Tidbits from Memory (mostly as a result of boredom in econ)

I’ve forgotten how wonderful music can be for the soul.

Everyone talks about how music is vital to their lives. I’ve seen dozens of blogs/lists of 25 things that proclaim the sacredness of music, how people “can’t live without it.”

I’m not sure if I wholeheartedly agree with literally dying in the absence of music, but oftentimes the combination of melodies and words or simply just melodies or words alone can affect us deeply, delve into our innermost thoughts and envelop them in a sense of comfort.

Music is like a friend who will never betray you, like a shoulder that’s always available and will always listen. It’s ironic, then, that we listen to music. I think that when we listen to music, we are listening to our own thoughts and are allowed to roam freely in the fields of our minds. So music is in fact a friend who will always listen to us, because it allows us to listen to ourselves.

I just finished reading The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom. Personally, I think it’s an overrated book, simply because it was recommended to me with such acclamation. It’s a pretty original concept and story, and it’s touching on a few levels, but I don’t think it’s all that jazz. Same with Slumdog Millionaire.

I compiled a list of specific things I dislike as a writing exercise.

I hate waking up to disheveled blankets. My sheets should not be sideways, chaotically and haphazardly flayed and layered about.

I hate setting my alarm and going one minute later than I intended, forcing me to press the button 60 more times. Sometimes I’ll take the extra fate-given minute, but I can’t always. Sometimes I’m an hour off and need to press is 24 more times. I hate that. I also hate setting my alarm to a different 12 hour setting, as in 7:00PM instead of AM. It’s frustrating.

I have an unreasonable and probably unhealthy fear of falling off a treadmill. It has nothing to do with running too far or too fast to control, nor does it lend itself to the metaphor of living my life and the fear of stumbling emotionally. I’m just physically scared of falling, and it’s kinda weird, I think.

Ever since I learned this in chemistry (high school, methinks), I think of eating my foods as limiting reagents. If there isn’t enough ketchup, I refuse to finish my fries. If there isn’t enough Sweet ‘N’ Sour Sauce (or BBQ), I refuse to finish my Chicken Nuggets. If I don’t have enough tofu to complement my rice, I get more rice. I hate it when I get too much rice and need to get more tofu, and the cycle spirals out of control until I’ve literally eaten enough for 4 people.

I hate dressing up without going anywhere. Sometimes I wish I could just see into the future for 24 hours so I can dress accordingly.

Because yes, it gets hard to look this damn beautiful all the time.

Semi-epiphany

For as long as puberty has graced me, I have been somewhat different. If you were able to read my note about the 16 Things About Me, then you should (but probably don't) remember that I like analyzing and diagramming sentences. I attribute such English prowess to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Gloria Wayne.

However, even though my peers received this very same education, I am not aware if they have progressed to become good writers/essayists/what-have-you. Also, my brother, though very proficient in his writing ability, has never written as much as I do, at least as far as I know.

Thus, among my closer circles of friends, I have always felt like some sort of anomaly, a branch sticking awkwardly outward from a smooth hedge. Though the multitude of them are generally very good writers, able to voice their thoughts and skillfully manifest them into words, I viewed few of them as being formed and identifying with their writing ability. They always had their other capabilities, but rare was it among my friends whom I thought writing the core of their identity (with notable exceptions, i.e. Eric Woo). However, in the back of my mind, I viewed myself as someone who was not necessarily a writer, but had writing tendencies.

So, the majority of my self-perception revolved not on my writing ability, since I have read many works that reach well beyond my imaginative dexterity, but rather, revolved around my random whims to write shit. Yeah, I could spin a yarn or two, could give a few quick lines that I hoped was original, but I was never really a writer, per se (per say, ;))

So, over the last year or so, I decided that I would take on the title of "writer" and would hope to expand my ability to write extensively. I felt that it was the only way to channel my education, much like music is to some and sports to others. I conformed to what people told me I was good at doing.

Well, people. I think you're wrong. I used to think that I had writing tendencies, but as I was falling asleep in Macroeconomics today, I jotted a few things down.

When Professor Herrin woke me up (which is another story in and of itself), I looked down at my notes. I found a few lines of poetry written. I don't remember writing them at all, but there they were.

Then I knew it. My tendencies do not lean toward writing. Sure I can shit out an essay about The Little Mermaid or Howl's Moving Castle or something random for a long time, but it wasn't exactly a skill that came easily to me.

My tendencies are toward poetry. I am, at heart, a poet. Poetry is my hobby, is my sport. I write stories and describe events because sometimes it's just the best way to express certain things. But if I were to express myself fully and most earnestly, I would do it in poetry.



So that's who I am. I've finally come to terms with it. I hope people care, haha.

Here's what I wrote while falling asleep.

I am tired; I am beat,
Body broken, burdened heat,
Holding onto heart so hollow,
Falling fast my fate will follow.

I am sure that I am strong,
Yet still sure that I am wrong.
So which strength must I take heed
If I'm wrong and weak indeed?

Is there strength in self-awareness,
Analyzing my own fairness?
Or is there strength in being strong,
Trust my own self all along?

I have nothing to reply here,
No such answers for the sly ear.
Hear me ponder; hear me rant.
Find the answers that I can't.

Find the answers hidden in this.
If they're hidden, do they exist?

Maybe I'm Dreaming

I had another freaky dream during my 11:30AM-1PM nap. Unfortunately, this one is a little bit too strange for the internets. It involves two of my good friends and a VERY awkward situation.

Sorry for building that up.

So my nap today was strangely eventful. I skipped lunch and was prepared to go to my 1PM Macroeconomics class. I had the ever-reliable Anna deal the wake up call. Actually, I had her call me at noon so I could get lunch. However, as noon rolled nearer, it was evident that my state of slumber was much more powerful than my mind or stomach.

Therefore, I asked Anna to call me back a few minutes before 1PM, so that I could readily make it to my class. As 1PM neared, I got the call.

"Hey," her voice came through emphatically.
"Heyyyy," was my groggy reply.
"Are you going to class?" she asked me.
"Yeah, of course." It really wasn't obvious if I were going or not.
"OK, then. You should get going. You only have ten minutes until class," she advised.
"Yeah, yeah," I replied, feigning awareness. "I'm heading out now."
"OK, then. I'll talk to you later?"
"Sure." I checked the time. 12:50PM. I went back to sleep.

An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.

12:55PM.

That's it, I thought to myself, I'm DEFINITELY ditching Macroeconomics today. I went back to sleep.

An eternity later, I woke up to check the time.

12:58PM.

Fuck. Are you fucking KIDDING me!?

So yeah, I went to class reluctantly with a newly opened can of Monster.


24 fl. oz. of energy, and I still regretted going to class. Bullshit. BULLSHIT!

And now I can't even go back to sleep because I'm so freakin' spiked on this liquid crack.

At least it's Lo-Carb.