an indifference, a numbness

“I am a millennial. Generation Y, born between the birth of AIDS and 9/11, give or take. They call us the global generation. We are known for our entitlement and narcissism. Some say it’s because we’re the first generation where every kid gets a trophy just for showing up. Others think it’s because social media allows us to post every time we fart or have a sandwich, for all the world to see. But it seems that our one defining trait is a numbness to the world, an indifference to suffering. I know I did anything I could to not feel; sex, drugs, booze. Just take away the pain, take away my mother and my ass hole father, and the press, and all the boys I loved who wouldn’t love me back. Hell, I was gang raped and two days later, I was back in class like nothing happened. I mean, that must’ve hurt like hell, right? Most people never get over stuff like that, and I was like, ‘Let’s go for Jamba Juice!’. I would give everything I have or will ever have just to feel pain again. To hurt. Thank God for minor-league Fiona and her herb garden. One advantage of being kind of dead is that you don’t have to sweat warning labels. There was this one brown liquid that I thought made my nipples tingle for a second, but I think it was psychosomatic because I polished off the rest of it and didn’t feel shit. I tried every ‘eye of newt’ and ‘wing of fly’ until I found something that made me not look like Marilyn Manson anymore. And that’s the rub of all this, isn’t it? I can’t feel shit. I can’t feel anything. We think that pain is the worst feeling. It isn’t. How can anything be worse than this eternal silence inside of me? I used to not eat for days or eat like crazy and then stick my fingers down my throat. Now, no matter how much I binge, I can’t fill this hole inside me. I can’t take it any more. I think I’m going bat shit. I need to do something.” –Madison Montgomery, American Horror Story: Coven


emotional illiterates, and a note to myself

“I’ll tell you something banal. We’re emotional illiterates. And not only you and I — practically everybody, that’s the depressing thing. We’re taught everything about the body and about agriculture in Madagascar and about the square root of pi, or whatever the hell it’s called, but not a word about the soul. We’re abysmally ignorant, about both ourselves and others. There’s a lot of loose talk nowadays to the effect that children should be brought up to know all about brotherhood and understanding and coexistence and equality and everything else that’s all the rage just now. But it doesn’t dawn on anyone that we must first learn something about ourselves and our own feelings. Our own fear and loneliness and anger. We’re left without a chance, ignorant and remorseful among the ruins of our ambitions. To make a child aware of it’s soul is something almost indecent […] How can you understand other people if you don’t know anything about yourself?”

– Ingmar Bergman

This really gets to me. I find myself looking at people and not seeing people anymore. I’m ashamed because I look at them like their only purpose is to be useful. I hate that. I don’t want to be that person. I don’t want to measure people by how much they can give me, by how much I can take from them. I hate it. I’m ashamed. Is it because of the constant drilling of my econ classes to view people as mere input choices? Something that can be easily substituted, viewed as objects to ‘optimize’? Is it because of my lack of emotional literacy? Is it because of the premium on productivity we so value now? Because I can’t. I can’t handle it anymore. I’m ashamed, ashamed, ashamed. Chili, learn to put others before yourself. But putting them before you means to open yourself up to understand them. And if you open yourself too much you won’t know what’s coming in and out. So try to know yourself. Look inside, so you can give.

atlas, pasan ko ang mundo

“It’s dark because you’re trying too hard,” said Susila. “Dark because you want it to be light. Remember what you used to tell me when I was a little girl. ‘Lightly, child, lightly. You’ve got to learn to do everything lightly. Think lightly, act lightly, feel lightly. Yes, feel lightly, even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.’ I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly—it was the best advice ever given me. Well, now I’m going to say the same thing to you, Lakshmi . . . Lightly, my darling, lightly. Even when it comes to dying. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self-conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Goethe or Little Nell. And, of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the Clear Light. So throw away all your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly, my darling. On tiptoes; and no luggage, not even a sponge bag. Completely unencumbered.”
Excerpt from Aldous Huxley’s Island

separation, inadequacy

The tragedy is not that we are alone, but that we cannot be. At times I would give anything in the world to no longer be connected by anything to this universe of men.

— Albert Camus, Notebooks 1951-1959

I feel as if every single person I meet takes something away from me. They take a part of me, bit by bit, every waking moment of every day. I go home and I’m alone. It’s night and I’m awake. I’m alone and aching, aching for the parts that people take, the ones I give, the ones I don’t give, the parts stolen and missing. I look at my photographs and I’m disgusted because I’m slowly leaving my own body, my own self. I no longer am myself. I am the parts I lack.


eyes copy

STYLE IN ART: Eyes in J No Subete.

Currently drowning in work and academics, but yes wp, I am still alive. I’ll be close to dead at the rate I’m going, although I’ll get by somehow.

  1. My insomnia’s gotten so bad again that I only slept a total of 14 hours last week. It’s 12:35 am now but I feel kind of sleepy already, so I guess that’s a good thing.
  2. Crawling my way through my majors, really. It seems as if I am working myself into a corner that may be difficult to get out of. Never thought I would be BS Org again… yet look at me now. Cue priority adjustments.
  3. I’m sort of having some trouble with some people. Not quite sure yet if my issues are enough for action on my part. It’s mostly just an annoyance and momentary frustration, but if this shit continues I won’t stand for any of it.
  4. Realization: you are the still point of a turning world. Push forward, friend, push forward. We will get by.
  5. My friends are the bravest people I know. I wish to be half as strong as them.
  6. Poetry slam. Phases. Renaissance. Man the Maker. Que horror.
  7. Once again I am reminded that gender is fluid. And that love is SPG in Japan too. Love you Emi Takei. and Tori Matsuzaka. *dreamy sigh*
  8. Movie recommendation: The Girl Who Leapt Through Time, The Wind Rises, Jiro Dreams of Sushi, Tokyo Story. J-Drama recommendation: Asuko March, Kyou Koi Wa Hajimemasu. Manga recommendation: Ooku, J No Subete. As you may have noticed, I am back in my all-things-Japan phase. Only thing keeping me alive tbh. Naruto is ending in a month and Hirunaka no Ryuusei only has around 3 chapters left. Sadness.
  9. I’m going to Japan next year and I’m damn excited. Initially it was set for April, but I’m thinking of rebooking to June so I can spend a month going around the country, and to visit my host family. I know it’s a bit far from now but the thought is very, very comforting.
  10. I want a vintage cigarette case. and a Zippo lighter. Partially for aesthetic reasons, but why are they so pretty in the first place lol.

Here’s a random quote that’s sort of keeping me going:

“For what it’s worth … it’s never too late, or in my case too early, to be whoever you want to be. There’s no time limit. Start whenever you want. You can change or stay the same. There are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people who have a different point of view. I hope you live a life you’re proud of, and if you’re not, I hope you have the courage to start all over again.” (The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, screenplay by Eric Roth)

Slowly trying to loosen my grip on the railings. To fly is to fall. Carry on.

you’re my ever afterthought

“How many ways do I love you? Clad, half-clad, starkers.
Erect, recumbent, tumescent, down right limp. Snoozing.
Snoring. Smiling—as now—eyes shut, almost asleep. I
love your fingers! They unlax, they unfurl. You are
floating away from me on a dark, salt, refreshing tide.
I will tell you softly and more softly of the many ways
I love you and gently ease my voice to a thread, to an
all but Invisible strand of silk loosened—so lightly—
from the cocoon of sleep, unseen, within you. Dream. I
love you, a whole dream heaven world away from me, far
from me as Mars and further than the Pleiades, who are
seven. You no longer hear my voice, its ‘baltering
torrent is shrunk to a soodling thread.’ I will, all loving
all of you, cease now to speak.”

“Go on. I’m listening.”

“Dear heart!”

James Schuyler, from Excerpts from a Novel


When sorrow lays us low
for a second we are saved
by humble windfalls
of the mindfulness or memory:
the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
that face given back to us by a dream,
the first jasmine of November,
the endless yearning of the compass,
a book we thought was lost,
the throb of a hexameter,
the slight key that opens a house to
the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
the former name of a street,
the colors of a map,
an unforeseen etymology,
the smoothness of a filed fingernail,
the date we were looking for,
the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
a sudden physical pain.
Eight million Shinto deities
travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us–
touch us and move on.

by Jorges Luis Borges