Don't Do Drugs

Don't do drugs.

The phrase is so simple, words we have all heard, reiterated time and time again, yet at the same time, it is tremendously demeaning. According to social constructs, drugs are seen through a negative lens, which then causes the people who associate with drugs to be dehumanized. This proves to be true in certain events such as death. When an individual's drug use costs him, his/her, her own life, some level of tact and sensitivity is expected. However, the incident incites the unexpected: apathy. The responses may range from "I knew this would happen," "I knew this was going to happen," "this was his/her fault for doing drugs," to even "s/he deserved it."

As humans, we truly haven't come that far in advances. Who are we to say who deserves to die? Are we even educated enough to truly come to that decision? Today, consumption of drugs is still popular, as it was back in the past, despite the fact it may not have the most pleasant taste or odor. This raises the question: "Why are people willing to involve themselves with self-destruction?"

Why is that? Do they feel lost in their own life? Have we lost ourselves? Do we need drugs to find ourselves? Or are we simply bored, bored of a painfully average life? Do we need that injection for a wave of euphoria and excitement? Or is it a result of social alienation? A need for acceptance?

Whatever the reason, I will not closed-mindedly base my judgment of that person on their choice to do drugs. Adults have always told the younger generation, from childhood to adulthood, to not sacrifice their bodies to drugs. Uttering those three words: "Don't do drugs", people indirectly belittle other people's intelligence. The intention is to put an end to drugs, but the approach only creates a negative aftershock.

Have they taken the drug user’s circumstances into consideration? Or do they know? Then, why do they still repeat that phrase? The reason is: they (may have) made mistakes, some avoidable and some that remain as scars. With that in mind, people still choose to test that theory and not all times will the outcome be favorable, but tragic.

All in all, condemnation and enforcing one's opinion onto others is not the appropriate answer. We all undergo inner turmoil and to some people, drugs exist to compensate for their insecurities, numb their physical/emotional pain, or to appease boredom. Instilled with a various circumstances and upbringings, people will control their lives and walk a different path.

Drug use remains a controversial topic, carrying many positive aspects, as it does negatives. How an individual conducts his or her lifestyle is not any other person's concern. In no shape or form am I arguing that people should not involve themselves with drugs; we are entitled to our choices. Bearing this mind, one must demonstrate kindness, which will beget further kindness.

Please take care of yourself and your body. Most of all, show grace and spread benevolence.

This, I also find tragic: Your friends in real life and on the internet are not a great enough physical contrast to the maltreatment in your life, so here you are, in the corner of your closet, alone.

Tragic

Once again, I have found myself spiraling deep into the darkness of the mind. Thrust into a frustrating event, I enter an emotional frenzy, trapped by blinding confusion and the weight of my anger. As always, blame is always placed on me in the family.

I wear denim shorts, only to be accused of not washing them. When explaining that I had already washed them, my father somehow reaches the conclusion that I only put one article of clothing (the denim shorts) in the washer. I correct his false statement, leading to an argument that ends with him yelling, "STUPID BITCH, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS ARGUE? IF YOU DON'T SHUT THAT DIRTY MOUTH, I AM GOING TO HIT YOU."

I am the middle child, the one my parents deem as the mistake, the devil child. The baseless foundation of our relationship consists of nothing more than a mutual hatred. I suppose the most I can offer my parents emotionally is downgraded love, crossed with hatred, remorse, and disappointment.

After a storm, disorder crumbles into the warm image of peace. However, nothing is ever constant and excess trust is bound to be placed on that sense of security. One suppresses the trauma and basks in his or her new-found solace, only to return to the stressful environment of an imperfect reality.

Reality itself instills me with sadness. My close friend, suddenly ended her phone call with her boyfriend and entered my room. She uttered these truly heart breaking words: "Do they do this to (hit) you often?" I did not know how to answer her. I couldn't answer her.

It's almost tragic.

College & Life

Last week, I started the high school extension program commonly known as community college. Today marks my third day there. To be honest, it feels like a big, fat joke. Life is such a joke.

Moving forward simply frightens me, yet I don't want to be chained to the present. However, that stressful phase of my life was mundane with its daily routine, but I found comfort in its sameness. At the same time, half of me wanted to leave this place, forget everyone and everything associated with what I call "home." My last two years of high school was spent in extreme anxiety. I was simply overwhelmed and scared–about the future, the present, everything, thinking to myself, "Should I take a step forward? Or step back?" As a result, I didn't make any big step and here I am, stuck in a small community college. It's a baby step, but it's worth SOMETHING.

When I attended my first college class, I realized how... easy it was. Really, it's all a matter of perception. In my head, I overcomplicated the concept of life after high school. Perhaps I am too sheltered. Perhaps I am too much of a perfectionist at heart and drastic change is too great for me to process. I am NOT comfortable with mapping out my entire life in the last few years of high school, being expected to carry out my plans directly after high school, utilizing a considerable sum of money on academics and on a new lifestyle, and leaving myself so vulnerable.

Most peers would call me mature, but at this stage in my life, I would say I am far from a responsible, capable young adult. I recognize my artistic talent and my academic abilities, but I am not confident. I revamped my wardrobe; I'm not going to rush myself. Step by step, I am growing up until I feel secure with myself, my life, and my talents, all to become the respectable college student I expect myself to be.

Love

Love is not happiness. Love is not passion. Love is the aftermath of passion: security, trust, and solace. Love is all a primitive biological drive. Love is a chemical reaction. Love is attachment.

Love is never telling you that I love you because I fear that if I say it too much, the meaning will be diluted and all its worth will be lost. Love is waiting for your phone calls at 8 PM. Love is calling you at 8 PM. Love is giddiness. Love is embracing you and inhaling your scent. Love is devotion. Love is associating songs with you. Love is going to the Homecoming Dance with you although I have a fever. Love is recognizing your faults and ignoring them. Love is looking out the window of my dad's Scion just to catch a glimpse of your house on the side of the freeway when my dad drives me to school. Love is helping you with your college essay. Love is basically doing your art project for you. Love is spending weeks and weeks on a thirty page book you'll never read. Love is looking at your picture and feeling a slight pain in my chest. Love is crying and feeling scared when I realized and finally understood how much I love you. Love is vomiting after you broke up with me. Love is not eating because I can't stand to eat. Love is not sleeping enough because I can't stand to sleep. Love is driving my dad's Scion and tearing up because of the music on the radio is the one I once associated with you. Love is still keeping the photos of you on my Photobucket. Love is still keeping that worthless book. Love is going to Prom alone, although I imagined you with me that day for two years. Love is...

A couple months ago, I would have wanted to jump out of my skin, out of my reality, into someone new. My eyes would have appeared bloodshot from deprivation of sleep, dripping and dripping with salt every minute of every goddamn day. It’s tough being cemented to the ground. Time and time again, I have thought to myself, “I want to die.” The truth is, I have only wanted death to that catastrophically horrible feeling.

At this stage in my life, I am okay. I am fine. I am no longer overwhelmed and learning to feel okay with myself again.

On a thousand islands in the sea
I see a thousand people just like me
A hundred unions in the snow
I watch them walking, falling in a row
We live always underground
It's going to be so quiet in here tonight
A thousand islands in the sea
It's a shame

And a hundred years ago
A sailor trod this ground I stood upon
Take me away everyone
When it hurts thou

From my head to my toes
From the words in the book
I see a vision that would bring me luck
From my head to my toes
To my teeth, through my nose
You get these words wrong
You get these words wrong
Everytime
You get these words wrong
I just smile

But from my head to my toes
From my knees to my eyes
Everytime I watch the sky
For these last few days leave me alone
But for these last few days leave me alone
Leave me alone
Leave me alone

Genetics and Beauty

Born into one life on this tiny planet, we are bound together by our genetic programming. Initially rebellious, we strive to be different, fearing that we will become a carbon copy of our parents. In our teenage years, you will follow the latest trend. You'll listen to obscure music. You are young and wild. You'll never become your parents. However, all efforts prove to be futile and suddenly, everything will change: the tidal waves of your genetic destiny beckons you. You'll mate, settle down and have children, and follow in the footsteps of your parents.

You know what is ironic? Our perception of beauty is all a lie. Beauty is merely a concept shaped together by our genetics. Presented with thousands and thousands of faces, we come into contact with a great variety of people. Give someone a group of faces and ask him/her to to decipher who is the most beautiful, s/he will undoubtedly pick the most average face. Blend every face imaginable; the common denominator will be deemed beautiful. Beauty is the most evenly mixed face. Beauty is not striking or the most different, because those are all a genetic risk. A gamble. Beauty isn't special at all.

There is a reason why a regular "beautiful" female cannot be a model. Art cannot be average; it is different, hence why it stands out from the scenery of every day life.

Just a Beginning

Enter high school: "Your life is just beginning!"
Turn 18: "Your life is just beginning!"
Graduate from high school: "Your life is just beginning!"
Enter college: "Your life is just beginning!"
Graduate from college: "Your life is just beginning!"

If it makes you happy, it has the potential to be bad. That's reality.

"Here I sit, wondering about what just happened. It made me think about myself. I always wondered why I’m such an angry person, made my wonder why my family is so broken. There is nobody to talk to in my house. We are so divided; everyday there has to be petty drama about the smallest things. It usually is just words but today was different. I don’t even know how to describe my feelings in words. I don’t know why I’m even writing this, I just need to let this out. I don’t know who I am, I have nobody to count on, and I wonder why I am so ungrateful and petty towards everyone. I want to change but I just don’t know how, I want my family to change. It hurts seeing my parents fight. Maybe if I wasn’t such a bitter person, maybe my family would talk to me more. My family is so distant from each other; my brother doesn’t even like me. I pretend like I don’t care but I really do, I’m fragile, and today I’m broken. Here I sit, so vulnerable; I don’t even know what to do. I don’t even deserve to have pity; I’m an awful person and a terrible son. My father, who works so hard, asks me to do the simplest tasks and I answer him with attitude. I’m ungrateful and selfish, I really am. Everyday, only thinking about what I have to gain, I never think of anyone else. I don’t even understand why people I call friends constantly stand by my side. What is there to like about me, I’m such a shitty person. I love how I pretend to be the most care free person in public, but really, it is such a façade. I’m not even honest to the people who I supposedly care about. I’m such a shitty person, I guess I kind of deserve all of this then." ~Andrew Lu

I Love You, I'm Sorry

Time and time again, I have wanted to tell someone that I love him/her, but I cannot. I cannot tell my brother this, or a friend, or a lover. Sorry isn't something I can bring myself to say either. I'm sorry is so fucking hard to say. I love you is so fucking hard to say. I'm so incredibly fucked up. I'm sorry.

Living Sickness

I am a living sickness, stuck with the tang of blood on my mouth and grime underneath my nails. Ambivalence is a strange feeling. Some days go by like a breeze; other times I am a hollow husk. I feel light-hearted, yet strained and pulled in every direction. Some mornings, I wake up with my mind in perfect clarity. Other mornings, my mind is a pestilent sore and I want to vomit. I am directionless and I don't know what to do.