The Flossy Flossy
Keeping it “on the real” the best I can.Archive for May 4, 2009
Thoughts
Hell, school was long today. Jogged to the beach during gymtime. Being in Norway has taught me to be in awe of Mother Nature’s awesomeness. I never had a favorite season in California. I do today. Primavera has come. The tide was low and the water was almost still, with the waves lapping languidly back and forth along the shore. There was no wind, and the sun was bright and shining. There was a bench. There was me, tired. It was the best one and a half hours of Athletic P.E. ever.
Spent most of norsktimen and lunch with 가영. I was surprised that she’s only been here for three years. It got me wistfully remenescing my own past. I always thought of my first three years in America as a living hell: the crying, the loneliness, the bullying, the helplessness. I guess it’s because of that experience which carved out a soft spot in my heart for the newly-immigrated, or from my perspective, the newly-emigrated. I asked her if she missed Korea and if she’s been back to visit since. She said she does and that she hasn’t, and in that moment I was overwhelmed by the urge to give her a really big hug. Adapting to this second culture, it’s our perpetual struggle, and nobody else knows what it’s like.
The rest of the day snailed by eventlessly, leaving me with plenty of time to think, reflect, and ponder. Mostly about love. Nagging little thoughts such as, “God! Don’t these people feel?!” Sometimes it seems like they have no interior emotions. I see them laugh, but their laughter is superficial. I see them wrap their arms around each other, but their touch lacks true affection. Whatever happened to genuine desires, romance, courting, hmm? Where did the passion, depth, and intellectual attraction go? And when did Romeo & Juliet become a cliché? (Or has it always been?) I’m not pricing my feelings above everyone else’s, but it just feels like nobody takes Love seriously anymore. Or am I just being an unrealistic ideal romantic again?
Strange Thing
You do strange things to me.
You are a paradox like nobody’s business,
but I suppose I could’ve gathered that.
Tu est comme ta peau.
So pensive, yet in such a simple, innocent manner.
You still ask the questions long beaten out of the rest of us,
and say the things we were taught not to say any longer.
You cut through my defenses
with the unpretentiousness of a child.
In a world that waits for no one,
where time is commodity,
where people come in and out and rush through life,
you stop
to look at the roses and the dew of dawn,
to take in the beauty of a fleeting moment
and the lingering effect it has on you
and me.
I listen to your silence
but hear all your words.
Sometimes I wonder,
“Is this really what you’re feeling
or is this only what you want me to feel?”
But I am glad nevertheless
to feel anything from you at all.
I am hanging on a string.
Hanging on to a story that we’ve never written,
and a past that’s not mine to call.
Kneeling in a temple to an unknown you.
And the only thing that keeps me on my knees
is my faith
that you’re not alone,
that I’m not alone,
that we are alone.
I can scream out to you,
“¿No ves? ¡Soy el único para ti!
¿No entiendes? ¡Estábamos destinados a estar juntos!”
But my words are valorless in these times,
fodder to the cannons of enraptured declarations.
Hvordan kan jeg skille meg fra resten?
Hvordan kan jeg skylle meg fra resten?
You strange thing.
