Storybook.

I went to the library today and checked out some novels. Authors include John Green, Maureen Johnson, Lauren Myracle, and David Levithan. Their subtle darkness and infinite depth never fails to put me at ease.

I find that without the constant writhing of not wanting be alive, the literary world has opened itself up to me. Poetry has become the most prominent life force in conversation. Thoughtfulness has become the primary objective in exchanges. A strand of guilt lingers on the chats seen and unanswered, but there's a sort of toxicity that's also started to leave my consciousness. Its like a comb is running itself through the knots of my life, and maybe, on a luxury splurge, I'll get a dose of body wash.

What a gratifying feeling it is to talk about the world at level of complexity just enough to penetrate a person's pathos. How exhilarating it is to exchange the pleasurable surprise of a sudden deepened comprehension, a brief point of connection. It is such a joy to hear a poetry that resonates with your own, one that matches peak for peak, trough for trough. Even after such a long wait, I could not imagine a blessing like this.

Here's a Tumblr post by d.a.s. It's called "God's Gift." Its one of the poems that breaks my heart in two, four, eight pieces, a snap with every line.

A man once told me that God fed us poetry through our prayers, 
but this one got stuck on the way down.
I’m used to the beat of words against my spine,
the slash and sting of it.
I know I’m meant to be stained with ink, 
but this poem made me think about 
the way words become knife wounds 
more and more these days. 
I am meant to be healing. 
I am meant to be better. 
But I’m still up until three, 
relearning the phrases for ‘dying’ like this isn’t lies pulled from the nearest dictionary,
a salt pillar stranded in the soft Sodom desert.
Was this what you wanted, God? 
Did you want the poems to burn me from the inside-out, 
because, I swear if it was,
 that’s what you’ve got:my fingers all twitchy and ink-smeared, 
writing haikus in the margins of your Holy Book –a poet before a person. 
No wonder your name becomes choked in my throat: 
with all these commas you shoved down my trachea, 
it’s a miracle I don’t suffocate on the things unsaid. 
I know you gave me words to help write the end of the world, 
but this poem is not a gift. 
This poem is rotten, apocalyptic dirty.
This poem is sin.

Just A Dream

I have two rules:

1. Do not believe in love.

2. Or boys.

Both concepts are condusive to disillusionment, false empowerment, and gross giddiness. They are unprofessional. They wreak havoc. Their only benefit is that in their wake, we can understand more about how humans are endlessly stupid, and that heartbreak has a strong, positive, linear correlation with multivariable test scores.

But this isn't about smiling from ear to ear. This isn't about staying up until 2 am discussing the elephant in the room instead of making small talk. There is no tangible incentive. This is partly the result of approximately 570 miles, although in any other context after these years, it would've been a great fulfillment of Art Assignment #1. A trade of the ice-creams-named-frappacinos and a Tim Horton tea cup would've been cute.

And so but. I would like to avoid talking about rules 1 and 2.

People say that there is meaningless suffering, pain that does nothing but tear through the white sheets that are stretched taut, bearing the will to live. If you search "pain" on Tumblr, they give you a suicide hotline before you can see the search results. Then, you see the blades open veins and a completely colorless world. You see the faces of people who have lost everything, the blood of those who gave it all. You see the dried skin that flakes with the merciless wind, indifferent with a wholehearted conviction that this is the way that it will always be.

That was what I believed. That was what I felt. Every single day began and ended with conflict. The splices of joy were cut short with fatigue and doubt. Sometimes, I didn't want to be alive. Anything was better than the cold, spiraling descent. I did ask God - why? What amount of strength will compensate for so much hatred, ignorance, indulgence? When I wanted to tear myself apart, all of those deep conversations seemed so little, because like I have said again and again... for all the love and empathy in the world, no one has ever understood.

I wondered for six years. I prayed in those years. I wrote and read and talked, and now, God presents this before me, and now I understand. The pain does not diminish. The regret is not subdued. But God... God, I understand. And for all of the care and responsibility that comes with such an unexpected joy, I know that every, single day was worth it.

Little Infinities.

I know I told my story before, but not like this.

I've spent the past 6 years being open to different people and asking for help and asking for prayer, and people prayed and talked and listened, but never, never, ever did anyone ever understand. I've walked myself up the altar in a sea of tongues. Incredible, admirable leaders have brought my issues to God, for me. Do you know how it feels when your mom tells you about her own disappointments? Do you know how it feels when she cries in front of you, wanting something so desperately better for your future? And still, still, she didn't understand.

Even though our condition is common, I never met anyone with the same wild instability, the same exaggerated loathing and compensation. I had no expectations from any reasonable boy or girl to have ever ruined their place in our privileged position. We all drink the blood of the 99%, but some of us are vampires, so willing to suck more than our share and leave a maggot-filled carcass just to leave our mark. We are the dogs who pee on the fire hydrants, desperate to leave our marks.

But someone knows. Someone knew it then and knows it now, and I cannot thank God enough for this instance of infinty.

C Major

I was almost going to get emotional about my last visit to UIUC, but I realized that we still have Math Team State. How uplifting.

As we drove onto campus in unusually fair morning weather, I noticed, for the very first time, how undepressing the university could actually be. The college town is wide enough to necessitate long, digestive walks, and I imagined my old friends walking around the campus, actually feeling content about their geographical location. Then I remembered how we weren't really friends anymore, so we're going to move on.

There are a few things that even physical discomfort can't ruin. One of those things is watching a freshman down four Taco Bell burritos and a bowl of nachos. Another is discovering a magic called coffee and milk.

And you.

I'm not going to lie, I still feel haunted by my own hopelessness, my every day sickness, my constant self-hatred. But now, for the first time since Sam Tsui released his album and so many months of disgust before that, Start Again makes me smile. So many lines splatter like perfectly synchronized rain drops, and with one massive splat, they dive together, so ungracefully, and land painfully on the belly. The open door slammed shut on my pinky toes, and I so happily welcome these bruises. They remind of what it means to feel and care and open up again.

This is not to make any rash judgments or ruin the best dialogues since I wrote application essays, but to not to subtly hint that for precious, short clips of time, I can see a hair of the truly happy version of me. I see something I've dreamt to meet and to be. I see, finally, finally, an equal, so fearlessly and unashamedly wheeling in the cake.

Lift ye like men, be swoll, let all your squats be done in good form.
C Major