In With The Young

Well actually it's all about me.

Just a strange observation but i'm realizing that i'm slowly becoming a perfectionist. I won't elaborate further. I'm really hoping that this lasts through the beginning of the school year, really would be helpful.

"There's nothing good because nothing lasts, and all that comes it comes here to pass. I would voice my pain but the change wouldn't last, all that comes it comes here to pass."

Talk about words to live by.

Bruce Springsteen on the other hand is most definitely a person to live by, next to, in the same neighborhood as, family tree whatever.

Summer Lovin'

Well, it's summer and you know what that means.

It's the time of the year when all brain function goes out the window and all I really remember how to do is lay in the sun and let the last remnants of my brain melt away.

God I wish I had something good to write about. Hm. Is this a diary? I have no idea.

Or am I supposed to write thoughts and idea.

Brain Brain Brain

Something about the summer that gets my brain thinking about mysterious medical ailments that I may or may not have. Ask my mom and she says I don't got them. Ask me and I'm all question marks.

This is the time of year when my brother gets all concerned for my well-being.

Constant bombardment of "Did you eat?" and "Be nice to yourself."

I could die.

Yet I choose life. (embarrassing...)

He should thank me one day.

This is seriously messed up. What am I writing I have no idea.

Just playing around with some paragraph lengths. Lengths. Furlongs. What are these words.

It's crazy how we can understand things written on a page. That is something I can never understand. How do these words flow so naturally from my brain to whatever medium of communication I am using. Well, not just me, but everyone. everyone everyone everyone.

How do we understand.

Some days I am completely blown away by this idea and I wonder if I'll ever forget how to understand and speak. Then you start focusing and everything becomes blurry.

Heart racing.

Ugh. Anxiety.

In my opinion there is nothing worse.

Never feel too anxious during the school year, when there's so much to think about. Never focusing on yourself.

But the summer time.

Don't get me started. Hate the feeling of fear. Fear of being afraid. Feeling afraid.

Fear of yourself. Afraid of yourself, is more accurate I suppose.

Because I'd like to think that fear, in an of itself, is not a selfish emotion (is fear an emotion?)

I'd love to stop writing about myself about now. Thanks.

Something funny would be nice. Now.

Sometimes The Truth Is Perfect

What is the truth?

Everything.

You, me, everything.

We expect the truth to always denote something hidden that at times can be bad, a flaw, a lie, a deception. Something that’s hard to handle, in the sense that you don’t want to hear it because you know it’s true and you don’t want to accept it or realize that other people realize it too.

We always want to be perfect and we feel like the truth is the only thing that makes us imperfect. Which is ironic, because there is nothing more perfect than hearing the truth and knowing that people see exactly who you are. That’s all we should strive for, for people to see the truth in everyone. To see who everyone is. It’s hard to admit that each one of us is “perfect.” But it’s true.

I really don’t like to say that I am perfect, because that’s impossible for me to do. I don’t want people to see the truth in me, because I see the truth as an imperfection. A roadblock to acceptance, which is stupid. Because how can anyone truly ever accept me if they aren’t even accepting the true me. The truth is only hard to handle in the sense that it strips you of your masks. And you see yourself as you are. And as you are is just as you should be.

How can I even be fit to write about this because I am just what I shouldn’t be. I don’t want people to see me as much as I would like to think.

That scares me.

To realize that everything you don’t like.

Everything you are trying to hide.

Everything you are trying to disguise.

Is in fact

perfection.

I LOVE THIS THOUGHT. ABSOLUTELY HORRIFYINGLY FASCINATING. WHAT A GREAT COMBINATION RIVALING ONLY HUMMUS AND ANY TYPE OF BEAN. AHHHHHH THE MIND THE MIND THE MIND I AM IN LOVE WITH EVERYTHING.

SUN SUN SUN

THE SUN IS OUT AND EVERYTHING IS PERFECT. right now i'm lying out in the sun on the grass outside. outside is a little redundant. but i just want to make it clear. no human should be inside on a day like this. what is it about the sun that makes everyone so happy. i can't stop smiling even if i wanted to. MENTAL NOTE: minestrone bad idea on hot day.

Is it possible to write without thoughts

without feelings, emotions, or wants

the intended purpose without direction

what is the purpose of poetry. is it just to make your thoughts more concise. do people just not want to write a book rambling about themselves or their observations. just wanting to captivate the human mind, knowing that we all think there are more important places to be, to see, to experience. but perhaps poets know that we won’t notice it or care to think deeply about it. this is rambling. i should’ve written a poem. i don’t even care to think/read about what i’ve written. but i don’t understand how people even write poems. how are they so accurate in their speech. how do they choose the words that they know describe what they are feeling. maybe poets don’t really feel these emotions but rather see the emotions in words in an art form that others do not. they want to make people aware of what the feelings are called. what it means to love. how to express it simply.

seeing your thoughts on paper is so strange. it’s hard to imagine that all that is going on in your head and you’re still able to function in the world. proof of god. good way to end any mind-blowing thought.

but on another note, cheese sweats.

The Title Told Me So

Well, since this blog is inappropriately titled "Something Poetic" I now feel obliged (self-obligated, mind you) to include a wee bit o' poetry. Here's the only thing I got...

Yellow Line

Across the street I saw myself

A mere shadow of my soul

And so I step

And stepped I did

To stand as divided pole

I walked to feel

And feel I did, as I did once but cry

The shame the guilt the outright fit

That encroached upon my mind

As I stood amidst the traffic pit

I could but clearly see

The faded cover of my soul

Cracked and stained from hidden pain

That alluded even me

Is there yearning or acceptance?

Or just a cool exterior waiting to be touched?

To be warmed

To feel.

In this indefinite zone. this yellow line.

Self-inflicted or a product of time.

I'll explain my thoughts behind this at a later date, I'm starting to feel inhuman (no "e").

Bye Self! [sanity (?)]

Let's Do This

Well social pressure dictates all of my actions most of the time, so now I thought for once I'll just "Laugh at the Rules" as they say and forget about the mountains of homework I have lying next to me (READ: 2 sleeping asians, 1 potted plant, and 1 loose-leaf sheet o'paper). So naturally, I created a blog. I rationalized this once my mom told me that my dad has been feverishly blogging away these past few days. If a 55 year old man, finger-pecking the keyboard can do this, then I'll be damned if I can't. Well, what to say. You know these bloggers make it look so much easier. But who cares what I say, really. After all, I'm the only one reading this. I am the only one who cares enough about me. I'll just write what I want. Let's just hope to God (capital G) that I never run for public office anytime soon.

Let the Floodgates OPEN.

My freshman year of college is rapidly approaching a close and I can't even explain what this means to me. How it makes me feel. I just don't know. People say you slowly become more certain of the future once you begin college. Actually, no, I don't know if I've ever heard that. But I can make up whatever sayings I want. This is my blog. This is me. Now I sound pretentious. Which, for those who know me, I am not. In fact my last public vow (Other than "I'm going to shower tonight") was to talk more about myself. Something that I hate doing. I hate when people focus all their attention on me. Real of fake. I hate opening myself up to other people. Strangers. I want to, but I can't. It's like to me my brain has been all mine, my thoughts have been all mine. I haven't shared them with anyone, and if I let an inkling of my thoughts/feelings slip out I immediately wish them back. To me nothing I think is actually real. It's all just inside. It's something that I can't even fathom someone listening to. Thinking about. Caring about. Feeling about. Their mine. No one gets it. This is my problem, I know.

ufwhowahfuhafusp I'm still learning. That's the one thing I'm certain about. I am still learning.

Someone get me some agua fria, this here post got too serious too quickly.