some thoughts...

worlds are precious. this is what carl sagan says in cosmos. that the chance of you being born in ‘a’ world is very tiny as opposed to you being born in the cold, vast, black, nothingness that surrounds us. worlds are precious. your world is precious and so is mine. the oceans of knowledge call us to dip our toes in the lights we see from the beacon below. we are lost somewhere between immensity and eternity, fighting demons that would devour us if we let them. what is it, to be human? who gives you the right to say, we live in a typical world. what is typical? typical is the black nothingness. typical is not life, it’s not world, it’s not habitation. we are blessed to think that our home is typical. we are privileged to say, we can understand the physics that governs our life. that is to be human. to be privileged of the power of understanding. how dare you complain about petty things when you are the most privileged species we know of? how dare you insult the Cosmos?

***

lamentations of a mad man

there are words that inspire within us the purest emotions. you think, how is it possible for man to create something so soulful that it begs its listeners to be honest. you speak of justice, of oaths on bibles and on your dead mother’s grave. be honest. that’s all you want. silly how we seem to be going about it the wrong way. bibles and dead mothers mean nothing to the liars. you want honesty? show a man the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written and you get honesty. your words are lamentations inspired by Muses, and i bare my soul to you. i rip apart all that gets in the way of your eyes and my most honest place. that is what Art means. it makes you feel and it demands your honesty. that is what i am trying to do here. being honest, even if it kills me.

***

Wake up, wake your soul up before your cursed thoughts stop you from taking your next breath. Words my mama whispered to me before she wiped away my tears. She would kiss the hurt away. I would think, it’s unsanitary. She would say, she has super powers-she’s immune from my hurts. My pain was ephemeral, she knew it. But she had this way about her, she wouldn’t let me feel small. There are mornings when I wake up, wanting to kiss the butterflies and paint the balcony in hues of purple and orange. We want to succeed. Who wants to fail? But you keep me grounded. Her voice quivers when my name escapes her lips. There’s a lisp in her emotions. They’re imperfect. She feels too much for too many. I think, that’s the place that holds all the courage in the world. I want to tell the lion from Oz to talk to my mama. She makes people strong. 

***

the sounds my mind makes at this hour while begging to burn like the cigarette smoke reminds me of acid being splashed on the skin-the hiss of the burn, the chemical reactions that destroy your clay. my god, what beauty. what a terrible beauty life is. your carcass burns away with the nicotine. the fallen angels take you under their wings-they know what it is like to disappoint. peel your skin like a grape, your emotions are on display. what do you know of unrequited love? it burns brighter than Sirius. it’s painful. satan begs you to burn in hell, in hopes of eradicating the pain from this kind of love. this anguish, this suffering, that turns you into Icarus. you cannot help but be burned by the sun. 

a basis for understanding

it is estimated that we blink twenty-four thousand and forty times a day. we take twenty-three thousand breaths, filter fifteen hundred liters of blood, produce 2 liters of acid, and our heart beats a hundred thousand times a day.
these numbers are there to make you understand the universe within your body in words that are comprehensible to your mind.
that's what numbers do. they make you understand.
but see, numbers are also the most misunderstood idea in the world. we think that someone created these axioms because they had a little too much free time. you never hear people say that about languages. that languages were created because people had a little too much free time. why? because language is a necessity. you cannot understand if you don't have the same basis for understanding.
there's a concept in linear algebra called basis. what you do is you take a matrix (which is really a whole bunch of equations with a whole bunch of variables except to make your life easier, you only write the numbers and not the variables and you solve for x. isn't that what everything in math is about?) anyways, what basis does is that it represents every single vector in a given vector space. so essentially, what you are doing is taking a complex system of possibly infinite variables and condensing it into one linear combination. you are taking something complex and simplifying it into an idea that is easier for your mind to understand. now admittedly, this is a very small part of linear algebra, let alone math. but it explains everything that math is.
math is essentially a language that provides a basis for you to understand the universe. because there are too many arbitrary ideas and concepts and half-truths and observations, math gives you a sort of "hey, this is an axiom (universally acknowledged truth) and these are variables required for it and this is how this axiom was derived and if you have even a part of this axiom, i can prolly help you discover the rest of it." doesn't that sound incredible? that you can take two pieces from a 500 piece puzzle and use those two pieces to figure out the rest of the puzzle.
this is why i love math so much.

metaphysical angst

a friend told me that he heard someone tell him of this technique where you continuously write and write and write without pasuing or scratching things out or thinking and i thought that was the scariest thing in the worrld but also something that i would love to do so that's what i am doing. i am typing without thinking or spell checking and it's the most honest thing i have done in a while and i am scared shitless and i don't know what this will look like. i am listening to mtv coke studio and a tv show is loading and so i can hear beautiful music with dumb commercials on the website the show is loading. you know how sometimes you keep bottling your anger and putting it in the box marked to be dealt with later? that's what i have been doing with my anger lately and now its threatening to burst and so i have locked myself in my room to prevent hurting people. my friend says it's considerate of me but in reality it's self-preservation. and i dont know what to say. the clouds that i brag so much about have failed me today. i want to smoke. i want to smoke so fucking bad. but i dont even like smoking. it's just the perfect weather for smoking. it's cold and drizzling and it's london weather even though i have never been to london so i wouldn't even know what that is about. lately i feel like everything has been failing me but it's my flaw for having expectations at all and i shouldn't, i know i shouldn't. i cut myself with my fingernail. can you believe that? who cuts themselves with their own finger nails. i am not very good at this whole adult and being 20 thing. but i think no one really is. and this stream of consciousness is making my hands hurt because my thoughts are going a million miles an hour which sounds so fucking cliche but i don't care and i am having a hard time typing and jesus fucking christ my hands hurt a lot. i hate typing. but i would be even more slow while writing physically and it's a damn good thing most of my classes are math based because i would not be able to write fast anymore. and sometimes i wonder it would be really cool to study philosophy but then i realize how scared i am of philosophy so there's that. i dont know what to write. i like this music a lot. reminds me of the night i went around the block for a walk at 4 am. worst decision ever from a CSI point of view but a very poetic decision nonetheless. i make more decisions based on how poetic they are and less based on how rational they are. i am silly. hoping to be a poet instead of writing poetry. i wish my thoughts were poetry. i wish when i scratched the chalkboard with my fingernails, i could produce a sonnet with perfect iambic pentameter but of course i am no shakespeare. shakespeare is probably the most mocked and respected writer in the world which is such a huge definitive statement begging to be disproved. but i will hold by it regardless. because even if mocked, shakespeare is remembered and that's more than i can say for myself. okay that was five minutes. i am scared to read it but i will fix the spellings.

politics of coffee

you can tell a lot about a person by the way they take their coffee. those who prefer a medium roast with a flavored creamer like to be woken softly, whispers of clarity in their dream-laden mind. they prefer life as a slow climb. step by step. breath by breath. there is constant effort from their part. then there are those who like a strong black cup with extra espresso shots. these are the kind of people who do things collectively. they like to be woken up instantly. they see life as plateaus they need to cross. they’d much rather let the work pile up and tackle it at once than the consistent effort. often people tell me that one way is better than the other. but how dare we teach people how to breathe? how dare we assume that only we know the politics of coffee?

why i think math is dehumanized

The reason people dehumanize math so much is because they think that math is the sum of all that they have learned until high school. That’s not true. What you learned in high school is arithmetic, a glimpse of geometry, and maybe an intro to calculus. The reason people don’t see the beauty in math is because you’re not taught to ask questions when it comes to the poetry or the philosophy of math. What is Math? How is the difference between an ellipse and a circle even important? You barely do any proofs and even then you treat those like arithmetic problems. I think the education system effectively squeezes out the beauty of mathematics and leaves you with this chaos of numbers. I understand why math is taught the way it is. If you delved into the philosophy of each concept, you wouldn’t have time left to learn the basic arithmetic. After all, it’s better to have people who know their arithmetic and are disinterested in math than people who don’t know any arithmetic at all. But the point is, when it comes to math, you need to be polished (so to speak) to even begin to fathom the depth of math. You have to train your mind to accept the wonders of each concept. I think if you look at the world from a mathematical perspective, your mind will get overwhelmed easily. You have to train your mind to absorb all the beauty.  You have to be almost narcissistic to fathom math. 

things writing has taught me about life

i. perfection is boring. perfectly placed commas and capitalized words make everything sound serious. sometimes you just want to appear careless and perhaps carefree and that’s a-okay. 

ii. you are misunderstood, by yourself. understand yourself. die finding the right words. what else have you left for you?

iii. you are not alone. you will not die on the day of your funeral. and if you’re very lucky, you will find someone that understands your abstract prose. 

iv. either you can drink hot coffee or write a good piece of prose. focus is necessary. it’s better to be good at one thing than to be jack of all trades. 

hushed door

a door that has been silent for thousands of years creaks at your dawn. she refuses to worship the Gods of moon and sun and stars. she watches your footsteps replace the dust and it brings a smile to her face. welcome, daughter. you have been long awaitedfor. would you care for a sip of wine and some courage? your task ahead is grave. she bows, bites down her tongue until blood reddens her teeth and streams down her chin and until she can speak no more. the dusk is approaching. cries of the deceased will mantle your thoughts until you can no longer think. where is the pride in that? how are you daring to waste a breath? it is far too fragile. it must seek your approval before it lets itself out. you are in control of your body, your mind, your soul. you are her.

untitled, for reasons

there are so many words that i want to tuck under a blanket and keep them forever. it makes me sad that i will forget most. i think that’s what writers mean when they say there are too many words. this fear of forgetting the existence of words is palpable. you take a bite and then another and you hope that you can swallow the darkness and excrete it. that’s how human bodies are supposed to work. you forget that it can seep through your cells and flow with the blood to every single part of your body until you can no longer separate it from all that is necessary. you think of the carnival you went to at the age of seven. you remember how brutally he marked his words on her face behind the tent of the circus, there wasn’t enough makeup in the world to cover up those scars. too much resonates with you. so forgetting those words is the wisest thing to do.

i think writers are brave.

i think writers are brave. they draw the words out of you like the doctors squeeze your blood out. they take a sample of your soul to test it. they explore and invade the sample. something that is so incredibly personal is displayed in numbers and letters and you are left thinking, how the hell is it possible for another to know how i feel based on such a small part of me. you are outraged because someone dares to speak out, to say things, to use words that you had hoped would be buried in your mind-left inaccessible. writers consider their pens to be their swords. they take this sword and they make it dance as they wish. sometimes it’s a slow cut that runs deep but not quite enough, you feel the weight of each second. you watch your death crawl to you, and with a snarl it consumes you. other times, it’s a fast cut that barely touches your skin but leaves a scar for the rest of your life. writers make you think things you dare not think. they have the courage to make you feel things you deemed yourself incapable of feeling. it seems silly, how writers can play with your psyche, how they control you. they are known to play with the deadliest of weapons. they write things and you are incapable of un-reading them. words start breathing your oxygen. ideas begin to flow in your blood. writers are willing to face persecution and criticism, for the sake of truth. it is said that writers use lies to tell the truth. they are human after all.

plastic airports

you took your time saying goodbye. the man who keeps smoking a cigarette in a ‘no smoking’ area, the young mother who is exhausted trying to hush her little son, the old lady who is finally taking that vacation her deceased husband bought the tickets for, and the far too lucky celebrity drinking bourbon. they were all celebrating a mayhem. i saw the way your lips curled into a sad smile, as if procrastinating on the wretched word would prevent the inevitable. you went on to buy the overpriced coffee while i waited with your luggage. one last gesture. there is pain in every breath and if doctors had me examined, i would be rushed to an ICU. i think my entire life was a buildup to this point. i believe this is my mark between the before and the after. you remind me that you will be back soon enough. but you see, i have lost people on these plastic airports. people who promised they’d return but found death a bit too beautiful and life a bit too dry for their taste. you remind me that the waves have to leave the shore, farther, to increase their intensity when they come back to crash. you remind me of boomerang that always comes back. of the home that still stands. people come back, you remind me. they always do, just not the same people. sometimes, i want to burn the damned airports. there is too much plastic about them. 

things i will tell my daughter over and over again

i. your worth is not in the way you look, the way you dress, the scars you have, the ways your body bends and stretches, the way you can lower your gaze out of a falsely throttled respect or the way boys compliment you. your worth is in your mind, your heart, your soul. you are not a pretty toy to be played with, you are a human with emotions and thoughts and awfully annoying habits. you are made of mistakes, carved out of flaws that need healing. you are not God. do not try to play God. 

ii. there will be days when you will feel too fat or too skinny. days where your skin could be one tone darker or one tone lighter. those days, you will hate your freckles and your eye bags. you will hate how your hair doesn’t cooperate and how you can’t wear that one shirt without showing off your breasts. those are the days you need to work harder on shaping your mind. those are the days you need to get up and read that really difficult book you have been putting off. you are going to work yourself hard to become a more thoughtful, a more profound, a more well-read, a more educated person.

iii. there will be boys who flatter you and there will be boys who humiliate you. neither matter. you are not an object. you will not let them objectify you. you will stand up for yourself. you will fight your own battles. you don’t need a chivalrous man to fight them for you. you are on your own and you will thrive on your own.

iv. you will be kind. your kindness will be your biggest strength. you will learn to forgive. you will learn to empathize. and you will learn to give when the person you are giving to doesn’t deserve it.

v. you will love. fiercely, passionately, with your whole heart, and with your entire being. you will not let the cruel harden you.

vi. you will make mistakes and you will learn from them. you will cry, you will wipe your tears, and you will move on. it is okay to be who you are. it is okay to feel things. it is okay to be human, in your own way.

notes to self

i. the days it’s pouring and you are running late to your class and your jeans are wet and your shoes squeak, let that boy help you, accept his offer to share his umbrella. you won’t come across too many kind souls but every so often, you just do.

ii. smile at that stranger you are riding the elevator with, who seems tired and broken. it might help them breathe easier.

iii. the three hours you have in between your classes, spend them by the fountains or among the tons of books in the library. give up internet and cell phone and technology for a few moments. enjoy the smell of dusty wisdom and the way water droplets fall on your face. for a few minutes, just be.

Kaleidoscopic Moments

The cries of bruised egos mantle my thoughts tonight. I think of the time when I was six and swinging on this swing and the sun was setting and I just kept swinging because I truly believed that I could reach the sky. A cup of tea and your memories keep me warm on this cold bitter night in late-March. As winter and March refuse to line up, so do my thoughts. The universe is restless in its infinities and you are restless in your thoughts and perhaps the two aren’t different at all. You close your eyes for a few minutes as your favorite song plays. You already know all the words by heart. Heck, they’re probably a poster in your room. But you feel the impact of those words again. You notice a phrase that you loathed once that now fits in your life perfectly. It's a weird coming-home-after-months kinda sensation. The only difference is, you can finally smell what your home smells like.

It’s easy to fall in love with a writer, you know. They remember things, and isn’t that all you have ever wanted? For someone to notice how hard you try to be that perfect daughter. Your father, who always wanted a son, expects nothing from you. You try so hard your feet begin to crack and every time you move, your bones feel the momentum. So you fall in love with a writer in hopes that perhaps in a twisted way, your father would see you as the son he always wanted. Writers are weird creatures. They seem to be fighting the most vocal and brutal war with themselves and you find yourself pulled to them because their chaos is beautiful. You think that in their haunted decrepit souls lies the most beautiful raindrop you have ever seen and it absolutely must be saved. Oh, you fall in love with a writer in vain hopes that you will live forever. You hope that the tradition of storytelling which begun with orators and now exists in print, the ancient art of weaving quilts of fortitude will live through you. You are a selfish being, after all. 

The Haunted Man

I wake up in the iridescence honesty of yours as you swift through the morning chores and grapple threads of broken promises. As the mask of perfection disintegrates to  brutal honesty containing a pile of imperfections and almost-there's, the flakes of your concealer begin to fall.
That's when you get to know someone. A cup of coffee with two cubes of sugar and a few moments of peace. We laughed. You and I, we laughed and laughed and laughed. For where else is there peace.