Time to Dream Again

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I like visiting my friends’ houses. In fact, I always liked visiting houses, any kind of houses. Homely, lively houses scented with human warmth. Maybe because it’s easier to pretend that I’m anticipating my crush, muse, or imaginary soulmate behind the walls. The indoors smell more distinct in the winter and it gives my imagination some leverage.

Or maybe I’m just projecting the smell of the eucalyptus wood from the living room into other people’s residence.

It’s that time of the year…

Mirage


Waves of post-summer heat

rippled through afternoon’s lonely lil’ lot

like the contractions in my chest

and rhythmic pounding of tennis shoes

against the sun-weary gravel,

feet carried by the languid shrug

of a melody spilling over my life span

or at least what I know of it till now.

The buzz of anticipation

offers no solace

in seeing the one I love and fear

materialize into my mind

before finalizing into the

painful notion called “reality.”

And yet, I requisite no action either

for whatever is realer than my real

is all the worse for my chakra.

And I ponder all this

while the heat strikes my blazer

worn to reflect my image reincarnate —

arose

like the tears in my eyes

that turned the vicinity blue and green —

and crashed

bringing down a cacophony of

memories and snippets and anything

substantial.

And so I’m

running running running

as yesteryear’s autumn shadows

slink in front of my path.

Perchance,

what a pleasure to see all and nothing

in the sad summer heat.

At least I see color again.

And with that said,

I bravely meander

from bomb-shelter of a school to the car,

for today’s survival game is complete.

In the meanwhile

I pray I won’t spill my guts,

and with them

my feelings for you

borne out of freak chance

and absurd timing.

Love, they say

I was rummaging through my old notes from summer course when I found this little random epiphany written on a sheet of paper. Revised for clarity.

People and media romanticize falling in love a lot. I understand the hype, but for me, it’s so hard to deal with.

I don’t love — I become hyper-aware. I am obsessed. Worried. Tense. Paranoid. Depressed. And very, very anxious.

The last time “love” happened to me:

  • I endured some of the worst panic attacks in my life.
  • I had thoughts of self-harm.
  • I hallucinated in my sleep.
  • I disengaged from my friends.
  • I cried so hard I threw up.
  • In fact, I was throwing up everywhere I went, pretty much.
  • Lost my appetite and nearly passed out.
  • Had chronic stomachaches.
  • Had chronic anxiety attacks that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy
  • Had intrusive thoughts 24/7.
  • Had depression.

Looking back, now only does it sound funnier when I read this stuff aloud but I wonder why I went so gaga over that specific person. Maybe it was my firsthand assumptions about them or that they looked like a work of art in human form. If that’s so, it doesn’t explain why the symptoms were so…paradoxical.

Why do I react the way I do? My sister knows and she contends that it’s insane. Even I know it.

I don’t have answers to that. Such is the wild, unpredictable nature of love.

This person exists. Perhaps that should be reason enough.

But…

I be sure to take every painful situation as a learning curve.

I remember watching a Twilight Zone episode where a woman kept running away from some creepy man that seemingly stalked her across the country, and she kept calling out for help to the local passerbys that she encountered. although no one believed her. Near the end of the show, our protagonist, about half dead with fright, tried to contact the phone operator to put her on the line with her mother. The response was, “(Name of mother) has been crying over her daughter’s recent death.”

It hit her: she was dead all along. She just didn’t know how to accept Death — the same Death who was the creeky stalker, by the way, that was following her across the country, beckoning her to follow him into the afterlife with minimal fuss.

I narrate my life with parallels such as these, so let me explain. Before, I was the terribly insecure, desperate, love-starved girl who kept phoning the operators of Fate to give me the love I so craved and thus rescue me from withering away into a lonely, lonely life.

Then the operator picked up.

“Tiffs is suffering from excessive anxiety and thus can’t qualify to our Matchmaking line right now.”

Just as our protagonist realized the truth about herself, I realized mine: I was in intense pain. Fate, disguised as a lurking doom-and-gloom singleness, was merely beckoning me to put aside my love worries and continue on with my life, single but pain-free, even though I initially fought against him.

Accepting Fate’s advice wasn’t going to be easy, but knowing the truth about myself might just be the thing to strengthen me until I’m truly mentally ready to accept the next lovebug that comes my day through the series of coping mechanisms I developed after my precious experiences.

The truth? It doesn’t matter whether you have someone or not. What matters most is how at peace you are with your state of mind. That is the only way to feel authentic happiness.

You can’t be that lonely if you’re at peace with yourself first. Right?

But…ya know. All the millennial girl bloggers ever have probably said the exact same thing as I have. We’re so similar it’s disgusting. xD

Quotes that I made up

In case you ever need inspiration from quotes. I composed them all by myself, by the way, so trust me when I say you’re not gonna any corny-ass Marilyn Monroe quips from here.

– It’s not your successes that define you but the bravery to pick yourself up and try one more time.

– You haven’t failed enough until you actually succeeded.

– If you want to know someone with mental issues, ask them if they’re a poet.

– If everything goes well for too long, something is definitely wrong.

– Don’t drive when in love.

– Sometimes the best teacher is yourself.

– Always have a plan B.

– Keep wondering about everything. Chances are, you can write a bestseller with the answers you come up with.

– My friends would be good Christian girls. My best friends would be weird-ass punk introverts.

– Stop people on the streets and ask to take a picture of their clothes. Email growing channels with questions they’d love to answer. Take the initiative to do something you never did. You aren’t living your life to the fullest unless you’re the instigator.

– If I have to be depressed, then at least I’ll be depressed with style.

– Life isn’t about attaining the ultimate rose-colored life. It’s about making the best out of what we already have.

– If it’s too easy you’re doing it wrong.

– Life wasn’t made to overcome you. You were made to overcome life.

– Life’s a bitch. But God is still good.

– The only way to truly be yourself is to break out of the mold your role model designed for you.

– Writing is 1% actual writing and 99% figuring out how to write.

– Sometimes all you can do is the best you can ever do.

– Am I normal or is everyone else just crazy?

– Your vulnerability invigorates me. I’d like to slip you into my heart and hold you there forever.

The Truth About “Artists”

I’ll try to make this quick because I have homework to get to, but first I thought I’d let you know something. Also because it’s coffee hour for me after attending college in the city all day.

“Poetic.” “Aesthete.” “Artistic.” These are the terms others have dubbed me. I get it — I am working for a degree in the humanitarian sector of the workforce. When I’m doing homework, my mind is trying to cobble up a tap dance choreography to an invigorating jig that I can perform in front of an awestruck crowd. I stare at beautiful pictures of models and actors like they’re paintings from the Louvre. I will literally stop in the middle of a walkway to observe the cherry blossoms fall above me, and I stand like that for hours. Any heartbreak takes me months to get over. And if I’m not actually writing poetry, I wax poetic to my exasperated sister on the way home from college on how my crush looked at me the wrong way today or how I’m surrounded by idiot NPCs every day who should really go to Safeway to buy ingredients for a better life, or how I sobbed my way out of my latest existential crisis or how no one likes me, or if they do, they aren’t substantial enough, or…

No, I get it. Labels are superficial, and while I don’t take them seriously, I realize this much about myself. I can’t live life without observing it through aesthetic lenses.

But what I also previously assumed about myself…is totally wrong. I used to think that aestheticism enables me to find beauty in  everything.  That means finding beauty inside of people, not just in obscure models whom I don’t even know personally. I thought being an aesthete would make me a good judge of personality.

Wrong.

I’ve noticed a pattern every time I fall in love, whether on real live people or whether it’s on models. All my objects of affection…they’re all physically beautiful in some way. Otherwise they have a tendency to look a lot like me. Ask my friends — they’ll tell you that the pictures of them stashed on my phone have the same haircut as me, same facial as me, same fashion statement etc.

That’s right — I’m a narcissistic bastard. Mum wasn’t wrong when she said she noticed a high percentage a poets she knew in her life based much of their craft on themselves.

Isn’t it ironic, then, that as much as I bemoan guys for calling me beautiful when they express their interest in me, appearance is the #1 factor for me that piques the most significant amount of interest towards someone?

And look, I’m not saying that appearance shouldn’t be an important factor in choosing your friends or life partner. It is. But when I examine my own judgements of people, I realize that I overestimate the quality of people when they’re beautiful just for being beautiful while I vastly underestimate their inner qualities. Of course, I do my best to find out who people really are inside.

But let’s be real: I have a wayyy higher favorability bias towards beautiful people at first sight than if they weren’t. Don’t even get me started on last year when I had multiple nervous breakdowns because I saw someone absolutely gorgeous on campus when I haven’t even met that person. Really wreaked havoc on my mental health. If that’s not an extreme case of bias, I don’t know what is.

Bottom line? I glorify beauty, but how much is too much? At what point does glorifying appearance became superficial, especially when my object of affection looks a lot like me?

I don’t have the answer to all these questions since I’m still figuring myself out. I just thought I’d let you know that artistry comes with a darker side. Trust me, I know. I’ve been heartbroken many more times than I could count because “aesthetically beautiful” didn’t live up to my standards. It’s common sense to not judge anyone by their looks, but why I still can’t stop lusting after physical appearances, I don’t know.

I’m not saying all aesthetes have such tendencies, or non-aesthetes aren’t going to go gaga over the next sexy lady in their frat circle. But I know who I am, and I can attest this lived experience to you.

As I like to say: want to know whether someone is a narcissist? Ask them if they’re a poet.

 

 

 

 

Yours,

Yeah, the comma after the end of the title isn’t a mistake. 

Tried to make this one a variation of the Petrarchian sonnet.


Laced with heart’s wild and warm-blooded

Hymns of praise and pure,

Stray thoughts spurt like a fountain top,

And all its sweetly pleasures do they rain.

You’re warmer than blood,

Closer than flesh,

I wish to the Aether each day afresh

That your revelation was not in vain.

*

Every spirit of the living air,

Every mirage holds a light

To your ghostly countenance

And breathes life into me anew.

It shimmies down my veins

Into yearnful elations

As I utter you my finest proclamations:

“Can I keep you?”

Magnum Opus

silhouette photography of woman with shoulder length hair
Photo by Luis Quintero on Pexels.com

Cartoonish caricatures of fishies are

floundering in my periphery

while my clone lies sprawled under

scrutinizing starlights.

She’s writhing,

pining.

O my love,

what did I just do to you

in those milliseconds, grains of

an existential high

infecting the air?

I’d nurse you

Like a mother and her squalling child.

But I’ll send another

in my midst,

nary knowing that

the one who watches over you

like God and his Book of Life

is me.

Muse, My Muse

I’ve been gathering ideas for a while. Now I present to you, my grand finale, my pièce de résistance, my…well, you know. 

*****

There was a magic in the wind tonight,
Toned with a watchful violin strain
As the heartbeats of the wild join under the rein
Of its ruler, a descendant of the night.
Her footsteps bare and so light — so light!
For dreams in which I’m once more fain,
I’d catch you though in vain
Break the circle and she’s out of mind, out of sight

She struts the catwalks of the roof’d tippy tops,
Your boundless zest implores me to stay;
You’re a sinner’s divine intervention, I pray?
You embody my evening throes of art
For who else created your nymphish rite of twists and hops?
I’m afraid, Pixie, you sniggled your way into my heart!

And if you call for her, watch the stars adorn her windswept hair
As she clambers up the sky and sings “Kayama!” to the prince of the air.

Evening-goer’s Delight

It’s been a while. I’ve been quite busy with things, some of which I like, but in the process had to sacrifice other things that I also like (like writing/blogging). I stepped away from my history book and outside the door for some fresh air. The twilight weather was…wow. It’s November here in California, which means it’s getting chillier, but on rare occasions, the weather and the atmosphere is like SUMMER again! And I was so overwhelmed that I had to jot down this poem to preserve the perfection. I’m happy to say that in those long busy autumn days, my poetic muse is still alive.

IMG_4482

***

My God! — the time is perfect

The time is NOW

The creamy twilight merges into

A homely conglomeration of serendipity

Earthly needs, they call me to stay

For if not, I’d just fade away

Into the raw serenity.

*

I sing a song of the crickets

The shy evening sky — oh, just ever-so-high!

To the one who flaunts November summers

Your warm breath frames a picture-perfect standstill

I forgot my sorrows

I forgot such things as tomorrows

There’s no WIND — just a looming, sweetly chill.

*

The strands of sun have tucked in, now

The air feels on my fingers — like a tender cheek

Let me lean on you, revel, BREATHE

I just don’t want to think, lest I cave

Cave to your impish cues

Yet your presence shines on in sunset hues

For you’re the one I desperately crave.

***

P.S: You know that picture up above? Yep, that one’s mine. I actually took it on my old ipod. And for an old ipod, I actually liked the way the picture turned out!

 

Life Is Not a Dream

low angle view of spiral staircase against black background
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Have you ever experienced a time so exhilarating that you hoped it would never end, only to wake up from it and realize it was a dream?

Sure, Tiffany. Of course, Tiffany. Everybody has that. But maybe I’m talking about this because of how deeply it touched me, despite it being a universal occurrence. Ah, the hopeless life an HSP…

Anyways, I dreamed that I met the object of my affections. Never mind how we got to know each other better, as dreams usually skim over such details. Within time, I was play-wrestling on the floor with that person. We were hysterically laughing, cuddling, playfully pinning each other on the ground — my, what a high I got when it was me doing the pinning! And all because we adored each other so much. I felt sense of wild, euphoric bliss that I never experienced in real life. Dreams, man. I swear the good ones make you high.

A voice in the back of my head always questions whether the situation is too good to be true. Well, such was the case now. And thus, a snivel of doubt entered my dreaming mind. The waking world is always so devastating to wake up to. And I was enjoying this moment, as much as I couldn’t make sense of it…

Sure, it could be a dream. Sure, it all feels too good to be true. Sure, only in dreams do you obtain your object of affection so easily. But, in case this is a dream — here a rush of pure love aka dopamine engulfed my brain — THEN THIS IS A DREAM I HOPE TO NEVER WAKE UP FROM.

I think it’s just funny that I knew I was dreaming while I was dreaming, and yet I hoped the fantasy would play on forever and forever and forever…

Maybe this basking in eternal love is a smidge of what Heaven is like?

Anyways…

This monologue. I call it being “artsy” and “poetry.”

You probably know it as, “procrastinating from homework.”