of? love.

the concept of love
young hearts fill with wonder
but as years go by
it tears them asunder

the innocent boy
lost to the world
set off in a boat;
sails never unfurled

the patient girl
waits for her fate
pursuing false truths
never finding her mate

faithfully they sit
eyes to the moon
the sun begins to rise
then it's over too soon

to take what was new
and make as if old
this is a tale
so often retold

to hear a song and fall in love with just a single listening

it's as though it has been silently playing in my head my whole life until it finally reached my ears. the sounds vibrate across my eardrums and are translated from analog to electrical impulse, in a way, becoming part of me

the electricity runs through my veins, causing goosebumps to rise and a widening of my eyes

then i realize why human beings dance

compelled to move by something primal and basic

billions of cells moving in unity to a single impulse; never questioning

we go about our lives dancing with one another to the inaudible beat of our hearts. as they pass our lips, words turn to lyrics both faint and ephemeral

there is no audience to listen to the performance but the stars, and yet, we still sing and dance as passionately in their light

sometimes i wonder about how tightly we grasp the thread of reality. it's only when it's pointed out to us that we notice our white knuckles.

we seem so afraid without it; like we're lost in the woods and the breadcrumbs we've left ourselves are no longer to be seen

often times my heart starts to race and my mind fogs over. is it terror or is it exhilaration? i can honestly not tell but its something vaguely familiar

i'm just an excited electron whose existence is to move back and forth through brain tissue and electron clouds hoping to one day return to the ground state

just one of many elaborate machines designed to become obsolete once my gears get too rusty

i wonder what the others will think of me when i return to the ground state

a bedtime story

There once was a girl who slept upon feathered pillows each night. She would rest her head, heavy with her regrets and unspoken words, until she discovered a lightness that eluded her in wakefulness. Each morning, as she awoke from the dreaming, tears would fill her eyes. She closed them as hard as she could hoping to go back to the peace she found, but when she opened her eyes again she realized the world she created was not there anymore. The tears would run down her cheek onto the pillows that laid beside her silently. She didn't feel happy but she wasn’t sad. She was alive and the world weighed upon her shoulders once again.

As she prepared herself for her day, she gave no thought to the feathers that filled her pillows; laying white and as pure as snow inside of the pillow cases that were strewn across her bed. They had been destined to carry the weight of imperfect creatures against the oppression of reality since their creation. Each of the quills represented a reparation to the Earth, allowing whichever mortal form possessed them to attain communion between Dream and Reality. Before her there was the bird, so free and without sin, gliding across the clouds that rolled beyond where the eye could see. But as is his nature, Man became jealous of the transcendence of the bird and had to punish it by taking away its feathers and binding them in cloth.

A long time ago they found themselves in the girl’s care and each night, as she slept, the feathers would take on the heaviness that the girl accumulated over the course of the day without bearing a grudge or finding fault in her soul. Each smile she would cover up, each song she’d leave unsung, each breath she held, and each idea she kept secret would pass from her dreaming mind into the care of the feathers. Days went by and, soon enough, months also came and went. Each night the feathers would change and the burden they carried would slowly turn them heavy, brittle and gray.

The girl soon realized the feathers were no longer soft and lovely. Without remorse or even a second thought, she threw them away for she was young and beautiful while they were old and humbled. This was a world of vanities and passion. She did not realize the sacrifices they had made to keep her happy, if only during her dreams, and so they were gone.

The pillows now sit underneath other such possessions that have been used up and thrown away like trash. But unlike them, they still did not blame the girl, nor those like her for what they had done. Although the pillows now lay heavy with the stains of forgotten tears and what-might-have-beens, they have found a new lightness in their own naive dreams.

illumination

in a day such as this,
we shall no longer exist,
and the sun shines brightly to remind us

cheese

a flash of light,
i see her smile fade,
and try as i might,
no memories were made

i'm not what she wants,
the passive observer,
with sadness that haunts,
and a literary fervor

but when she walks past,
i see flowers bloom,
each moment only to last,
as long as a firework's boom

she dances and sways,
like leaves in a breeze,
i can't stop my gaze,
she trembles my knees

her image begins to center,
my eyes start to zoom,
whenever i notice her enter,
the very same room

i gather my strength,
hoping that it will be over,
despite our distance's length,
i want to avoid overexposure

it's time that she knows,
i can't help but stutter,
her eyes then close,
and i hear the cold shutter

culling

The afternoon sun knew no mercy that day and my young mind began to wander. I peered out of the sliding glass doors to the fruit trees that stood in the backyard. Each silently imposed themselves upon the surrounding landscape like ancient pillars that once held the priceless works of artists whose names, much like their work, lay shattered and strewn about upon the floor. I looked away but something beckoned my eyes back to them with reverence saved for the written words of a bible verse.

I opened the door and was met by gust of warm, dry air that caused an uneasy shiver to run down my back. I took a deep breath and headed into the yard. As each foot met the concrete floor of the patio, they jerked back in primal spasms until childhood curiosity overwhelmed the feeling of searing pain. One after another, my steps led me from the burning stone to the forgiving coolness of grass. As I approached closer to the trees I began to feel the soft flesh of the overripe plums give way under my feet. It was then that I began to hear a low monotonous sound that began to drown out the static hum of the overhead power lines.

I was puzzled at first but as I looked down I witnessed the glutinous feast of the flies. They nervously darted and twitched among smashed and liquefied fruits in frightening numbers. It was impossible to distinguish the flies from the ground I was walking upon. Maggots squirmed beneath my toes as the flies rubbed their little arms together as if preparing themselves for a massive undertaking.

My stomach grew sick at the sight and my mind once again began to wander. Without thinking, I returned to the house and entered the kitchen. I opened a cupboard and returned holding a flyswatter. My feet retraced my steps until I was once again an observer to their orgiastic delights. It felt like something had changed within me each time I lifted the swatter above my head and brought it down upon the closest patch of writhing bodies. Waves of flies radiated out from the location of the strikes and all that was left were twitching legs and oozing fruit. I began to feel satisfaction in this purification until waves of flies started to reclaim the ground they had paid for dearly.

Again and again, I brought my swatter down upon their heads with a righteous zeal I have never felt since, but each time it seemed as though for each pair of wings I silenced, the buzzing became louder. I beat upon their mounds of filth until I could no longer lift my arm. Pools of juices began to collect where the impression of the swatter made its mark upon the grass and the flies flocked to it. They gave no respect as they gorged themselves upon the same putrid liquids that their dead floated lifelessly within and paid no heed to those who laid upon their backs, pathetically moving their legs to no avail.

I realized that, much like them, my body lay defeated and stuck within the sticky mess all the while the drone became louder in my ears. I tried to block it out but I began to feel their legs crawl upon me and their song turned to words whispered into my ears. Each fly had a different beautiful lie for me. I laid powerless until a scream rang from my mouth to stop their horrible little voices. My parents ran to my side and took me back into the house where I laid for the rest of the day.

Wearily, I made my way to the bathroom where I began to run a bath. I laid within the tub until the water rose to my lips and I began to think of my time beneath the boughs of the fruit trees. I thought of a lesson I had learned but there seemed to be none. This was no story with a moral or a happy ending. The closest tale I could remember of was about the Archangel Michael who found victory in the face of the Lord among flies, and yet, here I had found defeat. I closed my eyes and sank into the water and held my breath. Only when I gasped for air, did I realize, not the lesson I had learned, but what I had just lost.

7 months, 21 days

Cory,

What's it like having finished your first year at UCLA? How'd ochem and calc go? Physics? Did you man up and take the 1 series? How'd La Gente go? Did you get published? Did you ever get that job at UCLA Medical Center? Change Majors?

I know that's a lot of questions but I ask them because I feel a whole lot of uncertainty.

I hope that you can easily say you are a better and stronger man than you were one year ago. No matter what happens, understand that I love you and am confident that everything happens for a reason.

Cory
10/08/08

(im)balance

The most elusive and breathtaking of moments are those that happen instantaneously before our eyes. How they shimmer and sparkle -- dancing upon the monochromatic skies of our lives like shooting stars only to fade away just as quickly as they appear, leaving us only with stardust memories and the hope of wonders yet to come. In spite of the irrationality and uncertainty of these occurrences, humankind has constructed a concrete view of time. Ingrained within each and every one of us is the concept of past, present, and future. With the past and future, there is a sort of assumed tangibility that allows us to feel as though we have inherited the very spindle of time that the Fates spun the tales of antiquity upon. We create new threads where none existed, measure the length to fit our needs, and shear the frayed ends in full confidence that our desire for order and our well-being flourish under similar circumstances. But this is not true, we do not realize that when we attempt to capture time within our clocks and calendars it is not time that is taken prisoner, but us.

The past is a cruel master. We are given few options in which to influence the bleached bones of times passed away and are left, in exchange, the rest of our lives to mourn it. The memories we seclude ourselves to already come packaged by our unconsciousness; maliciously waiting to roll over our eyes and steal away the emotions we feel, leaving only emptiness in its wake. It’s easy to welcome these shadowy thieves because they sing such beautiful melodies into our ears. We are transfixed by the Siren song and become sailors upon a sea of memories, futilely resisting our certain doom. We can plug our ears and tie ourselves down to the mast but the memories still come as relentlessly as the crashing of waves upon the bow.

Then there are those who believe that the future shines as radiantly as the sun, but like the sun, the longer we stare into the possibilities it affords us, the blinder we become of the world around us. The mindless reverence that is given to the preparation of what-is-to-come supposes that our lives are just obstacles in the way of the future. It is forgotten that the linear tide of time not only brings the future into the present, but also moves the present into oblivion. Like lambs to the slaughter, they naively follow this mindset until they no longer have life enough to live save for ephemeral notions and to lament their discarded coins, and the dreams they represent, that now lay rusted in the bottom of countless wells.

The present, or at least the representation we have created for it, is the most chaotic and intoxicating feat of orchestration, for the whole world is simultaneously constructed from the influence of the future and stored away into the past over and over again within a fraction of a second. Each moment lasts only as long as a still from a reel of film upon which the history of the universe is being played. We’re all actors upon its stage without our lines or motivation until we realize that what we are standing upon is a fulcrum counterbalancing two unfathomable weights: that of the past and the future and despite the heaviness of our lives; we are insignificantly small in comparison and do nothing to sway the balance.

As I come to this conclusion, I realize just how foolish it is to live life outside of the present. There is no guarantee of another day, nor is there a guarantee for another second. The past no longer exists and neither does the time that was spent discovering its nonexistence. One can only depend upon the sheer absurdity that comes with rationalizing everything. The only thing that makes sense is to surrender ourselves to the moment and live like we’re wild. I can only dream of a day when the hands of the clock come loose under the burden of time and come crashing down, breaking into brittle black shards. Until that time comes, I have little left but to lose myself in music, stand humbled by the beauty of nature, find purity in laughter, redemption in tears, and peace in song because only in these emotions do I trick myself into thinking time stands still.

better living

I salute you,
brave molecules,
rushing through my veins,
destined to interrupt,
the damned receptors of my brain

The Words

I want to find another way to express myself. I find the written word to be such an inefficient system in which to share thought. I’ve never been able to fully articulate the feelings and thoughts that spark in my brain because they shine so luminously that I could not find words that they deserve. The brighter they are, the shorter they last in my memories and the thought of being unable to convey them to another human being frustrates me.

I love reading but I hate writing because I lack the ability to express myself as well as the authors I read. The more novels I add to my bookshelf the more desirous I become of the power they have over me. It amazes me that words, these collections of scrawled ink and graphite, sewn together with enough care, can produce such wonder in me. I try so hard to express the abstract thoughts I have with these shapes but it seems futile. There is something mathematical in the things I write and I dread being left with a remainder that I can’t pass on.

It’s as though I’m writing in binary; the more complex the idea I’m trying to express, the larger the string of ones and zeroes must become until the effort outweighs the value of the product. I want to just put my fingers on the page and rub the letters until they run into subtle shades no one else has seen. I want to express those ideas I’ve had to compromise for so long because the words I’ve been looking for have been hiding in the spaces between each letter.

I wish I could find a way to transport just one raw thought to someone else without losing everything that makes it so beautiful to me. I want to open my mind and allow someone to experience, if but for a moment, myself without borders or boundaries. I want to be known and I want others to know me but I’m stuck behind these words that separate us like fences.

Sleep

Life frightens me. I tiptoe along a rocky precipice overlooking a shadowy depth unplumbed by all but human imagination and it takes my breath away. There is beauty and a sort of magnetism that attracts me to this blackness so total and all encompassing. In this I find comfort, a sanctuary away from the realities that assault my conscious senses. Like a child burying its head under blankets when frightened, I feel a primal comfort in darkness. How dearly I’d like to embrace everything that nothingness offers me! And with that thought, I lose my footing (of fault or of fate?) and plunge into the chasm.
Within its grasp, at last, I can feel the universe showing me a polite mercy as it cleaves the bonds between the very atoms that manifest the corporeal me. Wonderful sensations overwhelm my fingers and toes. They scream with wild delight as I move my thumb up and down each digit until they dissolve like sand in a great wind. Soon it spreads to my arms and legs which I move, curiously at first, and then stop, no longer able to discern whether they still belong to me or return to the possession of the cosmos. My torso surrenders all in an anticlimax and my mind clouds in euphoria.
Then I see them, bright colors spilling into my vision in drops and smears so vibrant it illuminates what was once devoid of color. The sight awes me and my mind begins to wonder marvelous things. Have I finally reached an awakening; a lightness of being of which there is no going back? This is the world I have so lustfully dreamt of. One in which I have transcended material things and bodily possessions for the sight beyond mortality. In the nothing I have found all desire. But then the visions swirl into one another like mixed paints until they recreate my familiar blackness and I realize I am still but a man. The sights I reveled so religiously in were part of a final betrayal by the eyes I had so neglected in life. While the colors danced, the childhood blanket I had run to in fear was pulled over my unknowing head and the only comfort it affords is that I will soon discover just what nothing truly means.

Untitled

The gravity of life is crushing. We come into this world kicking and screaming upon our backs and all too often we exit it the same way. The longer one stands upright, the sooner they are brought to their knees by the weight. But as that unyielding embrace pulls us to the grave, is it not an admirable pursuit to oppose its undisputed domain? Despite the impossibility of such a task, we lift ourselves to our feet, crane our necks and stand upon our toes with the naiveté of a curious child. We look to the sky with our desirous eyes and our beating hearts - sustained only by the dream of a night in which we too will shine from the firmament as bright as a star. Wisps of prescient memories cloud our thoughts of a glorious day in which we finally break the maternal bond that binds us to terra firma to find ourselves weightless. Driven by the lightness of our souls, we will dance upon the aether and we shall fill the vacuum with our song. Only in this unending void will our full potential be realized and yet, here we sit, drunkenly sipping fermented fantasies afforded to us by those whose lives have already come and gone. We forget that unlike the heaviness of gravity, time’s tide smothers.

a poem in three lines

i want to write stories and poems with you
and someday, maybe
they'll all come true

Bastille Day

When I was much younger, simpler, and more innocent than I am now I had a hard time making new friends. I was a very shy child and relished time I had alone. I spent my whole childhood inside my mind which raced and swirled with ideas and fantasies that seemed to make up for all the missed opportunities I had to visit other children my age. My neighborhood had lots of families with kids so finding someone to play with certainly wasn’t the problem. The reason that I didn’t enjoy interacting with others was because it created so many variables that I just couldn’t control. I worried a lot because not being able to predict what was going to occur next was one of many fears I harbored. The world was full of so many unknowns that I remember becoming overwhelmed by the sensory overload and wishing desperately that I could become an adult who had the ability to deal with it.

One of my most vivid childhood memories was sitting in my living room when I was six thinking of things someone my age should never have to. I began to try to make sense of life and the inevitability of death . I remember asking my mother, “What happens when I die? Is it just nothing forever?” She recoiled and she gave the obligatory reply that, “We go to heaven.” But even as the words wove themselves into my naïve mind I knew, somehow, that there wasn’t a heaven and that when I die I will cease to exist. Tears streamed down my face and I buried my head into my hands. The very concept of an end to my thoughts, feelings, and dreams crushed me but in the coldness of this realization I found a truth and that relieved me. It only strikes me now that I was able to comprehend and accept a concept that instills terror even in the hearts of grown men.

Thoughts like those permeated every free moment I had in which I was not engaged in some sort of mental activity. The mind I once thought provided shelter from reality and stretched beyond my fathoming became much smaller and less comforting as the years went by until I finally realized it had become a prison. I attempted to escape it by playing games, reading, and listening to music but only one activity seemed to keep my mind the furthest away from the thoughts and that was talking to another living, breathing person. I managed to make friends and I tried to connect with them but I always felt as though I was never on the same page as them. As I attempt to put into words the way I interact with others I can only describe it as though I speak through a middle man. My brain process the information I gather during conversations but all my responses and expressions are formulated and filtered through this construct into a being that I try to convince people I “really” am. The little I do share is tantamount to the tip of the iceberg; the overwhelming majority of me never sees realization outside of neuron firings and fleeting expressions on my face. Perhaps I created this persona as a buffer zone between myself and the world in a feeble attempt at cushioning the blows that I dread will befall me but have never yet struck.

The irony of this is not lost on me. The more I put myself out on a limb, the deeper I seclude myself in my mind which fans the flames of my desire for interaction. The way the cycle self-perpetuates has driven me to lows that have taught me lessons about myself that I will not soon forget. And yet, sometimes I find individuals just like me, as if by chance, and they help me deconstruct these bars and walls I have created and allow me to witness wonders I haven’t experienced since I was a child. For some reason, I’m able to bypass the filters and speak words that I haven’t used in such a long time that I’ve forgotten how they sounded in my own voice. The gratitude and admiration I have for these people is inexpressible. What I’ve seen of their true selves is beautiful and it gives me hope for myself.