Rhyme time with the lyrical mysticism of words and writing
Lost and gone are the words that come out so naturally just a year or two ago. I am only left with the yearning for the poetry that I was once able to write; the lyrical jibjab of nonsensical riff raff that graced this journal of mine. With each rambling there was a focused subject that I would be able to comeback to and focus on, so there would be a sense of purpose in the nonsense.
It is gone. Gone gone gone. I have no words to write. No problems to solve. I have lost my touch, gone gone gone. So sad. Indeed, so sad.
I went out searching for my words, but they are ever so elusive. They have their own flight of fancy that comes and goes. When I feel that I have secured them in my head and they are on their way through my fingers to do their little tap dancing performance, they stop and freeze from stage fright. Lost and gone.
Lost and gone are my "T's" when I try to write the word "Lost", so they come out as "los". Strange indeed as my fingers try to fall back into habit of writing freely without the strict rules of screenwriting and making sense of story.
I have a lot of stories to tell so I've been told. Fun and fascinating stories of one-liners that make up the fact about a certain event. Fun indeed as they are just merely facts instead of "stories" from the writer that I am trying to be. Oh, how I fit in so well with so many people and how I just miss with others.
Getting back to the ones and zeroes that come from my little buds, they are becoming more and more foreign. I'm falling back to my language of birth and becoming more and more chinese.
Again, I feel that I am Chinese, not Chinese American or Asian American. Even though I do fit that category, for the life of me I would like to consider myself Chinese rather than a combination of both. Maybe it is just because of the technicality that I'm not a mutt or that I wasn't born in the "America" that the term so reference. I am Chinese. That is from my blood, my heritage, my ethnicity.
Why would I consider myself a Chinese American when I don't even consider myself Vietnamese? I was born in Vietnam, but I am not Vietnamese. Again, the blood in me is that of the Hans. So there is no American in me. None.
Funny because most of the elders in my family consider me American. I have taken up many of their cultures and ways. I grew up a mixture of American and Chinese. I did.
I think I am a good balance of both. But, I'm still Chinese. It's all symnatics, I know, but still, it makes sense to me.
I'm Chinese.
* * *
All is lost, all is gone. NOthing comes and nothing comes. I have nothing left to say. Maybe it is the brightness of day that prevents me from writing these diatribes that I was so good at. I don't know has gotten into me. I have no clue what happened. I usually write in the dark, the blackness of light.
Those were the days before pickles. Now, it seems I only write during the days mostly, unless I am forced to write at night, due to the pressures of dealines.
This is fun writing to keep me on my game. I guess I don't do fun things anymore, but only do things that I am required to do.
What are fun things? Socializing or being the hermit that I am. Though my dear cousin doesn't see me as the hermit and antisocial person that I so proclaim. She seems me as the social butterfly. Why? Because I get along with her well. I tell her my stories of going out and drunkeness. They come few and far between.
True there is a part of me that is a butterfly flapping its wings in socialness, but you can't beat nature. I am the hermit. I like being on my own, doing my own thing, doing whatever it is that I want to do and that is to stay home and sleep, watch tv or movies. I love it. It's such a relaxing boring life that I live and yearn to live. I love it.
I'm a lazy butt. I know it. My mom knows it and I'm sure my dad knew it. But, I don't know. I guess all in all, I have no problem not talking with anyone, especially when I have nothing to say. Why say anything when you have nothing to say. Nothing is as bad as forced conversations. What is that? Awkwardness.
Maybe with more time and more thoughts in my head, these blank endless space of my journal will become filled once again. I have no more writing assignments to do. Not yet atleast. I just need to come up with my new idea. A short, a feature. A homage to A Chinese Ghost Story. I don't know what my next project will be, but I am sure that I will have another next project. It will only be in time. Time.
It is gone. Gone gone gone. I have no words to write. No problems to solve. I have lost my touch, gone gone gone. So sad. Indeed, so sad.
I went out searching for my words, but they are ever so elusive. They have their own flight of fancy that comes and goes. When I feel that I have secured them in my head and they are on their way through my fingers to do their little tap dancing performance, they stop and freeze from stage fright. Lost and gone.
Lost and gone are my "T's" when I try to write the word "Lost", so they come out as "los". Strange indeed as my fingers try to fall back into habit of writing freely without the strict rules of screenwriting and making sense of story.
I have a lot of stories to tell so I've been told. Fun and fascinating stories of one-liners that make up the fact about a certain event. Fun indeed as they are just merely facts instead of "stories" from the writer that I am trying to be. Oh, how I fit in so well with so many people and how I just miss with others.
Getting back to the ones and zeroes that come from my little buds, they are becoming more and more foreign. I'm falling back to my language of birth and becoming more and more chinese.
Again, I feel that I am Chinese, not Chinese American or Asian American. Even though I do fit that category, for the life of me I would like to consider myself Chinese rather than a combination of both. Maybe it is just because of the technicality that I'm not a mutt or that I wasn't born in the "America" that the term so reference. I am Chinese. That is from my blood, my heritage, my ethnicity.
Why would I consider myself a Chinese American when I don't even consider myself Vietnamese? I was born in Vietnam, but I am not Vietnamese. Again, the blood in me is that of the Hans. So there is no American in me. None.
Funny because most of the elders in my family consider me American. I have taken up many of their cultures and ways. I grew up a mixture of American and Chinese. I did.
I think I am a good balance of both. But, I'm still Chinese. It's all symnatics, I know, but still, it makes sense to me.
I'm Chinese.
* * *
All is lost, all is gone. NOthing comes and nothing comes. I have nothing left to say. Maybe it is the brightness of day that prevents me from writing these diatribes that I was so good at. I don't know has gotten into me. I have no clue what happened. I usually write in the dark, the blackness of light.
Those were the days before pickles. Now, it seems I only write during the days mostly, unless I am forced to write at night, due to the pressures of dealines.
This is fun writing to keep me on my game. I guess I don't do fun things anymore, but only do things that I am required to do.
What are fun things? Socializing or being the hermit that I am. Though my dear cousin doesn't see me as the hermit and antisocial person that I so proclaim. She seems me as the social butterfly. Why? Because I get along with her well. I tell her my stories of going out and drunkeness. They come few and far between.
True there is a part of me that is a butterfly flapping its wings in socialness, but you can't beat nature. I am the hermit. I like being on my own, doing my own thing, doing whatever it is that I want to do and that is to stay home and sleep, watch tv or movies. I love it. It's such a relaxing boring life that I live and yearn to live. I love it.
I'm a lazy butt. I know it. My mom knows it and I'm sure my dad knew it. But, I don't know. I guess all in all, I have no problem not talking with anyone, especially when I have nothing to say. Why say anything when you have nothing to say. Nothing is as bad as forced conversations. What is that? Awkwardness.
Maybe with more time and more thoughts in my head, these blank endless space of my journal will become filled once again. I have no more writing assignments to do. Not yet atleast. I just need to come up with my new idea. A short, a feature. A homage to A Chinese Ghost Story. I don't know what my next project will be, but I am sure that I will have another next project. It will only be in time. Time.