Footprints in the Sand: A Eulogy to 2014

With the year drawing to a close, I have the perfect excuse to write a 2014 in review post. So I shall.

Truth be told, I've almost forgotten about this little blog. You could say it was an accident that I even remembered that I had one. School is ever so consistent with its demands; distractions are always only an arms' width away; and I am perpetually lazy to finish what I set out in doing. 

Whatever the case, I am back (at least for now). And as with everything old I chance upon, I could not help but re-examine this blog. I am both laughing and horrified at my old posts - the old me - who tried too hard to make herself bigger than she seemed. Especially that first post, my goodness. I want to crawl inside a hole. I am tempted edit it even though I know I shouldn't as to keep the essence of what a blog should be. But - right here, right now - I am telling you, my dear reader, that I cannot promise that I will never tamper with it //cries

And I suppose the title of this blog is an ode to that:

First, a eulogy to my old self who was overbearing with the use of big words and odd sentence patterns: She had been self-important and vain in a way that tried too hard to say she was not. While most people don't say this in funerals, I will say this: I am so glad you're my past already. I hope you stay buried. 

Perhaps I am being too mean. But most likely than not, I will end up judging myself like this at the same time, next year. Even though it seems scary (and I suppose it is), I also find it amazing. How big of a difference time can make! It's the same nostalgia I get from seeing one of my past crushes talks to me. When back then I would have been melting in my shoes from giddiness, now I would talk to them at the strange comfort of being nothing more than friends. I mean really, I am so happy that we're just friends!

The transition from one state to another is a blur but the difference between the two is everything but. It's such a stark contrast, but it's not unwelcome. This coming from someone who is deathly afraid of the future. Or perhaps I should say was.

Although I can't remember all the details that were during the year, I can say that I have learned to embrace change. Little by little. I cannot define what kind of year 2014 had been to me but I think that's exactly what it should be. It is about transition and change and growing up.

So here goes the second half of my eulogy:

To 2014,
This year I started this blog.
This year I learned to step out of my comfort zone.
This year I signed up for responsibilities that I thought I didn't have the strength for.
This year I made friends with people from my college block. Before, I had none.
This year I confessed to the boy I had been so deeply infatuated with that I still feel the sting of the scar he left me. I learned to look at him in the eyes since then.
This year I was confessed to by a boy I had believed would be the one - but only in a parallel universe.
This year I turned down a boy who probably already loves me. Whom I probably love. Too little or too much, I cannot say. (It's a work in progress).
This year I struggled with so many insecurities, so many fears, and so much happiness.
This year has been unexpectedly great and trying; and I am grateful. 

As I grow older and the years wash over me, I may forget how pivotal this year has been to me. Like footprints in the sand, the details will vanish amongst the waves. But even still, I like to think that I would at least keep the image of the sun and the sea of those days.

oh look, I guess I am still not over trying too hard to sound wise //shot

Lost; Unfound

I have so many passions in life but they are too little to fill me, it seems. To draw, to sing, to write - I am never good enough to specialize in any of them. On days like this, I feel the weight of my own inadequacy pressing down on me. Pressing on me so hard that I feel I'd soon become a black hole. 

Perhaps I could say my greatest passion would be to love people. Except, I fear that I have failed even at that. 

What is it that I want?
What is it that I can be?
Who am I now?
Who will I be tomorrow?

Am I anyone at all at this point?

I have been in limbo for far too long - don't you think a whole life thus far lived is too lengthy of a time? And yet, I remember a time where I was certain of what I wanted to be. The three year old me who was adamant on being a nun, the six year old me who wanted to be a teacher, and the twelve year old me who boasted to be a nurse - All of them, I feel like I have lost, and I don't think I know what it feels like to be found anymore.

Was I ever even found?

And I'm so desperate wish that someone will find me. I want to scream into this void: "Someone, please. Take me away from here." But I know I can't. Not when I already know I have to be my own hero. And yet, there lies the problem: Heroes are always so lonely.

So I cry within myself a bit, and then some more. Until tears give way to something else.

~~~

"Mom, I want to study psychology."
"No, just no. Never."

"Dad, I want to shift into diplomacy."
"It's too late for that."

"Sister, I don't know what I'll be."
"Just don't think about it."

"But I can't not think about it."

A Questionable Train of Thought

A Questionable Train of Thought

by Niegel S. 

I do not know this train - its origin and destination,

Why I boarded it, and why I don’t know anything at all

I do not know its name, or my own for that matter,

Not even the name of this woman whose chilled hand I hold

I do not know her face - separated by these warm bodies

Pressing against me from all sides - there is only this cold tethering us

I do not know why I know that she is a certainly a she,

Or that she is dear to me; only that I don't want to let go

I do not know why she does though - as the doors usher in this unholy air

And screech when they move to close. She has escaped me. 

I do not know why her back is so familiar to me,

Her hair billows in the wind as my hand reaches for... 

you

Desperate to be where you are

The doors have closed and still, there you are

And I am here

But you are there

"why

are there

so many 

whys?"

But I do know why I withdrew my hand:

because I was afraid of this pain:

Of closing doors 

And that cold unfeeling air

Still, I do not know why -

Why had I let you go?

Why had I let you go alone?

But truly I do, and that’s the reason

why

there are 

so many

whys.

~~~

I didn't think three weeks would whizz by, but it did. There was so much to do that the endless summer syndrome didn't plague me. That said, I didn't feel productive at all. Like my New Year resolutions, my goals for the summer are left unchallenged. My unproductivity is an effective reminder of my ineffective time management skills. It does make me wonder how I'll brave my sophomore year (which stars next week).

Merde! I am growing up too fast. Or rather, time is passing by all too quickly.

Anyway, seeing as my freedom will soon be crippled by academics, I thought a nice way to cap off my first summer as a college student was to write. I chanced upon the idea for this piece during one of my many train rides. I hope you liked it!

Someone Who Writes

I am someone who writes, but I am not a writer. Although the dictionary would say otherwise, I can't convince myself that I am one. I just don't feel worthy because unlike the authors whom I've put on the pedestal, my words aren't beautiful enough, tragic enough, painful enough, powerful enough. My words - my voice - aren't strong enough.

Writing doesn't come naturally to me. At least, not as strongly as it did before. Even back then, when I got flashes of inspiration, the trail of words would vanish before I find where it's supposed to lead. I have to flail around before I can write an ending. An ending, not the ending. Not the gut-wrenching, stomach-churning, heart-racing finale to a most wondrous epic but a somewhat sensible resolution to a story that had potential.

And I know this sounds horribly depressing (especially as the first post) but I've come to approach it as one does when faced with universal facts - with an almost imperceptible nod and a shrug of my shoulders. I am resigned to my inferiority.

It doesn't, however, change the way I feel about the written word. I am still in love with words, with books, with poetr:

 I am in love with its sights, in the landscape of Paris and the darkness of hidden alleys.

I am in love with its voice, in the softness of a child's tone and the roughness of an alcoholic's slurs.

I am in love with its scent, in the crispness of pre-loved pages and the promise of newly opened books.

I am in love with its tastes, in the sweetness of first love and the bitterness of farewells.

I am in love with its spirit, in its hope to shake a person's core, changing him/her for good, for better, and for forever.

Ironically, this reverence for words (which dissuades me from knighting myself as a writer) is the same thing that motivates me to write. I hope to improve my skills so that I can effectively transform my thoughts into words. I want to be better so that I can transmit my message to a broader audience. I want to be better so that I am able to touch another's heart.

I want to be better so I that I may one day call myself a writer.