morning flower, on her parachute

One Day Forever

Just a thought - I know temporary highs are not advisable. But what if those constant temporary highs form a string of happiness (or, at the very least, tolerance), thread by thread? Before you know it, out of those short-term shots of bliss, you would have formed an armor of happy thoughts to hold on to. When this armor becomes too heavy to carry around, you can take it apart once again into small threads to keep in your pocket; modify the dosage because not all kinds of sadness needs a whole armor.

These are what I’ve hold on to for the past couple of days as I make some sense out of darkness - little trivial things, like baking and occasional walks outdoors. It gives me so much bliss to find vibrancy drawn in petals, the sun’s contrast as it reveals the intelligence of the world outside. The feeling would make my heart leap for a couple of hours, but would eventually die down as I lay in bed before sleeping, or when I wake up in the morning to find the same worries still existing.

But I know, eventually, a bullet-proof tapestry is in the work. One day, my happiness wouldn’t be mere palpitations or occasional heart burns. It would be pure and complete.

After all, darkness is just space simply filled with photons that the human eye could not see. But it doesn’t mean that, in that space, colors don’t exist. 

I’ll keep in mind what William Blake has said: “To see the world in a grain of sand, and to see heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hands, and eternity in an hour.”

Satellite

I just finished reading Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart. Yet another timely achievement; another coincidental chance to self-diagnose.

To be completely honest, I think I might have lost myself. I’ve been reading my previous posts and written materials, and I just feel so distant from the person who wrote such whimsies, who saw everything with rose-colored telescopes. And now, I’m just this professional in a bland straight suit who sees everything as it is. I might have woken up. But I never wanted to.

Whenever I try to write, I just look at this empty blanket of white screen while all these thoughts explode and infinitely conceive mini-universes in my mind. But I just couldn’t draw them out. I’ve never been this way. I couldn’t tell it to anybody else, because the feelings and ideas were all so intangible and words couldn’t justify how deep they have burrowed inside me.There’s something, it seemed, that was holding me back. And it wasn’t until I read Sputnik Sweetheart that I got to understand why.

I think most people live in a fiction. I’m no exception. Think of it in terms of a car’s transmission. It’s like a transmission that stands between you and the harsh realities of life. You take the raw power from outside and use gears to adjust it so everything’s all nicely in sync. That’s how you keep your fragile body intact.

Pages 62-63, as told by “K”, the narrator in the book. I think I might have lost it. I’ve began to be so good at assimilating myself into this fiction of a reality - letting some of my dreams go or stay hidden in the drawers of my room - that I’ve lost myself. I am this hollow shell of conformity, because this is what is expected of me

And I just feel so sad. Is there another word for sad? I just can’t fathom how this corroded, corrupted longing can be condensed in a simple string of three letters. SAD. Maybe, forlorn is a better word to describe the gravity of this loneliness. I’ve been thinking about me as a child a lot lately. I guess, because there has always been this eternal child in me that never wanted to grow up. I’ve always believed in magic, in fairies, in pixie dusts, and yes - in unicorns, too (please Google narwhals - they’re the closest thing to unicorns). 

But there’s always this pressure to conform, and the past incidents that have happened have forced me to grow up and embrace reality, to lose my true self to dreaming. That’s why I love sleeping - because in dreams I never have to assimilate, or check myself if I blend in or meet other’s idea of perfection. In dreams, I have no use for the internal transmission. I can explode and manifest mini-universes of my own over and over again, in technicolor x-rays, in fluid translucent colors, worlds that live inside petals and pupils - in the minutest of things - without anyone to tell me not to.

I don’t want to grow up.

Weather forecast

It’s such a shame that I haven’t been writing so much as of late, and the one day in which I finally had a pocket of time to do so is the day that I feel like an absolute trash.

All sense of empowerment and positiveness has been consumed and I just feel like I’ve been slowly eaten by matter, and most likely regurgitated out. And the probability of something good happening in the next few days (which shall crawl into the next many more months) is very slim. 

I’m bound to an occupation that I thought would give me so much peace of mind, but in turn, has caused a lot of feelings to swell. It absolutely breaks my heart. Just thinking about Monday makes me want to beg the universe to swallow me whole again. But I’m bound to it by responsibilities. God, I feel so used. What to do? I have never felt so incompetent in my life.

This is just not for me. I feel so limited. But I want to feel like I can explode into galaxies and stars by my boundlessness, by things that I can do more. And waking up every fdsjhjsding day to a desk or a plane ride that will satisfy a corporate puzzle stifles those galaxies. I just cannot do this anymore. I am asphyxiated. 

PS, Asphyxia can cause coma or death.

Freon and other drugs

I was on an Fx this morning when I had this seemingly random, but exceedingly important breakthrough - air-conditions are highly hallucinogenic.

On a side note, it is a personal belief that Fx/bus drivers are actually NASA-trained professionals. They can maneuver through any terrain while maintaining a steady disregard for human life and vomit on textile. Very skillful, indeed.

So there! I’ve unwittingly spilled the motivation behind this post. You see, only a tripped out person can ever arrive at such a genius discovery. Something must have triggered my brain in to behaving like so, and I can only blame the Fx’s aircon, steadfastly blowing right on my face. 

The cold air freezing my eyes in to spherical ice cubes, my eyelids barely hanging on like onion skin against a peeler. It was a struggle. My senses slowly died. But once I’ve past that point of numbness, the feeling was pure drunkenness. Have you ever felt that way- you know, when you’re watching some television and the electric fan is a centimeter away from your face? And, suddenly, everything becomes so inaudible, incomprehensible, and all you want to do is close your eyes and get lost in that solid wave of air? Or, maybe it’s only me.

Anyway, this has caused me to think of other non-addicting things that make me high.

Like, Chinese food. It’s the best and my family loves/would die for Chinese food. But every time we go out to Luk Foo or Luk Yuen or North Park, there’s this inexplicable feeling of drowsiness after eating. Then a series of senseless conversations, slurring and uncontrollable laughter follows. They say it’s the MSG. Or, maybe we’ve simply maxed out our energies from the maneuvering involved in turning the Lazy Susan and using chopsticks. 

Another non-addicting (please take note of the emphasis) hallucinogen are meetings. The same sensations occur - when I’ve gone past that point of numbness or absolute boredom (maybe after 45 mins to an hour), all I can imagine are bunnies or other innocent-looking creatures gliding rainbows. 

This is such a senseless post. And, I know this will have no significance whatsover in the future. But it must be the freon, still. And my eyeballs are still thawing.