"It is better to lose your pride with someone you love rather than to lose that someone you love with your useless pride."
John Ruskin

To be honest, I am at my happiest and saddest. I feel emotions the strongest through love. And it hurts too much sometimes that you lose track of weighing the good and the bad. Is this my fault? 

Why does love sometimes feel like a game of who can suppress their pride the most as opposed to who can show their humility best? Initially I don’t try to see it as that but when the counterpart does, I can’t help but to unleash that side of me as well. And unfortunately I’m awfully good at it. 

Not to be cynical (but sorta really), maybe love does come with limitations. 


James Baldwin illustrated


I finished J.D.Salinger’s “Catcher in the Rye” yesterday.

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(via whitegirlinahanbok-deactivated2)

I hate good dreams because of its inevitable condition of temporality. And thats why it’s scary when you’re living your dream in reality.

Today my boyfriend and I took each other’s lectures.

In English, we learned about how characters guide others to discovering the meaning of life through compassion. My boyfriend was that character.

In Economics, we learned how quinoa growing farmers grow something so precious that not even they can afford to have some for themselves. So they opt for cheaper alternatives so others can get what they own. My boyfriend was that sacrificing farmer.

In Computer Science, we learned the Bubble Sort, Selection Sort, and Insertion Sort, all of which are ways of sorting a list from least to greatest. My boyfriend is the program that sorts me as first and treats me like it in various ways and algorithms. Even if I’m literally not number one in his life, I sure do feel like it and that’s sufficient enough for me.

So thank you so much for teaching me more than what school can teach. I love you.

I want a cat so bad that I’m contemplating whether I should just get my boyfriend a cat and since he’ll be like “I don’t like it/I don’t have time for it/What is it” I’ll have to take it in and care for it myself. 

Depression produces wonderful works of art. But in life it precisely creates a tragedy and no one really cares about its aesthetic quality. 

"She grew more and more silent about what really mattered. She curled inside herself like one of those black chimney brushes the little shellfish you see on the beach, and you touch them, and the go inside and don’t come out."
Janet Frame, Owls Do Cry  (via tat-art)

(Source: seabois, via melotae)

The roof of this house was made to shelter my head so it doesn’t get wet from the rain. Yet no one knows that the biggest thunder clouds are formed within this house. A cloud of rain always returns to sit on my head when I come home every night and wake up every morning. 

Because you see, the difference between my family and your family is presence. Remember in grade school when you were taught to say “present” in the beginning of class for attendance? Silly us, as kids we naively thought that “present” was only indicative of our physical state. But sometimes, even if your body was present, your mind would drift to some far off distance only to return back when class was over. Your teacher never bothered to check to see if your interior self was present. But isn’t that what’s important? Even if my parents are here with me, why can’t I see them? I only see matter. It’s hard to sense the presence of their heart and soul. 

Sucks, doesn’t it? When you fight with your parent and all of a sudden the atmosphere gets weird. The tension in the house produces angst. But it dies down eventually and everyone starts talking again. Same, when my parents and I fight, no one talks in the house. But then again, no one ever talks. Not even on a good day. That’s the difference between my family and yours.

Sure, there are guidelines and rules under each house. All more or less reasonable. But when I piss my dad off, he talks to me as if he is going to fire me. He’s confused himself and has come to be unable to differentiate a family from a workplace. Instead of “father”, he calls himself the “boss.” The only thing he cares about is not how my day has been, but how my transcript is looking so far, as if it is my resume for acceptance. Is Mother, who seldom utters a word besides “Come eat i)breakfast ii)lunch iii)dinner,” the cafeteria lady? This environment has made “love” a taboo thing to do. 

The house echoes throughout. Echoes with our breathing. The living room does not live, but merely survives. If your family laughs, at least you laugh. If your family fights, at least you fight. But what if your family does neither? Is it any different from just existing? And so what if it just exists? If not living, can it really be any different from dying? 

Only the bed cradles me. It has softer hands to wipe my tears and does not ever, ever judge me or shout at me for crying. It understands me. I can feel it hushing me to sleep. It sings me sweet lullabies of which its lyrics are my own thoughts…of which its hymns and melodies are in rhythm with my own breathing… Maybe someday the people in this house will make me smile as much as this bed does. Till then, I’ll continue sharing dialogue, laughter, and love with the corner of this house. 

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing."
Benjamin Franklin  (via jayceiusagi)

(Source: larmoyante, via ilostgatsby)

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