of writing is much more solid than it was a year ago.

So there. I return to the sentence which I wrote in italics, as if it were a quote of some sort. It's not a quote. It's my own philosophy of writing. To write without purpose is to not write at all.

Because writing isn't just words on paper. Writing is a responsibility. When you write, you write with a purpose. An audience. There are times when the audience member is just that--a member. A sole listener. Sometimes that sole listener is you. Other times, it's an entire crowd: the general public. Or a muddled view of an uncertain number of people, like the Internet. But writing, as many authors will likely agree, guarantees an audience. Somewhere, someone out there has got to be reading your writing (even if it's just you yourself), because otherwise, there is really no point.

When we look back into history, we see that literature has had an unmistakable impact on the people, leaders, and events of our ancestors. Whether it was literature that changed our perception of the world (Plato, Newton, Freud) or literature that empathized with a people in pain (Hesse, Hemingway) or literature which brought forth revolutions or awakened people into action, literature has always been the moral conscience of humanity. I say it like this: if science is the father of humanity, bringing the people forward, then literature and art are the mother of humanity, reminding us why we are here, what is good, what is bad. She is the conscience of our species. Literature in history, and by extension, writing, is immensely powerful. It shifts populations, changes history.

The human urge to write exists because we itch to express, to empathize, to get a message across. And in doing so, we exercise an infinitely large and massive power. Writing is an act of persuasion, an act of manipulation, an act of empathy. I could write something so that others understand how I feel. I could write something so that others understand how a group of people feel. I could write to convince people to do something. I could write to make someone learn. To stand up, maybe. Or to sit down. It is quite evident that writing is like a tool--an incredibly important tool. And so, when writing, one must write wisely, for the tool should be used with care.

This is why I do not take writing lightly. Perhaps when writing for the self, the content of the writing is not of much importance of consequence. That much may be acceptable. However, once this writing goes into the hands of even one other person, it must have a clear purpose. Because immediately, you are exercising an act of power. You are implanting your thoughts in that person's head. And power should always be handled with care.

This is why writing for material gains, such as attention, money, or fame, bugs me to the core. It strips writing of its virtuous intent and quality and prostitutes it to the thoughtless side of people. To write without passion, or to write for money, or for lust, to me, is deceitful and dishonest. Writing without passion, particularly. If you do not feel in your bones the desire to write, then why write? Do you write to win prizes, to add awards to a resume? Writing should be triggered by a conviction--perhaps a conviction to express one's tangled feelings; or a conviction to persuade a group of people; maybe even a conviction to empathize with a people in pain. But never to write out of lust or greed for empty money or recognition. Material gains should be a side effect, not a goal. It offends me to no end.

"For a country to have a great writer is like having a second government. That is why no regime has ever loved great writers, only minor ones." This is what Alexander Solzhenitsyn said. I love this quote because it speaks to the power of writing. Writing can change a whole country of people at one time.

It is yet until I myself can also write with a clear purpose. It is yet until I can write with the strength to lift a human's weight. But for now, I will keep trying. I will continue to exercise my muscles and strengthen my rhetoric and my vocabulary and my skill so that one day, I too, can hopefully create a change, however small, in the massive world in which we live.

"So it goes."

And so, in the span of two days, I finish this rather simple book which, initially, seemed like Nothing Much. Yet here I am, writing a reflection of sorts because this book, in its narrative convulsions, has left some sort of metaphorical bruise on me. Perhaps it will go away quickly. For now, though, I can recall most of the feelings I had as I read through the novel.

Any war book, when written, should be handled with responsibility and knowledge. One must know the ins and outs of war and its repercussions because mass-slaughter is not a topic which should be dealt with in a light fashion. Vonnegut handles the issue wonderfully.

I feel, as I close this book, as if I am emerging from a long crusade (hah) or journey, as if I, too, have been alongside Billy Pilgrim during his many adventures of sorts. In the beginning, however, I had no idea where I was going. In fact, when I first began to read the first (and then the second, and then the third, and so on) chapter of the book, I thought this would be another boring war novel. The only reason I read past the first chapter was because the narrative wasn't too boring and there were quotes on the back cover proclaiming this book to be a "funny, sad, and delightful" book. (I guess quotes on the backs of books actually do things.)

As I read through the book, I mostly observed and read. Only when I closed the book did I stop to think about the overall message and the rather confusing aftertaste that this plot had left me. At first, I was confused. What did I just read? And then it slowly creeped on me how profound this book really is... And here I am, my memory of the book clear enough to create a puddle for me to splash around in as I write this review (or an excuse of a book review).

What I get out of this book, now, is the idea that life goes on ("so it goes"), death is not permanent (simply an illusion of time), and that any war is a children's crusade of blindly flailing soldiers who had, previously, been optometrists or doctors or professors or high school teachers. That war is simply the haphazard bringing-together of lost humans with eclectic thought-processes, ranging from the belief in Tralfamadore to a false sense of wisdom to useless patriotism. I know I may be very wrong, but these are my impressions.

Many ideas underscore the plot of this story. One of them is repeated multiple times in this book. It is, "So it goes." Perhaps it is now my favorite quote because it poignantly expresses everything in life. Well, someone died. This happened. Life ended. Life began. But what does it all mean? Nothing. The world goes on. So it goes.

This, to me, is a powerful message because it isn't just about "nobody cares what happens to you." It's the fact that there are greater forces in this world, as the Tralfamadore-aliens say, that govern what happens in life. It is not so much a matter of fate, destiny, or will, but simply fact. Time is an illusion in which we live and accept as reality, but what will happen will happen and what has happened has happened. "The moment is structured in that way." I love that line, too. It almost lifts the burden off of every second of life, every hesitating moment in which we reflect or look down at our toes and ask ourselves, "What am I doing right now?" and more importantly, "Am I doing the right thing?" Sometimes, the prospect of trying to do the "right things" in life is daunting, intimidating. It seems too lofty an expectation for feeble-minded humans to fulfill. Perhaps it is. And this book, Slaughterhouse Five, untangles those scary mysteries. Perhaps there is a right answer to life, a "best choice" to all decisions. But does it matter? What will happen will happen. The moment is structured that way. Each moment is. There is nothing we can do; we are who we are and we will do what we will do.

Vonnegut also touches on the idea of death and eternity. He says that life will run its course and that we will live a life that is eternal because once we exist, our existence will last to the infinities in every dimension. This is an idea which I, too, have contemplated in my own silences. To see it written in such an odd yet poignant way is exciting. It is true, I think. Our existence is affirmed by ourselves, in a way, and once we are here, we are here forever. Time, to us, is a one-dimensional one-way highway, but that does not mean that what has passed no longer exists and what will happen is yet to be made. (But that's just abstract theory-meddling.)

Another idea that Vonnegut underscores is that Billy Pilgrim is one representative of every soul in not just war but also life. We are all like Billy Pilgrim, like Roland Wary, like Paul Lazzaro, like Edgar Derby. We are all lost, groping for answers, tripping over our own thoughts. We are all afraid, searching for a friend, fearing loneliness, yet losing friends, running into tough luck. We are all unstable, lashing out in times of fear, promising ourselves protection while, at the core, being unsure of our own existence. We are all proud to some extent, trying to convince ourselves that we are in control, sometimes losing that confidence and realizing that we are victims to an intangible self-element which we will never quite understand.

The more I think about it, the more I like this book. I would rate it very highly, but I feel as if I should not rate this book. That it exists as it exists, and that you (yes, you), should pick it up and skim through it one day, perhaps a very detailed skim, so that you too can understand how beautiful this confusing narrative is.

It is also of interest that this book is written in a very matter-of-fact, light tone. Wikipedia calls it a satirical novel, and it is indeed a very satirical one. Mostly because it makes war such a "matter-of-fact" topic with such ridiculous inserts (especially Kilgore Trout's novels). How can these light, seemingly absurd details weigh into the topic of war and Billy Pilgrim's struggles? In exactly the way we view our own selves and their happenings. Vonnegut's narrative style creates such a tangled mop of ideas and happenings that it resembles closely how we try to deal with our own ridiculous lives. Funny, isn't it--the way we try to deal with the future as if we will be prepared for what will happen, when really, we know as much about what will happen tomorrow as we do about the beginning of the universe? Vonnegut's use of comedy solidifies the illusion of life and uncertainty and also how frivolous this entire "life" thing is. And, thus, the frivolity of "war." What will happen tomorrow? Nobody knows. Perhaps we'll live. Perhaps we'll die. So it goes.

Everything which happens in this book, seemingly sudden, seemingly ridiculous, seem to outline the very important fact that life is life and what happens happens. So it goes, Vonnegut says. So it goes.

Hello, friends of the Earth. I hope you have not been worrying about me, for I have been well. I know it's been a while since I've posted regularly on this blog, but my fondness for it has certainly not dwindled. It's just that there are lots of things going on in my life that prevent me from focusing on posting frequently. I hope you all understand.

I was reading through my old posts today (even the ones with multiple exclamation points, emojis, and lots of other ridiculously embarrassing tidbits) and I am, once again, reminded of the good memories that this blog has brought to me. I am already a senior in high school now (the common application is open--time to stress some more, haha), and it's near unbelievable that the administrator of this blog, at one point, was a silly fifth grader.

As you can see, most of my posts are now writing-focused. I am sad to say that my reading has decreased over the years; I am no longer poring over books as I was in elementary or middle school. But no worries -- I still love reading. I still love good writing.

I will try to update you all a little more frequently on my life and my writing and my reading. Now that it is senior year of high school, I hope that I will be able to manage my time more wisely. Of course, throughout the four years I've gone slightly MIA, I've always been writing (I can never give that up). Posting is the difficulty, really.

I hope to submit to a literary magazine before school starts--I really want to be published in some way or other. I have found some good literary magazines that I like. The writings in their publications are phenomenal, and I cannot help but feel a little intimidated. But I'll try my best.

For now, please see the spectacle that is the new layout of this blog! I have changed it something more clean and neat. I now have quite some knowledge in mark-up language, so customizing the layout was not much of a hassle at all (I remember when I spent hours trying to fix drop-down menus back in sixth grade; at one point I'm pretty sure I asked my father to help me).

Happy reading and writing, as always!

Love, Celine.

Morning is a burden for Ezia.

She is heavy, like the weight of a backpack's worn straps on her shoulders.

Ezia is not surprised when she feels Morning pressing against her collarbones softly as she opens her eyes and rubs them. With a small exhale, her eyes float downwards to a half-close, for her feet are still dipped in the echoes of a shadow which had been talking to her in her dreams.

But with time, Morning's palms are more tangible, more distinguished (from pressing to palms to fingers). Soon, she is leaning her weight against the area between the edges of Ezia's collarbones and the sharp of her shoulders.

Ezia swipes Morning away to the ground with a disgruntled push. When she kicks her blankets, Morning's cold breath bites her bare legs in retaliation. Ezia's eyes open slowly (for they are still sticky with the alluring viscosity of her dreams). She pauses, closes her eyes, then opens them again, her eyelashes fluttering as she squints against Morning's bright, curious eyes peering through her window.








"How are you?" The words are spongy in her mouth: tasteless, odorless, and mostly empty.

Comes the equally spongy reply, "I am quite fine. How are you doing?"

"I'm good." Skin touches skin; the apple feels soft in her hand. Mushy. She rolls it. Smooth to wrinkled, folds to curves. She swallows.

Her hair is tied back taut. If she tilts her head forward a little, she can feel her skin (especially near the nape of her neck) tugging on the hair, begging her to return to a dejected, unassuming slump. Her shoulders sag.

Her slippers (flippers, flip flops, shoes, feet-protectors) drag along the tiles as she ducks beneath gazes and greetings and slips into an empty aisle. Crinkle crackle crackers. Instant foods. Glossy wrappers and plastic bags. She touches a bag at eye level and watches as light bounces off of its surface. It crinkles inwards as she pokes its stomach. Lays chips. Original.

"That's a good one, you know."

Ezia turns around. To her left is an old man with wrinkles in his face (like wrinkles in the chip bag but a different kind of wrinkle--this one looks more soft, more real, more understanding but yet somehow more dangerous). His nose scrunches a little before he sniffles, "Kids like those multiflavored shit (he nods towards a "Spicy Hot Nacho Flavor") but I'm tellin you, these are the best." He nods. "Makin a good choice."

Ezia wants to say "a better choice is to eat healthy," but like any other day, Morning has stolen her voice and her thoughts slip past and scurry immediately to the other side of the world. They hide in China, under the arms of a little boy trying to fold his homework into neat fours.

"Yes," she says. She tucks the Lays bag under her arm in her shopping basket. It sits down obediently with a muffled crinkle.








"Why, Ezia," her sister's voice is insufferable. It's nasally, but it hasn't quite gotten the right frequency to fully grate against your insides (which is terrible as well). It's a voice that's kind of in between a husky I just woke up my voice is cracking atrociously, and a high-pitched c'mon tell me teell me what you're thinking because I'm nosy and I want to know everything about your life. Perhaps, Ezia pauses and wonders, the reason her sister's voice is so insufferable is because she has both. An embodiment of both evils.

"Why," her sister repeats, and she drags out the last letter like the way a kindergartner presses on the "y" key out of curiosity, "why, you should go outside a little more. You're like a hermit!" She pronounces hermit like "hirmet" and it makes Ezia want to crawl into a smaller hole.

"I will," Ezia says. Her voice cracks. I wi-ill.

"Wellllllllllllll," her sister's nose says, "you're just saaying that. Anyways." She smacks her lips. "I've got to do the laundry."

Laundry. Ezia looks at her bed. A few days' worth of clothes. It's almost like a concept sculpture, she tries to convince herself. Perhaps if I take a photo of it and send it to the MoMA they'll announce my hidden genius in depicting the horrors of human living.

A true artist.








Frying an egg takes science, art, and skill. It is a careful ratio (perhaps approximately 3:2:4). The amount of oil, the amount of egg, the placing of the egg, the cracking of the egg, the choice of spatula...

Second to hearing raindrops tap their thousands of fingertips against her windows is the sound of an unfertilized chicken egg sizzling on a manmade metal frying pan. Crackle, pop, sizzle. Liquid changes to solid under high temperatures. She watches the edges burn brown. She grips the spatula in her hand.

If her mother had been here, she would have said something like "what are you doing?" and perhaps she would have slapped the spatula out of Ezia's hand and done it herself. Well I'm alone. Ezia watches the egg burn. It burns to a crisp, ugly brown and, patiently, when the time is right, she flips it. The face looks up at her, smiling through nothing. It is a face of charred black, with small holes of lighter brownish yellow. She waits for the other side to burn. It smells horrible. She feels good.








Sometimes Ezia asks herself whether she is really alive. She cuts the egg into small squares and arranges them in a neat, gridlike pattern. She discards the edges. Only square cut-outs. She uses a fork and knife to arrange them quietly. They line up like soldiers, skin charred from working in the sun.

Perhaps this world is just a lie and it is all an act. Perhaps I am the only person who is living thinking she is living a genuine life. Everyone else is an actor. They are hired to make my life as terrible as possible. They are watching my expressions behind the screen. They are waiting for me to cry. They are waiting for me to fall. They are studying the arch of my brows and the curls of my fingers and the the weight on my shoulders. They are waiting for me to realize one day that this is all a fake world. This is all an act. I am being experimented on. They will pull me out and congratulate me and tell me, "congratulations, you've passed the test" once it is all over. Perhaps they will hug me and pat my back and tell me I've been through a lot. Then they will give me a bowl of Lays chips and let me sit in a comfortable chair. A golden retriever will come leaping into my arms. I will name him "Snuff."

Ezia looks at the squares. One of them is out of line. How dare you! She nudges one of its corners. She hears the fingertips tapping against her window, gently, softly. Mother nature is knocking.

She smiles out the window (perhaps the cameras are everywhere). She waves.

"Hello," she says. "I know what this is all about. Please take me out now. I'm ready."