Word Vomit Musings: Baby Birds

It’s been a while since I wrote anything. It’s not like there’s nothing to write. Trump, Syria, music, philosophy, life… the list goes on. There’s always something to comment on, some article to put my two cents in, or some opinion that I believe is superior to all others. The internet is full of these words. It’s overflowing with information from people who write better than I do. So what’s the point of writing….?

Who am I to write about politics when all I know are regurgitations of the “truth” from the media who treats us like little chicks incapable of feeding ourselves with research. But what’s worse is when we take the regurgitated information and then vomit it out into the dinner table thinking it’s a steak dinner.

But wait a minute now… Are we actually baby birds in this dinosaur of a world? We are constantly fed information that has been in the throats of behemoths that don’t want us to lift up our wings to even consider leaving the nest.

After all, nests are safe, comfortable and cozy. No fear of falling as long as we don’t look down. All we need to do is wait for the next feed to show up with our daily bait and we’re happy. There’s no reason to leave our ignorant bliss, our Plato’s cave, our satisfying pig pen.

But oh how contradictory is it when we strive, pray, and wish for flight while still craving mother’s vomit.

Oh writing, what a love-hate relationship. I can write all this stuff and sound like I know some secret insight. But how can this be for me to know anything? Me, a prideful speck believing that I’ve pierced the well of knowledge, but only to see that I am only swimming in the vomits of other specks around me…. Yet among the specks, there must be the truth! At least something that mirrors some kind of foundation to build anything off of.

Brilliant minds have tried to find such foundation, but realize that a gentle breeze could topple their fortresses. Descartes, the father of modern philosophy built his fortress on what be thought was the truth, absolute, undeniable truth. This toppled. But others after him tried to rebuild. Some on similar foundations, others on complete opposites. As they built and built, they also fought and fought. Attacking each other’s weak points while trying to fortify their own. Empires rose and fell. Gods among kings destroyed from east to west.

Today, we have all the information at our fingertips. This is our fortress and stronghold, yet we can’t figure out what the heck is going on in this world. There are more books, brilliant bodies, and brain child’s than we could ever count, yet we are no closer to the goals set about by our earliest ancestors to understand life. Chaos ensues regardless of technology, revolutions, or America. There’s a reason why more and more dystopian books and movies are made. We never really question the validity of them. We eat it all up while stroking our beards in contempt, only analyzing, but not preparing. We all know what’s happening to us, yet we’d rather entertain ourselves with the imminent future than face it as is.




An Unabashed Life Worth Living

This was originally a post about writer’s block but it turned into something different. Something that changed the way I act, think and feel about life. Something I hope we can all take hold and find liberation from the chains we put on ourselves. 

Oh, the irony of this post. No wait is irony the right word? Ahh, I don’t know… how cliche? Man, this post is lame. Doesn’t cliche have that squiggly ~ on the E? My finger rests on the rectangle backspace for a minute. Nah, this post won’t go public so it will remain in my archive forever so I’ll resist the urge to use the erase button…. Insecurity, fear, and caution, are words that I think are choking the words that I try to type.

New paragraph. I don’t like the first. Is the structure too stupid?  No… it’s fine, I don’t believe in structure. But writing is about expressing myself. But what if no one reads it because it’s not good? Then I’m wasting my time! Ahh, too close to reality. I best put some pictures or pop-culture references to get more views. But I don’t care about pop-culture that much…back to the main point.

The biggest block for my writing is you me. I am a people pleaser. I care greatly about the opinion of others and what they think about what I write. This is an inescapable aspect of writing for the public. You, the reader, I may or may not know; regardless, my aim is that the effort of my words is worth your time. I don’t actually know how to use a semicolon correctly; I just want to look sophisticated in my writing even though it may be grammatically incorrect. 

I realized how being a people pleaser affects not only my writing but my life. In my writing, the backspace button is the most used. Gahh, that sentence could have been more creative. In my life, backspace represents…blarg I can’t finish this analogy of linking backspace to life! Abort! 

Bleh, enough of all that italicizing. It hurts my head to read my own writing and thoughts. My realization is that my caring too much about what people think has prevented me from living a fuller life. There’s a lot of layers to the idea of “caring about what people think”. Kind of like an onion I suppose.

Let me explain. One layer of it is perfectionism; the refusal to accept any standard short of perfection. I’m not a what you would call a traditional perfectionist. The “perfect” I strive for is my own constructed standard that I’ve placed on myself, created from my 26 years of exposure to humans. It’s far from ideal. It’s deeply ingrained in my subconscious. What I write, say, do, express must fit the specific requirements of the box. If it doesn’t, I keep it in my mind to marinate until it fits my idea of perfection.

Underneath this perfection is a fear of being wrong or making a mistake. We I bite my tongue, avoid hitting post on a blog, or shy away from risky situations because we’re I’m afraid of the negative repercussions of it. Underneath this fear that comes from a perfection standard is control.

More specifically, to control what people think of me. Underneath it all, this is the chain that binds my writing and actions. Damn that’s like the 10th time I used “underneath”, people must be annoyed at that more so than these italic thoughts of mine. I want to control what people see me as, rather than them seeing who I really am. When I control people to see me as a different, “perfect”, standardized me that I’ve created, I essentially become controlled by my own creation. There are two words that I can say that reflects this idea so perfectly that almost anyone reading this can understand. Those words are Social Media. Need I say more?

Is it ironic is that I’m posting this blog on my Facebook? I’m not too sure since I don’t really understand the what irony is…

Anyways, this post is getting long. I don’t want you to say “fuck it, this post is too long and there’s no TL;DR section. I’m just not gonna read it”. Hmm I wonder how my readers will react to the F bomb… I clearly give a fuck about that.  So onto my conclusion/application. I was thinking through all of what I just wrote yesterday night before I went to work (I work graveyard shift). I asked myself, “why do I care so much of what people think?” “Why do I set these rules on myself? It’s quite… limiting”. “Do I want to live my life in a box all the time? As I asked myself these questions, the chains that I’ve put on myself were revealed to me. Link by link I removed the chains and a sense of liberation filled my body. In the car ride to work, I sang with the radio; unabashed at the cracks of my voice, the unmanly falsettos, and the utter butchering of the lyrics. It was freedom.

But this freedom comes with a cost. It costs our control, passivity, and fear. It costs us our walls and our all. It requires perseverance through anxiety and criticism. It will take strength and vulnerability. But most importantly, it will take wisdom, for there is a time for everything. Rules aren’t bad, restrictions are needed, and people’s opinions should be taken into consideration. This is not a call to go crazy and do whatever you want. That is the other extreme that needs to be avoided.

As you can see in my post, the struggle is real, but worth fighting for. And fight we must do because the world will tell us otherwise. It will show us things to be frightened of and reasons to hide. It will strike relentlessly when our guard is down and tell us it’s not worth it. But the more we fight, the stronger we get to break away and live.


Beautiful Silence of Voices

Beauty born out of grief

tears shed from a somber melody

soft violins with steady progressions

eloquently caressing the tender heart strings

Oh, grief! Oh, human condition reflected so deeply from the wells of music

a heartfelt ache of isolation remedied by steady strings that silence and soothes the soul

An acceptance for loss of words, allows the human heart to be felt rather than explained…

an anxious pause in writing to meditate on things language longs to comprehend and erect a tower of highest pedestals.

One may say Language is an apex of human achievement. But consider when we allow silence to reign for a bit. To let go of in information and words we so quickly spew. These words that cause the downfall of others. Rash, harsh sounding language that knows no bounds. These are the apex of our fall. Lies constructed to hide Truth.

Let’s only open our mouths in awe of life. All of it. Not just life from our own thinking and talking. But life shared with a community of voices longing for the world to be silent for once! So that they can be heard amongst the noise.

Breath in the air from your mouth. Let it dance upon your tongue as you reflect on the life it gives you every day. Now speak from your tongue and give that breath back to others who long for a life-giving “hello”.

Billions of mouths but so little ears. Outnumbered. No wonder there’s no wondering of things beyond our scope.

So let us be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry… But let our speech be unrestrained from goodness while keeping a tight reign over its firey evils. For human anger does not bring about the righteousness that God desires

Trapped In My Own Words

I sit. Hands on my keyboard typing these very words. There’s actually a lot to say, but that’s reserved for more private settings. What’s something that I can write that is uncontroversial yet unconventional, something that I can be proud of yet done humbly, something shallow yet profound?

If good writing is something that comes from the heart, then what’s the quickest route to mine without cutting open my chest. If I am to write something personal, how can I veil it with passive metaphors or allusions? Or better yet, how can I elevate myself with metaphors or allusions! How can a create this image of myself for people to read?

I can only speak for myself. The things I write never really represents who I am and what I want to express. Nor can it ever do such a thing. I write to find myself in an ever growing maze of life. Ha! Here I go again. Caught myself doing what I talked about a paragraph above.

Ironically, this enigma of words represents me. Trapped in a web of words, unable to break free from the intricate fetters of 21st-century language. Puns, sarcasm, flowery and course language, fill my vocabulary more so that truth and honesty. Everyone needs a good laugh. It’s necessary and essential. But we all know laughter is not the only thing we can get out of language.

Language is like a beautiful gift, so fucking grandeur, yet sometimes hard to “guage”  its true meaning. This leaves quite a satisfactory ending, no?


Dreams that Shape My Reality

It’s been one hour since I woke up from my dream. I feel good. I feel like the events actually happened in real life and that I was living it until I was gently placed back on my bed after a day of pleasantness. I don’t dream a lot and even when I do, the memories and feelings quickly escape my consciousness as a go on with the day. But this dream is oddly different.

My heart has been filled, not to the top or even to a point of half full, but it’s filled nonetheless. I feel happier in a strange way and all this is from a fantasy concocted by my imagination. My unconscious mind allowed my conscious mind to have a glimpse of its complex and vast highways of information in which I only have an incomplete map of.

As I continue writing, the memories slowly dissipate. I’m starting to forget the detail, the characters, the laughter. My heart still feels the joy, but I know that just like my memories, it will pass by the time I finish writing this. But this is how its always been and should be.

We live in a society that longs for the permanence of the past. We take obsessive pictures to preserve these moments, landmarks, and food so we can relive it in the future. But having and being reminded of past memories is not a bad thing. In fact, I think it’s essential and normal for one to be shaped, molded and encouraged by it. Pictures, videos, stories, and memories of the past can bring hope in a time of despair, joy in a period of sadness, love in a time of hate, and clarity in a time of confusion.

These memories are gifts. It’s priceless to be able to close your eyes and reminisce about  holidays, family gatherings, and happiness. These are an essential part of who we are and should not be taken for granted. Every second of our life is a creation of a new memory, most of which are quickly forgotten. But we are essentially creatures of the past living in the present. Our whole being is a reflection of our past. The people we meet, the foods we eat, the dreams we dream, they all manifest itself to this present person. The past is done, the present is forever ephemeral and our future is an enigma of uncertainty.

I’m truly thankful for my dream, as it has given me a boost in how I feel. But now I have a choice to make. I can go back to bed, dream about it and regress into the past, or I can get up, live in the present with the past accompanying me, and shape my future.


Rekindling Life at a Bookstore.

I’m sitting at a Starbucks within a bookstore, self-conscious of a potential lurker behind me, analyzing my writing. His obsessive eyes narrowed in on the red squiggly lines of my misspelled words. I could change it right now, but I don’t. I know what the word means. That’s all that matters.

“Analyze this”, I tell myself. “Why do misspellings bother me so little, but to another. it can cause them great distress. Why do I imagine a phantom person peering behind my shoulder judging my writing and cringing at the way I misspelled ‘phantom’”. I ponder these questions and formulate my own theories that I withhold from this blog for no reason. More questions fill my mind.

Why am I even writing? Why am I here? Am I a pretentious prig by being a wannabe book-worm, who spends his day off in a bookstore with his laptop open and a half read on the side?

I get up, exhausted from thinking, and walk down the aisles of bookshelves feeling like everyone’s looking at me. Is this anxiety or just a product of self-centeredness. Am I too self-aware, or am I completely oblivious?

I stare at the countless books to avoid thinking about these questions. I know I will never read or finish these books. But I want to! I really want to be encaptured to another world of imagination and wonder. To escape critical analysis and allow another person to analyze things for me. I want to be able to quote lines from books out of sheer joy of the writer’s syntax and language. I want these words to pierce my heart and mind.

But those days are found in the past, where imagination ruled. Where scribbles on a paper were like Picassos, and lego structures were the pinnacle of architecture. A time where I can imagine being a Pokemon trainer without the need of a cell phone. Oh, how I miss the days where our thoughts could illuminate such a beautiful world of excitement and wonder.

Today, words feel dull. Dull because my mind and heart have been hardened to stone. For a heart and mind to be pierced, it must not be stone. A stone can be shattered, cracked, scratched, but not pierced. It breaks and crumbles at the jabs of the words, but it can never be pierced to where it reaches the vital vessels and touches something deep inside.

This is why I’m at the bookstore. I’m trying to rekindle the imaginative fire of not only books but of life. Whatever this means is still a mystery to me. There’s a life beyond my computer screen that I haven’t invested much time in. A life where something real and free and beautiful exists more vividly.

This kind of life is too precious to be given up without a fight.


Writing hasn’t been very easy for me recently, not because I don’t have anything to write about, rather I have too much. There’re hundreds of thoughts in my head fighting for life to be given to them through the stroke of a pen or a push of a button. For the thoughts that are able to find its way to the consciousness, few of them are able to find a body of words suitable for it to be communicated. For thoughts that do take form, many of them end up as incomplete bodies in the graveyard of the “draft” section, waiting for me to put  a head or a heart on it.

I’m a quite thinker, but an auditory processor. I spend a lot of time listening to podcasts and reading books. I enjoy sitting in on lectures or listening to people talk about things of substance or meaning. Most of all I enjoy listening to peoples personal stories. I store up all this information which gets put into different compartments in my mind. These compartments are like different documents stored up in  folders on a desktop. If you’ve ever seen my computer desktop it’s a complete mess. There are documents everywhere. I have several half-written thoughts and journals that I’ve abandoned or forgot about. I have college and high school papers scattered across different folders. This is pretty much my brain.

But when I speak, that is when I use the search function on my brain to gather up all these thoughts to be processed. Given the right people and situation, I can talk for hours about almost anything. Unfortunately, once these things are said or processed, they are placed into a random folder in my brain that is mixed with every other though that I have.

For me, writing is me looking for and unpacking all these documents in my mind and trying to interpret it into comprehensible words without a search button. It’s a slow and arduous process since very few of my thoughts are labeled and organized.

This post is mostly for me to process my thoughts and also to finally finish a post that I started. I use these as a catalyst to encourage myself to continue writing regardless of how it’s received by the public. Writing, like almost every skill in life, takes practice to become proficient in it. This post may be an incomplete body of thoughts that’s missing some parts, but I’m okay with that. This will do for now…