Infinite Abyss

Sometimes I find myself floating on the edge of hysteria. Most of the time, i find that i want to be sucked in; to succumb to its darkness and give in to its forceful pull. But i don’t because the intruding inertia of self loathing is confusing, drowning, yet, strangely comforting - like a surprise visit from an old friend.

At some point in my life, I hope to be the greatest at something. I am marginally okay at a lot of things I teach myself, but there's always that emptiness, the indescribable feeling of coming up short, never enough. Never good enough. 


I've always felt an ill-consuming indifference in my life though that is not say that I spend a majority of it complaining of such things. Much of my existence has been a good one; an acceptable, tolerable and fair one that I have come to understand. Though I think, curiously, in the back of my mind, this feels like settling. I don't want to nor do I ever want to feel like "settling".


I'm terrified that I will never be able to get passed these feelings of monumental doom, these inner demons I'm losing to. The feeling of darkness consuming my every thought. Never good enough. Never.

Full fledged conversations

This is the third time in my life where I've had a reoccurring dream. It bothers me slightly because I can't seem to remember the finer details, only the hazy outline of it and whatever triggers that lets me know this is reoccurring and I know this and it's thesamethingoverandoveragain. !

I am walking around an art museum, somewhat similar to the Getty in Los Angeles with a few friends, having a full on (possibly rambunctious) dialogue while conversing. The crazy part is that what I was saying in the dream is something I'd never say in real life. Not that I wouldn't say it, per se, but rather it is something I wouldn't have said in a commonplace setting. I'm trying to think of what I was saying but my mind can vaguely remember the words now. Language was less practical, more formal - exaggerated even -  and little more melodramatic than I'm used to.  The dialogue and the tone was engaging, in my mind at least, and, in some turn of event in my dream state, poetical and slightly clipped.

When I dream I am usually the spectator -- watching in earnest conviction of anything that might surface; voyaging into the deepest part of my mind and looking at it from the outside, as someone else, someone meddling disguised emotions. 

And how, while being awaken in such haste, am I supposed to figure this out? Is there an out worldly explanation to this debacle? An answer of sorts? Maybe this is meant to be an ambiguity, a sense of acknowledgement but never really an understanding.

The Past and the Pending

As I sit in my childhood room, listening to the Shins and the sounds of my mother in the kitchen chopping veggies and rustling with pots, that I suddenly feel like I am 16 again. My closet still full of things I used to wear, my bookshelf stacked with banned books and memorabilia from a lifetime passed, with markings of my childhood slowly withering away with each glance. Momentary and fleeting. I can’t help but wonder how so much has changed in such a short period. It wasn’t long ago when I would lock myself in this same room, listening to the Shins and typing away on my laptop, circa 2002. 

There were many dilemmas back then, yes, superficial problems. First world issues, some would say. God, yes. Being 15 and ignorant, trying to feel something, exploring my sexuality, going through emotional phases and wondering just whatthehell I wanted out of my mundane existence. Reading back my childhood diary, my first real goal I made when I was 13 was togetthefuckout as soon as I could, far away as I can, away from the miseries of adolescence and growing up and teenage angst. Going far away seemed like a good idea, to explore the world, to see things that are meant to be interpreted for yourself. The idea of facing the world head-on and living day to day as if impatience was a virtue was sublime. Golden. It all seemed fairytale-like, unattainable even, growing up in a caged suburban community with fenced in walls and a bubble so small it could suck you in more when you tried to leave.

That was then. 

For now, I am appreciating the moments before heading to the airport and catching my flight back to my current life. One that I can say has been a success of victories. My once unattainable dream not so unattainable anymore. I did it. With the good, with the bad, it is a history I can look back on and know how it became to be. How it was, who I am today and the uncertainty that lies ahead. 

Lost In a Maze of a Thousand Rainy Days

 No matter how many notes I write throughout the day, pictures snapped, excerpts of dialogue written on restaurant napkins - creativity is, as it always is for me, a fleeting experience of sensory integration. I can’t seem to exercise my vision for rhythmic creative writing.  

Sweet Papaya

Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart - Wordsworth

Escaping from the Constant

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