Currently listening to:
Sway - The Kook
Stolen - Dashboard Confessional
Books really do take a toll on me. They shape the way I see things; and even help clarify my original thoughts.
So there’s this brilliant book I can’t seem to finish, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera. With every turn of a page I reach another conclusion regarding myself and/or life in general, even if it occasionally has nothing to do with the book itself. I’m currently at a part where the author writes a ‘short dictionary of misunderstood words’, a sort of “dictionary” where he defines what certain words/events mean to the characters of the book, enlightening how words have an individual, personal meaning to each person based on experience and introspection.
This brings me to Valentine’s Day. (Word’s spellchecker just made me capitalize ‘day’. Psh.)
I’m sure everyone has been at one point or another in the middle of the Valentine’s craze… whether it’s eating sushi and ice cream and watching The Notebook alone or raiding the city in search of the ideal present for that special someone. Personally, I’ve been scrambling under the bed sheets in search of fallen popcorn in front of the telly for the last seventeen years. I can’t say I’ve been thrilled over this as I’ve watched friends work for days on hand-made, glitter-infested cards and show up the next day with a half-heart engraved necklace spelling out the boyfriend’s name. But I’ve always found it to be mildly absurd… I know, I know, I sound half-way through bitter and all the way jealous. Don’t get me wrong, I love small gestures, terms of endearment, and chocolate renders me helpless, but why celebrate a relationship the same day as the rest of the world?
I suppose that’s why I take anniversaries to heart. An anniversary is a couple’s individual, personal date… It commemorates a day that changed their lives for the better; as it holds its own meaning regardless of the cupid-shaped balloon held every February by lovesick couples. It’s almost like an evolution, a step up on the ladder of closeness, not a day you have in common with the rest of the world. Besides, I’d much rather do something nice for my boyfriend any random day of the year than have a month’s day define how he and I should act towards each other. I guess I’m a rebel like that. This would be the first year I have a Valentine. I mean, assuming he doesn’t mind my oversensitive words…
In conclusion, this pretty much displays the duality of Valentine’s Day for me. As it may be a crucial day of the year to some, it simply resembles another mass-holiday lacking personal significance. Or as he puts it, common. Don’t get me wrong, I do appreciate the gestures that accompany the day, but it simply feels impersonal and less worthy than the more exclusive anniversary.
So, be my Valentine, dear sir?
Salutations from the streets of whole-hearted romanticism,
What’s Her Face.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Saturday, December 20, 2008
A Life of Meaning
Essay-ish rant done between 10.45 and 11.12 pm.
Greetings from the Realms of Existentialism,
What's Her Face
Many before me have asked themselves what the meaning of life is; or somewhat more important to the individual, “what is the meaning of my life?”
Odds are this is not a breakthrough epiphany, especially coming from the typing fingers of a seventeen-year-old woman, but the meaning of life revolves around the prospect of happiness. Pay no mind to pleasing others, regardless of who they are; parents, teachers, policemen, friends, the community. As selfish and egotistic as it may sound, life, your life, revolves around yourself. You are the protagonist to your own life’s story, not the sidekick. Who else is to call the shots if not yourself? Sure, initially parents or institutions are to decide between black and white, but at the end of the day you are alone with the things you have done.
As I lay here on the living room couch before the gift-less Christmas tree, the looming of foreign expectations abandons me. I am, much like at the end of every night in that moment when my head rests on the pillow in half-consciousness, relieved of every expectation and responsibility. This is because of that final minute of leisure where there is nothing I can possibly do to save the world from its myriad of problems. I can close my eyes and breathe in without choking on the socioeconomic pollution that drowns the society I live in; I can feel the safety of a mattress and blankets enveloping me in the most ethereal of ways. In that moment, I am free. I am happy. I have found meaning in triviality.
It is not about meaninglessness, nor is it about meaning; it is about happiness. What brings one joy… Whether it’s dancing or writing or teaching or picking up garbage or being a stay-at-home dad. When your head rests on that mattress you want to find fulfillment at the moment of contact. Bliss in its purest form can be found in the quaintest of places; from a wet spider web to a sunset at the peak of the Pyrenees’s. A life of meaning only holds true when one has reached the pinnacle of the self; the moment when you can be alone without regrets, with satisfaction; when friction no longer causes a burn in the pit of your stomach.
As it’s commonly said, “money can’t buy happiness”, well that may not be applicable to all. Perhaps some find comfort in the sustainment of material goods and wealth, perhaps they reach their personal level of enjoyment on the mere purchase of a car or a new purse. It is not for us to determine what makes others happy, as it holds no regard to our own happiness. As long as our fellow man isn’t in harm’s way with our happiness, why should we have the boldness to interfere? There is no calling for anyone to interfere, to care, to hold others back. As a wise song sings “heaven’s not a place that you go when you die, it’s that moment in life when you actually feel alive”.
We owe no one a chance at life but ourselves. One does what one can where one is. Misery and happiness hold a thin line, divided solely on the desire to stay true to one’s search of meaning, of bliss. Perhaps the saying “follow your bliss” roots from here…
Odds are this is not a breakthrough epiphany, especially coming from the typing fingers of a seventeen-year-old woman, but the meaning of life revolves around the prospect of happiness. Pay no mind to pleasing others, regardless of who they are; parents, teachers, policemen, friends, the community. As selfish and egotistic as it may sound, life, your life, revolves around yourself. You are the protagonist to your own life’s story, not the sidekick. Who else is to call the shots if not yourself? Sure, initially parents or institutions are to decide between black and white, but at the end of the day you are alone with the things you have done.
As I lay here on the living room couch before the gift-less Christmas tree, the looming of foreign expectations abandons me. I am, much like at the end of every night in that moment when my head rests on the pillow in half-consciousness, relieved of every expectation and responsibility. This is because of that final minute of leisure where there is nothing I can possibly do to save the world from its myriad of problems. I can close my eyes and breathe in without choking on the socioeconomic pollution that drowns the society I live in; I can feel the safety of a mattress and blankets enveloping me in the most ethereal of ways. In that moment, I am free. I am happy. I have found meaning in triviality.
It is not about meaninglessness, nor is it about meaning; it is about happiness. What brings one joy… Whether it’s dancing or writing or teaching or picking up garbage or being a stay-at-home dad. When your head rests on that mattress you want to find fulfillment at the moment of contact. Bliss in its purest form can be found in the quaintest of places; from a wet spider web to a sunset at the peak of the Pyrenees’s. A life of meaning only holds true when one has reached the pinnacle of the self; the moment when you can be alone without regrets, with satisfaction; when friction no longer causes a burn in the pit of your stomach.
As it’s commonly said, “money can’t buy happiness”, well that may not be applicable to all. Perhaps some find comfort in the sustainment of material goods and wealth, perhaps they reach their personal level of enjoyment on the mere purchase of a car or a new purse. It is not for us to determine what makes others happy, as it holds no regard to our own happiness. As long as our fellow man isn’t in harm’s way with our happiness, why should we have the boldness to interfere? There is no calling for anyone to interfere, to care, to hold others back. As a wise song sings “heaven’s not a place that you go when you die, it’s that moment in life when you actually feel alive”.
We owe no one a chance at life but ourselves. One does what one can where one is. Misery and happiness hold a thin line, divided solely on the desire to stay true to one’s search of meaning, of bliss. Perhaps the saying “follow your bliss” roots from here…
Greetings from the Realms of Existentialism,
What's Her Face
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I don't know myself.
Does that not sound absurd?
Don't even try, of course it does.
It's not a random mid-teen identity crisis, I'm fortunate enough to know where I bloody stand. I just... don't seem to fully comprehend the lengths and depths of my own persona.
I can't write anymore. Perhaps a few overly-romantic lines spring to mind, but my stories are all in an insufferably frozen hiatus. Words just aren't flowing to their usual rhythm... I suppose that may be the reason for the lack of entries. It's infuriating. The only person who can extract a decently constructed sentence from me is him. And he doesn't even notice it, or at least it doesn't look like he does. There's something about the way he writes/reacts to me that makes me want to write back by a tenfold... all in the most ridiculously romantic-poetic way imaginable. He just... exacerbates my need/wish to write. Perhaps I vent my pent up writing-frustration on him through the use of corny lines and extensive explanations. Ish.
Life seems to have entered this phantom-like stage in which everyone and everything lack the crystalline glow they used to so inherently meander with. I miss my colors. Even music sounds like white noise nowadays, it's beginning to get to me.
I've noticed people trying to show some concern for my current... predicament; I can only handle sympathy/empathy from a certain amount of people before it gets impossibly annoying. I appreciate caring, yes, don't think me ungrateful; but hovering and remakes of the Spanish inquisition get on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I'm sure this rant sounds all too familiar to the 'emo' temperament so allow me to assure you there will be no blade to my wrist anytime soon. Lets just await this static to fade.
I want Scrabble for Christmas.
I found it in a store after much pretend-scavenger hunting but it was in Spanish. Sigh.
Toodles from the Land of the Uncomfortably Numb,
-B.
Don't even try, of course it does.
It's not a random mid-teen identity crisis, I'm fortunate enough to know where I bloody stand. I just... don't seem to fully comprehend the lengths and depths of my own persona.
I can't write anymore. Perhaps a few overly-romantic lines spring to mind, but my stories are all in an insufferably frozen hiatus. Words just aren't flowing to their usual rhythm... I suppose that may be the reason for the lack of entries. It's infuriating. The only person who can extract a decently constructed sentence from me is him. And he doesn't even notice it, or at least it doesn't look like he does. There's something about the way he writes/reacts to me that makes me want to write back by a tenfold... all in the most ridiculously romantic-poetic way imaginable. He just... exacerbates my need/wish to write. Perhaps I vent my pent up writing-frustration on him through the use of corny lines and extensive explanations. Ish.
Life seems to have entered this phantom-like stage in which everyone and everything lack the crystalline glow they used to so inherently meander with. I miss my colors. Even music sounds like white noise nowadays, it's beginning to get to me.
I've noticed people trying to show some concern for my current... predicament; I can only handle sympathy/empathy from a certain amount of people before it gets impossibly annoying. I appreciate caring, yes, don't think me ungrateful; but hovering and remakes of the Spanish inquisition get on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I'm sure this rant sounds all too familiar to the 'emo' temperament so allow me to assure you there will be no blade to my wrist anytime soon. Lets just await this static to fade.
I want Scrabble for Christmas.
I found it in a store after much pretend-scavenger hunting but it was in Spanish. Sigh.
Toodles from the Land of the Uncomfortably Numb,
-B.
Monday, October 27, 2008
And so it begins..
Here it is!
A blog!
Finally, after years and years of coming oh-so-close to starting one and here it is!
This time, of course, it's not solely my own doing, no sir. Someone awfully close to me (though not literally) has made me create this horrible monster that may or may not take full control over my life. Assuming that this pod I currently inhabit can be considered a life.
So, it's bloody nine twenty-three pee-emm.
I ought to be working on the idiotic essay that's been sitting on the lower blue bar of the screen for quite some time now. Damn you, Chaucer. Damn you, Canterbury Tales.
Fuck, I can't be bothered. Really.
I'd rather be sleeping with him right now. Yes, /sleeping/. It's rather sad how such a simple statement can carry such a dirty connotation along with it. I blame the youth of our times.
Y'know, I wasn't supposed to begin my writing on this so soon.. But It seems fair enough since he posted on his blog today. AND FAILED TO INFORM ME. -_-" Had I not been the adorable stalker that I am, I wouldn't have found out.
I suppose duty calls. By duty I mean the disdain-worthy essay that sits glaring at me smugly from the bottom of the screen. Grr. Blame my horrible writing on the stress-induced anxiety.
Tonight's To-Do List: (Or to-week's.)
- Canterbury Tales Essay (Thank Buddha you're already dead, Chaucer!)
- MUN Position papers
- Spanish Ode to.. French Fries?
- US History Poem on freaking John Adams. (Horrible little balding man.)
- Chemistry Exams
- History of HN bonus points essay (Which I clearly won't do. How bloody absurd.)
- Algebra II week's worth of homeworks.
- AP Psychology Exam on the Brain
- Clothes shopping for Stanford trip
- Sleep
Cheerios from the land of dead,
What's Her Face.
A blog!
Finally, after years and years of coming oh-so-close to starting one and here it is!
This time, of course, it's not solely my own doing, no sir. Someone awfully close to me (though not literally) has made me create this horrible monster that may or may not take full control over my life. Assuming that this pod I currently inhabit can be considered a life.
So, it's bloody nine twenty-three pee-emm.
I ought to be working on the idiotic essay that's been sitting on the lower blue bar of the screen for quite some time now. Damn you, Chaucer. Damn you, Canterbury Tales.
Fuck, I can't be bothered. Really.
I'd rather be sleeping with him right now. Yes, /sleeping/. It's rather sad how such a simple statement can carry such a dirty connotation along with it. I blame the youth of our times.
Y'know, I wasn't supposed to begin my writing on this so soon.. But It seems fair enough since he posted on his blog today. AND FAILED TO INFORM ME. -_-" Had I not been the adorable stalker that I am, I wouldn't have found out.
I suppose duty calls. By duty I mean the disdain-worthy essay that sits glaring at me smugly from the bottom of the screen. Grr. Blame my horrible writing on the stress-induced anxiety.
Tonight's To-Do List: (Or to-week's.)
- Canterbury Tales Essay (Thank Buddha you're already dead, Chaucer!)
- MUN Position papers
- Spanish Ode to.. French Fries?
- US History Poem on freaking John Adams. (Horrible little balding man.)
- Chemistry Exams
- History of HN bonus points essay (Which I clearly won't do. How bloody absurd.)
- Algebra II week's worth of homeworks.
- AP Psychology Exam on the Brain
- Clothes shopping for Stanford trip
- Sleep
Cheerios from the land of dead,
What's Her Face.
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