as queer as a clockwork orange

I would run thousands of miles to be back home right now. If only the ocean didn’t separate us.
Sometimes I wish I could just smuggle myself in a Fedex envelope and ship myself internationally back home. Overnight shipping. By morning, I would be waiting on the security desk. My mom would go down and sign for the envelope. She would open it. I’d give her a hug and snuggle into bed and sleep. What a dream.

I lifted myself up and slowly twisted my arm around. Right below my elbow was an unsightly mixture of pebbles and blood. The gravel path had completely scraped the skin off. The blood was seeping slowly out of the parallel cuts made by the rocks to form a uniform red patch. I looked at it closely and saw the different layers of skin that had been cut up. They were clearly visible under the bright afternoon sun. Bright red. But scar tissue will eventually replace the blood. A scar will gradually inhabit the scrape, covering up what used to be normal. A painful reminder of how fragile human lives are.

Our lives are continually scraped open by the sharp edges of conflict. Layer after layer of skin is peeled back as we observe the malfunctioning muscles and tendons of others and of ourselves. All our inner workings, our most hidden secrets are revealed. Painfully, we watch others as they shed the blood of their actions and beliefs but we can do nothing but wait for the scar tissue to form and the scar to heal. Physical abrasions. Abrasions to the heart. They all expose our fragility. But  all we need is some antibiotics, a few bandages, and a little patience. Our broken selves will heal themselves eventually. Just wait.

I want my Einstein bagels back. Companion bagels suck.

I have come to realize that over time my writing has become more and more like lists of complaints. And every sentence starts with “I”. Either I have lost my ability to express myself in a more sophisticated way or I am selfish as heck. Looking back at my previous posts, I have to admit I sound like a self-centered whiney kid trying to make life more dramatic than it is. Set myself on fire? Seriously? Sometimes I really take life way too metaphorically and everything becomes a symbol of everything. My thoughts start to tend toward constant superstition (e.g. “It’s raining. I’m going to fail the exam today.”) Note that my superstitions are always related to academics.

Talking of getting sick, I am actually physically sick now (cue in superstitious logic). It’s so interesting watching my own body malfunction. My nose is congested and I can hardly breathe. My lungs itch like crazy. But there’s no way to relieve the itch so I just have to cough it out. My head feels like a water balloon that is so filled up that one prick will make it explode. Having this virus feels like a prison you have no way of escaping. Just gotta swim in that virus until you conquer it. It’s also equally interesting to observe my defensive reaction when people say I don’t look sick. It’s like I want sympathy or something. If I really am sick, why the need to be so defensive?

Talking of lungs itching, I just read an article about a study that uncovered the secret to how scratching relieves itch. It’s interesting how people have managed to devise some of the most miraculous operations to fix messed up people, sequenced the entire human genome, delved into quantum mechanics, sent a lot of stuff outside of earth’s atmosphere, nuked so many places on earth, invented Google Maps…etc. and yet we have no idea why we scratch the mosquito bite until it bleeds. And when we do find out, we can always count on it being so scientifically complicated (ie “Spinothalamic tract (STT) neurons respond to itch-producing agents and transmit pruritic information to the brain. We observed that scratching the cutaneous receptive field of primate STT neurons produced inhibition during histamine-evoked activity but not during spontaneous activity or activity evoked by a painful stimulus, suggesting that scratching inhibits the transmission of itch in the spinal cord in a state-dependent manner” nature) that we realize we really don’t care what’s going on when we scratch a bite anymore.

The weather is extremely extreme. One day it’s warm enough to wear t-shirts and shorts and the next day it snows. And it’s supposed to be spring. Did I hear you say that’s weird? But how can it be weird when we humans aren’t faring too well in our own floundering economic state? I think there’s a direct correlation.

I miss home a lot. Sometimes I am just sick of watching time pass by so quickly. I cannot bear the thought of people changing. I am bitter for petty things. Extremely cruel and unnatural judgment runs through my head when things don’t go my way. I push away suffering and dwell on the comfortable. I hate myself for being so selfish. I despise my tired state. Light up. I need to be put on fire. Ablaze.

I am trapped by the sharp edges of my application. I have drained my whole life into these thin sheets of paper. I have drowned it with my desire and passion, filled it with black ink and perfectionism. I dissected my mind and carefully put on display the viscera of my thoughts. Each and every organ a vital part without which my identity would die. The heart is pumping slowly and steadily within these superficial forms, hidden between the dreams of thousands of other people. Waiting.

I want to scream and shout realizing the weight of this decision. I am the one! But my voice is muffled and muted. After all, to them, I only exist as an ID number. A name with no face. A girl with a passion. A passion with no mind.
Please let me in. Please keep me alive.