When you're in a class like AP Computer Science and work with Java, most people have no idea what you're talking about. It falls a bit close to being a racial stereotype in which you only expect one kind of person to understand what the self proclaimed elites call "serious business".
When I tell people about the class, I don't blame them for saying out loud their mental image of a good little nerd pushing their glasses back up and talking in that lisp. We sit quiet and conetnt, even exited as we punch in zeros and ones.
Were it so easy.
One or the other is not how any life works. There are gray areas we understandably avoid for various reasons. The older I get, the more I see ways to creep into gray areas.
My AP Comp Sci teacher told us on day one that the stuff we learned in his class could be used to cause alot of computer harm. Destroy a school network and the like. He made a simple rule:
Use your powers only for good, not for evil.
Me being my military self, its easy to give into my aggressive tendencies for destruction and brute force. I've already thought about doing computer evil a good dozen times already.
Thus we delve into the realm of self-control. One of the few things that separates the old from the young. Can't say that for all people, but everyone knows how easy it is to lose control, especially when you're a young child.
Losing control at school is not a good thing. I've done it before. We all have. It's an outlet for all those raging emotions. I keep telling myself to find an outlet.
My poetry's been on the fritz, as is my writing. I have more time than anybody else I know, and I can't bring myself to produce something more meaningful. If you have the time, get out there and express yourself for a little while in any way you know how. It's good for the soul.
There's this new guitar class at my school that I'm in. Nothing fancy, but I already broke the damn b-string. We all gotta start somewhere. School isn't as bad as it used to be. But then again:
Everybody has some sense of what the calm before the storm is. Whether it be a stop in the wind, or a anxious wait before going on stage, everybody knows the feeling.
Some people love it. A nervous and fleeting second where your body trembles in anticipation, waiting for the event to come. Depending on the situation, you might be smiling, you might be praying, or even crying.
It's the feeling you get as your heart races before stepping on stage to the welcoming applause. It's the steady anticipation of running from cover to the rain because you have no umbrella. It's the tilt of your eyes as you stare intently at the screen for the opening kick off at the Super Bowl.
This time tested moment is experienced by every person at least once in their lifetime, a trial of nerves that can leave a person speechless and unable to move.
The calm before the storm, as it were.
Sometimes it lasts for seconds, minutes, or even days. The prior knowledge of what is to happen next is either embroiled with cheery excitement or dreadful pessimism. Some are crushed by the weight of the moment, dissolving into a mess of tears and hyperventilation.
Others step up to the challenge, hiding their fear away from their otherwise careful observers. They know peers will look upon them, judging them at every step. Inside, they scream as they charge into the fray.
It's in our blood. Our humanity demands that we experience nervousness and anxiety. Our parents and their fathers have felt the same, whether it be before speaking on a podium, or banging their swords against shields as the battle line forms.
It is this immense anxiety that grips the young as they dive into school every year. As my educational journey takes another progressive step, I am beginning to feel the calm.
It's hard to pin it down. Humanity aside, I have no reason to feel this way. Along with my peers, we've all done this multiple times before. More times than can be mentioned. We know there is nothing to be worried about. We know exactly where to go and what to do.
But for a young sire like me, it all becomes subjunctive.
I learned how to deal with it in my own way a long time ago. Even as a young child, I would play it in my head over and over again as an act of inevitability. It was like pieces on a chessboard, waiting to be moved for the game ahead. My mind knew exactly how to metaphorize the journey ahead.
For me, school became war.
In third grade, I was a knight against dragons.
In fifth grade, I became Norman Cavalry at Hastings.
In eighth grade, I was an American GI on D-Day.
In eleventh grade, I became a fighter pilot for the Invictan Response Force Air Force.
Through this, alot of people are often cautious, even scared by the military vibe I give off. I don't care to try and explain to them that I don't see school the way they do.
I see a large battlefield of swords when I walk out into the hallway at the lunch bell. When a teacher gives out instructions, I see a mission briefing. When the class falls silent under the stress of work, I see a command center of people screaming into their mikes as soldiers fall not more than a few miles away.
Don't get me wrong, I still know how to separate myself from this delusional fantasy I indulge in. If anything, this makes my school days much more bearable and interesting. It makes me actually want to be in a classroom. Assignments become a serious matter of life and death. It's a justification to stay in hell.
Because, well, you fight hell with hell. Fire with fire.
You can laugh at me, pity me all you want. But the truth is that we all need our coping mechanisms. When someone dies, we cry. When somebody is born, we cry.
When somebody goes into hell, they fight.
So waiting for another school year that's about to come doesn't seem so bad. Sure, I can feel the anxiety and the shakes, but it's all the calm before the storm. I'm just waiting for another year-long war to fight. This is how I survive.
It never gets any easier the older you grow up. It's a fact of life the new generation hates to accept, with all their free time invested in socializing and gaming. Who can blame them? School ain't what it used to be.
On a blistering Monday, nearly ninety degrees in a sun baked courtyard, I waited in line for my books. For my schedule. For my one last refugee of fun and hope to disappear as the summer drew to a close. The heat mocks me.
I took comfort in knowing I'm not alone. We all share the inner instinct to hate the inevitable. By default, that makes you alright with everyone else in line. If you're going to hell, don't do it alone.
Then came the regrets. The things you could've done but never got around too. You try not to blame yourself, but time is merciless in its path. And here, time seems to fall slower, just to torture you into pessimism.
There's something else though. Some inner feelings of...excitement?
That's what the schooling system has done to so many. An obsession to compete against your classmates, an addiction to "learn".
Many before me have tried to fight it, and have matured and moved on. Perhaps one day they might look at their kids and say: "Ha. I can't believe I used to do that. Good luck on your test!".
Sometimes I wonder how many teachers actually believe in the sham of an education system they work in. How often they devote their emotional mindset into genuinely caring for their students. How often they say to themselves: "This isn't right. I have to teach them not to think this way."
So when I see my friends and their smiles, exchanging stories of summer events, I detach myself enough to get lost in a moment of laughter. We all agree on a us vs. them mentality, staring at the teachers. We don't go into hell alone, because we are always there to help each other out on assignments and tests. We know favors count for alot.
Even as I horribly refuse a free drink from my friend because I forgot my wallet, I give in, because we both know I can help him someday, when he really needs that one homework.
I don't believe school can teach me anything worthwhile academically, but I do know it teaches you how to make friends.
When you grow up surrounded by labels of peer pressure, social norms, and signs of how to act, it's hard to deviate from a preset course of action. It takes control of what you wear, how you act, how you speak, and in the most general of descriptions, how to live your life.
One of these decisive factors for the current young is video games. You've heard of it, so it must be true. Capitalist America has groomed their electronic cow to produce the most milk out of the young, forcing them to convene on common grounds of "fun".
So it's a whole other argument when it come to video games that concerns me. Are teens playing games because they want to? Or because they're forced to?
'Forced' is a bit misleading here, but I'm referring to societal peer pressure. The internal instinct of capitalist America has triggered a subconscious desire to purchase. Not because the product is practical, but because it's the 'best' thing to do. There is a fine line between buying a game because you want to play it, and just because someone else has it.
This ties into the American education system, which, through no fault of its own, has encouraged kids to compete with each other. First it was grades, then it was material possessions, and now it's social lives. The system has played on our primal need to compete, turning it all into a covert war of buying and owning.
It's an addiction to compete. It's deadly in America, where whoever has the most, wins. Now that it's taken hold in the electronic world, kids are being exposed to the perils at infancy. It's a drug.
You hear stories and cases of people falling into internet and video game addiction, but you dissociate from them because you believe you believe their cases are extreme and unfathomable to you. But what if it's because you're just denying it from yourself? If it could happen to them, it could happen to you, right?
What I'm ultimately getting at here is that addictions cause you to lose personal integrity. This is virtual cocaine, which affects the mind and the body. The more you're connected to electronics, the harder it is to step away. You might think that this is obvious, but many people continue to set their measures of e-addiction higher and higher.
Who can blame them? In this modern America, it's no longer practical to be disconnected. Peoples' jobs are spent in front of a computer. Teenagers have to use a computer to do their assignments. More and more, it seems that our society is becoming more enslaved to machines rather than the other way around.
It may turn out in the long run that resisting electronic cocaine is a futile endeavor. After all, society is measured in change by infinite unpredictable factors that become increasingly unrecognizable as time passes.
I refuse to believe that we very few can change the flow of history. Yielding to society is much easier than resisting it, because everyday the fight for the little guy becomes harder. It forces us to do the next hardest thing: change ourselves.
Next time you come upon the choice between electronics and a walk in the park, decide what part of you holds more brevity. Are you willing to yield to society, or are you willing to change yourself?
These are the questions I continue to ask myself. The more I grow up in this electronic world, the more I realize the futility of resistance. My search for something more becomes increasingly futile in a society I refuse to accept. The vices of humanity call, and we must all submit.
Am I supposed to feel this way? Is it the new societal standard to feel pessimism? Or am I just growing up?
However:
Just because I take electronic cocaine doesn't mean I have to like it.
And so we merry few continue to fight the 'good' fight. We search for the truth. More importantly, we search for ourselves.
In June of 2009, there was a science fiction movie called Moon, directed by Duncan Jones, starring Sam Rockwell and Kevin Spacey. It made its debut at Sundance, and has received several nominations and awards since.
It is the story of a man named Sam Bell, who, in the near future, works alone on the moon for a company named Lunar industries. He spends his days with monotonous work, driving and monitoring harvesters that collect helium-3 for power supplies back on Earth.
With more than enough time for recreational model building, Sam amuses himself with week old broadcasts, occasional live talks with his family back home, and ranting at the base AI smiley face named GERTY.
As the movie wears on, you get to see Sam toil on in his depression, loneliness, and paranoia as he struggles through his three year contract in order to get back home.
I'm not going to ruin the movie for you, because even if you hate watching halfway through, the twist ending makes it all worth it.
Reflecting back on Sam's lunar life makes me think alot about my own tumultuous path. Because writing this at four in the morning, gripped by insomnia, has given me the perspective clarity I've seeked for so long.
Every once in a while, if the conditions are just right, the moon casts a pale blue light into my room, straight onto my bed. I can't fall asleep unless it's pitch black, so the light blinds me into insomnia. The window curtains don't do much.
Tonight is one of those nights. It seems a bit too much to try and move my bed into another position, but then again, the prospect of sleep has never been so attractive.
Maybe that's why I associate with Sam so much. We share a common hate of the moon, and we'd both like an AI companion named GERTY who sports a yellow smiley face.
The real reason why I loved the movie, felt so much emotion for Sam, is because I feel like him. Lonely, apathetic, and self-loathing, no one's ever given me a real reason to carry on, not even with the prospect of false hope. We're both trapped in a world of isolation, so eager to escape our confinement, yet so scared of change at the same time. We're waiting for that one event to spur us into action, to push us over the edge.
Sam finds the courage to liberate himself in the movie, and in the end, is satisfied with what he becomes. This is because he chose his path, not because he yielded to circumstance. He created his destiny.
I may believe in fate, but its important to understand that you only hold that belief for as long as you believe you are powerless to control your future. Nobody blames you for being scared to face the unknown.
But even as I stare into that pale faced moon, I can't ever sleep in peace. And I'm not willing to move the bed either.
Who knows? Maybe one day I might end up like Sam, working on the surface of the moon, pained by eternal solitude.
As the year draws out to a close, I'd like to think this blog was worth something to me and to others. That would make me happy.
For a high school student, and most people in general, happiness is a very important aspect of their lives. We love happiness because it is a pleasant feeling; everybody knows what it is and wants more of it.
After reading The Happiness Myth by Jennifer Michael Hecht, It's become quite clear that modern research has isolated why we feel happy when we do certain things. This is blatantly obvious to most, only because the reasonable explanation is "it just does." I'm trying to find out WHY it makes you feel all nice on the inside.
According to the book, the origin of human happiness is divided into a few categories: Wisdom, Drugs, Money, Bodies, and Celebration. Some include aspects of of the others, and can be experienced by all. Everyone feels happiness in their lives. Might as well go looking for more.
I don't claim to be a neuroscientist or anything, but it seems that happiness triggers a chemical response that makes you "feel" good. So if all happiness is derived from these chemicals, are we not in fact drugging ourselves? Can we become addicted?
Of course of we can. Some people stick to hedonism as a guideline for living because it's human instinct to become happy. It was invented along with the first humans.
The real problem is obtaining happiness. There are many actions that can be taken to induce the chemical heaven in your brain, but it all depends on what you like and how far you're willing to go. We know of the obvious methods with questionable legality.
It ranges from roller coaster adrenaline rushes, hundred people orgies, and the killing of others. To each their own. Besides, don't forget about the sadist who refuses to hurt the masochist.
The truth is, when you become older, the opportunities to obtain happiness widen exponentially. You get to drive, drink, smoke, live on your own, etc. It's the transition to this stage that you can either embrace or ignore. It's this transition that makes things complicated.
It's the drugs you take with your friends at lunch, the short-lived relationships with that one person, or the combined glee of that last bell on the last day of school. This kind of happiness is liberating, addicting, and revered above all else.
And then there's the downside. There are laws, regulations, and rules that prevent you from trying to have fun. So you break them and you keep going.
Or you turn violent and angry, letting your frustrations turn you into a person with desperate needs and desires, a person that society fears and shuns.
I've come to believe that this whole transition phase is vital in shaping the rest of your life. Knowing whether or not you can achieve happiness in your adolescence allows you to make decisions on what kind of person you want to be, what kind of life you want to live. It's what defines your goals, aspirations, and endeavors. It's what drives you to live and succeed.
So perhaps you can imagine the frustration that occurs when a person in this transition phase is feeling unhappy. When they refuse to see the life ahead of them. When they don't see the point in finding future happiness because they can't find any now.
So they say happiness isn't everything. Maybe not, but it sure means alot.
Adolescence is a time for every person to decide who they are in relation to the world. It is when a person decides and acts on their impulse to become a productive(or unproductive) part of society according to the status quo.
And who doesn't think they can change the world at the ripe age of eighteen? Some go on to become successful in their mission, fulfilling their lifelong dreams. It is the majority that is swept up in the throngs of everyday life. After all, nobody can expect who they actually become to be.
So my hypothetical stands for the people who don't want to part of this society, the ones that see human civilization has no intrinsic value to success. Whatever are those people are to do?
I don't claim to know anything, or even a lot. I'm convinced that no one I've ever seen or heard of can ever truly understand what it means to know everything, to become the richest, the most successful, the most popular, etc. There's just too many contradictions and morals involved.
But of the very few things I know, I can testify that the world is not a perfect place, and that my little contributions to the grand scheme of things don't matter. So why should I continue to exist? Is it for some higher purpose I have yet to discover?
It is this kind of soul searching that never stabilizes my mind. Everything I've ever known has always been betrayed by the one common enemy. Purpose. Even purpose's purpose is questionable.
I don't think anybody has a satisfactory answer as to the purpose of everything. I'd be quite shocked if they do.
But what I can't grasp is how I'm able to live, how others have been able to exist for so long without any care for their own purpose. It shocks me to see that I have to conform to the human civilization that has made its own system of survival based on endlessly questionable methodology.
By this I mean that one group of people lives based on indulgence. The first person to rebel gets thrown out of the group. If, hypothetically, this were the only group, that one person would legally be able to "cease to exist" in the relative frame of an outside observer.
That's what keeps me up at night. I want to become that lone person outside the system that can live without the group in peace and happiness. Maybe I already do and I don't know it.
That's what disturbs me. That there is only entropy and no order. That there are only more upon more unanswered questions. It's quite overwhelming if you actually stop to think about it. How is a person to live with such ambiguity? It baffles me.
I search for the impossible things that I can never hope to find, live the life that I know has no value or meaning to me, to reach toward a goal, destiny, or fate that I do not care for or want. How can a person live like this? Perhaps its just that simple: they can't.
So if that's the ultimate truth, I can justify my absolute praise and welcoming of death. What a shame that I can never understand what causes people to exist or perish at that hands of a higher concept.
After some studious and intimate hours of note taking through my physics textbook, I've grasped the basic concepts of Einstein's special relativity. Also, kudos to my physics teacher for having the devotion to teach an otherwise uninterested class in the complex intricacies of the universe.
Basically, Einstein lays down a four dimensional plane in which we exist: length, width, height, and time. This pretty much throws Euclidean geometry out of the window. Triangles can have degrees outside 180, and not everything works the way you want it to.
If you dig a bit deeper, you'll find that the theory involves time dilation, gravity affecting time, and all mass equaling rest energy (E=mc^2).
So just how complex does our universe get?
I've come to notice special and fascinating things that occur in my life that can't be explained by science or concept. In my relatively(haha) dull life, I've made it a habit to notice the strange little things that seem to transcend understanding.
Mind you, I'm not talking about religion, philosophy, or any other concept that humanity has coined with terms. In fact, it's so unique and special that I don't think I could fully explain it in words. To do so would be a contradiction. Too bad. I'm doing it anyway.
Most of what I'm referring to comes from what we don't understand about ourselves, about others. For example, perspective. We have adjectives that describe so many things. However, this is only a widely accepted definition of what can be sensed with the human organs. You might see red a different way that I do, but we both call it a bright color. But what does the blind see when you describe it to them?
I'm suggesting that the differences between us, the things that make us special and unique, are not a result of genetics, upbringing, or observation. They exist in an unknown state that transcends you or me. It exists everywhere and nowhere. It is everything and nothing at the same time.
What I'm talking about is the things you cannot accurately describe with words, only because everyone sees it differently. When different people read a story, they come up with their own separate thought process that can paint vivid images. These images cannot be the same as the next person. It can't happen. And if it does, we can't fully explain it.
I'm referring to trying to describe dream to a friend. Can they ever know and experience exactly what you saw? Maybe, but the common response is no.
I realize that this kind of thought process is fanatical, if not common among those I know. Thing is, I doubt anybody could ever explain it to another and convey an intact meaning. I'm having a hell of a time just typing this out.
I've grown more and more fascinated by these unexplainable, impossible to understand thoughts. Yet I still wish for more to calm my brain in rigorous mental exercise. It's a good addiction to pass the time.
But what of the real world? If it doesn't exist at all, then all the thinking I've ever done on this means everything. But if this reality is true and my thoughts are the fantasies, it means I've wasted so much time.
Yesterday, May 1st, was my uneventful birthday. I refused to have some pompous or extravagant celebration at someone else's expense. It didn't seem right compared to all the other things that were going on in the world. Some many bad things, so many dying people, and all I could do was celebrate the date of my birth.
So the day went about. I woke up in the early morning to take the dreaded SAT 2 subject tests. Not exactly what the average students wants to do on their birthday, especially because afterward I realized I had failed one of the tests.
After that was finished, I went to Oakland Chinatown with my parents for lunch and helped them pick out the groceries. All I really did was carry the bags, but it felt like I was getting something worthwhile accomplished.
I came home, saw all the nice happy birthday messages people had left me. I reveled in the news that another game in one of my favorite series was going to come out later this year. This one was going to be about Vietnam, which mirrored my recently finished Forever War.
So I ate dinner, trying to forget about the importance of the day. No cake, no presents, no party.
Then I went to bed, trying to figure out why I was feeling absolutely nothing. Why I wasn't feeling sad. Of all the birthdays I've ever had, this one was perhaps the most uneventful.
I didn't mind spending it alone. I didn't mind feeling some silence.
So when I woke up this morning, I understood why.
I finally came to terms with a solemn oath I had made long ago. An oath to not waste my life. It was an oath I had been on the verge of breaking so many times. I had promised this to my brother. My dead brother. I hadn't learned about him until a few years ago, and even then I didn't feel the impact until I started high school.
You see, he died as a result of a miscarriage. The reason this is important is because my parents only wanted one child. Had he survived, I would have never been born. I owe my existence to his death. In a way, I felt he made a sacrifice for me. I'm still an only child as a result.
So this past 17th birthday of mine, I wasn't celebrating my birthday. I was celebrating his death. And you never celebrate a brother's death.
It's ironic that I feel so strongly about him, even though I will never know who he was. In all my darkest hours and suffering, I can only turn to fate and ask why I had lived and he had died.
So I find it offensive when people tell me how annoying their siblings are. They don't know how much I would give to have a brother. They don't know how important it is to have someone to grow up with that shares your blood. I will never know what that feels like.
Although I don't necessarily believe in heaven, I'd like to think he's watching from above. He's there when I cry, when I laugh, and when I try to live the life he never got a chance to. Either that, or he hates me to oblivion for stealing what could have been his.
I often entertain the possibility of a scenario where he lived and I died. Would I still cheer him on? I don't know.
So today I wanted to celebrate the life that he lives as a ghost. Not the life I live on Earth.
You see, the select Chinese that my family belongs to believes in honoring the dead. We believe the dead live in an underworld hell (Not the western world version of fire and brimstone), where they spend their afterlife. In order to make sure they are comfortable, when give them everyday items.
So how exactly do you send items to hell? You burn it.
In China, there's an entire market devoted to making papier-mâché joss paper items so that they can be burnt and sent to the dead. These items represent everyday aspects of human life. There are credit cards, bank notes, food, pets, and houses that you can send to the deceased. Its often funny to see what can be made into paper form and burnt. Believe it or not, there are joss paper prostitutes and condoms.
Every year, you wrap all of the items into a huge 'mail' bag, write on it the sender and receiver, then gently lower it into a brick furnace. Fire takes care of the rest.
I folded two paper cranes. One was withered and fragile, the other graceful and beautiful. In a way, I wanted them to represent me and him. I wanted him to know I will always care. If he gets them, I hope he'll understand what it means.
I set them ablaze, and watched as the smoke faded away, turning paper into ash.
So I think I'm finally old enough to move on, and still share this story with anyone willing to listen. I was able to type this entire thing up without breaking into tears. I just needed to tell somebody. I think it's the only way to bring closure.
Here's to you, brother. I love you more than you will ever know.
After raging on the perils on my unhappy life and returning to the monotony of required schooling, my mind has calmed a bit. However, my soul continues to cry for help in other forms. It's not everyday that wishes for liberation can be fulfilled. The chance still brings me hope.
After looking at the futility of my situation, much should be improved. Whether they can be improved is another story entirely. Reflections and whining can only do so much. So where do people get their motivation from?
There's a movie I'm quite fond of. It stars a young Natalie Portman in her debut, along with a younger and more eccentric Jean Reno. The movie is called Léon, about a solitary hitman living in New York City's Little Italy. Léon is a lonely and downtrodden man. Even though his occupation keeps him from making friends, he is able to find consolation in the littlest things.
There is a scene in the film where Léon comments on how his best friend is a houseplant. The plant never talks back at him, and is always there to listen. The film concludes with Léon's sacrifice to save a young girl he befriends.
Another movie I love is Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai. It depicts the mysterious 'Ghost Dog', a hitman that follows the honorable code of the samurai, often reciting passages from Yamamoto Tsunetomo's Hagakure. He is a lone stranger that is friends with a man who doesn't speak his language, along with a young girl that never sees his true nature. Aside from killing, he also cares for a flock of pigeons that live above his apartment.
Ghost Dog also perishes at the conclusion of the film, sacrificing himself so that he may atone for his sins and follow his code.
What do these two films have in common? I find myself alluding to these charcters more and more, men bound to their lives by a code that they begrudgingly accept because it was the path they chose. Both are strangers to the common world, accepted only by a small few who cherish the hopes of the outside world.
And in the end, both die in distress and pain, not fearing, for they know full well this is their destiny.
Who can deny such men are honorable idols of valor and courage, of honor and strength? I find myself more attached to this fiction because I can no longer see the realism in believing such characters could exist in the free world.
I can no longer believe that there are still people of honor and chilvary. I can't see the existence of morality and ethics that humankind has set for itself. There is no obligation to abide by good anymore.
It saddens me to know that such fictional characters can only be fiction because they embody so much of what I believe in. What is a man to do when he realizes his code can never hold value in the world?
So I won't listen to my parents, my imaginary characters, or my teachers. They can't give me what I want.
Because amidst this suffering, this is the path I choose. Of all the nightmares and hells I could have embraced, I choose this one, only because it is in full and utter harmony with everything I stand for and constitutes every last fiber of my being. I don't change it because I'm afraid. I don't change it because it makes me stronger.
Above: 3 strips of bacon, 'eggy in the basket', scrambled eggs, and a cup of moderately sweet coffee.
Accompanying music:
A meal always tastes better when you're the one that cooked it. This is best achieved with breakfast, arguably the most important meal of the day. But if cooking eggs while avoiding waking my parents has taught me anything, its that spring break presents luxuries I seldom enjoy.
On the bright side, I've discovered a solution to my writer's block: 1 hour of meditation after a minimum 110 hours after any schooling. Not a feasible solution to help my writing abilities, but I've been able to produce a 45 minute podcast in the process.
However, my free time is not truly 'free'. I've been studying in my SAT subject books for a test that's slated on my 17th birthday.
And isn't that the greatest insult? To mar the celebration of my birth with the grasp of schooling and its merciless institutions. Forcing me to study when I'm on break.
But what really scares me is that I've already begun to miss the horrible sounds of the school bells, the apathetic tone of a teacher's voice, or the mob of students all talking at once.
If my hate for schooling isn't apparent, I'll emphasize it here: I HATE SCHOOL. And no, don't you go back a few posts on this blog to refresh your memory. I wouldn't dare waste your time with my rants. It's only a question of why you're reading this.
Which all means that the only drawn conclusion is my worst fear: I've become addicted to school. The system has grabbed me with its totalitarian grasp, seeping into my mind, driving my veins of hate and contempt. I've become addicted to pain.
Twice I've woke this school year, struggling to breathe, my heart beating at an inhuman rate, as if I've been running for miles nonstop. Numerous times I've had dreams of dismembering my family, echoed by screams of pain and laughs of sadism in an orchestra of delicious blood and flesh. I've felt enough pain to drive me to suicide; feelings that some shall never know in their lifetime.
I need not convince you of the products of compulsory schooling. Let me be the example of the mental damage it has caused in some.
I can live with being a masochist. In fact, its the only remaining option I have. I'm not bluffing when I say that school has taught me not to fear death.
And here I thought I could be happy and satisfied for cooking my own breakfast. Before this week ends, I'll consider doing it once again. Eggs are delicious.
Alas, I've become pessimistic once again. So I wonder why so very few adults understand what this education system has cost. When my parents can give me my sanity back, then they can start complaining that I'm not a obedient adolescent. When teachers can help me enjoy life once again, then they can judge my intelligence.
So listen to your common masochistic, delusional, and suicidal student. He knows more about school than you think.
As I reflect on my previous writing on this blog for the past several months, I continue to see the trends and patterns that pervades my witting. I have branched off to new ways of expressing my ideas, with some degree of success and satisfaction.
Alas, my bitter struggle with writer's block continues. It is the single greatest factor preventing the expression of my soul through words. But in finding a solution to this, I must be practical. I did not expect myself to change drastically from my last reflection, but I certainly have gone through some change.
I've been able to isolate my creativity enough to chart it like a stock market graph. It peaks at certain moments, and then dips down low for the majority of the time. I am currently residing at one of these dip points.
This analyzation post is an exception to that graph of doom. That's because this is the post where I list my new goals:
- Again, I must renew my sacred oath to battle Writer's Block. Again, the embittered soldier at the Alamo does not know how to give up.
- Expand my horizons. I hope to go beyond just a simple podcast and words to include some video. Spring break is coming up soon, and i'll see if this idea is logistically possible.
- Express myself in a way that is satisfactory and soul soothing.
- Stop thinking a blog post is an academic assignment every three seconds.
- Effectively convey the most understandable meaning in my words in the shortest space possible.
- Make my posts more coherent and structured. I have the nasty habit of jumping point to point within a paragraph without proper transitions.
- More creative pieces. My dialogue story was mandatory. I hope to change that.
- Decide the fate of YOM. As it stands, this blog is a weekly portal of assignments that are graded by my English teacher. When the school year ends, I must decide whether or not to continue this blog, or bury it as an artifact of the past. It would honorably join Shattered Infinity in the legion of fallen heroes, a testament to the revelations of my adolescence.
In the end, words prove futile in describing this small, yet important, aspect of my life. The goals remain unclear, but the my convictions stand strong.
With the start of my new podcast and audio logs, it's hit me that my writer's block may be over. As I and others so crudely describe it: A solider that battles in a hopeless battle against all odds. He has what it takes to win, but that victory will achieve nothing. The only winning move is not to play, but not playing means death.
In the end, curbing my creativity and tapping into it is an untimely chore that will still be scrutinized and graded. I can't avoid the simple fact that my classes force me to become a dictator against my own thoughts.
And then the education system demands that it must be graded. So how do you grade creativity?
But I bring this up because of the origins. Every person has a source that brings them unnecessary hardship and pain. This source can be a person, object, or a metaphysical thing. Most often, you have no control over it.
And so today I realized that there are too many sources in my life. It defies accurate explanation. And like the soldier that I am, combating these sources is another endeavor of hope entirely.
I keep trying to tell myself this is another adolescence phase, but from what I've been able to gather, the phase does not include self loathing, depression, daily crying, and mental breakdowns. Adolescence, as it was, does not exist. Just another fancy term for growing up. So I wonder how many of my classmates experience this.
I would say a lot more, but the evidence is difficult to find, and much more for curiosity rather than practical analyzation. The people I know all experience it, even though they never talk about it. The signs are in the conversation topics, the flared angers, the cold stares.Every time I see that stare of blank indifference I know that I am not the only one.
When I realized that, I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I stopped caring about my life. And most of all, I eliminated the definition of hope from my life.
So where does this all come from? The rigorous testing? The chemical imbalances in our diet? The competition of the American school system?
I genuinely care for all those other people out there that know this unbearable pain. Their cries for salvation and liberation are not in vain. I know they exist, and I am more than willing to listen to what they have to say.
I know so many people that would turn to death to alleviate the pain. I am no stranger to these thoughts.
So I pose that ultimate question. How did the adults of today get over this? Did they ever experience this at all?
I think it's a taboo that no one talks about. Being a high school student isn't easy. Knowing pain daily is.
I know it exists. I know how to find it. I know how to see it. So I wait for when somebody changes it.
V for Vendetta is my favorite movie of all time. Perhaps it's the "Big Brother:1984" aspect that appeals to my inner revolutionary, or the simple story of a heroine struggling to find herself in an unfair and corrupt world. I can relate my life and the lives around me to such fiction with astounding accuracy.
The film explores the life of Evey Hammond, thrust into the revolution of a future totalitarian Britain. We see the story of her inner struggle, along with the homicidal actions of V, a Guy-Fawkes mask wearing vigilante. Through their actions we see the corrupted characters of their world: a egotistical soldier turned TV pundit, a doctor who kills in the name of science, a corrupt bishop pedophile, and a selfish dictator who rules without mercy.
It is in this context that I see the darker side of human nature. As I've grown older, I can't help but feel the fiction of this movie is more and more non fiction everyday. It is a world I cringe at, a world where I must become more aware of darkness everyday.
I suppose such a setting applies to many of us when we are young and innocent. Our eyes are barely open when we are thrust into an unforgiving Earth of wonders that we struggle to understand. As we begin to grow older, we see the difference between our childhood optimism and our world induced pessimism. When we are adults, reality loves to remind us that evil is inevitable, and that the hope we find in our lives in often scarce and sacred, existing most in dreams and aspirations.
Attempts to find the root of my personal pessimism for this world have yielded no fortune, for the answer I seek lies in the dark side of human nature I hate to explore.
And yet it is clear on television, the internet, the newspaper. It thrives in our daily vision, during our tasks. It is something hidden inside most of us, a monster we hate to admit exists. It is such evil that I fear it.
Within this evil, I indeed see the opposite side, the side of hope and brightness, of peace and love. From such strong forces I know my integrity still exists, and that the integrity of others still exist. No good or evil deed would be possible otherwise. It is the actions stemmed from such good or evil that may be the hardest to accomplish in our lives.
This is why I hold a personal vendetta against the evil of this world. I decided long ago that my integrity demands it. I would hate to lie to myself when I say I would die to combat the sins of humanity.
Through the toughest moments of my life thus far, I have called on this young and wavering integrity to guide me. Here's to hoping that it may guide me forever more on my mission of honorable action.
"Our integrity sells for so little, but it is all we really have. It is the very last inch of us, but within that inch, we are free."
In a whole hearted attempt to kill Mr. Writer's Block, I've decided to undertake a writing exercise I've been itching to do for some time. If my reflections are any indication, it's that I really can't back down from some writing innovation if I have the chance. So I'm here to combine the two things I always do when I blog: typing, and listening to The Killers.
Ladies and Gentleman: Desperate
Send me a way out
Anywhere away from this hellhole of my house.
I'm here on my own I was always on my own. Still am. Interlude with some good notes. Hard and heavy.
Hammer, stutter now Let's smash in some skulls. Lets rock, lets roll now The calm before the storm is liberating. She says I'm obsessed I say I'm in love Who will ever love me? Hold me Pipe dreams that won't happen. You've done it now Now send me way out I feel insecure Who really doesn't? And desperate But not right now I feel it now I feel your hate for me.
And you don't see You don't see how I have soul. The way I see I've got it now I understand. I'm destined to suffer. I'm desperate Realized it on my 13th birthday.
Desperate Nobody gives a shit when I say it. Desperate But I have to care when you say it.
I'm better off like this You keep telling yourself that. I'm better off I'm better off like this No I'm not.And you wouldn't care either way. Don't you know I care Yeah. I do care.More than you will ever know. No, no
Desperate Sing along now boys and girls. Desperate Listen to that guitar play. Desperate That a solo? Desperate I remember that time I tried to die.
I'm better off like this I'm better off If I say it enough times it might come true. I'm better off like this
Don't you know I care No, no
I wish I was myself Close now. Again Back when I was still innocent? I wish I was myself Maybe. Just maybe. Again
When I decided to join track and field this year, I didn't take the decision lightly. I was afraid I wouldn't have enough time to do my homework. The major factor was that I needed to get away from my computer more. I wanted to get in shape.
So like everyone else, I signed the athletic packet, which required physical clearance from my family doctor. Off I went to the health care center in Oakland, supposedly stopping in at the last appointment of the day.
I expected a fifteen minute checkup. I stayed for two hours.
My doctor started asking questions, supposedly to calm me down, or to fill in some of the forms I had. At first I thought it was normal, until he got in depth about my future career and my grades. Then he started to tangent off.
I sat there listening to him rant on about society. About not limiting yourself. About being noble.
I didn't want to hear his speech, but I was intrigued. I sat and looked straight into his eyes as he spoke. He didn't waver once in what he wanted to tell me.
He proposed an analogy about current situations. That life was one part intelligence, nine parts effort. He referenced the smart people in every classroom who were fully capable on succeeding, except that they lacked the motivation and effort. He told me that when a person is shown a video of their ethnic group being discriminated against, they would fail their math test the next day. If they saw a motivation speech by a person of their race, they would ace that math test. He told me that the only person limiting yourself is you.
He went on to explain that his time at Harvard was not in vain, even though he went on to become a lowly clinic doctor. He was perfectly content on being himself due to the modesty he practiced in nobility. "Who is more noble?" he asked, "The high school dropout garbage man who never fails to collect trash, or the Harvard graduate CEO who's taking government bailout money to grab bonuses for himself?"
He concluded by simply stating that all he wanted to do was motivate me to become noble, and become whoever I wanted to be. I shrugged on what I thought was my first experience in a major faux pas.
I say this because I felt some unexplainable anger. At first I thought it was disgust at how the wrong person is telling me how to live my life. He was my doctor, not my father. Then I realized it was because I had never heard this from my father at all.
Did I start to hate my dad? The one who neglected to make this speech in my life?
My father and I don't talk for days at a time. When we do, it's not about anything important. Even though we live under the same roof, I grow more distant from him everyday. He doesn't know how to be a father. My grandfather died of smoking when he was young, so my he doesn't know the first thing about parenting. He and I share the mutual passive attitudes of not bothering each other, making it up as we go. Even as he continues to smoke himself to death like his father did.
With that, I finally decided not to ever take up smoking, no matter what. I decided that if I ever have children, I'll give them what I now dub the "Doctor Speech". And most of all, I'll make sure that I never stop putting in nine parts effort to one part intelligence, especially when it comes to my own life.
I think I'll be able to join track with my head held high.
Blogger and the overall idea of blogging has changed little about me, even though teachers would claim it is beneficial to my writing skills. My problem is that I don't see whatever improvements I'm supposed to have made. My doubt into this matter is a result of my constant writer's block.
I'm not accustomed to "freedom" writing in school. I doubt many others are either. There are very few writing assignments where you have full flexibility in what you wish to express. This is most likely due to fears of what you can write about in school and get away with. People love to bend this thin line of school ethics whenever they can.
This year, when I decided to take creative writing and required English, one of my main objectives was to defeat my adversary, Mr. Writer's Block. Now I have two classes that force me to do what I am not used to: exercise creative freedom. The number of assignments I have with such flexibility is on the rise. Right now, I'm juggling between blog posts and a few fictional stories I intend to finish.
Such creative independence is daunting. I am not accustomed to freedom over my actions. Most of the time, somebody controls or influences what I wear and eat. In my previous schooling, over numerous assignments, I've always had direction that forced me to work with guidelines.
This lack of dependency now has forced me into an ocean of topics that I hesitate to choose from. It's not because there's so little to work with, but because there is far too much. I don't like jumping into the ocean of creativity without a lifesaver. I often drown.
This is why most of my blog posts are drawn from random moments of inspiration. These are often influenced by others, which I still consider to be guidelines from fake teachers. They indicate what I should write about. These moments are seemingly random, and there is a subconscious response that reminds me I have a post due as an assignment. Sometimes I write these ideas down, and then disregard them later because I deem them stupid or impractical. The one idea I do keep, I write about.
This brings me to my second problem. When I don't discover moments of inspirational clarity, my mind enters a narrow alley. I just want to get the work done and disregard my creative voice. Some may be able to pull ideas out of nowhere on the spot, but the assignments I work on have a deadline. Although it is to be expected, you can't control creativity. I can't pop up with writing ideas at any given moment. My lemon of a brain doesn't like to be squeezed as a last ditch effort to complete homework, especially not the night before it's due.
When I started weekly blogging with YOM, I was enthusiastic about the idea. My first post was a prelude to the great endeavors I would undertake. As time wore on, my idea pool became exhausted, and I began writing ideas without efficiency and thoughtful prose. By the time I got here, my writing style was lacking in terms of language diversity and purpose. I was writing because I had to, not because I wanted to. This still holds true today.
Part of it is that I do some of the blog posts at school, or that I'm simply repulsed with being forced to make ideas out of thin air. My distaste for blogging has grown into an untimely chore rather than an outlet for my spirit. I'm still struggling with writer's block on my blog, along with the overall construction of this entire self-analyzation. The evidence is in my old blog, Shattered Infinity. Writer's block forced me to kill it with extreme self loathing.
When I do write, my current blog follows a trend. I generally just write about media and politics. Everything else falls into the miscellaneous category.
Media is an easy choice for me, as it is for many others on their blogs, obviously because of the impact it has on our lives. My obsession comes with people's interactions with media, and exactly how trends work. More specifically, this goes into the booming video game industry I am so very fond of. This is reflective on the video gamer in me.
Politics is the second fail safe option. It's tempting to write about, but must be done carefully to avoid confusion and criticism, even though both are expected in the final result. I fear the outcome enough to shy away from it.
The bright side on writing about political affairs is that you can relate to everyone on a personal level, as many have a political opinion. Also, you choose who to write about without getting easily stuck. There are many influences to draw from. Barrack Obama is clearly one of the major characters that come to mind. Following my mission statement, I have an inner craving to urge readers of my blog to think more about politics. After all, the government controls many aspects of your life.
Other times, I speculate on combining the two. I often visit www.gamepolitics.com, where I can get inspiration on the two topics that inspire me to write. I've started many hybrids of game politics posts, but they've turned video game posts every time. I hate politics more than I love video games.
I'm dissatisfied with restricting myself to these topics. I want to break the trend, but alas, Mr. Writer's Block has his gun to my head.
If there is anything I learned in the past few months, it's that I should broaden my writing horizons. I'm trying to overcome my fear of writing without being stuck. I've started to save unfinished blog posts and rants instead of deleting them. Looking over them might give me inspiration, and tell me what I shouldn't do when it comes to writing in general.
First, writer's block killed Shattered Infinity. Now it's forced me into a ditch with my current blog YOM. I feel I need to gain some revenge against Mr. Block.
I often reflect on my origins and my past for future steps. We all do. When I try to think about why I do the things I do, I draw blanks.
What is my purpose? My destiny?
That's another philosophical question for another sunny day. For today, I had to look at the past posts on this blog and decide whether I've stuck with my original purpose and goals.
What goals? What purpose? I created the blog because it was a mandatory assignment. My original statement of purpose? I pulled that out of my ass because it was an assignment I had to do.
I said I would try to make the world a better place by provoking thought. I might have succeeded in making the few who read my blog think, but I've really achieved what I was looking for: Reflection.
School isn't easy. It is very tiring and boring for me. This blog is just tacking on to the list of "Reasons to live". Reasons to get up in the morning.
When it's all done and over, I think I could look back on this blog and see what I've accomplished. It'll bring a small smile to my face knowing I've done what little I could online in the grand scheme of things.
So that's my new goal. To keep publishing new posts on my blog. Surviving. Being proud of something at the end of the day. Just for the hell of it.
So I will remember what something someone close to my once said: "Life is the uphill battle you fight. When you get to the top, your ultimate reward is peace - Death. The part you need to look for is getting up the hill under enemy fire. And planting your flag on the top."
So I will keep fighting that war. That struggle to get to the top of the hill. This blog will be another rest stop for me.
I can put my weapon to the side and just sit down for a while. That sounds about right.
When you're in a class like AP Computer Science and work with Java, most people have no idea what you're talking about. It falls a bit close to being a racial stereotype in which you only expect one kind of person to understand what the self proclaimed elites call "serious business".
