shatter.

A heart can be many things in terms of love. I give you my heart and it may seem naive, exposing a delicate layer of my endearments as soft as your palm pressed to my face. I look at it as taking a chance, genuinely believing you are positively wonderful and wishing you find me mutually fantastic. It is the confidence that I can see only you ahead of me because you cause the edges of my peripherals to blur where no other bystander phases me. You magnificent, lucky person! I see every cute sunspot and every annoying mannerism, and along the way I've finally reached that point where I've stopped trying to change you. Really, I don't need to when I accept and love every bit of you. My heart has been delivered to you in fragments; hesitant at first, but joyously showered upon you over a year's time.
I apologize that my heart's original condition was meek, but it warmed up to you. You've helped me mature, but my heart loves you with the enthusiasm and happiness of a child still amazed by the world around it. Be gentle, be cautious, and handle with care. Those were my pleas.
I didn't realize how my heart would change. The first time our relationship was tested, my heart felt hollow to the touch with no substance. Fortunately the situation called for me to make a decision, and I chose to sympathize. My heart outstretched earnestly, missing the feelings of being whole. The months that followed we spent more time together than ever, and my heart was overjoyed by the company of constant contentment. I thought I'd seen the worst, but I was mistaken.
The words "you broke my heart" should never be taken lightly.
A person cannot utter such a thing without truly fathoming its depth.

Recently, we were tested once again and the truth was what set me in flames.
No it wasn't anger. Actually, my definition of a broken heart isn't translated in fire.
I stood still and all I could do was remember to breathe.
The intake of oxygen clung to my heart in an icy chill, freezing it solid.
With every word I felt my skin unraveling.
I felt tiny fragments of my heart chipping.
They fell and splintered my other organs, and blood drained.
....What I choked up were tears. Lots of them.
And then the emptiness settled in.
The wretched, agonizing pain of feeling a part of you is lost.
That is what heartbreak feels like....to me.

confront.

How do I pray? Much like I talk: I ramble. Whether public or in private, within the sanctuary of my subconscious I deliver my innermost desperation to the ultimate confidant. Whether that be Him/Her/They/or It is still somewhat undecided within myself, but the basic idea that "someone is listening" provides me solace. I won't be modest: I usually find myself in tears. Lately I have been literally forced to acknowledge things I have chosen to be emotionally ignorant to. For example, my Daddy issues. Rather than being at the edges of my mind caught in cobwebs of trauma, he is a reoccurring image that stabs at painful memories and feelings of rejection. Talking to family members on "his side" through facebook lately has both made me warm with pithy comfort and hostile with a debate over how I feel about my father now (if I decide to let him keep that title).

I digress.

The real subject at hand is my religious standpoint. In the beginning, religion was a "reason" or excuse for bonding with my Grandfather. I would wake up early and help him volunteer at the nursing home his mother had attended, pushing the wheelchairs of patients into the cafeteria and serving them coffee as a service was conducted. I smiled at the atmosphere, but childishly only acknowledged it as family bonding. My grandfather filled the gap my father created when he left, and he was and still is a man I respect above all others. As I began my self-identity crisis and faced what religion really was for the first time, I admit I was standoffish. I took on an agnostic viewpoint because I found myself WANTING to possess faith, but still had my doubts. I didn't want to conform to it because I felt that if it was meant to be I would go through my own enlightenment. This way, it would be more...natural. 

Add in the gay factor, and religion became about the last thing I wanted to confront. I felt fear most of all for the biggest assumption is that I would be condemned to Hell for being what I am. I went through all the stages thinking at first I could change, but quickly realized my orientation isn't a choice. Once this was confirmed within myself, I debated God almost angrily. If it was/is true that I am condemned, I found Him to be a hypocrite. How could I be unworthy of His love simply based on falling in love? Then more tears came. The complexes with rejection my father created made me realize my biggest plea towards God: I don't want to be left behind again. More importantly, I want to acknowledge Him as the one man in my life I can truly rely on. For now I remain in the dark wanting answers to my questions, but now that I have come to accept Him I hope that He will take my hand and lead me into the light one day.

I am thankful to my sister for showing me the website godmademegay.com because after reading the letter I took a very audible sigh of relief. I found wonderful truth within those words, and I feel at last worthy of being taken in His arms to heal. I am a human who will inevitably sin just as I am a young adult who will inevitably be unmotivated at times, but I will promise to make more of an effort. Rather than turning my back and childishly refusing to confront my standpoint, I will branch out and work towards genuine enlightenment. I feel almost silly for this sudden change, but more so warm with happiness as if He is smiling down at me and saying, "About time."

I suggest everyone read the letter I mentioned.

Again I am grateful, and I will press on from here.

run on. and on.

Perspective is both a curse and an advantage.
Always see the silver lining, but don't get caught being naive.
Realists shoot me down as reality inevitably does.
I've succumb to materialism with my new job
Yet there are bigger things to save for.
Better yet, I'll get bitched at for a waste of money
And in turn, a waste of time.
I try so hard to live up to these expectations
Only to find there's another mountain to climb.
I am so eager to obtain that level of respect
Despite knowing what I need is experience
And some years under my belt.
I'm still the Leo craving attention
Or am I the girl wanting recognition...
From the one person I used to despise?
I feel lost, all-of-a-sudden plunging
Into a whirlwind of emotion and nostalgia.
No.
More like feelings I've pushed away
Until now.
An anxious grasp is forever squeezing
My heart and also my lungs,
Suffocating the air that would provide a pithy relief.
I am capable of looking ahead
And estimating what I desire to happen.
I am also capable of possessing enough
Ambition to get me to that point.
Only now do I suffer
From the doubt or set-backs.
I just need to keep on pushing,
Hoping I'll pass the mountains
And make it to peaceful hills.
Who knows, they're could be a
Beautiful lake there.


Complacent.

anxious, curling toes.

I have a tendency to ramble, so let's make this more blunt: I have had an interest and passion for languages since an early age. Upon closer inspection and experience I've realized that I chose not to pursue it as a career because of a lack of support. No one ever really gave me much recognition. Those four years I tackled Japanese and received excellence awards...I was proud of myself, but not many people engaged me in conversation over it. I gleamed whenever someone showed interest or praised me, but otherwise I usually had to deal with types who dismissed me as nothing more than a geek.

And yet.

It may seem arrogant, but really it's normal to desire recognition...it makes an individual feel more accomplished and confident. Therefore, it is because of the encouragement I've received lately that I've decided to pick up the reins again and head onto a new path.

Always impulse. Why not?

My plan? Not too many specifics yet. I talked to an advisor and switched majors. I plan to most likely minor in Japanese and my major thus far is undecided although it could be English. After obtaining a Bachelor's at least, I will become involved in the JET program with my friend. Don't know what it is? Look it up.

I still feel like I'm rambling.

Oh well, in a nutshell that's life for now.

Cheers.

a lack of memory.

I've always referred to my biological father bitterly, but despite my resentment he is still the man that helped bring me into this world. The reason I only ever have negative things to say about him is actually because... I can't remember much else. Last night my sister Amanda told me our aunt Teari added her on facebook, but I tilted my head and admitted that I couldn't remember her, much less did I remember simple things like Dad being the middle child and having two brothers. So I have two uncles whose faces and even names are a blur of nonexistence in my memory. Astonished, Amanda pressed more and when she realized how little I could recall she concluded that I must've subconsciously blocked him out. She worries, she thinks that something very traumatic may have happened...and the idea is possible so I'm bewildered.

More importantly, I'm frustrated. Regardless of whether or not I "like" my dad, I still feel robbed of childhood memories. The divorce between my parents happened when I was eleven, and that is the beginning of my few clear memories of him. I remember how he used to pick Amanda and I up from school for a quick snack or how he'd take us to Putt-Putt Golf. After that we visited him in Hawaii twice, but during those visits I remember little things like watching movies or how he got drunk one night while we played a board game and he suddenly tried giving me advice on life and yelled at my stepmom for interjecting. I remember walking out of their little apartment and walking to the end of the hall because we weren't on the first floor. I pressed my back against the wall and sighed, and of course Amanda came running after me. Everything before this I can't recall.

I can see Mom. I can see cuddling with mom, I can see talking to Mom or bugging her after work, I can see her cooking and I can see shopping with her as a child. But I can't see Dad. I can't remember what he was like as a father. I have one fuzzy memory from Hawaii when I was just learning to ride a bike... I remember riding around the neighborhood (it was a sort of culldasack military-housing set-up) and he was watching with his buddies, unsurprisingly also sipping a beer. He laughed when I said I couldn't figure out the brakes, and I remember tears rolling down my face as he and the group laughed... then green. Lots of green, I crashed into a field. I came back whimpering and asking for a bandaid but he told me to toughen up and I never got that bandaid. Since then I've associated this memory to my complex with showing weakness or crying in front of people.

I resent him so much, but I didn't ask to forget him almost entirely. If it weren't for the fact that those trips to Hawaii were somewhat recently, I would have a hard time being able to remember him at all. It already feels like I have to squint and focus when I'm trying to think of what he looks like.

Why the bitterness? Here's what I recall: Jeffrey Thomas Sampson. A man my mother met in the Navy as a diver and who she eloped with in Hawaii. He drank a lot, was controlling and criticized my mother, didn't like seeing my mother's side, yelled a lot, had crude humor, and he looked like a mix of Cuban and Indian because of his darkly tan skin. Mustache, increasing baldness, tall, skinny despite a beer belly now and then, and when he propped his feet up I noticed they look just like mine. He walked out on my mom a lot, I faintly remember a few yelling-fights, and most of all I remember my mother's breakdown after she realized he had cheated on her. Even fainter is the memory I have of him packing his truck and driving off. After that, I was in my room a lot. Mom was always sad and distant, but I didn't understand what a broken heart meant. I found out what it looked like when I walked in on my sister helping our drunk mother into bed... she was making a lot of noise crying so I walked into her room ("....Mommy?") and saw her writhing...asking over and over why my father did this to her. My eyes went wide, and Amanda finally saw me and walked me back to my room and told me to stay.

I suppose that is why I truly despise him. I grew up as mommy's-girl, so to see that "daddy" was the reason that mommy was so sad is a simple conclusion. I'm still frustrated - I mean, most people get upset if their technology or money is stolen... but me?

I'm upset by a lack of memory.

Bye Daddy.

intimacy or intimidation?

Philosophy praises the agnostic, or the ignorant non-believer that stands by the mindset of "I don't know". The idea of relying on faith alone is both something I've always admired and doubted within religion. The passion, the emotion, the hope... the idea that a person can believe with all of their heart or entire being that someone or something is real. In THAT sense religion can be endearing to me. Better still, it not only can bring people together but also make a person feel more at ease or fufilled within themselves. I yearn for that absolute faith that everything will be okay, the day even the little doubts will melt away.

Although private, my introduction to one significant person many months ago threw my beliefs off balance. Not to say I've ever successfully managed balance, but they had a very impressive story to share. I could not help but give my full attention, and realize as they spoke that this was not only very serious, but also very true. Ever since that day of enlightenment, I have on and off contemplated my religious standpoint... and finally picked up where I left off on my internal debate. I found comfort in that standstill I was at, content in the idea that not knowing was safe although not as fufilling. Atheism proved too lonely, honestly. I finally started to grasp awkwardly onto prayer, still unsure of "who" I was talking to but feeling somewhat happy in the idea that someone could be listening. Anywhere from the inside of my car to on a toilet, I talked to this invisible person. In my head, out loud, laughing, rambling, crying... I took on no modesty as I confided. In fact, based on my favorite quote from the book The Color Purple, I have for a long time now appreciated the little things in life more. An example would be that while driving a bird may fly by in my view and I can't help but sigh and smile because the grace of it is calming. I told my sister this (who by the way is very settled within her faith), and she smiled and told me that God not only created that bird for me to see, but I should be grateful for the happy feeling it gives me. I found truth in this, but still apologized for holding on to "I don't know" when it comes to God. She shook her head, not wanting to rush me because as she said it is a personal journey.

And yet.

She worries. You cannot believe in God without believing in the devil, same is true for believing in both a heaven and hell. Based upon the story of that signifant person, I have specific worries. The story made me believe in something I never thought I would, but the imbalance of little faith is where the trouble is. I refuse to rush my journey, I believe my enlightenment will come in time through my own efforts but I am thankful for meeting this significant person. I am thankful for becoming less ignorant, for there are way too many people who comfortly remain that way and never reach genuine fufillment. I still have my questions and doubt, but I feel more at ease knowing that I am heading in a positive direction. Possibly my biggest fear is rejection by God because I am gay, but like my sister and many others I don't believe homosexuality is a sin. Moreover, to love is not a sin. Another favorite quote of mine is from L Word (laugh if you must), when the conservative father of Bette asks what she will do on the day of judgment. She responds simply, "I will say I am your creation, and I am proud."

Time will only tell from here.

fun with shadows.

I consider it a sign of luck when suddenly the shadow of a flying bird soars above my own, sketched out perfectly on a canvas of pavement. I pause as suddenly the bird comes into view above my head and smile as it floats on with little effort but much grace. Sometimes my mind will wander as I press on, imagining the shadow of that bird flying down to pick my shadow up by its shoulders and zoom onward. On to more pebbled streets and sidewalks, but also into the comfort of soft grass and perhaps an intermission under the shadow of a humble willow. Barely a breath is uttered and the only "words" that are uttered come from the sighing leaves of the willow in the wind, but the bird's shadow is feeling adventurous again. My shadow experiences stretching across long suburban fences and flies into the city, climbing buildings in a matter of seconds. I remain walking, bathed in warm sunshine but look down to no companion at my feet until the bird's shadow returns. It chucks mine free and in an instant I feel the collision, laughing like a kid as I jump up and down and my shadow mimics. I don't frown when the sun recedes because I don't think of my shadow as gone, but maybe hiding...or flying.

Smile.