I can’t deny it anymore.

I like you. A lot.

"To Blue, Blue Skies"

Translucent white clouds of incense Rise from the soft flames
And the scent soars up
To blue, blue skies
It will go.

Words unsaid, tears we must not shed,
For I miss you and you miss me,
But you know you must go
And I know, I must
Let you go.

Tofu and our finest bowls of rice
A last meal before your departure
A goodbye meal we’ll make
To accompany you
When you go.

And always at three in the morning,
Back into my dreams you’ll visit.
You shouldn’t be here, no.
You have much better
Places to go.

Memories rush through the depths
Through thoughts of myself,
Of dinner and petty things
And we will never forget
When you go.

Do not fret for me, for it is only you;
You who have suffered,
So trust that I am fine
And that I promise to
Let you go.

And just forty-nine more days to go,
Till our fathers, your father,
You, will become one.
And to blue, blue skies
You will go.

For blue, blue skies.

I forgive you.


It breaks my heart sometimes.

I’ve learned to move on, yes. I’ve learned to let go. But how do you truly rid yourself of something that’s very much ingrained in you.

Every single cell in our body is replaced every seven years. But that doesn’t mean that in 7 years I will be an entirely different person. I will still have my black hair and my brown chinky eyes. I’m still me.

It’s like a family tree. I’ve never met my ancestors, but they brought my mother into this world, who then brought me into this world. Without them, I would not exist. In the same way, my past memories lived and died. I may try to run away from it. I may try to forget. But like a family tree, every single thought in my mind is intertwined, and my present thoughts, just being born as I am typing, stem from those past memories. It’s family. It’s the connections we make that make us human. Without these connections, our lives would be completely meaningless.

We wouldn’t connect a “hug” to “love,” for example, or “smile” to “happy.”

And “happy” would mean nothing to us. Nothing would mean anything.

Perhaps it’s time I stop trying to hard to escape my past. I can come to terms with it, or keep a healthy distance from it. But I think it’s about time I realize that my past will forever be intertwined with my very being.

So here’s to accepting my past as a part of me, no matter how much it hurts.

November 20th, 2007

Two years later, I try to reflect on myself, analyze the symbols, and think about how this experience has changed me. I am no longer the sad, hopeless girl I saw in the mirror three years ago. I see that girl as an archetypal child – not one of romantic innocence, but one of egocentrism, one that has finally grown up. And I know that on that day, I learned to live. So now here I am, sipping some tea to keep me awake because I no longer want to sleep.

Writers block sends even the most brilliant students tumbling into an abyss sans inspiration.

I, however, never considered myself brilliant, or a writer, for that matter. What I am is a reflector, an analyzer, a thinker.

As I sit here with a cup of tea and bruised fingers from an overly tight grip on my pen, I desperately search through 17 years of my life, brainstorming ideas for my college essay. I have been taught to analyze the works of Shakespeare and Dickinson, but never myself–the author of my own life. My inexperienced mind aches as my inexperienced hand is unable to direct the ink into precise positions, reflecting the little storm in my brain. It’s frustrating, to say the least.

To my first love,

Remember when we were young and naive? Sandcastle wars were always a favorite of ours. We met when you broke mine so I broke yours, but it was all in good fun. Eventually, we joined forces and built our own. Together. And we owned everyone on the beach that day.

But we were young and naive. We thought it’d last forever. But the tide came and things changed and it’s been years now. The castle isn’t even there anymore. Maybe that same broken seashell that was once part of our wall is around there somewhere, but the castle, in essence, is gone.

I miss it sometimes, and I could try to rebuild it, but it wouldn’t be the same. Perhaps it’s for the better though. Perhaps some of that sand will be part of others’ sandcastles. Perhaps I’ll build another one, and you’ll build another one. Perhaps we’ll build it with different people this time. Either way, we’ll build it bigger and better, and perhaps a little further up the shore this time.

Thanks for being my first sandcastle building buddy.

Sincerely, me.


I am 18, but I am a child.

This summer will be the last summer I am treated as a child. This fall will be the start of my transition into adulthood. At least I hope so.

Tomorrow, I say. Tomorrow I will finish my summer work. Tomorrow I will start running. Next quarter I will take more units. Next year I will get a job. Tomorrows turn into somedays but most somedays turn into nevers.

I don’t think I could say with truth that tomorrow, I will no longer be a child.

A new beginning.