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To judge life to be timid or frugal is to sense in oneself a movement to go even further than it will.

Georges Canguilhem, Knowledge of Life

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weather // novo amor

burn the bed and the dreams i’ve never met,  those wishes were never for granted so burn the bed i’ll face wind and fill my head those wishes were never for granted

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08.28

10:37 p.m.

i am writing tonight because of a creeping despondency that took shape within me about this year. i understand that it has been overstated, both explicitly and implicitly, through countless stories, collective sighs, cries of anguish, in haphazardly-made memes and published journal articles. so instead, i will share some personal thoughts.

i have had recurring, co-morbid episodes of major depression and anxiety since childhood. as a child i was an electric surge that shook up the people i met. assertive and insatiably curious, full of hope and wonder. but somewhere between my late childhood and early adolescence, i curled up and held an incredible rage inside of me. i only remember struggling from then on. young adulthood was more turbulent. being suddenly thrust into circles of evolving social strata, i made friends, lovers, and many mistakes that encouraged the inward curl. 

through these seasons, anxiety came and went through revolving doors; however, depression was my steadfast companion. i can recall having at least one episode every year since i was 13. those weeks, sometimes months, felt like walking through a blanket of fog on a damp, endless path of asphalt. when your mind dislocates itself from your fingertips, an aching neck, the little pangs of hunger, you begin to feel time being unwound.

this past summer was a long episode of it, still slowly unfolding but maybe coming to rest. at this time, i fell in love with a boy. his friendship, affection, and companionship are good for me; i think i am learning that, perhaps, i am also good for him. during my leisure time, i read, wrote, drew, made music, played video games, went to the parks & beaches, napped, reached out to my friends, prayed — all those things are good for me too.

i am starting to believe and live out a reality that i can endure these episodes and somehow find joy in its midst. i need to hold fast to this, which is why i am writing tonight. 

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07.01

11:21 p.m.

relief is an underrated feeling. nowadays, i long for it more than i long for the ecstasy of happiness or adrenaline-filled excitement or the slow churning of pleasure.

lately, i have been feeling relief. with it, happiness, excitement, and pleasure. these particular set of emotions don’t come easy to me. they’re difficult to grasp, evasive and fleeting. i’ve preferred discomfort only because it allows me to stay vigilant. it is utterly draining. 

i will enjoy this for however long it lasts. evanescent.

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I feel that if we don't take seriously the ways in which racism is embedded in structures of institutions, if we assume that there must be an identifiable racist who is the perpetrator, then we won't ever succeed in eradicating racism.

Angela Davis, Freedom Is a Constant Struggle

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But all our phrasing—race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy—serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body.

Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me

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of pain and utterance

there is a question that has followed me like an apparition since childhood. the longer i live, the less i can shake it off. every now and then, i ponder its whispers. but today, it caught me by the heel and brought me face-forward to the ground, screaming:

what does it mean to be human?

i’ve been unhinged by this question during the past two years. left and right, i am surrounded by people, both nonreligious and religious, who claim certitude over this life. during my early twenties, i asserted myself similarly. i was in over my head when it came to matters of living, of relating, of reasoning. i thought i was zealous in pursuit of truth. however the truth is, i was zealous in pursuit of control and power. i had a tight grip on my perception of reality and declared it a claim to truth.

when life slowly unraveled at its seams, i, too, was unraveled.

during the breakdown of a relationship this past winter, i thought the pain would swallow me up. my prayers were mostly silent, save for moments of sobbing. i was drowning in my inability to form any lucid meaning to the experience. words, my dependence on words and language, became brittle like sand slipping through even as i cup my hands so tightly. the grief was alinguistic, unutterable. words poured from my fingertips, my grasp, my lips, yet lost all meaning in my despair. 

i wonder how many people misuse the words of Scripture to impress upon a message of control, to cage our suffering that is meant to briefly shut our eyes and reverberate through our bodies, for moments, to remind us of our frailty. a pain meant to be known intimately by our stiff, dry bones, aching for our tears and our acknowledgment, that we are human.

when the author of the gospel of John penned its opening lines, they wrote that the Word was God, the divine creator. they wrote that all things were made through the Word, that the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, infinitesimal humans. while the Word is revealed to us today through the tangible pages of our Bibles, this Word is not words nor is it contained by words. God’s incarnate Word is Himself in the person of Jesus. 

the Word is a being. the Word is breathing. the Word, uttered, is power. the Word is the mystery of God.

i don’t believe we can confine the Word to the fragile, mental cardboard boxes of our reasoning. there is something about our existence that is beyond our capacity to utter and form coherent language. that is why we wail, we moan, we scream, we laugh, we hum, we sigh. 

the Word is alinguistic, pre-linguistic, and post-linguistic. but let us not fall into a nihilism either, for the Word is also linguistic. 

yes, this Word is also knowable, incarnate, tangible. that is why, when Jesus’ beloved friend Lazarus died, he wept. alongside his own utterance, he, the Word incarnate, could not utter a single word and instead, chose to enter into our suffering and our agony. the pain that demands to be felt was wholly felt by him too; a visceral, embodied pain. an emotional, physical asphyxiation. a crushing of insides. a muddy pool of tears. a steady surge of sweat and blood.

so in this inescapable, fleeting life of ours, this is our portion: that we wrestle fervently with what we are given through the words we are able to muster, however imperfect, imprecise, or illogical they come. and for the times we are unable to speak, we find grace. 

“We have all received from his fullness,    yes, grace upon grace.”

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Why is there something here, instead of nothing? And why are we aware of this question—we people, particles going around and around this black stone? Why are we aware of it?

Annie Dillard, For The Time Being

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05.12

11:48 p.m.

i am perpetually grappling with vulnerability. throughout my life, all my attempts at self-revelation have always felt fabricated, at least to some degree. my words are still passing through a filter. they are never completely unadulterated, unmoderated. there is no such thing. even speaking only for oneself isn’t wholly true. one’s utterance must inevitably be heard by another. otherwise, was anything really articulated? i don’t know. what is an appropriate measure of vulnerability? what is its platform today? can we ever be truly seen by another? or will there always be a hint of opacity?

perhaps our allocated portion as humans is this: that we will forever crawl in the dark, clumsily feeling our way through on all fours, hoping to grasp something, anything, that would make light of this existence, even if it were dim. 

there is a veil covering my eyes. i’m tired of being myopic, of this cataract that prevents me from surrendering to what i do know, whatever this is that i somehow claim to know. i don’t even know what i know anymore. i do know one thing: i want to see. i want to see clearly. i want to see God. i want to be seen by God. if he’s not there, what the fuck is the point then?

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Three Women: A Poem for Three Voices, Sylvia Plath

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05.01

12:47 p.m.

may first. today, i feel dislocated.

while it remains spinning, the world also feels dislocated in this still unfamiliar temporality. i try to imagine what being on the other side of this moment would look like. is there even a line to cross? i think we can only draw this line in hindsight, when this is over and what will have been yesterday is at a safe distance. yet, as we dangle our legs over the precipice and wait, the earth still spins. in a strange, messed-up way, life will propel us forward with or without our readiness in mind. it does so indiscriminately. for many, this leads to an even greater suffering while i am fortunate enough to be allocated this solitude.

in my mind, my recent experiences are slowly being abstracted. i think, in part, that is a reason i feel this way today. maybe i need to re-root them back to a specific place and a specific time, where they can be free to be what they really are: memories. 

today, i want to see the shore-break crash onto the coast. i want to hear faint music on the car radio. i want to taste cold brew with that hint of milk. i want to smell salt in the wind. i want to hold the hand beside me, feel its warmth and security. today, i will relocate myself.

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30. — dusk