big tree, little tree

*Made a little collage on top of my dad’s original painting, a take of what we share

hbdd

happy birthday to my best pal

Featured image: my dad’s

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Flowers for your thoughts

scha.png

was supposed to do something else for class and I ended up doing this

Safe to say my classmates and I have been thrown outside of our comfort zones for the rest of the term because of contemporary epistemology class. I’ll admit that although it’s been so daunting and stressful, the sort-of-Socratic method-entailing-actual-hard-work kind of teaching style will inevitably be for our own good and growth, hence you’ve got yourself some sun flowers for all that thinking and analyzing.

While reviewing the philosophy textbook for senior high school, one of the reviewers quipped that the book is not an easy read. She worries that teachers and students might not understand it. A colleague replied that unfortunately, there is no better way to teach or do philosophy. Though philosophy students generally think that philosophy is difficult, I think they often forget why it is so. It is not because of the language or the concepts, it’s because philosophy deals with the very realities we struggle with everyday, sometimes unconsciously, for others more deliberately. Philosophy is a loving struggle with life and its questions. Therein lies its value. So perhaps the best way to begin is to have a loving struggle with the text.

—M.A. Dacela, my contemporary epistemology professor

May the struggle prove to be fulfilling!


Featured image in collage artwork: © Chris Kolupski (2008) for his amazing representation of The School of Athens on canvas

From behind the typewriter

So much of my dislike and disappointment towards my own previous blog posts are mostly because of the scattered-ness and negativity of it all. It started to seem like an Aidee Ever Downwards spiral, actually. I have my reasons behind each and every post but I’m not proud of it all the time. I wondered if I was just always sad or something in real life. I then realized I only do a majority of my writing on the blog when I’m really really sad. I’ve had a habit for years to only do a whole lot of writing when I’m down in the dumps like an angsty teenager awake past 2am. Although we all hear a lot about how the best artists are always depressed and cuckoo. I have to admit that negative emotions seem like a powerful fuel to make, write, and create, but my lack of creating when I’m happy is out of both fear and carelessness.

I can reason by saying, I don’t write when I’m living out my happiest moments simply because I’m busy living them out. But really, I don’t write about the happier bits of my life because I feel like jotting them down at the end of the day just might jinx em. I have long feared admitting simple joys because that might just spoil all the goodness in it. In fact I just let moments happen to me, let them pass like any normal individual, and look back fondly in silence without realizing they’re really ever gone.

It might have been my task to gruelingly capture the gone-ness in my life. I did this to both hold on and let go. And it might continue to be so, but I would like to add a new task to even more challengingly capture the nowness of my life. For years I’ve dreamed of writing bits of a Murakami-like novel in my head because I seemed to fulfill every formula of his lead characters: sad, regretful, never really getting over anything, and absolutely flawed, usually above 40. I’m not yet above 40 though. I thought I had a fair amount of experiences that would vouch for a gripping novel filled with prose about nature, city life, and a love you’ll never get over. That certainly made up for the crappy experiences themselves.

Sadness had therefore become power. I would collect the broken pieces of everything I’ve ever broken and gotten broken for a rainy day at home. I would type away to make magic out of magic that’s gone by. I can resurrect the gone-ness in front a blank screen. I can turn the goodbyes I lived through into a fictional hello and fiction gives you the power to add a little twist and maybe decide to give everything alternative endings or no endings at all.

But I’ve realized I’m only ever so sad about all that’s ever gone away because they for the time being made me so happy. Otherwise, I typically wouldn’t care. I have only been in so much pain because I have known so much joy too. The only difference on paper or rather on this blog, is that I didn’t try just as hard to capture happiness while it encompassed me.

I promise to tell some happier light-hearted stories too. I’ve given it some thought and figured since I’ve gone through worse, it might not be such a bad thing to write about little joys too. It’s just as tough to be truthful about the good and the bad equally. But what’s the truth if it’s not a lot of it or all of it at least? I will strive to create from a balance of my many truths.

typewriter

sprouting from behind the typewriter

Cold showers

Summer began
with the heat of ending conversations,
from the fiction of your push and my pull,
and the way some of those words burnt me,
and it hurt.

Summer began
with lasting cold shoulders,
the only kind of cold that ever bothered me,
and how I sit under each cold shower,
waiting for artificial rainwater
to take me away.

tub

was gonna use a real photo I had but it’s in my laptop

Baby blue, caffeine-infused

*I haven’t had much junk in my system the last few weeks, not too sure why. I’ve been avoiding coffee and tea on purpose however. The last time I drank some English breakfast tea if you read the post below, and it wasn’t even so long ago haha just this week, it really really came back to bite me. I feel I don’t need the caffeine anyway, even if I love the taste and aroma so much. My brother told me although it’s good for the heart, it’s healthy, it’s a stimulant, so it’s also quite responsible for mood swings. I’ve been moody prior to learning how to drink coffee or tea though but I do believe it’s still a substance and I don’t react well to substances. I think it makes me a little more erratic and impulsive. Physically, I tend to get palpitations especially when I’m not in a good place. Like now. It also keeps me up and these days I don’t want to be kept up. If it isn’t school work keeping me up, I have enough in my mind to do that for me. But today, after not having eaten good-proper meals over the last two weeks, my mom decided to take me to an afternoon high tea place cause I usually love those, and we bumped into some other ladies. To keep me a little busy in the midst of their 4-hour conversation, I had myself more than the usual amount of caffeine that any one person would order for leisure. So much for skipping out. And boy do I feel weird. So here’s another crappy poem I’m not proud of.


Caffeine makes a heart break a little faster and a little slower.
She thought she was carrying a near broken heart tucked underneath a baby blue dress that gleamed of summer love.
It was heavy.
There were sharp edges in the walls that surrounded it for protection that did come back to hit her hard.
It sunk.
And in an attempt to carry on as normally as possible, she took casual sips from the good things in life. Tea cups of cheer-me-ups.
But then her insides drowned further in a creamy brown.
It caused her injured heart to toss and tumble throughout the rest of the day, like she did all night and all morning in bed.
“Would you like another round of impulse and regret?”
“What about a warm cup of anxiety this time? To keep you up with all your worst nightmares coming true with your eyes wide open.”
Fruity notes of Earl Grey watered the wounds she blames herself for.
A latte left to get cold never burned so much.
She looks out the car window, finds herself at home glancing past the bedroom window this time, wondering about time yet again.
It’s going too slow and all the more too fast.
She fumbles to crack open a bottle of water for a change.
Mineral water has never left such a bitter taste in her mouth.
It’s never been this hard to drink down.
She’s filled with water and caffeine in her system, spinning in hopelessness, humbly disguised in her baby blue dress which she’s just taken off because it doesn’t help.

breakinfused

when ya still want sadness to look pretty anyway

Bed over troubled water

*Must’ve written this 4 days ago according to the draft details… But it applies to each of my mornings the last week or two, still. 

A moment of judgmental shame for my new found passive aggression towards sleep.
I don’t want to sleep because in the silence of everything, little monsters come out to play. If I do fall asleep, don’t wake me up because waking up to real life can be just as daunting.

afloat

deep waters scare me, they make me feel uneasy so you get my “drift”