The choice is up to you!

by xela

I remember a time when I used to think I had the answer to every pain in life. Every setback I had, I knew an answer, or if not an answer, an attitude most conducive for finding one.

“The choice is up to YOU” Duffy had said two years ago, and perhaps since then, I took his words to heart. They were good words, and they were true; how much power do we have to affect our own lives? I’ve since realized that if you know answer to the great secret, life in fact becomes more of a game than a battle. Be smart, realize that happiness isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be; that being comfortable with the truth and the limits of our lives is THE key to understanding how much control we really do have of our lives.

It’s work yes, but no one said life was easy.

But sometimes… even now, I want to run away and hide away, surrender to sleep–maybe just to wonder who’ll come after/find/awaken me. Sometimes I want to be stupid, stubborn, and feel things I shouldn’t, just to see who’d come over to tell me I’m wrong. Sometimes, I wonder if anyone will, or if I’m truly fighting a battle on my own.

Are all these answers really just in my head?

Yes it’s easier to ask questions, especially when you’re afraid of some of the answers. And while you wait, maybe hoping for someone else to cut through the tape, and pull you out. Just give a call and realize you’re not alone

~*~

My blogs haven’t really been keeping up with my life now has it? I always wondered what it would take for me to stop writing entries every couple days, chronicling my life for myself as much as those who read it. Xanga has served me well, being by its nature such an amazing catalyst for introspection, and of course, for helping me realize that the struggles I face are rarely mine alone. I write also with the hope that perhaps my experiences are worth more when shared with others. That someone out there has something to gain by reading about my boring life–and also, to keep a written record of how I came to be the person I am now. A common motif in many of my entries is my outspoken desire “to live”. That is, to feel the passion of life (as I think Mr. Shih’s father had once spoken of me as having). Yet now that I think i’ve finally begun to feel it, I’ve slacked in keep track of how. Perhaps because it’s too much to live and know that I’m living at the same time. Or maybe it’s because of the unspeakable details of existence that living entails.

Hmm… oh well.

what’s the craziest thing i could say so that you would know who i am…

by skyrien

Ah, so it would seem that certain people still in China are still reading my LJ, and complaining about its repetitive content. Well, I suppose, as life can often seem repetitive. But when you’re a couple hundred (or a couple thousand) miles away, it’s hard to tell that it really isn’t.

Then again, to write about moving forward would be repetitve too–given that I’ve already written about it once. SO, I suppose I’ll settle for writing about how damn glad I am that summer school is over. Now, as most people are complaining about the winding down of summer, I feel like it’s just beginning. Well, actually, I feel like it’s never started, and that we’re going straight back into school.

“Where has my summer gone?” I could be asking. I could be complaining about not having enough time (we never do) or about wanting more than the 10 days left for me here (always wanting just a little more). I could be thinking about the things I can’t change, the things that’ll
remind me that this is just a moment, like everything else in life, and that no matter how much I try to enjoy it, it’ll be over, and maybe that means there’s no point.

Yeah, like hell I am. My most recent conclusion is that I don’t think too much; I just don’t always think about the right way. My summer has been everything that a summer should be, I’ve been productive (8 more credit hours!), relaxing (a month and a half of *no* summer school is plenty of time), significant (I have (and am) a penguin now!), fun (yes most deff.), and with the outcome as it is, unregretable. There’s always things to be complaining about. I dwell on them all too much, and given the life I have, I have no right to be complaining about it. So I won’t.

Exciting isn’t it? When you’re alive and you know it; when you know things will end, and it only makes you want to enjoy it more. Life is good, guys. I’m happy.

~*~

I’ve made the recent discovery that being taken has its costs. And no, I’m not talking about opportunity cost (which isn’t nearly worth as
much, I think). I’m talking about $$$

(all values are estimates, and may not be valid in a court of law)

Direct costs(events, things):
$396
Indirect costs (transportation, fuel, food, etc… that are components of other committments): $415

Not to mention the countless hundreds of hours invested in communication, thought, and physical presence.

Now, add this to the $$$ spent on summer school, and over the summer I’ve spent nearly $4,000 of money that I am now so desperate to earn. Yes, I definitely need a job… ah… but the experience, is mastercard. I’m defining the moments of my life as I go…

~*~

<CONSOL>
Okay. Restart! I just a wrote a fairly long Xanga entry, before having it rejected in favor of this new entry that has yet to be written. Ah… it’s been a while since I metacognated here hasn’t it?

I guess it’ll have to be a bit longer; I think I am a little too tired to write anything coherently that I expect people to read…

(to be appended later)

</CONSOL>

People are…

by skyrien

“Beautiful,” says the idealist.   “We are beautiful because we are capable of love, of hope; of bringing salvation to the lost and confused.   We are beautiful because we are different from one another; we are beautiful because each of us is a unique flower in the garden of life, bringing color, complementing one another, and together accomplishing a resonating appreciation for that miracle which we know to be man   None of us are perfect but it is in the flaws and follies of others that we find comfort for our own, for it is our imperfections which are colorful, our imperfections which are beautiful.   And since we are but our imperfections, therefore we are beautiful.”

 

“Replaceable,” says the cynic.   “Who are you, really?   You think yourself a unique snowflake, no two the same, but though we may never be entirely the same, the characteristics of our personalities which we cherish to be our assets – our strengths, our talents, our emotions we dare label compassion – can always be found in someone else.   In the end, life is too short and humans too selfish to love anyone other than themselves.   In the end, you are as special as you are useful in satiating the hedonistic nature of that depravity we know to be man.   Disappear from this world, I dare you, and you will watch as the hole you leave is slowly filled by others no less special than yourself; you will watch as your presence fades and your legacy erodes.   And then how special and unique are you?”

 

“Disappointing,” says the pessimist.   “They are disappointing because they are unreliable and undependable, because the only person in this world who cares purely about what you want and what you need is yourself.   They are disappointing because they live with the attitude that each man lives for himself – survival of the fittest – and disappointing because this is the only way progress is made.   They break your hearts and they weaken your morale, and the few moments in which you feel the human race has an iota of hope only sets you up for the overwhelming blow when you come to the unfallible realization that to be selfish is to be strong and that when you do fall – which you will, being human – the only person there that will catch you is yourself.”

 

“People”, says the realist.   “Why waste time labeling what they are when you can find out for yourself?”