I stopped writing a while back because I felt as if all I was and all I wrote about were recycled words and situations. That’s what my life feels like 95% of the time.
In reading authors’ journals, though, I sort of reap inspiration. Maybe one day, I’ll find a literary calling. My literary calling. …if it’s even in my future. I don’t want to write mediocre pieces. I don’t want to live a mediocre life.
It’s very humbling, yknow. It’s humbling when you try to find meaning in not just yourself, but in your own words.
You realize how insignificant you are in comparison to the entire universe.
This is your Sunday evening reminder that you can handle whatever this week throws at you. Even if school, work or general life isn’t okay, you’ll get through it because you are damn strong and amazing.
Part of studying literature is the ability to be mind-crippling raw. It’s not just my emotions and problems that I have to face day after day. It’s also other authors’ and their characters’ emotions and thoughts that I have to absorb — especially when I can’t find it in me to help myself in a healthy way. I turn to them to find solutions or guidance at the least, comfort at the most. In their words, I delve and ache for validation in the fact that I’m truly not alone and that even if they’re gone, I’m not the first nor last who has ever had these realizations and epiphanies towards real life. Although times and circumstances may change relative to each person, we’re all trying to find the same paradise.
Some days, I work harder than others to desperately find parallels between situations of mine and situations of others just so I could come across a justification to remind myself that hey, I’m not the only one who is this painfully lost, lost being an understatement.
I wish I had more to say on the topic, but I’m still trying to figure it all out, just as everyone else is.
I’m afraid I’ll never achieve/reach the goals I’m so sure of. I’m aware of how contradictory that sounds, but it’s only the truth. It’s a truth I can’t articulate accurately. I’m just mind-crippling afraid and [oftentimes] in physical pain over the thought; that’s all. I’m afraid of having a life that’s not worth it — a life that is full of my heart’s own deceit. There are certain aspects of my life that I have hunches for. They aren’t even hunches, actually. They’re more like.. Dreams that are so embedded into my soul, my reason for living. If those pieces of me are wrong, so to speak, then I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what I’ll think. I won’t know what to trust — anymore.
I just want to know that my instincts mean more than false hope who’s only purpose is to help me get through each day. I want proof that what I ache for has meaning, has substance, has truth, has tangibility.
Has reality on its side.
*looks in the mirror*
I’m going to get everything I want because I deserve it because I am a wonderful person. I am kind, caring, intelligent, inspiring, giving, beautiful, talented, selfless, focused and ambitious. I deserve everything I want and I will get it. I will get it because I speak it. I will speak it into the universe and it will materialize via hard work. I will never stop working.
Every night and every morning — every minute of every day.
I’ll always keep praying for one day to come.
If you believe in your heart that you are right, then you must fight with all your might to do it your way. Only dead fish swim with the stream all the time.
When I first learned about the Romantic period of literature during my junior year of high school, I instantly felt connected to their style, and I didn’t know why. In class, we only read select texts from the period, maybe one or two. We compared them to the Transcendentalists. I’ve never studied Transcendentalism from a literary POV (minus the few texts I read from them as well during junior year), but I’ve always been interested in them, too. (For my personal reference, I always refer to them as the American version of Romanticism.)
Now that I’m learning about the Romantics in great depth, I’m starting to get chills. It’s not just their literature that speaks to me. It’s those authors’ lifestyles that reach toward the core of my being. A lot of their misfortunes parallel mine.
I think that if I were a writer in the past, I’d be clumped within one of the “schools” of romanticism. (Hopefully not the same school as Keats… Although given my background, it’s highly likely I’d be called a cockney as well.) It only seems fitting.
My biology class is taking over my life, but I don’t mind. I always tell people that being a biology major has always been a distant dream of mine. It’s always the “what if” direction of my life. I grew up wanting to become a biology major so I could go to med school and yadda yadda. It shocked me when I realized a few years ago that I was seriously gravitating towards a different path — the path I’m currently on. I definitely have no regrets; I’m just glad I’m currently somewhat getting a taste of what could have been. All it’s doing is validating the fact that I chose to do the right thing a few years ago when I decided to explore my options.
I used to hate the ways you’d tell me you love me. Now I realize that saying “I love you” without using those words at all is more precious and worthwhile.
My dad doesn’t understand me. Literally. He doesn’t speak English, and I don’t speak Ilocano. I used to when I was a child, but as I’ve grown, I’ve let go of the language because I didn’t have any use for it. As I’ve grown, I’ve also been losing the slight Filipino accent in my voice. Now that I’m in college and constantly speaking more “formal” English naturally, I see the language barrier between me and my dad. It’s so bad that we don’t even say words to each other anymore. We acknowledge each other with glances. He doesn’t really talk to my brother either. I’m convinced he only likes talking to my mom because she’s the only one who understands him. The few times my dad does talk to me or my brother don’t necessarily count as fully engaging conversations because the only words he says are: what? What? Oh. Okay.
Reason #93848 I don’t like being at home as much anymore.
i find it so incredibly attractive when someone is really good at something, like you can play the violin? damn son. you’re a really talented dj? good for you! i don’t care if you talk to me about quantum physics for an hour straight if i can see the passion in you at some point in that hour i’ll think “whoa, this is really hot.”