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
Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
illumination
in a day such as this,
we shall no longer exist,
and the sun shines brightly to remind us
we shall no longer exist,
and the sun shines brightly to remind us
Friday, July 10, 2009
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
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
Thursday, June 25, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, May 29, 2009
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
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
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
(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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)