love, read, write

I am a slow learner. I cruise through the world at a speed different than everyone else; while my friends whiz past me in both body and mind, I stagnate. I linger. I mull over ideas and let things settle before I move on.

It would be a lie to say that I am not affected by my comparative slowness to my peers. It feels, very often, as if the world is too fast for me and that I do not belong. Perhaps, in the busy world that we live in today, that is true. Perhaps I am disadvantaged by my speed (or lack thereof). But I must learn to, one day, convince myself that slow is okay. That slow is good. There is nothing wrong with taking an extra week to learn the material. There is nothing wrong with spending more time reading a book. There is nothing wrong with not being able to finish a test.

Capitalism has created a sort of economic Darwinism; he who is fast will make more money and will succeed more quickly. He who is proactive will get more; he who gets a head start will reach monetary success before his peers. And while to some extent these assumptions may hold true, it is certainly not the dominating rule in the game. Firstly, money is not always the most important. We often forget that learning is not just for money, but for the sake of finding out more about the world. In addition, speed is not just the most important. So is patience. So is initiative. Many people lack the speed but have the grit to reach their goals. Speed gives the illusion that your peers will get more done in less time, but in the end, we are all together blind, searching for answers we may never quite reach.

Even the greatest thinkers and the names we see in textbooks, the names that are left behind as legends, have been slow thinkers. It is not the speed of thinking that finds the answers to mysteries in the world; it is more often the quality of thinking. The philosophy that drives the mind. The reason that the person is thinking.

While I may feel inadequate, incompetent, and very unintelligent when I see myself surrounded by peers who solve ten questions in five minutes while I am still on number two, time will tell what is more valuable. We each have different goals. Perhaps for my friend, speed will give her the tools to find a quick job with good pay. But for me, jobs are not enough. I have bigger goals. And these goals do not require fast thinking but slow and deliberate thought processes.

One day, I will look back on my younger self and wish I had not fretted so much about the different qualities that I had. I will tell myself, "Thank God that I was slow. Thank God it took me a long time to do things. If not, I would not have been able to digest and re-digest and re-digest the information I learned to become the person I am today. Even brilliant people can be slow. Pace has nothing to do with intelligence, and intelligence has nothing to do with success. It is the mind that drives the body to its goals, not solely the brain." And someday, I will believe this with all of my heart.

Opinions differ.

As individuals, this is a fundamental fact that we must all learn to accept. While I may believe A, you may believe B. Someone might believe C, a fusion of A and B. Or D. Or E. The spectrum of opinions is not a discrete scale; it is continuous and infinite (could we take a derivative?) (jokes).

We accumulate opinions as we grow. From our personal experiences to our familial background, our brains collect opinions, like bricks, and construct a home around us. These bricks create a shelter where we can feel safe. It is a starting point for us when we approach problems and understand the world. It becomes the place we visit most often.

And if we're not careful enough, it becomes a prison which we cannot escape.

Arguably, this constructed home of ours (formed by our opinions) is technically not a prison. We feel happy when we are inside; we feel safe and we feel protected. How is that a prison? What's wrong with staying there your entire life?

News flash: you are not the only person living in this world. There are a few million others. And unfortunately, not everyone lives where you do, within your constructed walls. Opinions differ. It is a fact we must all accept. Someone will, one day, tell you something that offends you or confuses you. Someone will challenge you to an argument. Opinions will clash. You will debate. You might lose an argument (but still go home convinced that you are right). Every step of your life, you might add or change a brick in your home. In fact, your home is constantly changing--but minutely. (Because the closer your home is to completion, the more difficult it is to replace bricks at command.)

Perhaps you are in a situation where you would like to convince another person of your opinions. I'm sure that many of us are familiar with this situation, even more so because of the upcoming presidential election. Everyone seems to, at one point or another, be arguing about presidential candidates. Conservatives and liberals clash; Internet arguments spike; comment threads on Facebook might get feisty. (Lol.)

What I notice in these situations is the idea that everyone, or at least the majority of people I have seen, watched, or read about, is arguing the wrong way.

Maybe wrong isn't the right word. Maybe "inefficient" is.

Anyways, what I see in these arguments is this picture: person A introduces their opinions (shows person B to their house). Person B observes, and reacts negatively. Person B shows person A their house. Person A observes, and person B reacts negatively. But then, when A and B argue, they repeat their own opinions again and again and again. Nothing is really said and done at the end of the argument. Essentially, person A is hiding inside of their home, hollering about what they believe, and person B is hiding inside of their home, hollering about what they believe. Person A still likes his home and Person B still likes his. It just ends up being a massive waste of time.

I have seen on CNN, for example, a "debate" between a Trump supporter and an anti-Trump speaker. The "debate" lasted for about ten minutes, but all that really happened was this: the anti-Trump speaker would repeat and rephrase "Trump is not civil and is rude and indecent," while the Trump supporter repeated and rephrased "Trump is doing this because people are attacking him."

Now, as a person whose opinions align more with the anti-Trump speaker, I felt very frustrated. "Trump is not civil," though certainly a valid statement (in my opinion), was in no way a good argument to bring forth to a Trump supporter. The anti-Trump speaker had severely miscalculated the art of debate. What had she done wrong?

Her first mistake was in speaking from her point of view. In essence, she was just hollering from inside her home at the other home quite far away. This is not a good tactic when debating one's opinion. Second of all, she considered her home the only home and then disrespected the Trump supporter for her opinions. This, too, is a terrible tactic. Personal emotions, unless used as a specific technique (such as pathos), should not be involved when trying to logically point out flaws and "win" a debate.

Perceiving your opinions as The Answer To The World will always end with some sort of violent argument. Being against Trump is one example. Some people see it as a no-brainer, and I agree that Trump might not be the best presidential candidate (but again, my opinion is irrelevant here. I'm just clearing my conscience by putting this out there lol). But when the topic is brought up for debate, there is no use in simply asserting that you are right. Of course you think you're right--that's why you're defending it! You have to take a step back and remember that even though you might believe that your opinion is the "right answer" for society, it is not really The Right Answer. It is an opinion, and there are others out there whether you like it or not.

Maybe your opponent's opinion is repulsive and disgusting in your point of view. Such instances do happen. But while you have the right to feel disgusted, it's not a great emotion to reveal when you're trying to get them to change their mind. As much as you hate it, you have to learn to respect the other person. You don't have to respect their opinion, but you certainly have to respect them.

Even further, you should walk inside of your opponent's house. This is because empathy is important. Why has the person has constructed such a house? Understand the facts and the opinions--the foundation, the reason. The progression of logic. Comprehend the situation fully--so much and so well that you almost fall for it. For a second, you might consider the idea that you are wrong.

But you will then snap back to your home. What did you learn in that other person's house? What makes your home better? It is not a person-to-person matter. Do not jump to the conclusion that your opponent is "bad" or "stupid" or "uncivil." From your understanding, form a careful list as to why the foundation of your opponent's building is weak.

Then comes the argument, when you are ready to bounce opinions back and forth. You're ready to change their mind, to open their eyes to what you believe is right. You're prepared and you know how they think. But where do you start? A lot of people think that you should start by showing your opponent your home. I, however, don't think so. Arguing is not about you. It is about them. You're giving them a tour of their home. How does this work? Well, if your opponent only believes that his house is right, there is no point in starting in your home. Doing so will only shut his ears from the very beginning. In order to convince them they may be wrong, you must start with your opponent.

For example, the existence of misogyny is often argued among some men and women. There is a tendency for men to be manipulative and aggressive and condescending to women, and yet another tendency for men to refuse to acknowledge such a history, believing that sexism is a myth. What do we do? Do we just argue that it exists? Do we list a bunch of instances? Hollering insults or calling all men stupid will make no progress when it comes to convincing some people that sexism exists. We must accept that our belief is not an Absolute Statement (it is a perception). We must first empathize and see where they are coming from (no matter how painful it is to do so). We must be calm and we must state observations, sneak in facts, and then come to a conclusion.

This, in my opinion, is what makes a good argument. Not the simple stating of opinions, but the complex weaving of empathy and attack, empathy and attack. Stating facts will not do as much as beginning with empathy will.

And so, the attitude that many people must fundamentally change before debating "efficiently" is that no matter how right you think you are, you must always accept that there is a possibility you are wrong and that your opinion is still just an opinion. In order to break someone else's home, you must break yours. You must be able to walk in and out of your home, even if you will likely spend most of your time within your walls.


--


Note: I make this post because I have been recently irked by the way some people have "debated" on certain topics. Please remember that while you may be "right," the other person won't really believe you if all you're going to say is "I'm right and you're stupid."

Disclaimer: This entire article is an opinion, lol.

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.

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.

If you've been up to date with the YA world, you'll notice that the number of dystopian novels has been increasing. From The Hunger Games to the Divergent series, here and there we see popping up out of the bushes stories of post-civilization, where development has gone to the extent of destruction and where humans are forced to forge new rules and new societies out of the ashes we have burned ourselves.

Call it paranoia, call it a misjudgment, but I feel as if there are much more dystopian novels these days than there were, say, three decades ago. If you disagree with me, then hold your thought (or just go on and read something else). Let me ask you: assuming that I am right in my observation, what causes this? What makes so many modern authors feel the compelling desire to write novels about post-civilization settings with rebellious heroes?

Well, here's my take.

Today, we're immersed in what we affectionately call the Information age. The Technology Age. The Era of Major Development. The Age of Internet. Whatever it is, we know that one thing runs in the core of all of these names. It's technology.
In a world like today, it's hard to come by a first-world setting that doesn't use some sort of modern technology--starting from televisions, cell phones, even computers or tablets. Everywhere we go, we see technology, technology, technology. And what's more, these bits of technologies are evolving at an alarmingly fast rate. Year after year we see a new version of the iPhone--a commodity that was, just about a decade ago, a completely far-fetched dream. We see the development of scientific technology, biotechnology. It's not running on the forefront as visibly conspicuous representatives of our era, but many of you have likely heard of bioengineering, robotics, and other areas of that nature. How could people, say, fifty years ago, have known that today, we'd be testing the ability of monkeys to control artificial arms with sheer brainpower? They couldn't have.

And that, in my opinion, is the main engine behind the upsurge of dystopian novel publications. Because along with the goods of technology, there also come the bads. Yeah, it's great that I can find my nearest Shop Rite with my smartphone and get there without getting lost. Yeah, it's great that all of these inventions and machines are getting the job done with a hundred times more efficiency and speed than the average worker. But then comes the question of the humans themselves. What becomes of the low-skill jobs? Of the workers? What becomes of the things that technology replaces? What becomes of nature? What becomes of society, that once valued community and shared values? In another article, I read that our generation is the generation of narcissists. And in some ways, it's very true. It's easy to start something on your own. It's easier to play on your own. It's easier to feel less lonely on your own because you have the Internet--the gateway to practically the whole world now.

So there it is. With the good comes the bad and dystopian novels are the literary products of our innate questionings. What happens if it all goes too far? I'm sure hundreds of years ago, dystopian novels of their sort existed. But with technology zooming towards us at an alarmingly fast rate, the prospect of a doomed civilization seems very  much real to us. Are you forgetting about global warming? About alarmingly autonomous and human-like robotics? Much more people today are worried about the effects of development than, likely, people years and years ago. In fact, (and I'm sorry for all of these awfully ambiguous references, but I assure you that they are all reliable) I once saw a graph mapping the development of humanity over the history of the homo sapien, and what surprised me was that the curve of human development over the centuries was not linear nor parabolic (though I'd wonder why it would be parabolic)--it was exponential. The graph of our development, ideological and technological--get this--was exponential. This means that the sum of everything that happened before and through and after the Renaissance was, yes, a lot, but what's happening today is exponentially greater and faster than it has been for the history of our walking, self-aware, critically thinking species.

It only seems logical, therefore, that we are worrying about our futures more than we have been in the past centuries. And of course, what do the artists do? They portray it. They try to enlighten us. They try to play around with words that dance around topics that are close to us today. And of course, one of them is the eerily close idea of the destruction of civilization. It all seems too easy. Too much technology seems to lead to the disintegration of the values of what we have always held as human. And authors such as Suzanne Collins or Veronica Roth spin those ideas into easily readable words for the younger readers interested in popular culture. And it makes sense that way. Technology and destruction. Close enough, right?

This time, I don't have a book that I can review (still reading What we Talk about when we Talk About Love by Raymond Carver), so I'll be writing about a general topic: notebooks.

Greetings, readers and writers of the world. I welcome you to my undernourished and famished blog.

Recently (today) I started reading Anthem by Ayn Rand, which I assure you is a very very interesting book, to say the very very least of it. It… hm… I have not quite finished formulating my thoughts on the book, due to the fact that I have only reached the halfway mark of the book. It, however, got me thinking even when I was traversing the first few pages. I think that reading the book will give me decisive opinions about the book and its content, but for now I will leave it with a question mark ?

Here is a writing response I wrote on a lonely blank Microsoft Word document once I got home (I was reading this book whilst waiting for my mother to finish doing her religious duties). I read it over and realized that it quite nicely summarizes what I have gotten out of the book so far.

I encourage you all to attempt to read at least the first page of this book (excluding the Author’s forward and Editor’s note because neither the Author’s forward nor the Editor’s note will get anybody remotely interested in reading the book. Though I must say, the Author’s forward was interesting considering it being an Author’s forward. But nevertheless what I mean to say is that you should read the first page of the actual book, Chapter One of Equality 7-2521).

A man once said, “Every man for himself.” But today, no man is for himself. No man is for the self. Man is for the society. Man is for others. Man is to do what other man is to do. Man is to smile, man is to laugh, but man is not to smile and laugh at what society thinks man should not smile and laugh at. Man is to do what man’s neighbor does, as long as man’s neighbor does what his neighbor does. Man is to think about his role in society. Man is to give up some ideals for the good of the other man, and man is to wonder if man should pursue his dreams or pursue money. Man is to think that he is living a life full of freedom and liberty and choice. Man is to live happy, man is to live free, and man is to live content. Man is not to think about why society is created. Man is not to question the rules in which all man follow. Man is allowed to dream big, but not dream far. Man is to assimilate into the crowd, and man is to stay that way, blending into the sea of monotonous unicolor revealing no personality and no opinion. Man is to think about what others might think of him, and man is to resist from doing his own wants which lay outside of the social norm. Man is to be social, but in the way society wants man to be. Man is to do what he thinks will make other like him. Man is to do what he thinks is thought of as normal. Man is to be normal. Man is to obey.

A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question. And such a question held not one answer, but many. Yet it was a question which required knowledge of the social norm, which required an answer which was open to many but accepting to one. It was a question which tested the very essence of Man, is Man for himself, or is Man for society? Is man for his own opinion, or is man for pleasing others?
A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question. The man blinked once and soon he was simply asking one man a question, and he replied with one answer. It was not any man, but Man. Man did not hesitate and Man did not think.
A man once asked a crowd, a crowd of supposed diversity, a crowd of many men, a crowd of individuals, a question—only to realize he was mistaken, for he was simply asking one question to one Man for one answer.

(Note: the Man and Society mentioned in my writing above do not correspond with the Man and Society in the book Anthem by Ayn Rand. Though it very closely relays the ideas of the society in the book, this writing is actually my thoughts and opinions on our society that we live in today.)

So I read this post the other day.
The link is here: http://goo.gl/pSrWMf
(Sorry for the profane comments after the story. Not me, though.)

It was a really thought provoking story, and it instigated me into thinking more about life and time and everything, and I began to visualize this 3-D grid where the x, y, and z axis (what's the plural? axes? axis?) were time, life, and space. So I wrote a story about that. Took me a few hours. The fastest I've written a story. =.=

So here it is. It's still naked (not edited), but I really have to sleep, and I haven't posted much here in a while. So why not?

It's inspired from the story at that link, so I'm sorry if I'm breaking any copyrights or something. :c Hopefully not.

[I took my story out because after reading it the next morning, I felt like gagging. SO yeah. Too bad. Naked stories are terrible.]

Whew! I finished American Gods by Neil Gaiman. To-day. Ahh, I’m finally released from the world of Shadow and Wednesday… Not that it was a bad book. But goodness, that book was long! Perhaps it was because I read slowly, or scarcely. I don’t know. But it’s held me chained to it for two weeks, and now I’m free. Maybe that means that subconsciously, I didn’t really enjoy it much, seeing that I’ve used the verb ‘chained’ to describe my tied-ness to the book. Who knows. My consciousness doesn’t find it that bad, though.

Anyhow. That’s that. But the main reason I’m posting, is because I’ve been thinking.

I was thinking…about adding a new feature to this blog. I know not many read it--really, it's mostly for myself. This new feature. But I thought I ought to organize these thoughts and ponderings on a nice post, partly because I haven’t posted in a while, and partly because I finished American Gods, and I felt obliged to post something about it but I didn’t think that I could fill a good, lengthy post just about American Gods at the moment (because I’m planning to save a fully American Gods-dedicated post for later).

A while ago, and I mean a while--this is going back to when I was in sixth or seventh grade--I emailed a favorite author of mine--Lois Lowry. I told her about how she was my favorite author, her books, my writing, blah blah. (Don't worry; I kept it concise--don't want to tie an author to a fan-email for too long..)
Thinking back on it, I asked myself--why don't I do that now? I mean, we all read books, we all have favorite authors, and we all get that Slam! Didn't see that coming, did you? sort of books that change our lives, whether it's a millimeter or a meter. So why not ask the author? For real?

For some reason, to me, asking or contacting the author who created the book was some sort of sacred thing that I should never do (God knows how I urged myself to contact Lois Lowry). Because a book was a book. Period. There was nothing to it. It existed in its own world, inside its own bubble, and it would stay there. I could visit that bubble and indulge myself into the soapiness of the story, but it would always and forever remain utterly separated from the cold, outside world. To somehow string reality and fiction together was some unspoken horror to me. And it’s only now that I have actually defined this feeling into words on paper. (Yeah, I know. Words on screen. But paper sounds better.)

Even now, though, I still have the remnants of that book-and-reality-stay-apart feeling. It just disappoints me, sometimes, to think that people as flawed as me are writing these flawless stories that subtly shape my life and my morals. I guess it’s just me. But perhaps others feel this secretly, as well. I don’t know. But anyways, I didn’t like to think the people in the book as mere fictional characters designed and created by the author, that they weren’t real, that they weren’t flesh and bone. That an author would be like, “Oh, yeah, Harry? Yeah, I made him. He’s in my book. Nowhere else, though.” I… I don’t know. It’s a difficult feeling to describe.

What also disappoints me sometimes is when authors write a book and they didn’t intentionally put a ‘secret meaning’ into it, yet it would instill such great concepts and philosophies in the minds of readers. Me.
When an author says, “What a reader gets out of a book isn’t exactly what the author puts into it,” it somehow chips off a little piece of my heart. I have no idea why, but I get that sad feeling all the same. I know it makes perfectly sense, and that this happens all the time. And it’s completely acceptable. But all the same, it disappoints me to think that this great meaning that I thought I learned from this great author—was just me—makes me feel so alone. And… lonely.

But yeah, that’s a reader’s point of view. One out of a hundred. A thousand. A million.

To get back to the point, I was talking about my new feature. So although I’ve quite often thought against it, I’ve decided to try a new ‘Thing’ on my blog.

Drumroll, please.

[Drum rolls]

Author Q&A’s!

[Trumpets blowing twice with the rhythm of ‘Ta-da!’]
[Colorful rainbow confetti explodes from nowhere]

I would ask an author every month (because I feel like if I did every week, I would run out real soon) 10 questions (or less, I don’t know). Of course, first I’d email them to get their consent or to warn them or whatever, and if they reply with a ‘Yes,’ then I’ll reply with the ten questions. Perhaps I’ll get those ten questions myself. Or maybe I’ll get them from blog-readers (which I doubt there are many). And it won’t be any old authors. It’d be authors that I really like, that I pick. Whose books I’ve read much of. Perhaps I’ll take suggestions when I run out of authors. But not now.

I’m so excited!

Because while at the same time, I have that godly feeling towards authors—that they’re not humans but essences, no matter how much I know that they’re the same sort of people who yell at their siblings and slam on the alarm clock and spill coffee—at the same time, I still feel this excited-ness of knowing that I’m actually contacting the person who created my favorite book, one on one! That I’m actually talking to them, and they’re replying to me and nobody else (per se, I mean, I guess it’s also to those who read this blog, but you know..). It’s so awesome!

…Lookatme. I’m getting all excited again. I do this often. I think about a plan that I’ve made, and I freak out over it, obsess over it, and get all excited. Of course the feeling dies down after a few days of having thought incessantly about it with this level of intensity I will never reach when doing homework. Sometimes I realize the unrealistic-ness of it. Sometimes I realize it’s just another plan of mine, nothing too special about it. Usually it’s the first of the two. Hah.

But really, I’m actually planning this. Author Q&A’s! But I want to name it something eccentric. Something different. Not boring ol’ Author Q&A’s. It sounds like some name of a boring educational TV show. Welcome to Author Q&A’s, on every Wednesday at 5. Today we will be interviewing the world renowned author of…

So yeah.

asdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjlasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfhjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklsadfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklsadfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklsadfghjklasdfghkjlasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdfghjklasdghjklasdfghjklasdfgh

I thought that I’d show you this nice piece of my post. It’s me staring blankly at the screen and typing out each letter in the second row of my keyboard (fourth, technically, counting the Function keys and the numbers) to a nice rhythm that I created. Ba-ra-rump-bap-ba-ra-rump-bap.

(I do this a lot, and usually I delete the jumble of meaningless letters, but I thought to myself—why not? Why not just publish it along with my post? So I did. I left it there. It' looks quite out of place, doesn’t it.)

Yes. And that is all. Expect another post coming up soon (about American Gods)!

Au revoir. Et bonne lecture. (Et l'écriture.)

Here I am, my butt bones perching at the rim of the wooden chair, crouching over, my feet on the chair next to me, my laptop atop a pile of books stacked at the table. The table, it's cluttered with books, all sorts of books. Math books, music books, library books, textbooks. It has pencils and pens, chapsticks and staplers, hole punchers and Shop Rite receipts. It reeks of home. Home, home, home. It is cluttered and messy, but it is not dirty. The yellow tablecloth is underlying the little pieces of memory, little pieces of home.
The house smells like the subtle aroma of dinner, of that dinner that makes us all running downstairs, upstairs, down the hallway, into the kitchen, when we smell the food and hear our mother shout at the top of her lungs, DINNER!
I hear my brother humming cheerfully, happily, downstairs in the basement, I hear the water running as my mother chases to wash the dishes, I hear the dishes clink and clank, greet each other and talk, I hear the tat-tat-tat of the rain outside. I hear it rise, I hear it stand up, I hear it roar. I hear the rain slapping our roof, hitting the side of our windows in line, throwing the occasional spear as it crashes onto our soil with a loud BOOM!, letting out yellow sparks and pushing dogs under beds and kids under covers.

I lean in to the screen, looking at the words, my eyes squinting at the letters, bigger now, but pixellated, looking at each letter appearing at every click of the keyboard, the silent, patient, blinking line that leads my letters to be typed on the page; I look at each square that displays a color, black and white, grey and red, orange and blue, forming together to make a picture on the screen, a word on the screen, making that 'e', even though, if you look at it close enough, press your nose close to the screen, you can see the little squares separating that 'e' into black pixels on their own, by themselves, separated into tiny cells of a computer screen. Then, I realize that this might not be good for my eyes, my eyes are throbbing, purple lights are dancing in front of me, and I lean back and look back at the yellow tablecloth under the textbooks and under the pencils, looking just as pixellated with the threads weaving to and fro to form that fabric that lies atop the table.
And then I sigh, and I close the laptop, and turn to good ol' ink and page, read and turn, open and close.

It is I, great procrastinator of posts, fighter of due-dates, ignorer of goals! (epithetcoughepithetcoughcoughcoughCOUGH) It is I, great Indigo, who is back from the dead! I have gone through a perilous journey of ignoring my blog and doing Other Things.

Hi y'all! I'm actually on time this time! It's Sunday, and I am dutifully posting the weekly post. ;D

This time, since I'm really busy and I have to go somewhere in approximately ten minutes, I'm going to have to make this a quick post. But thank goodness I actually have something to post about. Heh.. Otherwise I'd be rambling on about nonsense and going off tangents and wasting too many words.

I hope you've all noticed the slight change in the blog theme/color.. I thought that the blog design before was a bit too dark and very cluttered and not neat and very... uh, incompetent. I don't know the word to describe it. I just didn't like it. So I changed it. I like it a lot more, now. It's very neat and simple and not too-ordinary, but not too extravagant with a bunch of drawings everywhere, if you know what I mean.

I also like the color theme. It's nice and calm, with a light pastel-ish (not really) blue and a maroon-ish red... Before, I could barely read the words because of the dark background...
Simple. I like simple.

ANYWAYS.

Looking back...
I've been looking at my previous posts these days--and I mean way back. When I first started my blog. And it's so strange reading them, thinking that at one point in time, I was writing those same words about those books. It's weird. My writing style has really changed. Back then, it was a lot... simpler. And... I don't know.. How do I describe it? A lot more polite. Not to say that I'm rude now. Oh, I hope I'm not writing rudely now...

It might sound strange, but it sounds a lot like my brother's writing style, his writing style on his blog. (He's in fifth grade.) I can't describe it. It sounds very far-away and less personal, and... hmmm... a lot younger, should I say? I don't know..!
But it's nice reading them again, thinking of the good'ol days.
And it's very interesting just skipping through the posts, reading them in time's progression, and noting the slow yet noticeable development of my blog-voice. You know, that slightly sarcastic tone of voice that I often use? I don't know... But my voice has definitely changed from the beginning of 2010 to now, May of 2013. Wow. That's three years. Its a pretty long time, actually.

This blog is three years old.

Whew.

I didn't really take that in consciously until now.

...wow.

Well, it's getting late (I came back from the-place to finish the post), so I must go to sleep now.

See you all next week.

Au revoir.

It wasn’t always like this, you know. Before, I used to have lots of friends and family by my side, I had a smile on my face, and my thoughts were clear and mild and happy. That beautiful picture of all of the relationships I had with people—family, friends, relatives, acquaintances. The picture was full of people who all knew who I was. And for that matter, made sure I knew who I was.

But it became different. We all start at the same place, you know. So in the beginning years of life, everyone isn’t that far from each other. We are easier to make bonds with—find friends, find smiles to share. But time draws us a line, a line that, if you start from the starting point—there are infinite directions you can lift off and go. I didn’t know, in the beginning—in the beginning, we were all the same distance from each other—generally. But it was, I noticed later on, true that even in the beginning, I was drawing my line in a direction much different than everyone else.

It’s not like I could help it—or that I knew what would happen. What could I do? As a teething little tyke, I could do nothing but oblige to my mother’s commands and scolds. She was, in a way, putting her hand around mine and directing the line for me.

But when It was time for me to draw my line on my own, and I looked up, there were less people in the picture. That picture—that once had lots of friends, family, relatives, acquaintances—that picture was becoming something entirely different. I began to feel a strange sensation in my heart—that if I ever looked up, there would be less people by my side, less people to share smiles with, less people to talk to. Their lines were going in the completely opposite direction. This sensation grew stronger as I grew older. I felt weak. And lonely.

I would approach others, hoping to find that it was possible to break that feeling—to recreate that beautiful picture I had in the first decade of life. I tried to communicate with other people, smile at them, and wave—do what they all seemed to do on a daily basis. But all I would be returned was that look. Those eyes—they were all the same. They had that scornful, hateful, disgusted look. It would come in variations—after nearly two years of the effort, I realized that subconsciously, I had been analyzing those looks, tucking them into different shelves—sorting them into different categories of contempt. There would be embarrassment, hatred, disgust, amusement, condescension, a large variety. But I did not give up.

Whatever I had done to try recreate the bonds and relationships of life that I so dearly, so desperately yearned for—whatever I had done, it turned out to be the wrong action. Very wrong. They began to look at me differently—after a point in time. And very rapidly, their looks all assimilated into one category. It was something I couldn’t identify—not at all, until whatever I had done, it broke. It finally erupted, and they created a bond with me for the first time. But it wasn’t one, not at all, one that I had wanted.

The first time they began this ritual, it was in school. They took me into the bathroom and made me inadvertently gulp toilet water. They kept me there for an uncomfortably long time. It was, at first, a delight to realize that someone was finally acknowledging my presence. But after a sickening amount of time, I realized that this was not something I should be happy of, that, if anything, this was taking me in the total opposite direction than the one I had in mind.

It became more frequent, and then less aquatic attacks were used, and more physical offenses. I found myself encountering my own blood so often, it was like a daily sort of thing, I’d expect it. And all the while, I kept my efforts in trying to create a bond, a relationship, with anyone. Please, anyone who would give me a hand and let me find myself away from this desert.

By the time my acquaintances with my blood were becoming regular, I realized that the beautiful picture that once was, was now only a fragment of my memory—almost becoming a figment, confusing me whether it was truly real or not. For now, I was in a dry, arid desert of nothing but my shaken, lonely mind, filling the empty space. My voice cracked in the dry, moodless air, and my hands were bleeding from no moisture. I was purely, utterly alone in this world.

Did I dare consult my mother? No, her strong voice and opinions, her forceful looks and actions—they all gave me a realization not too long after I began to lose the beautiful picture. I realized that it was she who had been the cause of this—she who had drawn the beginning of the line, pushing me into the direction, so far out, that by the time I realized, I could not turn back—it was too difficult to turn back. For everyone was not letting me go in their friendly direction—nobody was letting me through—they were all pushing me away. They refused to give me a chance.

My first second decade of life was in utter misery and pain, loneliness and hatred. My pure innocence in the efforts to befriend any being began to grow weak and desperate. I began to lose hope.

It was those words that truly cut me off, that gave me the true idea, that gave me the realization of my future. My void future.

“Nobody wants you here.”

Nobody.

All those words, I had refused to accept before, words that were vulgar, words that were cruel, words profane. They all pierced my heart, but those—they broke it. I finally realized that it was true. Nobody wanted me alive. I had no purpose of life. What was I do to, but be a pathetic human to exchange mean words about, to glare at, to throw hurtful words at. I was truly a nonexistent being, to the point that, people merely knew who I was, to acknowledge me as someone they didn’t know, who was a nobody. That’s what they called it. A ‘nobody.’

When I found myself in a position that I had to get a life, a job, I had nobody to consult, nobody to ask. For I was landed in a desert of loneliness, completely, utterly alone, in the darkness of the desert, trying to read the sand, to find a pattern in the sun—anything, that would be a means of communication—a means of getting a meaning, a flower into my heart. After searching for years and only getting yells and shouts and curses of my mother in return, I somehow managed to get into a place which they called college, which I called, the last step before true loneliness.

After college, I realized that I would truly be alone in this world, no classes to attend, only a job to search for.

How puny. How pathetic. How pitiful. Nobody was around me. I was slowly drying away in the desert, my skin turning to dust, my hair crumbling. My eyes would barely crack open, and my muscles and joints—were rusty old because there was nobody to oil them.

I realized one day, upon looking in the mirror, my life before me, and the life ahead, would never, ever be any better. It would never get better, and I would never be able to find a smile. Because I was already dying, because for two decades, nobody would reach out to me, no matter how hard I tried. Because society just could not accept me, whether it was for my efforts, for who I was, or for who I wanted to be. They only judged by their eyes, and not their hearts and souls.

It was a sharp, sudden, flash of a realization, because my heart was so dry and tiny, it could not take it.

I looked into those eyes of mine and saw but one emotion. Fear.

What had I done wrong, that put me in this position? What did I do, that, in the beginning, set me away from people whom I once called that warm, happy word—friend?

Nothing, nobody cared. Nobody wondered. Nobody asked. Nobody.

How could I make them see me? How could I make them smile, other than showing my pitiful, bloody self, embarrassed self to them? What could I do, that would make them look at me, look at me with anything other than disregard, ignorance, and condescension?

I went to college classes, day after day, and decided to pick someone whom I would try to befriend, once more. If it didn’t work, I would truly find no need in being alive. I soon found a beautiful lady, someone who had kind, twinkling eyes, and lots of friends. I began to like her more than I did to anyone else in my life—I fell in love. Seeing her gave me a seed of hope, a droplet of water on my cracked lips.

It wasn’t long before she noticed. And it wasn’t long before I even managed to gather up courage to confront her, that she courageously came up to me—oh, how blissfully happy I was that she was looking at me—but something was wrong. Those eyes.

Those eyes of contempt.
And fury.

“Can you stop staring at me? You’re so creepy. You don’t have any friends, and you’re always alone. Who are you?”

“But—I like you… can you be my friend?” How long it had been since the last conversation…

“You’re so creepy. Get away from me, get out of my life. You’re always following me. I’m going to call the cops if you keep doing that! Nobody wants people like you here.”

It was that again. And this time, because of the affection I had felt towards her, that hope that somehow unchapped my lips and let a faraway oasis appear in my field of view—it brought a heavy wound upon not just my heart, but my mind, soul, and body. I felt dread, and for the first time, I felt hatred. Hatred for this world, that created an atmosphere to make her hate me, hatred for all of the people who made each other so prejudiced and cruel, hatred for the living beings of this world—for not letting me in.

And I began drop the classes. I stayed home, and using a computer, began to draw myself into the world of fantasy, where I could find a world with no humans, or humans who were kind, or humans who ended up as heroes.

I began to watch movies, movies of what people called villains, whom I found myself deeply interested in. I shared those moments they had, I could understand them fully, their loneliness, their hatred to the world—I could feel it bubbling in my heart. I realized that I was not alone in this world, that those people also felt these things. And I realized that I could also end up as they did, in positions of power and wealth. If I could just steer the world in a different direction, I could manage to evade deaths like theirs and maintain a life of success. I realized that this hatred and this loneliness could breed a new type of life for me—of this thing they so often identified, that word they so often used—power.

I began the task of walking the paths of those people, and started out by picking a movie. This would be a very dangerous road to take, enemies could appear, and threats could occur. I carefully planned out the whole road. I began to force a way out of that desert. The first step was physical likeliness—which was much easier than planned—the Internet was quite useful a tool.

Becoming obsessed in creating a world where I was no longer dying of dehydration, of no moisture, of complete, utter darkness and loneliness—it became my life.

It was not long before I realized my final step. I had to create fear in people—I had to do something that would force them to look up to me, not down.

It was a perfectly well planned out idea—an ironic one, that I would create my first act of mercilessness towards the people I so hated—it was beautiful. I no longer needed the ‘beautiful picture’ I once longed for. I needed respect. And this would earn it, as did in the many videos I analyzed and watched for studies.

I used tools and weapons to create the diversion and work upon my first attack.

It succeeded, and I identified myself in front of the remaining crowd, looking for that look in their faces—and indeed it was there—fear.

Not long before I knew to carefully protect myself—for enemies would come, as did in the videos, and not long before my name became popular, it was on the Internet—when once it was a name to spit upon, to curse at.

Not long before a person came looking for me, telling me she would help me out of my problem. Finally, a follower. I had expected more, but one, for now, was enough. I would reward her later.

But she did not seem to understand the rules of apprenticeships. She constantly asked me questions, about my painful past. I tried persuading her about the future, of my plans—but she told me they wouldn’t work. She was a frustrating apprentice.

I saw her one day, and it was before she noticed me, but she was speaking of her fear of me, of her worry.

Only then did I realize that somehow, upon trying to create fear and respect in people—I had returned on my old plan. On relationships. She was the first person I could truly speak to, who would not tell me of my uselessnesses to the world.

It was then, that I changed my mind, and began to cooperate with her, in search of a bridge that would help me cross it, and for the first time, take a look at the lush fields of flowers, friendships, families, bonds, relationships.

It was in her that I planted my seed of hope. As my drying body began to emit an ugly stench, I weakly, meekly hoped that seed had found a fertilized soil. I planted my hope once more.

~

Guess whose story I tried to write a ‘story’ on. Just guess.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/105I8KWwvFPEfBR5nQfyGc9-UgYhFQ_roAOY2Go8KEjw/edit?hl=en_US

This is what I got so far—not fully edited, and I know—I shouldn’t publish it if I didn’t finish it, but I’ll edit it later on.

Here it is.

I was always the best.

In my family, I was the smartest, considering my short-attention-spanned, hyperactive brother could not stay still for at least a minute. In my community—I was the one who won the reading prizes, writing prizes, all that academic glory. In my school—I was in the school newspaper because I had won a competition and performed in a winner’s recital at Carnegie Hall (Carnegie Hall! Wow, that’s good! they’d say). I was the best at drawing, because everyone else just didn’t care.

In the middle of fourth grade, all of that changed.

I had moved into a whole new place. A new county, a new town, a new house, a new school, and new peers to make friends with. It was all a blur.

It was a Friday. October twenty seventh, six days after my birthday, there I was, standing in this strange… big house. It wasn’t a small cramped apartment anymore. We wouldn’t spend those Christmases huddled in the corner next to the veranda, next to the Christmas tree, everything close to us—the TV, the kitchen, the couch, the rooms, the bathroom, the door. It wasn’t that small safe box that we lived in.

It was big.

That was my first impression.

And.

It had stairs.

Stairs! For the first time in my life, I could brag to my friends about how I could run up and down stairs—stairs! Our own stairs!—and never get tired of it—that our rooms were so big, and we had three bathrooms! And two sinks in one bathroom—that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. I could tell this to all of my friends—how amazing would that be—such a great house!

And I could finally say, “I live in a big house”, rather than “I live in an apartment”. No climbing flights of stairs to get to our house and then set down our things, dig for the key, and open the lock, and burst in. It was just park, walk, unlock, and walk in.

It was like a dream come true(—the only thing was, I had a life, so I didn’t exactly dream all day about living in a house—just trying to express how amazed I was).

But of course, that wasn’t the only thing in mind—what was I, stupid? I knew what would come next.

School.

I’d have to make new friends, even when these kids had already started school, already decided who their friends were and who their friends weren’t, and already diving headlong into the depths of learning.

But I’d do well. As I always was. The person who was smart, and good at drawing, and piano, and nothing would change.

I learned, however, soon enough, that living in this new place was like an American expecting everyone else in Korea to speak English and understand English and follow American culture. No. It was different. Very.

I noticed this the minute I saw the school. It was an eerie feeling—these kids were already used to this school by now, already adjusting to their classes, their teachers, schedules, learning. But the first impression was—man, is it big.

And so fancy! The architecture wasn’t just a big box. It had a curvy hallway that had big windows, so you could see the little paintings on the inside walls, see teachers walking by. But we were early, my mom and I. We came here before school started, to keep things organized and ready when school did start.

We walked in, and the office—it was big. Everything was big here!

My teacher, Mrs. Unanski was introduced to me—it was so weird, because my fourth grade teacher before I moved here—her name was Mrs. Kaminsky—sounded oddly familiar.

She was nice. And old. And small. But very nice. I remember that. Really nice. Mom followed along, as we walked through endlessly long hallways, with drawings on the walls already, projects and drawings and paintings and writing all on the walls. And the classrooms had the lights on, and I would peer into them, imagining each seat occupied by someone—a friend, maybe.

Mom asked how many classes there were (oh, there were so many classrooms!), and she told us there were eleven fourth grade classrooms, ten fifth grade, and eleven sixth grade. Said it without much of excitement, or whatever. Just said it, like it was just the usual—oh, it’s a bit sunny today, with a bit of clouds, not raining, definitely.

My mouth dropped. I remember that. Real clear. I couldn’t believe it. In my private school, there were two classes for each grade. Then in the public school, maybe four or five. And I was amazed. This was the world-record, I bet. Eleven!?

My mom spoke just what I thought. Oh, not the private school and public school thing—but that there were so many.

“Oh, this is the only public elementary school in Holmdel,” she nodded.

I was, again, amazed. When would this town stop surprising me?

The only public school? That would mean—my imagination of just a few classes of fourth graders stretched to a massive crowd.

We turned a corner, and went up a ‘hill’, and there we were, at a classroom, strange, new, but still, my future.

After my mom left, I was alone, in a room, awkwardly readjusting my glasses and setting down my books, as the teacher told me what they had been learning so far, and that today was the day of a test—a grammar test. She said I could take it, but it wouldn’t count—that I could try it—would I like to?

Well, I didn’t think that I wouldn’t know. So of course, I said yes.

When the kids piled in, one by one, they set their bags down, I felt something new in the air.

It was different. Much different. So different from Woodbridge, I just felt a bit nervous. They were dressed differently—I mean, not like they were wearing dresses or an exotic brand from the southern coast of Africa (is there even one?), but it just felt different, the way they looked, the way they acted, just the way they walked into the door.

I began to note the differences.

Personality.

“Hey, look! It’s the new girl!”

And on my desk was a little puppy, or was it a turtle?—but anyhow, it was a cute little doll, and there was a card next to it that said “Happy Birthday! October 21! Celine Choo!” On it. It was one of those things you buy at staples, and you fill in the “Name” blank, the “Date” blank, and then you’d give it to the person, with a sticker to go along.

“Hey, why does she get to have Puppy?” (I forget the name of it, so I’ll just call it puppy.)

“Well, probably because she’s new.”

And of course, I wanted to say, “it was my birthday, actually,” but I didn’t. It felt weird, though, seeing them so… confident. And knowing. And sure. So sure.

It scared me. It was different. Nobody sat back and was shy, nobody stared at me quietly—they crowded around me. It was weird. Very. (Did I say that already? Emphasis.)

“Hey, welcome to Holmdel! Here’s a pen!” This girl gave me a pen—a purple one. Quite randomly, actually. No, maybe it was because it was my birthday—I’m not sure. Whatever.

Anyhow.

The groups. I figured out the groups very quickly.

In Woodbridge, nobody cared about how they looked, whether they wore these pants or those pants or wore these shoes or those, whether their hair was this color or that, whether they had an accent or not. But here, apparently, they did. When they walked in, most of the people were wearing at least one item of clothing that had a brand name. And they were all wearing the ‘in-style’ or whateveryoucall it sort of clothing. Pretty sweaters from Abercrombie, boots that were fuzzy, all sorts of stuff that I did. Not. Recognize.

It was strange, yes. Very.

The groups. I could tell who was in what group, very quickly. It just came to me.

First, it was the Asians. Don’t blame me—I noticed them because I’m Asian too! But never, ever, in my life, had I ever seen so many Asians in the same classroom. It was lucky, in Woodbridge (sorry to compare so much), to have any Asian in your classroom. But here—there was her, her, him, her, and her (no names given). It was… different.

But what else was, the Asians were different. Am I sounding like I’m naming a new species? That’s what it should sound like. Because they were Asian, alright, but they were wearing clothes that I would see in magazines, the brand name clothing. What I had never thought of wearing—at all.

The next group. They were the kids who were strangers to me, almost like a new species. I found, later on, that people tended to call them ‘popular.’ But at first sight, they were just plain strange. They would burst into a song during recess, crowd into a group and talk about whatever they would, talk loud and confident and burst into sarcasm seventy eight percent of the time, and they wouldn’t talk to certain people. Certain people.

They would act all nice and friendly in front of the teacher, and when the teacher was gone, they would suddenly start talking and walking over to their friends—so audacious—and they would order our class to do this, that, whatever, and then glare and do whatever they wanted. It was strange, yes. Very.

Then it was the people I was the most familiar with—people who didn’t care what they looked like, people who didn’t care who you were or who I was, but just accepted certain things. Some Asians, some Caucasians, you couldn’t really have a way of telling. But I was in that group.

(Oh, and, if you forgot about the grammar test—I bombed it. So, don’t ask.)

As I lived in Holmdel longer and longer, I realized certain things, and began to follow that saying—“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”

I made friends with the Asians in my class (what, was it my fault—I was so amazed by how many Asians there were in my class), and even found one of them was Korean! KOREAN! It was rare for there to be two Koreans in our school, but for them to be in the same class—that was pure luck. Pure luck, I tell you.

But as I made friends with some people, I realized that even Asians thought the way the strange—‘popular’—people did.

“Well, she’s wearing fake Uggs.”

And to myself, I’d think of that as ridiculous, stupid, just empty minded.

When I talked to them, not only did their personality did I notice, but their values in things, their expectations, and their achievements. So much… higher—than Woodbridge.

Some people would need at least an A. They would get angry if they got a B, or a C.

And their values—wow, would they talk about their houses—pools, tennis courts, how many rooms, study room, a laptop, computer, iPod, iPad, this car, that car, this phone, that phone, what! It was like they were living in the houses and lives I would have never dreamt of having.

And the school was so big—two gyms! and a huge cafeteria, a field and two playgrounds and a blacktop to play on. The bathrooms were in the best conditions could be (I know, an awkward subject—sort of not really whatever), and the classrooms had all sorts of cool things, like TVs in every classroom, and a touch screen thing—SmartBoard, was it? And the field day—AT A SWIMMING POOL!? That was the best thing in the WORLD. I couldn’t believe it.

But they were complaining.

It amazed me—couldn’t they see how much they had, what they had?

And their achievements—Holmdel, the school of smart people, I would say. I was no longer ‘the smart person.’ I was now the ‘person,’ no wait—the ‘new person.’

I played at Carnegie Hall? Oh, shut up, ten other people did, too.

I was in Gifted and Talented program for Art? Oh, shut up, there’s tons of other kids who take art lessons and ace the shading techniques and coloring techniques and painting techniques and win prize after prize.

What was I, now?

Piano?

Don’t tell me—my level was the average.

Swimming?

No. I wasn’t even at the level to compare. No.

And guess what—everyone at LEAST took one sort of lessons—and they were already talking about colleges, SATs, and who knows—jobs. While there I was, stupidly standing around, thinking I was smart, how ignorant I must have seemed. Tennis lessons, swimming lessons, piano lessons, writing tutors, math tutors, art lessons. Everything.

Of course, when I moved to Holmdel, my whole perspective changed, my whole house changed, my whole SCHOOL CHANGED. And so did the people in it, thus affecting me.

Yes, me.

It gave pressure on me. It felt like I was the only one doing nothing, the one who wasn’t prepared, the one who wasn’t competent. Not able.

So I worked hard. I didn’t have any tutors, no extra lessons, workbooks, after school study whatevers. But I did my homework, studied, tried to maintain the usual A range, whatnot.

And being such a slow person, it resulted in the usual bed-time of around ten to twelve. (Which is one of the terrible reasons to why I’m so short—but that’s beside the point.)

All I knew was that I would NOT be someone my mom or dad would just take for granted and give up with the amazing-smart-daughter dream. I wanted them to be happy. And the more I tried, the more they expected. And the more they expected, the more I tried. And it went on and on and on.

So sometimes, I hear kids complain how “this sucks” and “that sucks” because the speakers aren’t working for the projectors, or that we don’t get to use the language lab, or because our school looks ugly, or whatever. And sometimes, I agree—then I catch myself, and I try to remind myself that I am lucky. That I am in a place that I should be thankful about, that if I did not live here, to this day, that I probably wouldn’t have made high goals, high expectations, and high achievements. And that through Holmdel, I have made the good types of friends, and that I would, ultimately, make the right choice.

What choice? Oh shut up, I don’t know about choices that are in the future—what am I, clairvoyant? Fortuneteller? Go consult the nearest tea-leaf reader at Target in the pharmacy section—not me.

And after a while, it became difficult to take piano lessons from a teacher who was thirty minutes away. We no longer had time for that. So my mom searched for a new teacher. And there, she lived three minutes away. What a convenience!

A short month or two after I started taking piano lessons, we had a class recital—of all of her students—my piano teacher’s.

Everyone. Was. Godly. At. Piano.

Besides the first and second graders, of course—they had just started.

But suddenly, my pride shrunk to the size of a pea.

This person won this award, this diploma, got into this high school, this major.

This person got into Julliard for this instrument with this much practice and this much—

And as I learned that this teacher, this teacher who was teaching me—she was teaching those amazing key-touching people—I realized that I would probably reach that level. And after a year or two, I began to find confidence once more, not only in piano, but also in academics and such. I realized that I couldn’t compare myself to my peers—people in Holmdel—no, I was not godly at piano, nor was I a genius in math or whatever.

But I realized that I could compare myself to my friends back in Woodbridge!

How stupid.

Yeah, I know.

Stupid.

Dumb.

Arrogant.

You can throw rocks and stones (they’re the same thing, I know) at me.

But I realized.

I went to my friend’s house after Korean school, which was back in Woodbridge—or somewhere near—those towns are pretty similar, and that friend was learning from the teacher I had been learning from before I moved to Holmdel and found a new teacher, blah blah, you know the rest. She was my friend, my best friend—except for the fact that we were very very far from each other now.

My mom told her “why don’t you play a piece (piano piece, duh, don’t you know) for me? It’s been a long time!”

Now, all this time, I had thought I was better than her (again, you can kick me later on, when you actually see me, and just don’t kick your computer or something), because of this new, advanced teacher, and you know (—wait maybe you don’t. Whatever. Just pretend to know—nod and smile). Better at sight reading, piano, technique. Because even when we had the same teacher, we were rivals, you can say.

Well, she started playing, and I sat there, on the floor, looking at the keys from under, looking at her playing the piano, and I realized.

Of course, now that I had seen so much more advanced playing, I realized how she and I played weren’t the best, but she was still—good, you can say. But I realized that I should not feel superior, let compliments get into my head, or think of myself better than someone before seeing their skill.