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your idyllic muse
I suppose as I read
, the one by Herman Hesse, I feel this kind of enlightenment within my soul. It's not the sort of feeling that you get when you've filled your stomach with food and smiled and hugged everyone for the day. It's the feeling you get when you can sit for hours at a time and reflect on how we came, how we are, and how we'll probably be. You may ask: Do you believe in a God? I do, yes, but I believe in more than a gender-specific God. I believe in an energy, I think that every religion's principles add up to the same universal truth: Their God (or Gods and Goddesses) are the embodiment of everything. In a more practical sense, God to me, is in everything, it is even in us. I believe that an omnipotent being must have feelings and must have been birthed from somewhere to be a God. A god is a noun, a person, a thing essentially. A person has too much emotions to be perfect and thus to me, what we call 'God' is merely the essence that flows throughout this planet. 'God' knows every hair in our body because it is our hair, it is that flower in the field, it is in that boy you like, it's in that bee that's buzzing around, it's in that wailing child, and God . . . Ha . . . well my friend, God is in you. God is you. Remember what they said in the Bible: In the beginning there was nothing until God made light . . . It's in every book, it's in every principle, we all started from the essence of God. This is what I believe and so what you believe is what you believe. I'll just respect whatever you practice for that, in my own parents' teachings, is what I was taught to do.
I thought of this in a dream as I slumbered noiselessly in my bed (It'll be a comfort for some of you to know, that I do not snore ^^). Anyway, as I was saying before I became rather sidetracked, I thought of the idea of Heaven.
See, when I dream, I meditate. When I meditate, I feel a deep flowing feeling that's rooted in my brain and it flows into the actual core of my body. I'll explain that in another entry though.
Heaven was a conceived idea, in my dream, that the Ancients (Romans, the English, etc.) conjured in order to lure their followers into this controlling iron grip. Religion was essentially the same as the media, when it was widespread to a mass of people, it would excite them to the point of fanaticism.
When Constantinople constructed the Byzantine Empire he slaughtered many people during the pinnacle of the Christianity pilgrimage. Anyone who had any other belief was considered a pagan and if they worshiped any graven image (i.e.: a stone statue, a painting, etc.) then they would be killed or taken away from their families.
This was a cruel and also effective technique to brainwash people. Create a rather terrifying and immense being called God, assign him a gender; say He had a son that was birthed by a virgin (Which makes no logical sense to me by the way); and then fashion a book detailing laws (Much like the laws of a society) and also the escapades of our aforementioned 'savior'/son of God.
Believe what you will but my belief is that religion was created time and time again by many civilizations in order to control. Fanatics and even just borderline obsessive people with religion normally go to great lengths to prove that their religion is the
One and only
Do not impose a subject that you simply can not prove with any factual or physical evidence. Leave your marked sites, your scrolls (Which were written by men and men alone), your testimonies, your churches, and your beliefs in a judgment day and a Messiah to yourself. I have no judgment day and I have no Messiah because honestly . . .
Honestly if I had to wake up for the rest of my life and go to church and pray every Sunday, if I had to stare up at the heavens and imagine some corporeal God, if I had to check to see if the sky was red and splitting; If I had to preach to the vile unfaithful ones; If I had to sit and educate my future kids on this brainwashing filth than I'd choose not to.
You know what?
I did too.
Your religions create 30-year wars, your religions still create wars (i.e.: The Sh'iites and the Suunis), your religions create hatred between different races when they're fundamentally preaching the same thing (i.e.: Muslims vs Jews). Your religions make people ignorant.
(i.e.: religious fanatic: There IS a judgment day. buddhist: Prove it. religious fanatic: I don't have to there just is one and you're wrong because my bible states it as so.)
Believe what you will but religion isn't necessarily a great thing.
The morals are true: We shouldn't kill, covet anyone's possessions, rape women, men, or children; We shouldn't steal things that don't belong to us, disrespect our father and mother, lie or tell any false truths about people, and we should not disrespect the land that this 'God' made for us.
However the preachings of it, the hate that it breeds, the corruption that spreads because of it, the division is creates among nations . . .
That is worse. Believe what you will but I think that we're in a Heaven and a Hell right now. We're not going to be judged by anything, we won't float into the sky (Because that's outer space and there sure as hell isn't anything else before space), we won't descend into the ground (There's just heat at the Earth's core, nothing else, so is that our Hell?) and guess what . . .
. . . Those guardian angels and those symbolic creatures are just that to me: symbols. Satan is a poorly crafted excuse that we use to blame our own imperfections on. Demons are basically the same thing as Satan: excuses. Angels are a poorly crafted phenomenon that we conjured up to cover up what initially is either some mysterious twist of Fate, Luck, or just our own ingeniousness.
Anyway it's up to you: What do you believe?
I feel like . . .
you're trying to get to me but we just don't see eye to eye. you're so painfully different, you're so mature and yet so calm that it almost scrambles my brain. you know i can't even pick you apart and put you back together which really disappoints me too, dad. i want to know you as a deeper and more stripped person but you don't follow up. you never followed up and that makes the pain in my chest and in my mind more sharp and palpable than ever. you tell me we must forgive and forget but you symbolize the battle in my soul: always have and always will. you swim upstream and i swim down. you live life with a calm easygoing nature while i look at the details of everything. you know secrets and success while i pick out secrets from people (like pearls; tiny and white). you are not me and i am not you. you and i can never really be
, at least not in my mind, not right now . . . doesn't that disappoint you?
. . .
. . . and so you glue back my shattered pieces and watch as i struggle to walk and reassemble myself into a whole person again. you swallow my tears, live through my pains, talk through my sadness, think through my confusion, and tie me to your wrist . . . with a ribbon. . .
. . . a sign of your loyalty and your friendship.
I Dare You
. . . to challenge me and break me down with your smoldering gaze. I dare you to smother me with your suffocating words. I dare you to make me give up and hang my head in defeat. I know you won't though, I know you want to but you won't, because I . . . never give up.
Rain, rain go away come again another day. Please, because I don't want to drown yet.
and i can write in all lowercase letters and still tug at the very fringes of your tattered soul, dear. i can describe what it's like to see someone dying before your eyes. the way their life seems to slither away from their eyes is simply horrifying to watch. the soul is now an empty shell- a cadaver with no thoughts, no mind, no wishes, no dreams; all of it extinguishing like flickering flames--only rising up like trails of smoke from their insides. so don't tell me that you know what's it like to watch someone die. don't tell me that you know what it's like to kill someone's spirit and hope and leave them there --- empty, shattered, and just hopelessly gone. you don't know . . .
Sometimes when I feel the need to, I just sit down and write the most random thing that I can pull from my mind. I'll pop or rotate the small bones in my wrist and then I'll set to work. Writing is in a sense, my weird cure for certain things. If I'm angry I write about it, if I'm sad I write about it too, and similarly, if I'm happy I definitely write about it. I am in my own words (and in the words of others that know me better than they know themselves sometimes): a total writing fiend. I live, breathe, and feel for the smudging and smearing of ink on paper. Books are my first loves and written emotion are my friends.
(1 of 5)
As I look at the mottled spots of brown that cover my skin--I think: 'I never quite had the same smooth skin as you.' Your skin is unblemished and flawed and so . . . you have no problems. None. Mine is full of freckles--spots of varying sizes all over my body--a map--a way to find my very soul and my very core. I think to myself as I watch you with your perfect tanned skin--that you don't have that uniqueness.
I find it simply amusing how my grandfather can have this 'Superiority/Inferiority Complex'. I observe him with clear eyes as he debates with my uncle (constantly while they're there) about politics and religion. I yearn to get pieces of their knowledge to add it to my growing collection of formidable facts and strong beliefs. Every time my uncle will try and state that he's somewhat of an Agnostic, my grand father will always best him somehow. It's always highly amusing to hear that 82 year old sagely man say: "Shut up, what you're saying is foolish." I daresay that I've only heard him say it to me once and for that I've got to be rather proud. When he says that to you it makes you WANT to try to become as good as he is at sounding smart, knowing it, and flaunting it (just in a more subtle way). This one's for you, grand-dad. Keep outsmarting people, man.
I realize now that I had another odd quirk that I silently rid myself of. I used to look up whenever I was somewhat excited and really the reasons for me doing this were well beyond me. I just looked up in an almost instinctive manner but (as I do with every habit that I've had to break) I kind of learned to distract my eyes. I constantly blinked, I trained my eyes to stay focused primarily on what was leveled with them.
I can say now that those weeks of having my corneas burn due to obsessive reading and constant staring at certain objects in my room: my orange and white patterned comforter, my own reflection, etc. was worth it.
No more freaky looking up tendencies for me, yay! ^_^
We're having this odd rendezvous kind of thing now, don't you realize that?
Really the thought occurred to me now; but you know it's been like a month since we've had our last supersecretmeetingthatnoonebutusshouldknowabout?
Ah, yes and I realize now that I keep trying to picture what lime-green eyes filled with mottled specks of orange might look like. I realized that you're probably some uniquely beautiful person but that you'd probably be terribly modest about it.
I guess I'm just trying to say that: I miss you.
I Love . . .
. . . how you can break me down & make me forget all about the beauty that resides within me. i love how you can make me dislike you to the extent that i taste bitterness and saltiness on my tongue while thinking of you. your kisses were wet and sucking and sloppy & i hate you, i hate you, i hate you so, so, so much! i hate how you can wrap your words around my body and make me feel like i'm floating between the clouds. i hate how you can make this lightness settle in my mind when i think of you. i hate how you can say one thing (you're beautiful) and mean something else entirely (you're not what i want, taylor). i hate you and i just want you to know that: you broke me and made me feel ironically
Sometimes I used to look at myself and I'd see just light-brown spots (on my neck, on my back, on my thighs, on my calves, & on my cheeks).
Sometimes I'd feel my skin and notice that it had the oddest fuzzy softness to it (due to my Vellus hair--really fine and dark and noticeable).
Sometimes I'd bite my lips and realize that they'd always be impossibly pink.
Sometimes I'd stare at the depression on the right side of my chin and I'd notice that when I smiled it would stretch out. I'd notice that when I'd smile, it'd be more lopsided than I would've liked it to be.
Sometimes I'd stare at my skin and realize that my green thin veins would run against the thinness and paleness of my almost translucent cocoa-hued wrists. I'd notice that my veins would throb and pop out when I'd press them . . .they'd never quite go away . . .
Sometimes I'd feel the stitches beneath my left bosom and I'd notice the depression there. I'd think: 'How odd?'
Sometimes I'd just stare at myself nude, with the lights shining on each imperfection; on each noticeable flaw and think: 'Who in their right mind could go head over heels for this?'
Sometimes . . . I'd think that and so one day I'd let this issue sink onto everything else (my dad not being there, my ex leaving me, everything really . . .). I took a knife and pressed it into my skin thinking something vile and selfish and completely different from what I'd normally think.
I'd thought: 'Perhaps everyone all of those years ago were right . . . perhaps I am unlovable and terrible to look at. Perhaps I'm ugly or awkward or weird or just not . . . not worth it. Perhaps I'm intolerable, perhaps . . .,' and looking back on it now . . .
Looking back on that scared insecure girl who'd almost taken that knife--who'd almost felt the blood flow--thinking back on it . . . I sort of realized that: I would've done it eventually had you not called, you know.
So thanks, really. Thanks.
I swear I must be going crazy because I keep on having these odd dreams. They're just a string of disconnected images: blood splattered on the floor, a girl crying, the sound of a gunshot, the gleam of a pistol . . . It's so weird, so vague, and I don't like this--lack of detail and lack of explanation. What does it all mean, dad? Why do you keep killing me in your dream?
My empathic tendencies are kicking in and I'm trying not to laugh bitterly at the irony of seeing someone dying again. All of this is rather morose and unpleasant. Why can't I have regular dreams or visions of someone winning the lottery? Why does it have to be something so horrific? I dreamed that someone wanted to die, to slit their wrists, watch the crimson flow, and just erase themselves. God may you help them, may you help them, please. Please, I hate this . . . please save them . . . [
Psychic & Empathic Tendencies
I still haven't been myself yet. I'm glancing at my phone now, watching the light flicker on and off. It's mesmerizing seeing that light die, only to come back to life again. Five minutes pass to six and I have to wonder . . . as time slips by casually, which rabbit hole did you climb through this time?
I sit here with my cousins, trying to pretend that for once the clock will stop ticking. It's too much fun: laughing and wanting to be ten again. I missed being a kid again so much that I begged them to let us play with dolls again--ah it's the childishness in me that did it. So we sat there for weeks making some complex characters with Soap Opera -worthy plots. I swear I'm suffering from Peter Pan Syndrome because when I wake up and notice that I've stored more fat around my hips; I can't help but think:
I don't want to get old yet . . .
Sometimes I'll see your beautiful blue eyes and I'll think:
Christ, why'd you have to have the prettiest eyes ever? Why, why, why?
Then I'll notice that the saltiness and the stinging were from the tears staining my cheeks. Lovely, right?
You really frustrate me sometimes, when you somehow pull out every thought out of my mind. You truly infuriate me sometimes simply when you drag me out of bed at 6:00 in the morning so I can beautify myself for no one to really see (or care, it's pointless really).You really make me want to scream whenever you become anal and throw yourself into scrubbing imaginary dirt or washing things or tidying up the house for a guest who will only be there for like five minutes. Yet I can look past it sometimes--(most of the time, really) and realize that you have some great traits too. My great sense of humor is all from you, your sarcasm is golden and original--everyone tries to imitate it and fails. The way you carry yourself so confidently, whenever you apply lipstick just to stop at the bank, I love that; I find myself subconsciously applying lip gloss on my lips before going to school. Whenever you tell me rather bluntly and honestly that I'm a certain way, it lingers within me. I can't help but think that you're right about these things because whether I like it or not, you always know best. So yeah I just wanted to say that you're everything to me mom: you're my world, really.
Sometimes when she's not looking, I'll pop up behind my mother and glance over her shoulder. I just like to watch her cook and I'll sometimes catch a glimpse of the secret ingredient that she puts in for that extra kick. She always makes Jamaican dishes extra spicy for me because she knows that I love the flavor just as much as she does.
Oftentimes I'll find myself looking at my grandmother and I'll wonder to myself:
Will I ever look that beautiful at the age of 75? Will anyone in our family ever look as beautiful as she does now?
I wonder if she realizes that her smooth hairless skin and strong calves are somethings that we'd die for.
I'm kind of counting down the days until my elder cousin leaves because she will eventually. The sister I never had is going to leave me with my crazy mother and my mellow step dad. God, help me. ^_^
Amanda, darling you are the apple of my eyes. You are my little goddess, I wish you knew just how loved and how lucky you really are. You've filled in my old spot (once upon a time I cherished it too) of being the favored princess. You're crowned now and so everyone just adores you. I think you sort of know how special you are though because you'll have this confident swagger in your step (so cute). You'll bat those long eyelashes of yours and defiantly say, "I said NO!" to anyone who dares to question you. Ah my little princess, you're so amusing.
Was it really necessary for us to have a seven-year war that devastated most of the hardworking population? Doesn't the government have any mercy?
Well let me answer my own questions.
They don't have mercy--the government, that is. They're selfish. They just want sluggish, black oil. This is oil that stains our own lands. This is oil that's so indispensable apparently This is oil that we've shed blood like river water for.
Not necessary, so not necessary.
Dear cousin, I'll pray for you today, I hope that you'll get back on your feet. You need to go back to the days of spending money on everyone that you loved: us, your friends, and just everyone.
I miss the positive genius. I miss the man who had an endless amount of optimism. I miss the part of you that inspired me to feel like an arrogant smartass.
Where did you go? What did they do to you? What happened to you? What happened . . . where's your faith and your hope?
You're too giving for this, you're too . . .
I can't, I'm sorry I can't just watch you crumble . . .
It's the day before my birthday and there's this bitterness that's swirling within me. I think I'm just noticing that soon my cousin will be going onto the next step in her journey: college. She's the first female of our first generation of Jamaican-Americans to do so. It'll be a big deal and so as I try to commit her face to my memory, I also try to commit the fact that she's just born smart to my memory too. People in my family tell me that I'm an exception, that I'm destined for great things. I don't know if I see it yet, that light at the end of the tunnel; but perhaps that glimmer--that shaft of brightness might mean that I'm getting close . . . Soon I'll be number two, mom. Have faith in me because I'm starting to believe in myself now; and that should make you smile a lot more, don't you think?
Birthdays make me happy and make me think of cake. It makes me think of parties and smiles and joviality. It makes me think of flickering candles and family and internal warmth. It's another age slipping by, another replacement age. It's another year gone by, another way to celebrate our ability to live. It's our personal New Year's Resolution. Blow out a candle now, close your eyes, and make your wish. Will it come true?
This little diary is simply an amazing discovery really. See my problem is though, that I tend to write multiple entries in one day about totally pointless things. I suppose someone will read this and find my sometimes irrelevant and mindless ramblings just lovely to peruse through.
I'm trying to plot my novel for the umpteenth time though and I just can't take it anymore. I know how my characters are as people, I can sense them, and I have this connection with them. I know the beginning, the middle, and the end. I know the subplots it's just how do I put it on paper? The hardest critic to please is really myself. Ah, I have to laugh at the irony; I'm my own worst adversary when it comes to these sorts of things.
I've done it: I've made it into English Honors. It was always sort of my dream, my ambition, my want to sort of fulfill that yearning in my heart. I can say now that the heated passionate zeal has died down, I feel calmed now. Still the aftershock remains, just a sliver though, like there's still an ice cube sliding down my throat. I'm an English 11 Honors student now and to think all it took was a recommendation from my teacher. Thank you Mr. Heras. :)
Whew one more week or so to go before I actually start my eleventh year of education. Ah I have to say that I'm little more than a bundle of nerves now. Hopefully I'll be able to feel better tomorrow so that I can prepare myself mentally and physically for my first week. Wish me luck!
I feel level-headed now. You know it's true, what people say about how the condition of one's own personal dwelling can affect the orderliness of their thoughts. I tidied up my room and straightened it out completely. I rearranged my papers, got rid of the cluttered documents that had been shoved into my folders, discarded that, and I set up my stuff for each class. I have a folder for all of my major classes, two binders, and four writing utensils because you can never be too prepared. I'm ready to tackle my first week!
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