Friday, October 18, 2013

10.18.13 | Memory

She sits like a man on the bench and leans back, exhaling ghosts into the night. A clang jerks her head upright. An old man is rummaging through a nearby trash can. She watches him fish out a paper wad and open it. His eyes light up with excitement. He gorges on a half-eaten burger. She closes her eyes, and when she opens them again he is gone.
At night the man in the tattoo whispers in her ear. Do not forget the morning I left.
Her diary had been reduced to ashes, some of it blown away by the wind. But her memories stayed. She never forgot. She never will.
To her, “the end of the world” is not an exaggeration because the world ends when she does.

Tuesday, August 27, 2013

08.27.13 | [Untitled]

Dull orange intoxicates the night,
Casting ghosts on walls
And in pavement cracks.
We too were once ghosts,
Whispering on purple rooftops,
Bathing in moonshine.
By daybreak we donned our skins
And slept.
But one night we lost time—
Dawn cracked without a sign,
And morning swept us away.
When I looked again,
You’d vanished.
I now haunt empty streets
Searching for your solitude.

Wednesday, April 24, 2013

04.24.13 | Roads Diverged

I took a different route home today and passed by the architecture school. Students were outside sculpting things and, although I could not see their faces clearly, I knew they enjoyed what they were doing. (I knew, at least, they had a passion for art; otherwise they would be doing something else.) I only realized then how much I missed my high school art classes and my old art club. I wondered how different my college life would have been if I had chosen to pursue a degree in architecture or design instead, if I had chosen to turn at a different corner.
But I didn’t turn there, despite my long-lived ambition to become an architect, and despite having walked practically everywhere else. I had set off first with the aspiration to save the trees, but I was reluctant to take chemistry—I did not wish to play God in an artificial utilitarian utopia, operating on assumptions regarding particles I cannot see. At some point I was in pursuit of the truth behind human behavior and cognition, but I rather liked keeping the truth of my own mind a mystery. One road I turned onto involved numbers, laws, and dollar signs, but the road was so well worn and so bland. The system that governed it was too bureaucratic for my cynicism, so I spun around and left. Still lost, I still chose not to do major in any visual arts because I refused to be quantitatively evaluated for my imagination. Ironically I eventually chose to study narratives, a course of study that also requires quite some creative ability. I told myself it couldn’t be too bad, because at least there are only so many combinations of the twenty-six letters and punctuation of the English language (unless you are E. E. Cummings). There are no such mathematic restrictions in visual art.
But it turned out that I had been viewing everything too functionally, despite my distaste for such systems. I told myself to stop thinking in terms of probability and conjectures. Consequently I told myself to pretend, to imagine, that I had not seen today’s route as a different route and had not wandered off on so many tangents.
Today I passed by the architecture school, and I saw students sculpting things outside. The birds in the branches were warbling, and I, too, felt compelled to write a song about myself.

Wednesday, April 17, 2013

04.17.13 | 31.71.40

Some people say mirrors don’t lie,
But the truth is,
If you lie to the mirror, the mirror lies to you.

Tuesday, March 19, 2013

03.19.13 | We are the Disease

They've got it all wrong. Disease is not something we should fix. Don't they know that only the fittest can survive? Why are we striving to make everyone equally "healthy", with this theoretical "high survivability"? They fail to realize that if they are unable to find a "cure" for a disease that pervades all corners of humanity, we will all have the same high chances of dying out.

Monday, February 11, 2013

02.12.13 | Nihil

Essentially nothing exists except fermions floating about in a vast expanse of nothingness. Yet the fermions are able to interact in such complex ways that not just “sustain life” but also allow us to think and feel emotions. Am I controlling these fermions or am I simply responding to their unfathomable demands? Is there a point to the complexity of these structures and systems they have formed? If I die, I will merely be recycled, and the world will go on. Everyone dies. That’s how these fermions work. They’re fickle, but they’ll always be here. The true individual is not the human but the subatomic particle. We are simply formulaic aggregates.