You know what happens when you love someone too much? It gets chaotic; miserably, paradoxically, unfortunately chaotic.
Between family members, romantic partners... when you love the other too much, the expression of love fails to deliver properly; it comes out twisted, it becomes demented. It turns out in a way that is not how you wanted to show your love, but because it passes the line (oh, that line), it becomes a form of love as if it were possessed, and it no longer serves its purpose.
When a relationship reaches this point, it does so gradually, without you even realizing it. You eventually see how distorted the relationship has become, but most sadly, there is nothing you can do to save it, for love does not work like that. You love the other so much to the point where you lose the grip, and become a maniac. The love is so strong, but paradoxically, it is driving the two apart, pushing each other further and further away—I think, this is the most heartbreaking end that one can put to a relationship.
You gotta do it right, you really gotta do it right.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Cotton Bag
Today, I purchased a cotton shoulder bag with block printed patterns on it.
It took me a while before deciding to make this purchase, mostly because I figured a cotton bag wouldn’t be anything special, plus it’s not like I have so much spare money on my hand.
I must make a confession too: the image of an Indian (well, it’s an Indian lady in my head) manufacturing this bag was always in the back of my mind; she probably sold it to the guy who was now selling it to me for 3 times less the price than how much I paid him for it.
And of course, all the vague knowledge about free trade was also flowing in the back of my mind. It bothered me a tiny bit more when he told me, honestly I guess, that it wasn’t free trade between him and those Indian families, but “there are so many corruptions in India, it’s kinda sad...really sad actually”.
Well, I bought the bag at the end, nonetheless.
I think I despise myself a little for it, for paying this man for some poor Indian lady’s labor. But here’s the thing,
there’s the distinct smell of this bag that I couldn’t really resist.
When I first smelt it, I had to stop and recollect my thoughts for a bit to come to recognition of this smell. This distinct, and almost nostalgic smell.
It’s the smell of paint—not the paint that you paint houses or walls with, but paints that we, well, play with, in arts class in kindergarten and elementary school. The smell is very similar to black ink too.
Ever since then, the smell was stuck, in me. You see, I have to even write about it.
You might think “yea, she’s gonna say that the smell brings back memories and all that”...well, that’s the thing, I don’t have much memory of me and the paint with this smell, I don’t even know what type of paint it is. In fact, I am not even certain that it is actually from the type of paint that I used to make arts with when I was small. But that smell is so distinct, so familiar, yet our encounter seems to be from literally ages ago. The smell is so familiar and cozy to the point where I feel like I have just retrieved some important part of myself from beneath my consciousness. How can this be, when I don’t even recall having any special experiences with this paint, or whatever it is? How can something feel so dear to me when I never had a deep relationship with it, or when I never made any significant accomplishment with it? Even if it is the paint that I used when I was in kindergarten, but it is nothing so significant like I continued with a passion of painting till now, nor have I made any nice artwork with this paint that I still have in possession right now. Yet this smell... is so imprinted somewhere in my heart.
I couldn’t resist it for the smell is so endearing and familiar, but so enigmatic at the same time.
Then I came to realize, there are so many things like this—a one-way fascination—that I have towards other things that I barely have any real relationship with.
Other than towards some exceptionally attractive individuals, I would say that this applies to my fantasy towards my ambitions, dreams, favourite places(the interesting part is, some of them I have never even been to, or have only been to once) too, in which I haven’t made much of an impact with yet, but they are so special and darling to me that it’s like I have a special place in my heart for them.
At some point, I have come down to feeling a little silly, because this form of fantasy almost parallels with a little girl’s craze towards her idol celebrity; trivial also, because I am relating myself to something so fantastic, yet it has nothing, really, to do with me, or what I have done.
That sense of insignificance, worthlessness...
The description of my feelings towards the particular smell from my newly purchased cotton bag can illustrate my similar feeling towards God.
I haven’t offered, or done much. By saying this, I even feel a little bit more worthless. But here’s the wonder and beauty of it all: God might be a stranger to you, and you might feel as if you were a stranger to Him as well, but once you really step in forward, even just a little more, take a sniff, all of a sudden it’ll become so clear and so familiar. It might feel strange and clueless at first, just like that mysterious smell of my bag, but that closeness that I feel with this smell is just irresistible, and so is Him. The difference lies in how God in turn makes me feel: even though I feel worthless as me, as a human being, and for the fact that I haven’t done anything for Him, but in return, He immediately grants me with all the worthiness I need to feel from the world.
Well, that was my story of the cotton bag, nothing crazy.
It took me a while before deciding to make this purchase, mostly because I figured a cotton bag wouldn’t be anything special, plus it’s not like I have so much spare money on my hand.
I must make a confession too: the image of an Indian (well, it’s an Indian lady in my head) manufacturing this bag was always in the back of my mind; she probably sold it to the guy who was now selling it to me for 3 times less the price than how much I paid him for it.
And of course, all the vague knowledge about free trade was also flowing in the back of my mind. It bothered me a tiny bit more when he told me, honestly I guess, that it wasn’t free trade between him and those Indian families, but “there are so many corruptions in India, it’s kinda sad...really sad actually”.
Well, I bought the bag at the end, nonetheless.
I think I despise myself a little for it, for paying this man for some poor Indian lady’s labor. But here’s the thing,
there’s the distinct smell of this bag that I couldn’t really resist.
When I first smelt it, I had to stop and recollect my thoughts for a bit to come to recognition of this smell. This distinct, and almost nostalgic smell.
It’s the smell of paint—not the paint that you paint houses or walls with, but paints that we, well, play with, in arts class in kindergarten and elementary school. The smell is very similar to black ink too.
Ever since then, the smell was stuck, in me. You see, I have to even write about it.
You might think “yea, she’s gonna say that the smell brings back memories and all that”...well, that’s the thing, I don’t have much memory of me and the paint with this smell, I don’t even know what type of paint it is. In fact, I am not even certain that it is actually from the type of paint that I used to make arts with when I was small. But that smell is so distinct, so familiar, yet our encounter seems to be from literally ages ago. The smell is so familiar and cozy to the point where I feel like I have just retrieved some important part of myself from beneath my consciousness. How can this be, when I don’t even recall having any special experiences with this paint, or whatever it is? How can something feel so dear to me when I never had a deep relationship with it, or when I never made any significant accomplishment with it? Even if it is the paint that I used when I was in kindergarten, but it is nothing so significant like I continued with a passion of painting till now, nor have I made any nice artwork with this paint that I still have in possession right now. Yet this smell... is so imprinted somewhere in my heart.
I couldn’t resist it for the smell is so endearing and familiar, but so enigmatic at the same time.
Then I came to realize, there are so many things like this—a one-way fascination—that I have towards other things that I barely have any real relationship with.
Other than towards some exceptionally attractive individuals, I would say that this applies to my fantasy towards my ambitions, dreams, favourite places(the interesting part is, some of them I have never even been to, or have only been to once) too, in which I haven’t made much of an impact with yet, but they are so special and darling to me that it’s like I have a special place in my heart for them.
At some point, I have come down to feeling a little silly, because this form of fantasy almost parallels with a little girl’s craze towards her idol celebrity; trivial also, because I am relating myself to something so fantastic, yet it has nothing, really, to do with me, or what I have done.
That sense of insignificance, worthlessness...
The description of my feelings towards the particular smell from my newly purchased cotton bag can illustrate my similar feeling towards God.
I haven’t offered, or done much. By saying this, I even feel a little bit more worthless. But here’s the wonder and beauty of it all: God might be a stranger to you, and you might feel as if you were a stranger to Him as well, but once you really step in forward, even just a little more, take a sniff, all of a sudden it’ll become so clear and so familiar. It might feel strange and clueless at first, just like that mysterious smell of my bag, but that closeness that I feel with this smell is just irresistible, and so is Him. The difference lies in how God in turn makes me feel: even though I feel worthless as me, as a human being, and for the fact that I haven’t done anything for Him, but in return, He immediately grants me with all the worthiness I need to feel from the world.
Well, that was my story of the cotton bag, nothing crazy.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
run free
“But I see what the trouble is: I keep drifting towards that error because my mind likes to wander freely, refusing to respect the boundaries that truth lays down. Very well, then; I shall let it run free for a while, so that when the time comes to rein it in it won’t be so resistant to being pulled back.”
We don’t realize how many things originate from what we consider philosophical abstracts. They are not just mad men’s words or theories in lack of conclusions or so-called solutions, but entrances to imagination and wonder.
Having gone to several Epistemology classes, I’m not going to be silly and say that we have a lot of knowledge or certainty about worldly things, but I say that we assume a lot, and i mean, a lot a lot.
Hume claims this: we, as humans, derive the “knowledge” of cause and effect from constant conjunction of things. In other words, we don’t really know what causes the effects, we only see things happening in a pattern of subsequences.
Due to social constructs, responsibilities, parents, reputation, and just people... we often see ourselves strangled in a position where we feel contradiction because what we might feel does not match with what we “should” feel. We carry the baggage of guilt but simultaneously put on some sort of disguise to survive. Now, how many people truly know if how they feel or what they do is naturally and purely what they feel and what they want to do, but not a practiced response?
Don’t panic, I am not looking for an answer.
But I do have a suggestion: how about just let your unconscious take you and feel what you feel, do what you do.
For once, let your mind run completely free;
fuck the rules,
shut out your ears from listening to what they are saying,
and just live your life.
Forget all the should’s and should-not’s, you don’t have to feel sad, you don’t have to feel bad, you don’t have to go through that mandatory breakdown. For the sake of cliche routine, sometimes it’s just overdue and only necessary because we think it is necessary.
There is this thing that our magical unconsciousness does, it’s called deliberation-without-awareness. Apparently, when we are faced with difficult things to deal with, and we push them to the back of our minds in order to not get stressed out over them, our unconsciousness is dealing with them when we consciously aren’t. So after a while, we might be able to produce a calm decision, or even come to receiving an epiphany.
It’s not selfish, it’s a humane and sinful way of coping.
This probably sounds so vague and incomprehensible at the moment, but when you finally come down to a point where you no longer even pay attention to how you are dealing with some things, that might be when you realize you’ve been running free for a while already. You discover how good it feels, and how silly you have been.
We don’t realize how many things originate from what we consider philosophical abstracts. They are not just mad men’s words or theories in lack of conclusions or so-called solutions, but entrances to imagination and wonder.
Having gone to several Epistemology classes, I’m not going to be silly and say that we have a lot of knowledge or certainty about worldly things, but I say that we assume a lot, and i mean, a lot a lot.
Hume claims this: we, as humans, derive the “knowledge” of cause and effect from constant conjunction of things. In other words, we don’t really know what causes the effects, we only see things happening in a pattern of subsequences.
Due to social constructs, responsibilities, parents, reputation, and just people... we often see ourselves strangled in a position where we feel contradiction because what we might feel does not match with what we “should” feel. We carry the baggage of guilt but simultaneously put on some sort of disguise to survive. Now, how many people truly know if how they feel or what they do is naturally and purely what they feel and what they want to do, but not a practiced response?
Don’t panic, I am not looking for an answer.
But I do have a suggestion: how about just let your unconscious take you and feel what you feel, do what you do.
For once, let your mind run completely free;
fuck the rules,
shut out your ears from listening to what they are saying,
and just live your life.
Forget all the should’s and should-not’s, you don’t have to feel sad, you don’t have to feel bad, you don’t have to go through that mandatory breakdown. For the sake of cliche routine, sometimes it’s just overdue and only necessary because we think it is necessary.
There is this thing that our magical unconsciousness does, it’s called deliberation-without-awareness. Apparently, when we are faced with difficult things to deal with, and we push them to the back of our minds in order to not get stressed out over them, our unconsciousness is dealing with them when we consciously aren’t. So after a while, we might be able to produce a calm decision, or even come to receiving an epiphany.
It’s not selfish, it’s a humane and sinful way of coping.
This probably sounds so vague and incomprehensible at the moment, but when you finally come down to a point where you no longer even pay attention to how you are dealing with some things, that might be when you realize you’ve been running free for a while already. You discover how good it feels, and how silly you have been.
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