I don't understand my face. / When did I become an adult?

I don't understand my face.

My face breaks out like Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption: dramatically and without fail.

A year ago now, I was at my annual check-up when my doctor asked me about my acne. I wanted to say, "Well, it's there," but I remained silent. Then he asked, "Aren't you self-conscious?" I looked down at the floor as he passed me a paper with the name of a recommended dermatologist. I took it and left his office. I didn't understand his question because I wasn't sure he'd understand my answer: OF COURSE I'M SELF-CONSCIOUS but I don't let it control my day. Usually. Sometimes.

Sometimes my self-conscious is like white noise: I don't notice it until it's perfectly quiet and I'm perfectly content--like a whisper curling around and into my ear, planting diseases to destroy confident synapses.

"Aren't you self-conscious?"
   "Isn't EVERYONE self-conscious?"

Don't get me wrong, I mean, I'm not, like, hideous, but I'm also definitely not America's Next Top Model, y'know what I mean? I'm normal. I asked a friend once if I was a pretty and she answered, "You're pretty, but you're not like Vogue-pretty [which technically no one is.]"

To a certain extent, I think what my doctor meant by his question was, "Are you not doing anything to heal your acne?" And I'm glad he was concerned, I guess...right?

It's just...it's my face. I know what's on it. I am well-aware acne is embarrassing. I know I'm self-conscious, I don't understand why you need to know- why you need to confirm my self-consciousness? I don't even need to use the possessive adjective 'my' to express how personal self-consciousness is because SELF.

I guess...if yooou don't want acne on my face then imagine how much IIIIIII don't want it on my face.

"So, why don't you just use ----?"

Because I have wishy-washy morals. Suffice to say I no longer want to use anything with sulfates or parabens. Yep. Simple as that.

Although, admittedly, removing harmful things from my life is about as easy as growing carrots in wintery Jersey, which is like Leonardo DiCaprio winning an Oscar...so. No.





When did I become an adult?
When did I become an adult?
Perhaps when shy became self-conscious.
When loud became obnoxious.
When pretty became a standard.
When money became an object.
When people became collector's items.
When things became morals.
When fun became a luxury.
When decency became a rarity.
When dreams became responsibilities
and responsibilities became torture
and reality became prison.

When did I become an adult?
When hate overpowered love.
When I lived for the next romantic date.
When I cried more over chick flicks than death counts.
When newscasters only broadcast death counts.

I remember wanting this.

Why did I want to become an adult?
Because adults could wash dishes
and drive cars or fly airplanes or perform surgery.
Because adults could buy candy
and slept when they wanted and crossed the street without holding hands.

The illusion was so well-believed adults never warned children.
Or, at least, adults didn't know to warn children
because they're not entirely sure they're adults.

"Don't mind me if I burst."

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. When I say 'sometimes', I might mean 'all the time'. In the hardest parts of my heart I want nothing to do with problems because I, frankly, just don't like them, and want them to go away.

I also wish, to a certain extent, that I could be the one that makes those problems go away. Sometimes, I think, that by acknowledging the problem and attempting to solve the problem actually makes the problem worse. Godforbid I make anyone's problems worse- that would be unbearable.

And yet, I am no prophetess. Just as we cannot estimate the strength, and therefore damage, of a typhoon, so we cannot estimate the sort and amount of help that will come to those in greatest need.

I have no immediate family that was affected by the typhoon, and I've been a first-world citizen since birth. You know, I shouldn't care...but, I do.

Sometimes it is exhausting, all this caring business. Sometimes I wish I didn't care for anything at all. Sometimes I wish that I could be content as a lonely, griping old miser. But if I am to learn anything from trite hollers of "YOLO" and "Love life" and "Just do it"- just because we trivialize the profound does not make the profound any less profound- obviously the profound is accessible to any person: first-world, second-world, third-world, 3/4-world; Mars.

So, I will care as much as I can, and then attempt to care more.

Don't mind me if I burst.

That's what supposed to happen when you care.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."- from C.S. Lewis' The Four Loves (I'm pretty sure I quote this all the time.)

“So if there is any encouragement in Christ, any comfort from love, any participation in the Spirit, any affection and sympathy, complete my joy by being of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. Do nothing from selfish ambition of conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his interests, but also to the interests of others. Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, by taking the form of a servant, being born in the likeness of men. And being found in human form, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross. Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.” –Philippians 2.1-11 

Here's some of the disaster, compliments of Al Jazeera.

And, how to help? Well, this link is a great list of NGOs, compliments of the Huffington Post, or seriously, just Google it :P Maybe even start your own fundraiser, yeah?

God bless your endeavors.

What We Seek.

Social justice interests me for one main reason: every social justice cause simply seeks acceptance and care; to add to that, love. 

Active or inactive in social justice, do not all people seek acceptance, care, and love? When you have heart-to-hearts with loved ones, or even strangers, they're always so afraid of rejection, because who wants to be turned away for who they think they are, or for who they might be, or for the way they get to who they are to be? 

While I have often tried to stray away from labels, I find that I am always affected by them, as if the avoidance of labels actually brings on the labels...indeed, I find that is always the case, but does that say something about the labels? No, not the "if you can't beat them, join them" mentality, but that labels, however used or misused, are still just words? We have power over words, once it goes the other way around we're afraid to talk for fear of offending someone we'll probably never talk to, or see, again. 

None of this is to say I altogether throw out discretion or politeness, but, really: do we need to take things so personally? I thought we wanted to be in control of ourselves- in control of the labels, the compliments, the criticisms; etc. 

Then you can imagine my delight when I came upon this short article: How To Tell If You're A Feminist In Two Easy Steps. Is that all? However comedic this article's intentions, how many reasons do you need to be a good person in general whether or not you label yourself 'feminist', or whatever label to which you wholeheartedly subscribe, or adamantly avoid. 

A world without acceptance, care, and love is a world that seeks justice. Truly, I can't hate any person for seeking that. I can only hope to be of some service to them. 

ALSO! Happy Month of Mozart! Listen to WQXR on the radio or online. 

Special Words

I am not a very consistent person. Nope. Ain't got the attention span for it. That's probably my fault. Whatever. Anyway! So, today- this morning- my parents and I went to the park to exercise. You know, walking or jogging a few laps. We had a few church friends join us, then my Dad said, "Oh, call your grandparents. See if they want to come."

Now, I initially didn't want to call them because that meant I would have to walk with my grandma, and not exercise on my own. Not that I don't enjoy walking with my grandma, but because of my inconsistency this was my first week working out after a month of sedentary habits. But, I called my grandparents, of course, I did, who do you think I am? They'd said they'd come.

I knew that I had about thirty to forty minutes before my grandparents would show up so I decided to take four quick laps around the main area of the park (that's about a mile). When my grandparents arrived, I just finished my laps, and could now attend to my grandma. (Grandpa doesn't want me to help him walk around because my helping him makes him look old. Don't tell him, but I think he looks old without my help.)

When I walk with my grandma I sometimes I forget I walk too quickly for her. That I need to slow down. At a few points during our walk she needs to sit and rest. I took advantage of this and did a few squats, when she turns to me and says, "You're not stout. You are skinny."

"Oh, I-. Thanks, Grandma."

Self-consciousness is not reserved for the female half of the species so I probably don't need to tell you how I can 'feel fat' even though 'fat' is not a feeling. Sadness, anger, happiness: those are feelings. I probably don't need to tell you how frustrating it can be to go clothes' shopping; or how I don't want to do Zumba, or Crossfit, or go on diets after looking through magazines or watching television or surfing the internet.

In fact, a lot of my reasons for refusing to lose weight stem from a desire to stay away from the hype and need to 'look good' in clothes I can't afford or that I even like in the first place. I have no desire to post my day-to-day progress from a size 10 to a size -3. I don't like when people look at me now, why in the world would I want people to look at me when I'm 'really attractive'?

But then Grandma told me, "You're not stout. You are skinny."

I'm 5'2 and weigh about 165 lbs: I am far from 'skinny' for my dimensions, but as it is, I like to think I look well enough; I like to think that I'm confident enough in myself, in my appearances to brush off any insult...but not all the time.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with posting your day-to-day progress. There's nothing wrong with wanting to look good in clothes, especially if it's something you like, but I cannot tell you how many times those worries have overpowered the better desire to be healthy, confident, and happy. I cannot tell you how many times I've covered myself in shame for being unable to wear what the mannequin's wearing.

I can't believe I can be intimidated by something that doesn't breathe. At all. Nor would care to!

I suppose, in so many words, my grandma meant to say I've changed. Perhaps she meant to say I'm pretty. Whatever she meant to say I was glad she said it. Glad to hear her stories. Glad I asked for my grandparents to join us. Glad my weight problems are mere mole-hills instead of mountains, as indeed are all my problems mole-hills.

Panic Attacks

A couple days ago, I was working the night shift at work, thus panicking about my future. Well, not my future, so much as the story I am writing. I wasn't having an actual panic attack. I don't believe I've ever had an actual panic attack. 

According to Wikipedia " are periods of intense fear or apprehension  that are of sudden onset and of variable duration from minutes to hours. Panic attacks usually begin abruptly, may reach a peak within 10 minutes, but may continue for much longer if the sufferer had the attack triggered by a situation from which they are not able to escape." I take that back. I have had panic attacks before- right before student teaching. However, moving on-.

I was working in the children's department at work that night and had access to a computer all evening; desperate for some consolation I Googled 'encouragement for writers' (because what better way to find consolation than with strangers, right?) and found this: an article by Writers of the Purple Sage, called (oddly enough) Writing Encouragement. I cried, but my emotions that night should be left unaccounted for. Most of my emotions after a certain time of day shouldn't count.

Lemony Snicket made me cry. But I couldn't really cry because I had customers I needed to help. Can you imagine?

customer: Hi, could you help me find this book? Are you all right?

me: I'm fine! I'm sorry. How can I help you?

customer: Um, the book is called-. Are you sure? You're still crying?

me: It's just lotion! I've got lotion in my eyes! (I really have been getting lotion in my eyes lately, it's become habitual.)

What did Lemony Snicket, author of A Series of Unfortunate Events write to make me cry so?

Dear Cohort,

Struggling with your novel? Paralyzed by the fear that it’s nowhere near good enough? Feeling caught in a trap of your own devising? You should probably give up.For one thing, writing is a dying form. One reads of this every day. Every magazine and newspaper, every hardcover and paperback, every website and most walls near the freeway trumpet the news that nobody reads anymore, and everyone has read these statements and felt their powerful effects. The authors of all those articles and editorials, all those manifestos and essays, all those exclamations and eulogies – what would they say if they knew you were writing something? They would urge you, in bold-faced print, to stop.

Clearly, the future is moving us proudly and zippily away from the written word, so writing a novel is actually interfering with the natural progress of modern society. It is old-fashioned and fuddy-duddy, a relic of a time when people took artistic expression seriously and found solace in a good story told well. We are in the process of disentangling ourselves from that kind of peace of mind, so it is rude for you to hinder the world by insisting on adhering to the beloved paradigms of the past. It is like sitting in a gondola, listening to the water carry you across the water, while everyone else is zooming over you in jetpacks, belching smoke into the sky. Stop it, is what the jet-packers would say to you. Stop it this instant, you in that beautiful craft of intricately-carved wood that is giving you such a pleasant journey.

Besides, there are already plenty of novels. There is no need for a new one. One could devote one’s entire life to reading the work of Henry James, for instance, and never touch another novel by any other author, and never be hungry for anything else, the way one could live on nothing but multivitamin tablets and pureed root vegetables and never find oneself craving wild mushroom soup or linguini with clam sauce or a plain roasted chicken with lemon-zested dandelion greens or strong black coffee or a perfectly ripe peach or chips and salsa or caramel ice cream on top of poppyseed cake or smoked salmon with capers or aged goat cheese or a gin gimlet or some other startling item sprung from the imagination of some unknown cook. In fact, think of the world of literature as an enormous meal, and your novel as some small piddling ingredient – the drawn butter, for example, served next to a large, boiled lobster. Who wants that? If it were brought to the table, surely most people would ask that it be removed post-haste.

Even if you insisted on finishing your novel, what for? Novels sit unpublished, or published but unsold, or sold but unread, or read but unreread, lonely on shelves and in drawers and under the legs of wobbly tables. They are like seashells on the beach. Not enough people marvel over them. They pick them up and put them down. Even your friends and associates will never appreciate your novel the way you want them to. In fact, there are likely just a handful of readers out in the world who are perfect for your book, who will take it to heart and feel its mighty ripples throughout their lives, and you will likely never meet them, at least under the proper circumstances. So who cares?

(This is where I began to cry.)

Think of that secret favorite book of yours – not the one you tell people you like best, but that book so good that you refuse to share it with people because they’d never understand it. Perhaps it’s not even a whole book, just a tiny portion that you’ll never forget as long as you live. Nobody knows you feel this way about that tiny portion of literature, so what does it matter? The author of that small bright thing, that treasured whisper deep in your heart, never should have bothered.

(I could cry again now, and this time my emotions count because they're clearer in the morning!)

Of course, it may well be that you are writing not for some perfect reader someplace, but for yourself, and that is the biggest folly of them all, because it will not work. You will not be happy all of the time. Unlike most things that most people make, your novel will not be perfect. It may well be considerably less than one-fourth perfect, and this will frustrate you and sadden you. This is why you should stop. Most people are not writing novels which is why there is so little frustration and sadness in the world, particularly as we zoom on past the novel in our smoky jet packs soon to be equipped with pureed food. The next time you find yourself in a group of people, stop and think to yourself, probably no one here is writing a novel. This is why everyone is so content, here at this bus stop or in line at the supermarket or standing around this baggage carousel or sitting around in this doctor’s waiting room or in seventh grade or in Johannesburg. Give up your novel, and join the crowd. Think of all the things you could do with your time instead of participating in a noble and storied art form. There are things in your cupboards that likely need to be moved around.

In short, quit. Writing a novel is a tiny candle in a dark, swirling world. It brings light and warmth and hope to the lucky few who, against insufferable odds and despite a juggernaut of irritations, find themselves in the right place to hold it. Blow it out, so our eyes will not be drawn to its power. Extinguish it so we can get some sleep. I plan to quit writing novels myself, sometime in the next hundred years.

–Lemony Snicket

Have I got lotion in my eyes again? Excuse me.

Giving up Religion for Awareness, or Awareness for Religion. Can it be done?

No, I don't believe the question I've placed in the title of this blog can be answered, nor do I intend to answer it. I only intend to bring up more questions.





This is going to sound fairly typical of me, but I am always amazed when I discover things I didn't know that I really should know about, and I've only read the little snippets, and watched 2-3 minute commercials about these things. What surprises me even more is that now that I know, I have the desire to be willfully ignorant; I know that's wrong, and I can't tell you how many times I've fought the urge; I can't tell you how many times awareness has overcome ignorance, but not without a few well-earned battle scars.

Now, that coming from a Christian like me, is a particularly difficult question, but only because if I act upon my awareness I may not be seen as a Christian anymore.

You might ask, "Is that really such a bad thing?"

Well, yes, it's about as bad as someone no longer seeing me as Asian. It's about as bad someone mistaking the stranger next to me for me. A case of mistaken identity is always a bad thing. I have related to Christianity my entire life, and I am not ready to give that up so easily; but how can that mean I remain willfully ignorant of the things that go on around me? That have gone on, and that will go on around me? That's unfair.

People cannot ask me to pick between Christianity and awareness.

When were the two ever separate?

I have reasoned that this is just my personality. I have reasoned that because I like people I like to be aware of what's going on in their lives, and have a growing desire to help them, but I find that the more I desire this the more 'liberal' I become. The more 'worldly'. All the more 'secular'. Oh, if I ever learned to hate something, it is labels--how was I to know that my curiosity and hunger would merit detriment? How was I to know that my interests bordered on heathenism? (I'm not even sure I know what 'heathenism' means, I do believe I just made that up.)

But how can helping people ever be considered heathenism? How can helping people ever merit detriment?

Frankly, if I may, when God became man incarnate...if that's not the most secular thing a deity can do, I don't know what is. So then, if the God I worship became something he detested, perhaps there is some truth to "Faith without deeds is dead", but you could just as easily say "Deeds without faith is dead"!

I'd learned John 3.16 in Sunday school. It read...it still reads, 'For God so loved the world that he gave his only son so that whoever believes in him should not perish but have everlasting life.' You know, I do believe that we emphasize the latter portion of that verse without acknowledging the former. Who does God love? The world. Who's the world? What a perfectly vague and, yet specific answer that is: 'the world'. The world is everyone who's ever lived, who lives, and who will live. How can it mean anything else? Have Christians ever read what happens after John 3.16?

John 3.17, "For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him." Did you read that? He came not to condemn, but to save."
John 3.18, 19, "Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe is condemned already, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God. (19) And this is the judgement: the light has come into the world, and people loved the darkness rather than the light because their works were evil." What bothers me most about this passage are its interpreters. No, I've not read many interpretations, of course, I haven't, but I have observed that Christians, often unknowingly, separate themselves from the 'dark' world because they have accepted the 'Light of the world'. If Christians are so separate from the 'dark' world then we sing 'This Little Light of Mine' in vain. We read the Bible in vain.

We forget that having a light does not make us better than those who have none. In fact, those who have a light are better at seeing their own personal terribleness. I believe the willfully ignoring things that go on around the world also means willfully ignoring the things that go on within yourself.

John 3.20, 21, "For everyone who does wicked things hates the light," (surely you've heard of Christians leaving their faith behind, and sometimes I question if it's not The Light they hate, but those who profess to carry that light.) "and does not come to light, lest his works should be exposed. (21) But whoever does that is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out by God." Who carries out the work? God. Always, always God. 

If to be willfully ignorant of the things in the world is also to be willfully ignorant of the things within yourself, then it is also to be willfully ignorant of the work God wishes to carry through you because in James 2.14-26:

What good is it, my brothers, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can that faith save him? (15) If a brother or sister is poorly clothed and lacking in daily food, (16) and one of you says to them, “Go in peace, be warmed and filled,” without giving them the things needed for the body, what good is that? (17) So also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead. (18) But someone will say, “You have faith and I have works.” Show me your faith apart from your works, and I will show you my faith by my works. (19) You believe that God is one; you do well. Even the demons believe—and shudder! (20) Do you want to be shown, you foolish person, that faith apart from works is useless? (21) Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered up his son Isaac on the altar? (22) You see that faith was active along with his works, and faith was completed by his works; (23) and the Scripture was fulfilled that says, “Abraham believed God, and it was counted to him as righteousness”—and he was called a friend of God. (24) You see that a person is justified by works and not by faith alone. (25) And in the same way was not also Rahab the prostitute justified by works when she received the messengers and sent them out by another way? (26) For as the body apart from the spirit is dead, so also faith apart from works is dead.

Written in James 4, the only worldliness James ever writes about are mistreating people. "You desire and do not have, so you murder." Yes, murder might the epitome of mistreating people; James never even suggests torture...

I cannot help but think... God became man incarnate to help people. I have heard time and time again in sermons and lectures, and biblical commentaries that God came to help people who do not deserve it, who still don't deserve it, and who never will earn the right to deserve it. I can't remember a time when I was not a part of this undeserving people. 

If God asks me to be like his Son, Christ, who went around helping people, why am I deterred by so many who thoroughly believe I am enabling or, worse, conspiring with the world. I still live in this world, what else am I supposed to do? 

Even monks who live solitary lives will give aid to any stranger who walks into their sanctuary. If Christ, who never asked for his patients' history (but already knew of it anyway) helped so many, how much more should we (Christian, non-Christian, anti-Christian) help whichever patient comes our way?

Of course this will bring about debate. Hello! This is an imperfect world here, how many dystopias do you need to read and watch before you understand that life this side of death is not going to be perfected, nor is it ever going to be understood. We'll always have age-old questions, dilemmas, and misconceptions. 

Then on I shall struggle. 

Oh, I'm insane. I know, don't remind me.

^^ if you need a song to remember our duty to the world.

If only all job interviews were like this:

"I promise you that I am not as qualified as you believe me to be."

   "And, and how do you know that?"

   "Because I've read your requirements and qualifications. I don't fit any of them. At all."
   "You are very down on yourself."
   "Yes."
   "Why?"
   "Because-."
   "Did something make you so horrible?"
   "I just am horrible."
   "That's not true. Something had to have made you horrible. Adam and Eve weren't horrible to begin with."
   "I don't like where this is going."
   "I'm not taking it anywhere."
   "I- I promise you: I am not as qualified as you believe me to be."
   "Can't you file things away? Can't you answer phones, make small talk, make people laugh?"
   "Anyone can do those things."
   "Yes, but you think."
   "You're saying that others don't think when they do those things."
   "Not really. Not really thinking when they file things, answer phones, talk small and make people laugh."
   "Then what do they really do when they do those things?"
   "Just those things."
   She sat there silently, staring at the floor space near her interviewer. "But-. I'm not qualified."
   "But you tell the truth."
   "And if you know so much about me, you'll also know that I think truth is overrated, and how long I've thought so! People put too much stock in this thing they call truth, and they don't even know what real truth is! It is true that people all over the world are hurting. It is true that people steal from other people. It is true that he still prefers her to me. It is true that I am still as unqualified as I believe myself to be. All that is true."
   The interviewer stared at her.
   She would not return his gaze. She continued to stare at the floor space around his feet, tracing patterns with her eyes so that she could avoid crying.
   The interviewer frowned, but quickly smiled. "Then you'll also know that this is not the sort of truth I apply to you."
   "What?"
   "You'll know then, that the sort of truth that I ascribe to you has nothing to do with the ugly monster you just applied to mean yourself. You are not that monster."
   "What? Is it the real truth's evil twin?" she snorted.
   The interviewer thought about it, then nodded in agreement. "Yes. That's exactly what it is. An evil twin." The interviewer laughed. "Oh, I need to hire you. When can you start?"
   She looked the interviewer up and down, her emotions running around for her, bewildered and frenzied. "Hire me? Your list of qualifications said you're looking for someone with a Ph.D, or a couple masters' degrees in their back pockets, swimming with heavenly references, expensive internships, and Louis Vuitton suits. Not that there's anything wrong with those things; I often wish I wanted those things. They seem like such good things to want."
   "And that is the only lie you could've told me."
   "I promise you that I am not as qualified as you believe me to be."
   "Do you intend to keep that promise?"
   "Well, I suppose if it's not a biblical promise then it's a promise that's meant to be broken."
   "I want you for the job. Will you take it?"
   "I feel as though I have no choice."
   "Oh. You have a choice, but that is not a feeling. Your feeling, what you're feeling now, is my belief in you. Not my belief in your qualifications or requirements."
   "You left out achievements."
   "You never said 'achievements'."
   "So both your ears do work."
   "I'll see you tomorrow morning. Dress well."
   "I refuse to dress any other way."

Funny thing about emotions...

So, the funny thing about emotions-. No, wait. The natural thing about emotions: they change. They're supposed to change. People whose emotions don't change are annoying and fake. We don't like annoying and fake. We like honesty and realness. Now the funny thing about honesty and realness is that one can often be too honest and real? You think that's impossible? Well, have you ever verbalized what's really on your mind when you're angry? That's being too honest.

One of the greatest, most precious, consequences of being too honest, however, is discovering who won't hate you for it. Discovering who won't run away from you. Also discovering how much you might need to change in order to deserve the people who won't hate you, or run away from you.

I've been told that change is good. I like change. I don't like big changes toppling after me like dominoes. I like subtle changes. I appreciate subtlety. I like when-the-ocean-beats-against-the-rocks change. I like slow, steady change. Change that must occur day to day, like routines, so that when I turn around to see the hole I've dug, I've actually not dug a hole at all. Really, any holes I might have dug are just exits out of the mound! Ooh, like Edmond Dantès and the Priest digging out a tunnel! Or!- or like Andy Dufresne! Yeah, Andy!- you redeem Shawshank!

But back to emotions naturally changing.

If emotions didn't change I wouldn't know the people I do. If my emotions never changed- well, I- I wouldn't've known such great things as love, longing, friendship and sadness exist beyond my imagination; that these emotions exist as fluidly and abundantly in a stranger's life as in my life. That's a sad existence: to live without others.

No man is an island. Even monks live in community, however solitary.

Even the annoying, fake ones--what's life without them? What if they want to change in order to deserve your friendship? What if they're waiting for someone who's willing to be that person who will hear too much honesty and realness? I don't know. Maybe. It's just a thought I had.

Because sometimes I don't like how my emotions change. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to feel so self-conscious, aware of someone's compliments or insults--what then would my reason over-think if I didn't have these emotions?

Ah, I must be a whole person:

"And all the time--such is the tragi-comedy of our situation--we continue to clamour for those very qualities we are rendering impossible. You can hardly open a periodical without coming across the statement that what our civilization needs is more 'drive', or dynamism, or self-sacrifice, or 'creativity.' In a sort of ghastly simplicity we remove the organ and demand the function. We make men without chests and expect of them virtue and enterprise. We laugh at honor and are shocked to find traitors in our midst. We castrate and bid the geldings be fruitful." -C.S. Lewis' The Abolition of Man

Yes, this is a little out of context. A lot out of context, but basically!- I become upset with others who treat me poorly--who did not give me my dues--but who've I treated poorly? Who've I disregarded? Who've I walked all over? I probably have done all those things. I'm not better than the person who did so to me.

I can't expect someone to be virtuous, enterprising, beautiful, endearing, encouraging without being so myself? Not that I'm going to walk around showing everyone what it means to be all those things--that's stupid. But to just be those things, right? Am I right?

Ah, I'm probably wrong.

All I know is that I can't be afraid of fickle emotions. I can't be afraid of angry, sad or bitter thoughts for these emotions give way to peace, happiness and contentment.

Have a good night.