Sun

I am soothing my throat with a honey/lemon green tea concoction. It glides down my throat in a pleasant sweetness. I feel guilty drinking it because I must wonder how much sugar I am consuming at this moment. But that question has a concrete answer. What scares me the most are the unanswered questions in my life.

Like Sun. Who is sun? Sun is a person who comes at me with hope. Hope is a many feathered thing; 

“Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,”

(Emily Dickinson). 

The implication of hope is that it is a fleeting thing. We as humans ask for permanence. It is only now that I see the pattern in the things that inspire me to run away. They are the people, the classes, the events, that don’t promise a happily ever after but rather offer a challenge. Sometimes the challenge is a feeling that cannot be sustained. Sometimes it is the class where a professor screams “study or you will fail”. I can’t handle failure and I can’t handle the aftermath of goodbye. 

I love the concept of love but I avoid it; I have become my worst enemy. I scurry from the things that I cannot control. I take the class that I know I love. In the end I do not take risks that push me away from my insulated bubble. The reason that I most love the concept of religion is because it offers me eternal hope. Everything can fail but religion will always be there to heal your pain.

Sun is a light but he does not promise to light my path. He only promises to hold my hand until we reach the dark. I wonder when dark will be made evident. I wonder if goodbye will happen. I can’t even recall how I lasted in long term relationships. The difference between sun and other people before him is that he actually scares me. It frightens me to think of the loss his disappearance would bring me. 

Should I stay or should I go? It’s funny I wrote some words but all that I can think about is the clash song. Music will never be the same. It suddenly just holds too many memories and too much meaning. 

 

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Exhibition

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Where should I start. Maybe I will begin with exhibit a. This evidence that portrays my need for validation. That was a version of myself who had no set personality. She lived to find men who wanted her solely for her physicality.

But in the end I found nothing. I found beds and lips and then rejection. Why rejection? Because sometimes men don’t stay after you tell them no. Some men got through me. They convinced me that we had some deep connection and they had me. They either bonded me to them or they threw me away. Both were such a burden to my free spirit. One caged me and the other left a vacancy within me.

I’m far from broken but I do realize that some men don’t want anything except a body to hold, or to fuck, and they forget that women are not objects but individuals. The media sell women as these figures of desire. Look at that pose. Those lips, that stare, that short overall. Behind this pose is nothing. This was my attempt at maintaining a boy who would just leave me.

I can’t help but mistrust. Let’s have a fun time, be awesome. I can be awesome just don’t rush me into it. In a way it’s as though everyone wants to withhold emotions and personal conversations but they long to feel a promise of physicality. A man once told me that I would be awesome if I just stopped over thinking and lived. What is living though? Why must we live as though the world will end if we don’t see a person immediately, and just feel their arm around ours?

What is the scent of darkness? It is the deepest desire. I will not pretend to not feel desire. But I refuse to sell some fun version of myself. I can be fun but I am not one of those girls who sell their worth for a compliment. I was once naïve and superficial. Now I am the girl who realizes how much goes into a stare. I don’t want to give out a picture to many but rather want to let one see what real desire looks like. Not the one that mimics the magazine look but the real awkward one with laughter and sensuality. One that isn’t forced but happens.

Finding the Self in Fiction

The end of Don Jon felt tangible but it didn’t feel magical. It didn’t make me demand more. I feel like it validated the need for an emotional connection within sex but not in a way that seemed ideal. But maybe it didn’t seek to portray ideal but rather sought to create a situation that mirrored the entanglements that we humans create to not feel lonely. In general I had a hard time enjoying the movie. The accents, the over exaggerated jersey shore type of situation, I just really could not enjoy the superficiality that it magnified. I suppose that the point of any work of fiction is not to tell a story but to show us our own psychology.

I have recently realized the importance of loving ourselves. If we don’t love ourselves people will just take advantage of our self-hatred. Sometimes we settle for ambiguity in a relationship because something is better than nothing. Except I very much disagree with such a concept. The reason that I did not like the end of Don Jon was because  the two characters settled on each other. Yes they did teach each other a lesson, but their connection seemed dissonant.

Lately I have a hard time finding a female character that I actually admire in film. Scarlett Johansson’s character was a huge disappointment. She didn’t respect Jon; she was a selfish princess who saw education not as a pleasure, but as a way to attain wealth in the future. Her accent made me want to rip out my ears. Is that what a woman is supposed to be if she is pretty? Some vacant shell? The scene where Jon goes to buy the Swiffer wipes and she freaks out aggravated me. Who cares about appearances?  I’ve reached a place where I find it absurd to picture myself in fancy places. I do like nice things but I also don’t want fancy things just so that others can envy me. I rather just have amazing experiences than brand- name things.

The spectacular now felt like a simplified version of my own path. I didn’t relate to the main character but I did relate to his girlfriend. I used to be the girl who gave everything. I would fall and get up worried that I had fallen in the wrong way. I used to let people use me for their own selfish intentions. I would sit and hear broken hearted boys talk to me, let them kiss me, and then would go home and feel the loneliness of never getting much reciprocated. I am and forever will be the dork, the nerd, the naïve girl. I am much more careful now. But I still soften up when music, spirituality, and literature line my connection with someone. I am cautious of glamor but not cautious of simplicity. I suppose I know how to navigate the simple path. I don’t like thinking about my outfit. I do enjoy picking an outfit but I don’t want to care about whether my outfit is good enough to some standard. I did like that about Aimee. She was herself and didn’t worry about anyone’s opinion.

The end of the Spectacular Now was provocative. It didn’t answer all the questions. The viewer is forced to remain on tip toes. I personally really liked the ending because it didn’t promise stability but it promised that life would continue. I think that it is important that people face fiction that does not offer an ending but rather a hiatus.

The Starry Scars

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I would like to feel the fizz of club soda explode as it makes it’s way down my body. Would it kill me? i’m not qualified to make such an assumption.

But I do know how it feels to love someone so much that you stay despite the way that their words consistently carve holes inside of you.

I know how it feels to show your weaknesses to a stranger; the feeling of making a home out of someone who eventually fades away.

Emptiness, hunger, they are all things we feel and must learn to dominate. There is no reason to eat a whole cake, and no reason to briefly open up to strangers who stir no emotion inside our souls.

But I have done both in my search to self-fulfillment.

I used to be afraid to sit alone.

Because alone felt explosive; alone pushed me to places that never felt like home.

These places left edges and edges of residue around my once, now lost, purity.

It took pain and loss to reach the peak of the mountain.

I didn’t climb up but fell and fell until the only option was to fly.

So near my greatest fall, I sighed and wings held me as I made my way up.

I stumbled because wings were unnatural, I had once been chained and now I had wings.

Flowers began to become part of my daily attire because flowers promised springtime

and I had to navigate a dark tunnel.

I started to notice the people who try to climb on the back of others

And I realized that people are not portals and they cannot heal the scars within our souls

Scars were made so that one day we would reflect the beauty of our downfalls;

Even stars are supernovas that once exploded but look at how brightly their destruction lines the sky.

I am now an empress of my own solitude and happiness.

And I will sit not on a throne but on the grass reaching towards the stars;

One day our pains will align.

An Abundance of Regrets

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It is now six days into the new year and it is time to write about the end because a beginning can only happen after an end. The last year was a true test to my character. I sought love in all the wrong places. I just used a cliché but it is the only way to describe my state of misdirection. I thought that I was so mature and older a year ago. It is only now that I can see that I was a mere larvae shedding it’s skin. If I had to relate to a specific character within a book I would choose Lolita. Every time I even think of Lolita, I think of the beginning of the book:

““Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta. She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line. But in my arms she was always Lolita. Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, an initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns” (Vladimir Nabokov).

Why do I relate to a girl who was both victim and lover? And why do I relate to a story that isn’t even told through the girl but is recounted through her abuser, through the obsessed maniac who pushed her into a shattered world. I think that the reason that I most relate to Lolita is because she had no voice. I had no voice and instead hid in my room. I made myself into the idealized version that I envisioned would be loved. Rather I became a martyr and a sinner. I always wanted to feel like fire, to belong to someone, to be the sweetest temptation. I never realized that instead I became a victim in a game where I felt I had cards but instead I held chains. I am not proud of who I was. I permitted myself to be a foot mat, smiled through my isolation, and accepted that the game of love was a game of submission.

I should blame my mother because she always told me that in order to love, one person has to make the sacrifices. I was once the person who screamed no. I became the person who nodded yes and later cried after a yes became ridicule or pain. I was both a first love, and a second love, maybe I was no love, but infatuation. But I won’t blame my mother who is the result of her culture. I will blame myself for seeking truth not in God but in life.

Life can spin you around into a 180 degree version of yourself. What does that even mean? I suppose I envision being upside down. How did I lose myself? I was the girl who read books, the girl who smiled. I became the girl who sought risks. I met strangers, drank, sinned, and stopped coming home. Eventually my parents stopped requesting that I ask for permission to go out. I went from 9 pm phone curfews to sleeping far away from my house with people who barely knew my name.

But still I was the girl who would long to be home so that she could just spin around in circles. I longed for someone to hold me and take me away from the person that I swore would never be me. I wish I could say that I faced severe consequences but I managed to balance out everything. I came out of the event untouched physically, unhurt academically, and I kept moving forward into a path more separate from God. Then suddenly I faced a man who challenged me to lose my worth. He uttered words of love, and then insulted me. He took my innocence away and suddenly I was in a game of adults. A game of glamor.

It was having everything near me that made me realize that the devil was not a scary figure but rather a beautiful façade. I saw richness, I saw excessiveness, and later in the mirror I forgot that I was once a girl who loved herself.

One day as I was preparing for an examination that I knew I would just fail, I ended up at mass. I had shut myself up so much from feeling anything except self-hatred that seeing love immediately touched me. I found myself again through song. It was one mass and I do not even recall what was said but I do remember that I felt warmth and acceptance. I felt too lost to get back and for some time was convinced that I would never again be fine without the men who had once continued to squish me. I took a leap and went to confession. I didn’t confess my specific deeds but I felt a sudden love fill me. And I knew that forgiveness would descend upon me. I knew that I did not want anything of my old life and I began to shut the door.

At first I went through the motions and I would sometimes feel like I was in the path to happiness but sometimes I just longed to feel the superficial happiness that I had once felt. I wanted darkness, drinks, and pretty dresses. Maybe I was too far gone. But I kept going to CSA events.

On Halloween my “Humbert” returned after two months of silence. A single text and instead of ignoring it, I answered. But then something strange happened. I realized that the man on the other end of the conversation was pathetic. I suddenly stripped him of the glamor and money that he used to glamorize himself and saw myself within him. He was lost and unhappy and I did not want to back-track into being that way again. So I told him that I couldn’t see him because I had God in my life now and sinning was something that I was avoiding. He argued about the concept of sin. But it didn’t matter.

I’m not yet in the place that I long to be in my faith and emotional standing. There are still days where I question my chosen path. But I have finally reached myself again. I can read, I can be alone, and I can finally make jokes because I understood that love is found through God alone. And with God’s love, I have found peace.