Filled with emptiness

Happy happy happy. I look around and all I see is happy. All I hear is happy and all I touch is happy. But all I feel is cold. Desolate coldness in the midst of happiness and I wonder why I cannot feel happy? Why I cannot emulate happiness or simply “fake it til I make it”. Because all I feel is an emptiness than continues to consume all that I am. And this emptiness is all that I’ll ever be. A human body driven by passions and desires but insensitive to the rejoicing feeling of fulfillment. Because all I am is empty. And all I’ll ever be is an empty carcass that cannot bear to bear happiness, as all that can fill me is my overbearing emptiness.


Did You Forget How To?




It’s a simple process, they tell you. 

It’s innate. You can’t forget how to breathe.

You can’t forget how to dream.


They command you.



You can’t forget how to. It’s innate.


They coerce you.

Exist in a world that suppresses life.

Inhale the air of a world that chokes souls. 



You can’t forget how to. It’s innate. 


The Radicalism of Existence

There is a certain hypocrisy that is characteristic of humanity.

There is a glassiness in the eyes of every individual that reflects the uncertainty within.

There is a strength that endures the eminence of weakness.

There is a need to satisfy the void that leaves us empty-the void that makes us human.

There is a radicalism that is manifest in humanity; the radicalism of unconditional love; the radicalism of liberal instinct; the radicalism of absolute freedom; the radicalism of righteousness; the radicalism of fervor, of passion, of desire.

Being human is quite radical. You have all these feelings and thoughts that often conflict with each other and you’re driven by your desires and you’ve lost the ability to steer yourself through a life that is ultimately your own. You’ve lost the radicalism that fuels ambition. You’ve lost the ambition that ignites the spark of hope in succeeding in the arduous pursuit of existence.

But there is a fire that burns in the eyes of the broken, of the desirous, of the ambitious- the fire of a burning radicalism that yearns to revolt, to rebel, to influence, and be recognized.

This fire burning within my eyes is smoldering the glassiness.

My anger, my anger burns.


My Breathing Ego.

Essentially, there’s a degree of egotism that we all fester. Though we all condemn the plagues of the ego and the vice of such a narcissistic characteristic,  we all have it. It is irrefutably innate. It paradoxically reflects the righteous dignity and the wicked arrogance of the human soul. 

My ego is all that you’ll see of me. These words that I type are part of my ego. This bombastic language and these philosophical reflections cannot only be attributed to intelligence. So you’re reading my ego; I act upon my ego. But why is it that the ego is shrouded by a faulty definition of “righteousness” if it is all that I present myself as? And after so many years of acting upon my ego,I have almost lost the ability to differentiate it from myself. But how can such an “alter ego” exist as a separate entity from “myself” (whoever that is) if it’s a part of my daily routines, my mindset, my actions, and essentially, a part of me? There’s the paradox.  

So, in the name of my “villainous ego”, I will continue to hide behind my big words. I will refuse to cry, in public or alone, for if I cannot control my emotions, I refuse to allow you to dictate them. I refuse to care, for that is weakness. I refuse to seek help, to seek answers, as help has never benefitted me. I refuse to open up to others as it leaves me empty and alone. After all, I’d rather have the companionship of my ego than the emptiness of being misunderstood, of being a lost cause, of being a “victim” that must be looked after by false love and baseless care. 

My ego is real. Care. Care is fake. 


I love writing.

I have an inner genius that drives me insane. It pushes me to question social standards and historical claims. It motivates me to pursue the difficult, the challenging, the impossible. I’ll fail, but it makes me more human. It makes me real. My insanity makes me real. Because, really, we all endure a certain degree of insanity. There is no “normal”.

I don’t really understand psychology. Why do we attempt to label the mental conditions of people? I understand the treatment aspect, but every individual is complexly different. In my opinion, it’s almost degrading to the complexity of mental genius to label it, whether it be “sane” or “insane”. And here again I reveal my “insanity”, because according to societal standards, I should not question the structure of identifying the “others” or the nomenclature of their conditions.

And I write and I love to write because my insanity has overwhelmed me. My insanity has driven me to seek knowledge and ask questions, quite uncharacteristic of a contemporary adolescent. So I’ll say that my insanity has overwhelmed me. And my curiosity has been stimulated and I can no longer control it. So my insanity has overwhelmed me. And my body cannot bear to rest, to sleep, and I tirelessly act. So my insanity has overwhelmed me. And my mind continues to ponder, to object, to synthesize ideas contrary to what’s mainstream. So my insanity has overwhelmed me.

And the most vulgar thing about my insanity-I have embraced it.



I’d like to believe that my destiny is the destination I’ve been routing out my whole life.

The other day, on my way home through rush hour, I scanned the cars surrounding me. These cars have drivers. These drivers have destinations. We all have destinations, but we usually focus on the short term destinations, the places we’ll arrive at within half an hour. No. Half an hour is too long. Let’s cut that. Drive faster. Twenty minutes. No. Fifteen. That’s too long.

But where’s this destination that’s so important? And what makes time so significant; why are we risking ourselves for time? And how does this short term destination affect one’s ultimate destiny?

Just think for a second: Where the hell are you going?


Problems with Authority

I’ve always had problems with authority. I can’t bare being told what to do, who to talk to, how to dress, how to speak, what goals I should and should not pursue, etc. I can’t say that I don’t love my family because I do, but I do believe part of this control complex stems from the faulty ideal of “tough love” upheld by my parents.

My upbringing may be attributed to strict and almost routine chastisement to the point where I can predict what and when I will be criticized about what I’m doing. This, however, has caused me to become insensible to the commands and criticisms of those around me. And though this may be wrong, I believe it is justified by my loss of hope in pleasing those around me. And even when I attempt to please myself, my mind is filled with the critical whispers that I will soon face. This draws from my ability to be happy. But what is true happiness? Is happiness characterized by contentment in one’s self and personal form of expression? Is it the satisfaction one gets from pleasing parents, mentors, and friends? Can happiness be pursued through embracing one’s individuality despite the emotional setbacks of harsh criticism? Or is it more practical to conform to the standards of one’s social atmosphere and attain the happiness of acceptance?

The answer to these questions differ for every individual as we are all exposed to different social environments and endure different circumstances.

Personally, I believe that if I pursued happiness through the latter method I may be able to bare the influence of authoritative figures in my life, but I might just be too arrogant to pursue happiness through conformity. So I will continue to endure the coldness of “tough love”, and maybe when I move out of my parents’ home I may come to experience the happiness of self-expression, but for now, out of my “soft” love for my parents, I will continue to (futilely) attempt to please them.


Convergence of Extremes

Often times, when we hear the word “insane” we associate the term with mental instability characterized by stupidity. But if we take a moment to ponder the nature of insanity, we realize it is the exact opposite of ignorance. Mental instability is often characterized by flights of thoughts, cognitive dissonance, and hysteria. How could a mind that is constantly pondering, reflecting, and expressing excessive emotion be attributed to stupidity?

In many cases, we find that revolutionary innovations and complex theories have been proposed by individuals “plagued” by mental disabilities (Einstein, Nash, possibly Jefferson and Eddison). So how is it that individuals characterized by impaired mental capacities can apprehend the complexities life and its constituencies? Though these individuals may be considered exceptions to the societal standard by which these individuals are belittled, we must account for their achievements as those of the diseased class, not those of the exceptions; this would, thereby, coerce us to reassess the standards we have so arrogantly set.

Though it is undeniable that the symptoms of many mental illnesses impair everyday function, we must acknowledge the fact that many mentally impaired individuals can easily assimilate into their social atmospheres. Contrary to popular belief, it is usually the most intelligent individuals of such backgrounds that find difficulty in fitting in, not the most “retarded” individuals. This may be attributed to the fact that the intellectual capacities of the boundless streams of consciousnesses of such individuals surpass those of a “normal” individual possessed by the difficulties of a life characterized by realism and the lusted ideals of pop culture. A mind that can dissociate from problematic pragmatism and the desperate desire of a “high-life” can surely perceive the inconceivable as it has transcended true shackles of the “normal” human mind-the confinements and hopeless nature of realism.


Why I Cannot Understand Love.

As an adolescent, I have repeatedly pondered the idea of a “true love”. Coming from a semi-conservative background, I have been taught (and whole-heartedly believe) that such an unconditional emotional and physical bond should be expressed through the traditional institution of marriage. Such a seemingly interminable wait to pursue love has allowed me to reflect on the absolutist ideas society upholds regarding love and my own thoughts about this concept.

Music, literature, and television (modern and classical) have served as factors that have monopolized the concept of love, portraying it as an unconditional bond between two individuals. The basis of this bond, however, is variable as may be characterized by a blossoming friendship, an uncanny infatuation, or tempting lust. Despite this, love is invariably depicted in a flattering light. But when pursuing love, there comes a point where we must halt our irrational infatuation with the concept of love and ask ourselves the troublesome question, “what is love?”

The subjectivity of the matter and the complexity of its nature cause us to overlook the question and blindly pursue a concept we cannot define, let alone comprehend, thereby setting ourselves up for absolute failure.

It is unfortunate that humankind has infatuated itself with the surreal concept of love rather than the reality of loving someone. You’ll never hear someone say “I want to love someone”. Rather the more common phrase is, “I want someone to love me”. Though portrayed as a form of selflessness, the pursuit of love (not love itself) is, at its very best, absolutely selfish. Single women of all ages dream of being loved by a man that will free them of their insecurities and cherish them despite their faults. Men cannot fathom committing to a woman unless she is “wife material”-can respect them, bear there children, and fulfill their desires. Such conditions by both males and females are seen as the beauties of love; however, having to adjust one’s lifestyle to accommodate the needs of a partner is perceived as the “compromise” that must be endured to maintain a threatened relationship. Mankind is not naturally selfless, and the pursuit of love is not an exception. Just ask yourself, why else would you want to be tied down to someone else?

And if we truly perceive love as a righteous form of innocence, why regard ourselves as pathetic when we experience one-sided love?  Why is the girl who’s willingness to do anything to please a man who does not love her regarded as a form of desperation? Why is a “whipped” man the subject of society’s condescending jokes? Is this not love? Or is this a different form of love? A selfless form that must not be practiced by any level-headed individual?

Why has it become a societal standard for a man to approach woman who is “hot” yet be humiliated by friends for describing her as “beautiful”? Why is a woman’s ability to rely on herself and achieve such independence only recognized by the “strong” breeds of women?

Though rhetorical, these questions all must be answered as humanity perseveres through its struggle against the reality of love, and maybe if answered in time, we may stop resisting and learn to embrace it.


Debunking the “Identity Crisis”

In a contemporary world, we constantly find ourselves in situations where we must present some form of identification, usually a name, birthdate, and social security number. However, such inquiries often go further to question our ethnicities, hobbies, and topics of interest. Responses to such questions allow people to “understand” who we are. Needless to say, expressing (or filtering) our responses in informal dialogue is an easy way of establishing oneself to an inquisitive counterpart.

But how do we respond when presented with the absolutely horrific situation of having to define ourselves? Why do we find difficulty in concisely articulating our very own unbiased assessments of ourselves?

As a senior in highschool, I was presented with the challenge of writing a personal statement. Initially, I thought it would be a piece of cake considering the fact that I’d been accustomed to analyzing and responding to numerous prompts in my AP English classes.

After blankly staring at the screen in front of me for nearly forty five minutes, I began to question my writing skills. “Why is this taking so long?! All I have to do is sell myself in a page or two,” I thought to myself.

Then the question struck me. To whom exactly was I planning on “selling myself”? How do I “sell myself”? How could I possibly define myself in such a brief essay? It was as if the word limits had not only confined my writing, but also my spirit.

So how is a person to define themselves, their soul, their spirit? Is it by the interests they fester? By the goals the pursue? By the ideologies they uphold? Or the religion they practice? Though the distinctness and variability of such responses produces diverse breeds of individuals, such responses do not definitively accommodate the uniqueness of the soul.

So, I decided to write about a struggle I had endured. I introduced myself twice in my brief narrative, once as the girl who had faced the struggle and once as the girl who had grown from it.

“This is too focused on your struggle,” my academics counselor critiqued,”focus more on yourself.”

After interminable sessions of self-assessment and desperate searching, I realized that I had been a victim of identity crisis, the horrid plague that is perceived as a plight of the weak, yet in actuality is faced by all 7 billion+ residents of this diverse planet.

Why do we succumb to such uncertainty despite the objective familiarity we have with our own selves as chiefs of our own minds and spirits? Though debatable, this is not the question to be asked. Rather, we must reassess the systematic methods by which we define ourselves.

Though I fester certain thoughts, am inclined to various interests, and practice certain traditions, these characteristics do not define me. To an extent, I think it is almost arrogant to define oneself in such a certain manner, as if one were to ensure that such characteristics effectively depict the incomprehensible metaphysicality of the human soul and thereby unyielding to the impacts of future experiences.

“Identity is theft of the self,” in this concise quote, Estee Martin conveys what I have attempted to express in extensive paragraphs of reasoning. With respects to such reasoning, I refuse define myself by a handful of social umbrellas I fall under. To those who must know, I am conservatively liberal, idly ambitious,  foreign yet American,  and empowered by my weaknesses. I’m an accumulation of uncanny paradoxes, and thereby cannot be defined by the common categories of persona.

Currently, my identity is Not Available.