through the looking glass

While life hasn't been boring, per se, none of the events has touched me on the inside, I suppose. I really wish I could start a blog chronicling the mundane details of my life, because honestly? I find some of them really interesting. But I save them for spoken words. They deserve to be found by the people who really find them interesting. Enough so that these people will come into my life and place themselves in front of my face, that's the only form of communication that's enough for me.

In a way, Narcissus settled, a silver screen was enough for him, (and as far as these thoughts go, enough for me), but sometimes I don't want just a looking glass. Plato once said that a mirror is not enough, we need to look into another eye to really see ourselves. It's not just that another eye gives you another perspective, it's that it's the only option for us. Despite its appearances, the enticingly shiny surface gives no perspective at all.

**

SIDENOTE:

I officially created a tumblr account two days after this was written. Throw your hands in the air if you're a hypocrite.

barad-dûr

I think I have a problem of letting go. Okay, that's probably an understatement. I definitely do have a problem of letting go, but before, I only focused on letting go of things that were already fading or dying, not petty things that I had no business of possessing in the first place.

I think stress just magnifies the pettiness in everyone, until the need for control becomes the most out-of-control of all, looming over the rest like an eye atop a lone tower, until the inescapable gaze rests upon the most insignificant things, setting it aflame, until every thought and stilted perception becomes shrouded under a cloud of smoke; until our fears dive under it, unseen; until we are lost in what we are afraid of.

**

existence

I don't know why these surface, sensory (or mushy, as you call it) things affect me so. It's like they gently reach inside me and wake something up there. These crystals fall and I don't know where they come from. And if I turn the connection back to you, it melts like wax, seamlessly into place.

It's like I constantly have to say good-byes, if not in this physical realm, then at least somewhere that you'd never know about, but that doesn't diminish their existence into any less.

Augustine reasoned, I doubt that I exist, and the very fact that I doubt proves my existence. And Descartes, even more succinctly, simply concluded: I think, therefore I am.

You know how I know these good-byes exist? Because the pain is always real. I can pretend them away, but their absence is actually the true superficial, sensory experience. Because these white lies have no power over me, certainly no more than those across a silver screen.

**

economics

"'I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member.'" That's the key joke of my adult life, in terms of my relationships."

This is pretty much the Cliffnotes version of my histories, except some older, more articulate man beat me to it.

Though it doesn't follow logically, the reverse is also true. If someone were to reject my application for a membership, its stock instantly skyrockets in my book. Even though I'm getting better at managing my assets, the blow never completely leaves me unscathed. What is a perfectly rational agent supposed to do in this case?

**

dramatics and shields, revisited

I think I am melodramatic. (Or can anyone be melodramatic when it comes to feelings? After all, you feel what you feel. Should the mind ever try to rein in the intensity of the heart--with all its foolishness?)

After an exchange, I am reverted back to the familiar scene painted by Amy Tan, the daughter putting up her castle of defenses, only to realize her perceived opponent is waiting outside, weapons nowhere in sight.

What are the shields for then? These defenses one puts up around themselves. Whether it be their own achievements or relationships with others, is it a product of external forces or of one's own folly?

It's an odd tactic, trying to escape outside myself.

**

house of cards

Again, I must come back here with yet another entry about you. They almost feel repetitive now, or at least predictable. Every quarter or so, I come back, and the first inevitable blow sends me off the ground, suspended and floating backwards, because, unlike the rational outsider, I never seem to be prepared for such apocalypses.

These little insinuations, or "guesses", as you call them. What are they for? Except to tear away at me little by little, so that everything I've built myself--everything I thought were real and unmovable (even by you)--seem like a house of cards, crumpling down with your careless little blow of air. A merciless smirk lurking around your blood red lips.

Do I seem melodramatic? Very well then, I am melodramatic.

**

emerald shield

For the first time in my life, I think maybe what I have isn't enough. This is such a revelation to me that I hardly know how to respond to it. Except, instinctively, the green-eyed creature wells inside me, and it takes all my shamed efforts to quell it.

Maybe it's not so bad a thing. Without the Machiavellian nymph, insidiously weaving vines about me, what other monster could take over? Self-defeat? Certainly Envy, with all her baggage and reputations, is also what keeps us afloat.

**