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?

Who Will Crack These Ribs?

Will someone please call a surgeon...

So in anatomy lab, we were learning about the sternum and a few backbones and crap. Normally, as most people do, I enjoy sitting with my friends lest I am forced to learn, God forbid.

However, since the TAs came on time instead of early, those of us who were actually early went into lab at the same time as everyone else. Needless to say, the seating arrangements were messed up. And by messed up I mean my group of four friends were separated.

So after minutes of saying our goodbyes, we sat down. I was still able to sit with Craig, but we were forced into the last option seat of front row center. Being bored as hell, we opted to have fun with our bones. In fact we had so much fun and laughed so hard that our TA, while in the middle of explaining something, turned to us and said, "I know that it's boring guys. Try doing this three times a week."

To which Craig and I replied, "..."

Then we continued with our playing. Among many other things, we made a giraffe. The thoracic vertebrae became the head, right clavicle the neck and a rib its legs.

I like giraffes.


The giraffe before I realized I could...


stick the clavicle into the vertebral foramen of the thoracic vertebrae. Yes, Craig hates me.


But Twigs doesn't! =)

The Flame of Tar Valon and the Dragon's Fang

Something I thought up in the moment while studying for anatomy today.

And no, they don't have anything to do with anatomy.


The Flame of Tar Valon
"For Those"

Oh yes, there's hope for those who seek it,
Maybe more for those who need it.
But there's still hope for those who want it,
And some just have enough to flaunt it.

And yet for those who blinded cry,
Let me help you use your eyes:
Tears don't work to maximize
Your sight from which no truth can hide.

For sight is not in seeing with
Your eyes upon your facial gift.
No, seeing life for all its worth
Is living fully on this Earth.

And Nature, God or Life may not
Be easy to retain or taught,
But openness to truth is key.
The truth will set you free,
Thus will you live happily.

The Dragon's Fang
"Weakness"

Maybe there's just simply something,
Or maybe nothing's barely bumping,
Or somehow questions silly stumping,
Fixing, mixing, feelings clumping.

Maybe nature built us knowing
How we think prevents our growing,
How we feel will get us going,
But gone are we when we stop flowing.

Gone are we when we hold onto
All our pains; our pangs belong to
Stalling gains we make and strive to
Save for me and thus provide you

Thus provide you little choice,
Blocked by banking on my voice,
Holding in my thoughts, rejoice
In little as my cheeks get moist.

Little things I noticed lately,
Small they are but impact greatly,
I move onward, guise as stately,
Strong and steady, sigh innately.

Give you reason not to hate me.
Give me reason for my fate.




I'll give mad props for anyone who can find the connection between "The Flame of Tar Valon" and "The Dragon's Fang."

Hint: The poems are yin and yang.

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.

Nightmares

A bit after midnight last night, I readied myself for bed. Because I was a fool a few weeks ago, I failed to return to school with my bedsheets. Initially, I panicked, since I would have to buy bedsheets yet again this semester (Two years in a row?! Seriously!?).

Anyways, I obviously underestimated my foresight and found, to my elation, a sleeping bag I tucked away in case I had a friend spend the night or something. Of course, everyone knows I have no friends, but it was simply nice to pretend.

The point is that for the last two weeks, I have been sleeping in a sleeping bag and a makeshift pillow I created by stuffing one of my favorite poofy jackets in the sleeping bag...bag. That's a weird phrase isn't it? The sleeping bag bag. The bag for my sleeping bag. It's like putting a suitcase in another suitcase.

Well, according to Kel in the classic made-for-TV-movie Two Heads Are Better Than None, you need to pack multiple suitcases within suitcases "in case [you] lose one."

Thus far, I have not been able to return home to fetch my sheets. I don't mind the sleeping bag too much. If anything, a nice, warm bed is not a conducive study environment. However, after last night, I'm thinking about changing the whole aura of my slumber space.

I had a nightmare. For those of you who are faint of heart, read no further. Well, I'm only saying that because I'm probably overestimating my ability to tell a good ghost story, not toast story.

In my dream, I was kidnapped by a group, headed by a female leader. She looked reminiscent of the lead singer in Feist, sort of a hippie-ish young woman, bangs cut straight in the retro style. Actually, the whole group reminded me of the band.

So I was kidnapped. I think I was kidnapped because I had an agreement with Feist look-alike, and for some reason or another, I was unable to meet my end of the deal. The deal had something to do with meeting them at a street and handing them a case that held contents beyond my knowledge.

Anyways, I couldn't do it. I think I messed up on the case. I must've brought the wrong one because they were pissed when they saw it. The kidnapped me, taking me to their hideout or headquarters or whatever bad people call their abode. They chained me to a mattress without sheets. WITHOUT SHEETS.

Then they took a dead body that had been cut at the torso and placed it next to me to keep me company, presumably. Only his upper body was there, the contents of his guts trailing haphazardly around his half of the bed. They called him Stodge.

I was terrified to be in the presence of a carcass. These people were vicious, bloodthirsty and ruthless. Every night, Stodge's eyes would haunt me, pleading to spare him of a fate he didn't know was inevitable. But I knew, and I still was helpless.

After a few nights, when the stench of Stodge's decaying organs was at its height, the kidnappers burst into my room. I saw a light from outside. I was still terrified.

A lady was screaming as she backed into the small bedroom that held me prisoner and left me with only half a cadaver as company. Was I being saved? Could I finally return from hell? Was there a bathroom?

The answer was obviously no. Even if there was a bathroom, I was chained so I couldn't use it. In my dream, however, I didn't need to pee.

I did want to scream, though. The lady backed into the room, held by the wrists above her head by a large, brutish man. The silhouette of the short-banged female kidnapper approached the silhouette of the screaming lady, who seemed of similar age. A knife flashed, reflecting the once-heavenly light that I hoped was salvation.

That light quickly became dull. My eyes winced as one female stabbed the abdomen of the other. Once. Twice. Thrice. She stabbed a fourth time in the stomach and slashed down. Blood was on her forearm, slowly pouring on the floor. The man let go. The dying woman had stopped screaming and opted to moan, then vomit.

Except her vomit was pure blood. She wasn't quite dead yet.

But apparently she was just in the right shape to be placed next to me. She spasmed. I thought I saw Stodge cringe and make a face as if to cry, then I realized it was my own reflection I saw from the pool of blood the dying lady gave to the mattress as she was placed in between me and Stodge. Her eyes dulled, and she died, taking any hope of salvation with her.

I didn't make a sound. The stabber was wiping herself. And I waited to hear it. Every night since I had been taken captive, they would remind me. I waited for the words like clockwork.

"We're going to kill you soon, Andrew. Very soon."

Every night, I waited for those words and for my fate. I was held many nights more, until the putrid smell from the blood and bodies became my oxygen, the maggots my friends. The stained mattress was my only comfort and the open eyes of Stodge and the dead woman my mirrors. I was alone but always in humbling company. Only when I saw others dead did I begin to imagine my own life being taken away.

"We're going to kill you soon, Andrew. Just wait."
"WHY!?" I would cry back. "WHY DO I DESERVE TO DIE? WHY DO I HAVE TO WAIT? KILL ME NOW! KILL ME NOW! WHAT DID I DO?!" But my tears found no reply, my screams no acknowledgment.

"We're going to kill you very soon, Andrew. You're going to die. You're definitely going to die."

They had one more job for me to do. I had to do it. Even if I fucked it up they would kill me, so I might as well do it right, with the off-chance of mercy. They let me go back home. The job was similar to the first. I had to deliver a case.

The case was at home apparently. I went to my mom. She wasn't as worried as I thought she would be, knowing her in real life.

"Mom," I cried to her. "I always talked about being ready for death, living my life as if I would die right away. But right now, I'm not ready. There's still so many things I have to correct, so many things I have to do before I go."

"Take this guitar case," she told me. "It's full of cash. Give it to them to see if they'll take it as ransom instead of the job."

So I did. I met the gang at the appointed spot with the guitar case full of cash. It must have been $2 million dollars worth of bills in there. I cried when my mom gave it to me.

They looked through the contents. Surely this was enough to cover their expenses many times over. The men who were sent to retrieve looked at each other. Maybe I could be spared. Maybe they won't kill me.

They took the case and me along with it. My soul finally understood that I would not survive. I was going to die soon.

This is where it gets kind of weird. In the car ride, a number of things happened. Firstly, the top was off and it was an old 70's convertible. The speed bumps were uneven and made me jump in the back seat. The three guys in the front were happy, and why shouldn't they be? They weren't losing their lives anytime soon. The two men not driving actually kissed each other, which was bizarre to me not because homosexuality is bizarre, but because they were so free in public.

"Please," the driver scolded them. "Not in public. She'll kill you if you draw attention."

I also lost my wallet on the way. A nice policeman stopped us and found a little girl who had it.

"Now, now," the officer chided the girl. "You can't keep that if you found it. Hand it over."

She did so reluctantly, pouting.

We continued to the house that held me in hell. I was back in the room, both corpses still there, lifeless. My horror returned. It was silent this time as I was chained to the stained mattress, lacking in sheets.

When were they going to kill me? The suspense itself was death. I decided I would take my own life first. I would try and kill myself. At least then, I would know my fate and be in control somehow. I wanted to die, to end this everlasting hell.

Before I could, though, I heard laughter. An audience and a stage. I heard them. I was confused because I was still alone in the dark, lifeless room, only a body and a half my company.

I asked out loud, "Aren't you going to kill me now?"

"Oh no," the female leader laughed. "We're just actors, dude. We're not going to kill you at all, Andrew."

"But you guys killed these two!" I cried, still deathly afraid.

"We just like using lifelike props."