Growing Up

Can't help but to feel like everyone just cares about looking cool. Can't help but to want to follow suit and try to be cool to, because I know a part of me wants to look good and feel good.

But I also want to be different. But I know that to be different makes it hard to relate with others.

I don't know how to fight off my impulses to change. And I don't know when it's time to change.

Growing up is tough as you realize there's so many fake people out there in the world and you start to wonder how fake you are yourself.

Facebook

You know, sometimes there are moments when you have something important to say, but no one ever responds, and you can't help but to feel like no one saw it or cared. Yet, there's those people who update their status on everything they do. "Shower," "Eating," "Doing homework," "Sleepover," "Tired," and other rather insignificant parts of people's lives, but those things get comments. Perhaps I'm being immature or self-centered about this, but this is just what I hate about Facebook.
I don't really even know why I still have a Facebook account. For the games, picture-sharing, or contacts? None of my close friends really use it. Pretty much all 200-some people on my friends list are people I rarely talk to. And to be honest, I feel like I shrink when I'm on there. There are updates on people's lives and sometimes I realize how little I do. But in a way, I don't mind how I live. I enjoy my life and I don't particularly like being in the sun. But I guess the grass looks greener on the other side, when I look at people's pictures of when others are having lots of fun.
Also, there's just a lot of negative feelings I get from Facebook. People post crass comments, make stupid arguments, say the most annoying things, and I can't help to roll my eyes at them. It sounds like I think I know what's best, and I know that's not true, but I can't help feeling that way. So a guy writes a poem. About women's breasts. Tags me. And he gets a comment about how it's "meaningful to his personality". To be upright, straight-out, blunt about it, it was the most insulting and disgusting thing ever. Not only because it should be considered sexual harassment, but his poem is not a poem. I actually don't even know what a poem is anymore. What is a poem?! It rhymed, and that's it. You expect me to applaud that? You think that because you can think of some rhymes you can call it a poem. I can't help but to feel so insulted as a writer. And how dare he tag me? It's about women's breasts and I just so happen to be a woman. Does he expect me to not look down upon his so called poem? I just don't understand how insensitive, gross, and tactless people can be.
Oh, and I just happened to have posted a poem yesterday night, not like anyone read/commented on it. I didn't tag anyone, so perhaps that's why. But who would I tag anyways? I want people to seek it, but I guess the joke's on me. Well, in a way, I'm kind of glad no one commented on it. Saying this in an obviously bad mood, I doubt anyone would appreciate my work properly. "This is awesome," kind of comments makes me want to slap people. Seriously. It makes me think, "Did you even understand anything? Really? Really? And if you did, all you could say what that? No reflecting thoughts? No condemning remarks? Nothing at all?" And I always draw the conclusion that no one understands my writing, perhaps because the people who read my junk are idiots or that I'm simply intelligible, not like I would know which one it is because no one tells me anything.
The only productive comments I get is from a guy who is a romantist. He feels like he's nothing without love, and searches for "the one" for him. When he falls "in love," he practically serenades to the girl everyday and writes love poems all dedicated to his one true love. He has no idea what the word "moderation" is. And when the girl dumps him because she think he's creepy with his obsession, then he gets extremely depressed. Then he writes self-pitying poems or longing poems and says how lost he is. From a personal, and totally biased view, I think he has no appreciation for life. He doesn't take things slow, he think he's being "strong" but he actually does stuff to get attention, and when he does get attention, he brushes it off. I used to honestly care/worry about him. But then I just couldn't stand it anymore. He has so many valuable friends around him, giving him advice and encouraging him to move on. All he says in response is, "I know. I know," but no. He simply doesn't get it at all, tosses the advice away, and makes the same mistakes all over again. And that makes me so mad how he doesn't seem to appreciate any of the help he gets, puts on the whole "solitary samurai" charade he likes to do, cries in the rain, posts pictures that suggests he's emo but he's not.
I went through a lot of crude in middle school and had no one. My sister was in college and my parents seemed like they could care less about me. I couldn't talk to my friends, they had so many problems of their own, how could I talk to them? I tried to be the one there for them and I made myself everyone's personal adviser. In a way, I was satisfied; I love helping people, and it made me realize how fortunate my life is. I don't have abusive parents, druggie siblings, or anything, I live a relatively normal life and I have many privileges. But in retrospect I think that I wasn't being strong at all and I let myself get drawn to a hole and became suicidal. So because of that, I let that affect how I see Mister Love, and I can't help but to hate him with a passion. How fortunate you are to have so many people care for you that you can easily toss them away so you can wallow in your own pity, I think to myself. I'm a bit jealous for not being more out-crying. Perhaps I wouldn't as dark-hearted as I am today . . .

my dad said it seems like I've grow up a bit . . .

what's happening to my parents . . . ?

my mom hugged me . . .

Behind the beautiful rose bush is a mat of tangled thorns no one loves or wants. Because the thorns hurt. And the blood from pricked fingers stain the flowers, the oh so beautiful flowers. So everyone cuts the thorns off. But there are too many thorns. And so everyone forgets the thorns are even there.

Or that's how I wish things were. I'm cursed to prick my fingers until there's no skin left to tarnish. Like the curse of the spinning wheel. I'll fall into a deep deep slumber. But there will be no prince to kiss me awake. And I'll sleep peacefully forever.

With no happy ending.

Oh how beautiful the roses are indeed. But the roses comes with thorns that no one loves. Yet almost everyone bears the thorns deeply embedded in their hands. They wrap their hands with bandages. And they bear their pain and their love together.

But I don't think I can do the same. I want to sleep and sleep. With my bandaged hands without thorns. But I'll have no prince to kiss me awake.

It would be best if I learned to bear the thorns. Yet that immortal, spoiled child inside still wants the best of both worlds.

For now I'll keep pricking my hands until I have no more skin to tarnish. Before choosing to bear the thorns or to sleep forever.

Appreciation

There are different forms of appreciation.
But can they be compared? The appreciation for life when you've live through years of poverty and without luxury. The appreciation after surviving through surgery. The appreciation after getting over depression.


"When I was 10 and first saw a radio, I thought there were people inside them."

"Back then, we thought a 9-inch television screen was impressive."

"We had to sit behind each other, because if you looked at the screen from the side, you couldn't see what was happening."

"In college, when it was about the time when China's women volleyball were at their peak, everyone crowded around the TV. There was only 20 inch TV for each dormitory. Six floors, twenty rooms, eight people per room. The first row, people sat on the floor, behind them, people sat on chairs. Then people stood. Then people stood on chairs. Then people stood on the table. The people stood on chairs on tables. All the way until people's heads were touching the ceiling."

"We were so proud when both of our children could go to college. You could only take the exam once. If you failed that one time, you could never go to college. Not in China."

it's time to move on