Of Fathers and Daughters

“As much as I love you, Jesus loves you more. I sacrifice a lot because I love you, but Jesus sacrificed everything because he loves you. So if somewhere along the way you fail a test or love a boy who does not love you back or have a mastectomy or develop Alzheimers or gain some weight or lose a job, you will still hold infinite value because Jesus loves you. No matter what. You are loved exactly as you are. Always.”

Dear Dad,

Do you remember that hug?

Yes, that specific one,

Intertwined with all the others,

But still so very significant.

You probably don't,

Because to you it was just a hug.

But to me it changed so very much

Do you remember that song?

The one we listened to a million times

The last notes transferring into the first,

A continuous, unbroken circle

You might not,

We listened to a lot of songs

But it showed me how much you loved me

Do you remember that breakfast?

The one that we drove to on your scooter,

While I sang the whole way

Like I always do

It may be faded in your memory,

So many meals, with so many people,

It told me that I could tell you anything

Do you remember that late night?

When I couldn't sleep

And neither could you,

And we talked about nothing?

You may have forgotten,

We always have a lot of sleepless nights,

But it showed me I was not alone.

Do you remember that talk?

The one where I hoped you would not be disappointed

Where I waited for what questions might come

But all that came was a hug.

Have I asked you about that hug?

Have I asked you about all those moments?

Have I told you how you changed me?

Have I told you that without you

My life would have been forever dented?

All because I didn't have those little moments 

With you

-Your Daughter

"There will be liars and thieves who take from you

Not to undermine the consequence

But you are not what you do

And when you need it most

I have a hundred reasons why I love you"

Damaged

"Dreaming comes so easily,
'Cause it's all that I've known.

True love is a fairy tale.

I'm damaged, so how would I know?

I'm scared and I'm alone,
I'm ashamed
And I need for you to know:

I didn't say all the things that I wanted to say,

And you can't take back what you've taken away

Cause I feel you, I feel you near me


Healing comes so painfully
And it chills to the bone.

Will anyone get close to me?

I'm damaged as I'm sure you know.

There's mending for my soul,

An ending to this fear

Forgiveness for a man who was stronger

I was just a little girl,

But I can't go back"

Glimpses of a Past

Alone:

It's those moments alone. When the joy has faded, the anxiety of walking home alone has faded, the memory of being held secure has faded, and all that's left is reality. How does anyone get past this point? How can these questions not flood into the deep recess of a brain. "If I choose to, Would you try to, Understand?" The alone moments when the doubt comes and it's so much harder than being with someone. So much harder to see the other side of this gap. "Where sorrows melt like lemon drops." There is a depth that lingers in this solidarity. A depth that makes the first words hard to say, that makes beginning difficult. After the words start coming they just run and run like water down a cliff. Getting those words to start after silencing them for so long, that is what seems so impossible. "All I wanna do is turn around." Longing for a phone call, longing for a calm word that lingers to push away this loneliness. That's why he returned, because sometimes it gets lonely. Now why does he stay? What is this feeling? Am I once again alone?

Unnecessary:
I can’t even be mad at you anymore. I’m not mad at either of you. There is no part of me that wishes you pain, or dreams of revenge, but there is a part of me that now knows exactly what I’m worth in your eyes. Even though I can forgive you, and try to be happy and fine, the fact that to you I meant nothing, even for just those moments, tears me apart. I know that I don’t matter, to either of you. I matter in the lowest sense of the word; you don’t want trouble from me. And to you, you want to keep me around; it’s easier when you know I’m right there when you need me. But I no longer look at myself the same way. I am so very replaceable, transparent, unnecessary. By being who I am I have made myself so very unnecessary. I am easy, I am useful, but I am easily ignored until a calamity arises. I hate that you don’t care. I hate that to you it means nothing. You treated me as you said you never would, you have become another on a long list. And now, I just want to forget. Forget that I care, forget that you matter, forget every word, every laugh, every moment. Forget that I was once someone else, and once again, become someone new. I am who you want me to be, but who neither of us want. It’s funny how it works out that way.

Inspiration
Inspiration is a funny thing. It seems to float, in and out of life, across continents, through different people. It comes in the form of a beautifully painted picture, or a wonderful photograph, or a cascading sunset, or the innocent smile of a child. Inspiration folds around the corners of isolation, and around the spikes of anger. It enters the depth of sadness and the heights of joy. It penetrates into the minds of the strong, and gently pulls at the weary. Sometimes, it comes in the form of a song. The symphony’s of Beethoven, the guitar riffs of Jimi Hendrix, the harmonies of a choir, the range of Imogen Heap, the tearfully sung lyrics of Conor Oberst.
“You’re the yellow bird that I’ve been waiting for.” How many pages of writing has that line inspired? How many photographs? How many broken hearts? More than a novel’s worth, more than an album’s worth, more than one.
Inspiration, it’s a funny thing. It evacuates and escapes before it should. It arrives in the unexpected moments, it hands the opposite of what was meant to be said. Sometimes it protects, and sometimes it cuts and tears. It’s the written form of hope. If hope “is the thing with feathers,” inspiration is the feathers.

Have I ever told you? You are the one for me. You are the reason I'm still here, the reason I didn't drive to Montauk and buy a beach house. You're the reason I'm still stuck in this landlocked place with winters that chill to the bone. I'm here and I'm waiting, just like I have been for the past three years. You are for me, not for anyone else, for me. So what are you doing? What could you be thinking?
She will not wait as I have, she will not hope the way I have hoped, she will not dream the way I dream, she will not completely take you as you are with the bad and the good, she isn't me.
You are for me, just as I have always been for you.

When I should be writing Grad essays

The process of learning is a constantly shifting sea. Some days are calm, information coming in smooth with each pull of the oar. But some days are a tempest of waves. The information coming on so fast that the boat feels as if it will sink. It shakes, beliefs and values being pummeled by the wind of new facts, the old crew drowning in countless waves of contradicting information.
And sometimes, knowledge wrecks the boat, sends it crashing on the reefs of some lonely island. Then the crew must start to rebuild, trying to find the pieces that can be salvaged. They pull out some of the planks, ropes, maybe even the mast, and then begin the hunt for wood to rebuild the boat. Choosing stronger wood, praying that when they are done it will not wreck again. Searching through the jungle for the best parts they can find.
Even though the boat has wrecked, they gladly work, side by side. The work and work until a new boat has been finished and ready to sail. Then they get back on board and prepare to continue the voyage ahead. They do this because they know that the lands they have yet to reach are worth sailing for, are worth wrecking for, are worth changing for. They sail on to a new day, a new adventure, maybe even a new storm.

The Dream

I dreamed that you had ceased to love me—
not that you had come from other beds
back to mine, or gone from mine to others,
just that something in your heart had stopped.

I willed myself awake to find you still
beside me. It was just a dream, I thought,
yet when I turned to kiss you, in your eyes
I saw that you had ceased to love me.

I willed myself awake a second time
to find myself alone, as I have been
these many months, but did not know if it
was terror or relief I felt, and whether

dreams unfold the past or make the future
plain. I dreamed that you had ceased to love me,
and know when I see nothing in your eyes
I can't dream myself awake a third time.

-David Solway

Mi Familia

Most days I wake up and miss my family, but today it was different. A deep, dark ache in my heart. A feeling that no one knows quite how I feel except them, and they are so very far away. I think about how my back aches and my eyes are tired, how I'm trying too hard to look cute in my own way, how those three finals are piling up on me and I have to well: too big of dreams not to do well. I think about how my couch back home is the perfect length and comfort and how the couch here is half size to fit in my half sized apartment. How if I was home I could fall asleep on the couch and wake up to music playing on the stereo, the smell of my mother's wonderful cooking, and the darkened Taiwan sky. If I was home we would eat and talk and play a game or watch a show all together. I would come into their room while they were reading before bed and lay down and talk until they kicked me out so they could sleep.

But I am not home, I am not with my family, I am here, alone. 

I don't do well being alone, I'm bad at it. It doesn't suit my nature. Yet here I am, doing what I need to do, being alone. Looking at the heeled boots I bought online with fur around the top. Me, in fur, trying to be something I could be, but right now, I don't want to be.

I don't want to be responsible, I don't want to be sophisticated, I don't want to be trying so hard; I want to be home and young and loved and surrounded by warmth.

Mi corazón pertenece a mi familia