My Choices

We are the decisions that we make.

They define the person that we are and are the steps that we need to take in order to be the person that we want to be. From striking a match to light your cigarette to the decision to put it out prematurely, these are the words that you pick out of the thesaurus to form a sentence. Because even if you lack a word bank that were so conveniently provided on a foreign language test, you're going to have to fill in the blanks. Even the choice of not making the call is a decision-- one that chooses indecision.

Some judgment calls are meant to lead to a dead end while others can lead you down a path you never thought you'd walk down. We're still running along though... until you reach the next perhaps, ready or not. The people in your life are often checkpoints can change the direction you're going, but the truth is that they come and go. Fight for the ones worth staying, but when you fall asleep, you're the only one dreaming your dreams.

(Bing, bing, bing... time extension... I'm reminded of "Outrunners" in Arcades where you choose your path to go around the world. Sadly, I never got past the third stage)

My Insomnia

Archive: 3/5/2011

My lips sealed shut with enough superglue to hold my thoughts together-- as if they could be quantified. My fingers taped together to my own horror. I made a pact to myself years ago not to feel a certain way. But it's moments like these that begs for the questions, "has anything changed?" These improvements, the progress that I preach and strive for... while not in vain, have they made a difference?

One step forward, three steps back. Moving to find the qualities that I lack.

The same indifference to anything that makes a difference. The same involuntary reaction to meaningless actions leave me breathless. My last breath is then left for the actions that leave me exhausted. Only then I'll be able to fall asleep.

This doesn't mean shit.

My Impressions are Weapons

Archive: 1/31/2011

Every day we walk past countless faces-- each with their own story. And if somehow by chance we do get to interact, we're altering bits and pieces of our narratives. In essence, we co-write pages of each other's choose-your-own-adventure books (Don't turn to page 84. Trust me.)

The paragraphs that I leave aren't always the most glamorous excerpts and my good intentions don't always come to fruition. I am irresponsible, self-centered, and there's no one else to blame for this other than myself. The worst part is that the ink that we're writing with is permanent-- they're still there even if you try to cross them out and cover them up.

In the end, the pages keep turning but they're limited in number. I just hope that the amount of good parts outweigh the bad.

One way or another...
Baby, I'm living in color.

My Marathon

Archive: 1/9/2011

Afraid to be stagnant, I'll keep moving. With distance as my own personal goddess, the objects that once towered over me can now be crushed by the tips of my fingers. The street lights of the city will pass and so will the relationships and friendships that once shaped the landscape around me. I can't put all of them in my pockets, but they will remain as impressions much like those left on a celluloid strip. Their fragmented replays occasionally sting-- unexpectedly like when the elementary school nurse told you that your first vaccine would "sting" but instead made you tear. But the truth is that they're always worth the admissions ticket.

Who knows, maybe I'm just running around in circles. That's fine... I just hope the place that I'm heading for, wherever that may be, is a better place.

I'm sure it is.

My Cigarette in Hand

Archive: 12/17/2010

My cigarette looks like a flame slowly dwindling until I give it life again.

My cigarette is a voluntary act. It is a moment of mental weakness-- a singular misjudgment as opposed to physical necessity. It symbolizes a glimmer of hope with facade of assurance. It promises a split second of pain relief, a minute of dizziness, a half hour of an upset stomach, and unmeasurable regret.

My cigarette does better in social situations than I do. Nicotine and ammonia fit my saliva more than our interests ever will. The tobacco leaves rolled tighter than any hand shake. On occasion, it meets more lips than I do.

It fucking hates me, but we have great chemistry.

My cigarette is a bargain. With each inhale gives birth to a new thought while it kills me a little bit inside. I always lose, but it's always there for me. Sometimes you just have to be the bigger man and call it a day. You're welcome, motherfucker.

(Via melissalee.com / mellylee.tumblr.com/; Old photo, obviously)

My Empire to Lose

Archive: 12/13/2010

Maturation is a damned thing. It's puzzling to me how some people can just float-- especially at this age. They wander aimlessly without a goal or ambition. In a few years, we're going to look back and think how exciting opportunities were and that the world was filled with possibilities. And indeed, it is. We just shut ourselves off, blinding ourselves with complacency.

People give me too much credit, and are somehow always more certain that I'll succeed than I am. Throughout the years, I think it has molded a false projection of confidence. This mixed with my inherent insecurities is a fundamental paradox of my being. At the end of the day, I realize that I haven't done anything worthwhile.

So what keeps me going? It's a fear of failure. Because I know that I've already cheated with the privileges that I was born into. I realize that each step that I take is on a red carpet laid by someone else's hard work. And despite the fictitious notion that I'm venturing off into uncharted territories, the fact is that I already had a head start. The game isn't fair, and it's only worse if you lose with an advantageous handicap.

The truth is, I'm just trying not to be the incompetent, pompous prince who fails to reach his father's greatness. The one who sucked on a golden tit the minute he was born. I refuse.

My Impaired Eye... Yours bloodshot

Archive: 10/27/2010

The basic foundation of this concept is that we tend to think of our memory as a video camera. Believing that our mind is recording our lives accurately, we are also duped into trusting it as a reliable unit of storage. This is false. Our minds are actually pretty damn faulty in that manner. However, the brain is powerful in its processing power, and from evolution, we have become efficient at noticing patterns and weaving fragments together by association. Because of this, we tend to give meaning to the bits and pieces that we do in fact, remember.

So instead of having perfectly accurate footage, we actually have scraps of the event lumped together, and these connections form our recollection. This is why we do well memorizing with jingles (think commercial slogans) or memorizing information by acronyms. And the strings that weave these chunks together, the associations, are the meanings that we attach to events. Experts on a certain subjects don't "know-it-all," they just know how to get there faster because their web of associations is more efficient.

The fact that our mental capacity is actually based on pattern recognition and not storage means that the act of recollection is a creative and destructive act. By that I mean because we think with meanings and connections, we're putting together pieces that becomes a subjective whole. Moreover, each time that we try to remember an event, our brain erases the past "versions" of these memories-- like a rewrite. This is why studies show that the first recollection is often the most accurate even though they get more specific and detail-rich as the witness repeats their accounts. This is also why false confessions are possible especially during duress (e.g. torture.)

Hopefully I didn't completely butcher that concept. Fuck it, I'm too lazy to proofread.
TL;DR: Our recollections are not of events, but rather the meanings that we give to parts of the event.

In essence, this means that our memories are subject to negotiation. And yes, we can manipulate our own remembrance of the past. Because we're not really changing events, but our rather our perception of the events.

This is why nostalgia is so easy to fall into. Things in the past can seem so inviting. I guess the reason why I was interested in this concept was because I wrote on this a few times already (I totally didn't realize this until a second after I wrote the previous sentence.) Either way, the power is in our hands, and scarily enough, it is also in other people's hands. This certainly means that it becomes easy to dwell on traumas or beautiful moments as remembered, but I would like to think that by knowing that we are often seeing things that we want to see, we can begin to unravel these meanings consciously.

If it were up to me, I'd make it all beautiful.

And instead of living in it, I'd smile and walk away in satisfaction.

It was all beautiful.

My Splendor

Archive: 9/20/2010

I find the world fascinating. With the curiosity of a young boy, I wander the world-- always observing and learning. I've always inclined to look at the bigger picture, but often you need to concentrate on the small, individual mechanisms in order to figure out how the well-oiled machine works. And with that being said, I think people (including myself) tend to miss out on the details. It's unfortunate because it is the fine print that makes the world go around.

I've found the idea of light years incredibly intriguing, and it didn't really come to me until I thought about it. The measurement combines the concepts of time and distance together. This compound relationship somehow ties in the single commodity that we can't buy more of with the obstacle the stands in the way of the human touch.

Just think: the brilliance of the stars, hundreds or thousands of light years away, that you're watching with someone you love, or alone hoping that someone you love is watching them at the same time, took that long of a time to get to your eyes. At this particular moment, it is perfectly possible that the star is no longer shining, or even nonexistent. We have the privilege to observe the radiant night sky at its prime. In essence, Defying limitations of the persevering ticking clock and failing reach, we are witnessing perfection.

In the sky, with diamonds.

Just take a breath.