Diary Entry for June 27, 2013

Quoting the song you sung on the way to our last Starbucks trip:
"Every little thing she does is magic... now I know my love for her goes on." -The Police (Every Little Thing She Does is Magic)

Dear Mom,

The thing about slow dancing is that it is the most intimate and eloquent way to spin in circles with someone.

Maybe I have been dancing in a graveyard for the last six years in the hopes that if I spin to infinity, it would keep you alive. But the truth is, I have to face the music. 

Nothing and no one can bring back my best friend. Nothing and no one can give me forever-- because it is impossible to create an infinity in a finite amount of time.

And honestly beyond all of the above, I am starting to get dizzy from all this spinning. 

No sequence of turns will hinge the fact that the songs I have sung and danced to with you have ended, the music has dissolved, and reality called.

In fact, today Dad is dancing with someone else.

The thing is, I truly admire that he found the courage to let go of your hands, the hands that lost its pulse six years ago.

Because it is so remarkable and admirable to learn how to hold the hands of someone else. 

And just because Dad found a new song to sing and dance to in the arms of someone else does not take away from the steps he learned thanks to you.

Originally today was a day I had dreaded all of my life...

... the day I could count the years my best friend passed away with more than one hand.

But instead of counting the hours, minutes, and seconds for this day to end, I will spend today dancing—and not just in a graveyard.

Because I know that regardless of whom I choose to dance with in my life, your favorite song will always define what you are in my life— the ultimate Dancing Queen (yes, I still remember all of your favorite songs).

Mom, there may be no such thing as an infinity in our finite lives, but everyone can learn how to dance.

Love, Lela

Why She Will Be Loved

Personal Note~ I originally wrote this article for a blog I work for, www.literallydarling.com. However, I've decided to also share it on here because of how much it means to me. I am not quite sure how relatable this was, but it was honestly one of the hardest pieces I had ever written (aka 2 1/2 hours of crying, drinking coffee, and staring at a computer screen at 3AM). 

I just want to address upfront that, regardless of the past, some memories should remain recognized within the moment-- not after the fact. Anyway, I hope you guys like this one! 

xx Ella

Suitcases and boxes sat in an assembly line fashion in my bedroom. The two-week mark into my summer had approached, meaning that spring cleaning was far overdue. I was finally ready to unpack, but first I turned on my all-time favorite song, She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5.

“Beauty queen of only eighteen
She had some trouble with herself
He was always there to help her
She always belonged to someone else”

They say there is nothing like your first love. That must explain why five years later, the walls of my bedroom still gleam the fluorescent bright green color we painted them, despite the not so bright outcome of our relationship.

“Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile”

I thought to myself– okay I can worry about my wall decorations later, when lo and behold, I stumbled upon my sophomore year yearbook that’s titled “What I Have Become” in big red letters. Interestingly enough, my sophomore year signifies the year I fell in love for the first time. Anyway, as I read through the two-page note written by my first love in my yearbook, something hit me. While there laid the notes and memories spelling out what I had become at that time in my life, I could only wish to read words printed in big red letters spelling out what I will become for the rest of my life. Something else hit me too, I still needed to unpack.

“I know where you hide alone in your car
Know all of the things that make you who you are”

My bedroom used to be the one place I was not scared of being alone. However as I was spring cleaning, I was distracted by the realization that my safe haven was suddenly threatened by that very fear. Whether it was due to a flip of my yearbook page or a blink of an eye, all of a sudden it had dawned on me what I had originally thought made my bedroom so safe. What I had conducted to believe would make my room a place of security, in fact, made it the complete opposite as a result of coping against the thought of being alone. My bedroom wound-up being my biggest contradiction as it had evolved into a memorial for all my past relationships.

“I know that goodbye means nothing at all
Comes back and begs me to catch her every time she falls”

I still have the one thousand paper cranes that my first love folded for me, which is located in the same room where my second love’s plaid shirt is folded for my keeping.

“Tap on my window, knock on my door
I want to make you feel beautiful”

As the song concludes with the words,

“Please don’t try so hard to say goodbye”,

echoing in the background of the chorus line, I cannot help but recall all the instances when I had tried and succeeded at saying goodbye– all the more reason why I fear being alone in the end. But the mere fact that, without even trying, my bedroom had practically been transformed into a gallery of others’ hearts that have come and gone, only further indicates that my fear is illogical.

No big red letters need to be printed in order to spell out what will become of the girl that was once loved in the yearbook, because she will conquer her fear of being alone since she knows that:

“She Will Be Loved”.

How to Celebrate Mother's Day Without a Mom

“There's a story behind everything, but behind all your stories is always your mother's story... because hers is where yours begins.”
-Mitch Albom

I praise Mitch Albom as a man of words, because he phrased my outlook in life much better than I ever could. Albom is the author of The Five People You Meet in Heaven, a novel I read in 8th grade, as well as a novel I could not personally relate to until a few days after my 8th grade graduation, when my mom became one of the five people I would hope to meet again in heaven. 

Six years have passed since I last celebrated Mother's Day with my mom. Whereas, for the last five years, I have spent that holiday hiding in my sheets hoping that by keeping my sheets hidden shut, it would in turn, keep my heavy heart hidden and shut as well.

Let's be honest- Hallmark created this holiday simply as a business tactic. And for the sake of Hallmark, they should feel beyond fortunate that in the past, I chose to spend this day by wasting it in hiding from a world that banished the one woman I look up to. Because if we lived in a world where my imagination was justified and acted upon (which to certain extents could and should never happen), I would riot against Hallmark and all the nonsense holidays they have created. However, right when I am ready to get out of bed and riot, I remember the one woman I look up to and realize that while I look up to her, she would hate to look down on me in these conditions. Indeed my mom lays under a tomb, yet she would never wish for me to spend a single day of my life as if I lay under a tomb with her.

With all the above said, the best Mother's Day gift I can give to a mother that cannot celebrate the holiday with her daughter is to get out from under the tomb I have created and not riot. 

Six years have passed since I last celebrated Mother's Day with my mom. Six years have passed since my little sister and I recorded a video, in which we took turns exchanging some of the various reasons why we love Miss Milagros DaCosta Cajayon, aka the woman we are fortunate enough to call Mom. I will never forget watching my mother cry as she watched us in the video. That was the first and only time I had ever seen her cry, which is why I will not riot against Hallmark. Their creation of made-up, nonsense holidays may be tearjerkers, but the tears relinquished on these holidays do not necessarily have to be tears for a tombstone.

This Mother's Day, my gift to her is that I will not let her see me cry, and instead, look forward to the day she will be one of the people I meet again in heaven.

Cooler Than a Wallflower

"Au rire on connaît le fou."
 -French Proverb

At a young age, I was taught to never eat with my elbows on the table and to walk as if my head and shoulders were attached to strings connected to the sky. From the moment I could talk, I was told to always think before I speak, annunciate the words "please" and "thank you", and count my blessings in moments of silence.

At 20 years old, I won four awards within the same week, and consequently all these awards seemed to reiterate on a common theme of positivity. Upon receiving these awards, I could not help but elude how proud I was of myself, since I have always portrayed myself as a wallflower. On top of that, I was almost positive that I had relinquished my title of a wallflower, after I won first place in the only real competition I have ever signed up for in my entire life. However my thoughts completely shifted when someone admitted that their favorite aspect about me was not when I am poised, which would credit to my awards, but rather when I am outspoken. 

This made me question whether or not I have truly exceeded past my days as a wallflower, and in fact made me ponder if maybe my infamous positivity and bubbly spirit have merely confined me even more so as a wallflower. As bizarre of a concept that may seem, it quickly translated into common sense that is as simple as my everyday decision on whether to buy coffee or not. Just like the coffee I drink that runs through my veins, eventually the caffeine I consume will wear off leaving me exactly where I started.

At a young age, I was introduced to coffee, too. Hence, full circle.

No matter how much cream and sugar I add to my coffee, my coffee will always start from coffee beans. Just like no matter how positive I am, or whether I eat with my elbows off the table, or walk as if my head and shoulders were attached to strings connected to the sky, or think before I speak while annunciating the words "please" and "thank you" as I count my blessings in moments of silence, who I am will always rely on where I started. 

I may be poised or I may be outspoken, and that is what makes me cooler than a wallflower.

Under Construction

"There is no art to find the mind's construction in the face."
-Shakespeare

I have never been a believer of coincidences. Yet when I woke up to white noise conducted by orange cones and construction work surrounding a place I call home, a change of heart rung like the alarm clock I needed, in order to grasp a long overdue wake-up call. 

It has almost been a year since I retired the occupation of "boyfriend girl", a career in which I consumed my heart into the arms of someone else's, because it felt safer there than in my own. I was 15 when I found someone who could hold the weight of my heart despite my monkey ears; I was 17 when I discovered that my heart could be safe in more than one person's arms; and I was 19 when I realized that I wanted my heart back. Do not get me wrong, the arms that held my heart were sturdy and secure, and I am beyond blessed that I was lucky enough to ever find a steady love, even more than one, to call my own. It is well apparent now how difficult that is to come by. But at the time, I wanted to challenge myself to become sturdy and secure enough to hold onto my heart without the arms of a steady love, and yet, still feel safe. However at 20, I am realizing that I am accomplishing quite the opposite.

Waking up to sudden construction work was the exact push I needed to realize that I do not need the sidewalks to feel safe. Tripping over the potholes on the street may be what is responsible for the orange cones that now surround my heart. But regardless of whether coincidences exist or not, those orange cones will not surround my house forever, nor will the need to protect my heart.

>40

Dear Dad, 
Here's to your birthday! If anyone asks how old you are, just say you are >40. And do not feel hesitant about saying that because we have heard first-hand of other people doing that! Also, technically speaking-- it would not be lying! 

Although this is coming from the girl who was a good enough liar to throw you a surprise 40th birthday party, the thing is, it really would not be a lie! You truly are so much greater than 40! I realize how bad that comes off, but I am not referring to your age, Mr. I-am-her-brother-not-her-dad! What I am trying to say is that you are so much greater than 40, because you are so much more than any number could measure up to or define. 

You are my dad, you are my hero, you are the weight of my world. 

I will always remember when we were in the hospital room and you told Anica and me that it would just be the three of us now. I will always remember the fear in your eyes when you broke that news to us. And I will always remember when I overheard you saying that if either you or Mom had to go, you wish it would have been you.

Those are some of the things I will always remember and these are some of the things I want you to always remember in return. Disregarding all our countless yet crucial mall outings, if there is one thing I could ever sincerely ask of you, it would be to take back that last statement. Granted, I would not even be the slightest all right without you or Mom. However, do not ever convince yourself for a second that she would have raised us better than you.

After all, you are my dad, you are my hero, you are the weight of my world. 

I aspire to be just like you. I swear, you deserve to be an official Marvel super hero, with an entire movie series production bought by Universal Studios, to commemorate all you have done for Anica and me. Yet for clarification purposes: Zac Efron would not play you. But seriously Dad, it is literally inhuman the powers you have, the strength you hold. You wear your heart as if it were an invisible cape, and you rescued us when we were in trouble. 

That is why you are my hero and the weight of my world; because you're my dad-- which makes me the luckiest girl alive.

So Happy 44th Birthday, Daddy! :) You are greater than 40, and likewise, my love for you is infinite. 

Twenty Candles

"You can't be 16 forever."

-Molly Ringwald 

My mom would always tell me about Miss Molly Ringwald and how she was the "it" girl of the 80's. And that is the exact reason why I should not have been afraid to turn 20 yesterday.

For starters, I am the master at the numbers game. The way the game works is one is entitled a number that defines him or her for 365 days. As of yesterday, my number in this game is my 20th birthday. 

When I think of 20, I think of the twenties. 20 marks the start of adulthood; while the twenties mark the decade my parents fell in love. 20 marks the age I am entitled to for 365 days; while the twenties mark the first and brand new decade I will live through without the mom my dad fell in love with. 

But to reiterate, I am the master at playing the numbers game, which is why I did not let my birthday scare me. The thing is, there is a loophole to every game and here is the loophole to mine. Although turning 20 seemed like a page turner for a new chapter of my life that I would have to write without my mom, to define my life in solely written numerical form is to limit myself entirely. 

No matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will always hold the prize of remembering the countless times my mom talked about Molly Ringwald, the "it" girl of the 80's. Therefore, just like that, no matter what number I play in the numbers game, I will forever hold the prize of being able to share all the memories of my mom, the "it" girl of a lifetime. 

And that is the exact reason why I am not afraid of being 20. 

Carpe diem.

Happy New Dear

"Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us."  

- Hal Borland  

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there he was: happy New Dear to me. I swear it was as if he had stolen the imaginary clipboard I carry, which contains a list of all my qualifications (and yes, he even wore plaid without knowing what that means to me).

Just as quick as the new year arrived, there I was: petrified. While I was checking off the boxes on my imaginary clipboard, it was all I could do to rewind my love life in a timeline fashion. There was the bad-boy-gone-good-gone-bad-again who evolved from a silly nickname, to the boy who made a 1,000 paper cranes for me in hopes of making my wildest dreams come true, to my first ever heartbreak. Then there was the skater boy who went from being the guy who's name and hands were practically puzzle pieces to mine to transpiring into my first ever heartbreaking. Which led to the messes that cluttered the time in-between then and now, now being the new year and my new dear. 

Because as quick as the arrival of the new year was the arrival of my new dear.

The feeling that emerged with this new dear was uncanny to the sensation that escalates during the last five seconds before the New Year's Eve ball drops. Except this time, rather than celebrating the new year afterwards, I turned off the TV. As easy as a click of a button, I closed the door on someone who deserves an abundance of my time, or at least time that surpasses a New Year's countdown.

But I am starting to believe that the concept of years and time itself are simply our way of measuring memories and inventing tangible pieces of hope and possibilities. Although I may have turned off the TV on my new dear, I have a whole year to figure out the reason why, which may explain why we make New Year's resolutions to begin with.

Just as I can count on the New Year's Eve ball to drop at a specifically given time, likewise, eventually I can count on my imaginary clipboard to drop at any given time.

And although the countdown has ceased, the TV is now turned back on: Happy New Year's, and eventually, Happy New Dear to me.

My Two Cents

"Money often costs too much."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Everyone has quirks. The best part about quirks are that they are impossible to measure because their weight is priceless. One of my quirks is that I have something I like to call quarter bets. All a quarter bet consists of is exactly what it sounds like; it is simply the act of proving a two-sided hypothesis with the sole worth of risking all the odds on a quarter. I never really took the time to consider why these bets were my thing, until I made a particular bet which made me realize that some things are impossible to pay back.

Maybe the reason why the concept of quarter bets are so significant to me is because it is taking spoken words and giving them value. By amounting our words, you would think that we would speak more carefully. But what I have discovered is that although a quarter's equivalence can be divided in several ways, when it comes down to it, some things really are impossible to pay back, even if it is just a quarter.

Which is all it is, just another quarter bet. Although it is such a minuscule moment, what I had failed to recognize is the price of how much that minuscule moment would cost me. We can label what is expensive versus cheap. Likewise, we hand-pick our budget compromising what is and is not worth paying for. 

When I gave up my quarter, I later found out that it was left on a table. While some battles should be left on the table because they are worth all the money in the world, others are just not worth the profit and should only collect dust amounting to nothing more than the worth of what it truly is. The quarter is left on his desk without a fight.

My two cents on this quarter bet is that some things are a little too late to pay back.

However, my million dollar idea that not a single quarter bet could ever afford is realizing the amount of my two cents = $ Priceless.

My Knight in Shining Cement

“...and that visibility which makes us most vulnerable is that which also is the source of our greatest strength.”  

-Audre Lorde
 
It is like marking your hand print on wet cement on the sidewalk. I have found myself caught in a train wreck kind of predicament, in which I am caught under this immense battle I was completely oblivious and unaware that I was even tackling.  

The thing about cement is that it is a layer of stability. It paves the sidewalks acting as a foundation protecting the ground people walk on to get to where they need to be and back. It is sturdy enough to carry the weight placed upon it.

Just like cement, my skin is a layer of stability. It paves my vulnerability acting as a foundation protecting the heart that I constantly worry people could walk on in order to get where they need to be and back. However, while cement is sturdy enough to carry the weight placed upon it, cement has the ability to crack. 

That is just it. 

People have found ways to slip through the cracks and under my skin, my skin that I thought was as groundbreaking as steel. And while that realization haunts me, I have acknowledged that rather than wearing skin of steel, I wear an armor made of cement. When it comes down to it, maybe the mere ability for one to be able to have the strength to slip through the cracks in the cement, the ability to get under my skin, maybe that is what makes relationships worth holding onto.  

Therefore, my conclusion to this battle is not the arrival of my knight in shining armor, but rather embracing the knight in shining cement that I wear every single day. My skin is thick, but my heart is thicker and maybe it is okay if people slip through the cracks of my skin that I have paved and find that out for themselves. After all, by wearing the knight in shining cement all it takes is repaving the sidewalks to smooth the cracks. 

I do not need a hero to get me out of this train wreck of a predicament. Adapting my cracked skin that faces the chances of people walking on it, in order to get to where they need to be and back, and the markings of hand prints on wet cement and on my heart, that is the hero in itself: my knight in shining cement.

Balloons like Laughter, Mother like Daughter

I wrote this paper a little over a year ago and I think I am finally ready to share it.

      xx Ella Marie Cajayon

Balloons Like Laughter, Mother Like Daughter

            As light as balloons, colorfully floating, perpendicular and out of tune, that is the universally renowned sound of what could only be: laughter. That is what I hear when I recall this day.  Laughter cued from America’s Funniest Home Videos; laughter cued from my sister, Anica, my mother, and I. There we were. Dressed in our pajamas, pastel and soft to the touch, warming up our skin and our souls, cuddling side-by-side in a blanket. There we were. 

At this very moment I thought to myself, this is what a mother-daughter relationship should feel like.  Ordinarily, I believed I was as almighty as the queen of England. I was fourteen, independent, and the queen of England, and I did not need my mom. Before this moment, space had been growing between us. 

            I was on my parents’ computer playing around on MySpace, secluding myself to my own little world where I was untouchable. As the queen of England would remove her crown, I removed my headphones; I had snapped back to reality. While I got up, my mom asked me if I would like to stay with her and stick around for a little longer. Little did I know, this request would stick around for a lot longer than I had ever expected. There we were.

            But here I was, falling for her proposal to spend quality time with her teenage daughter. Her proposal won me over with her smile, that is, the smile I inherited from her. Looking back, she must have known that her smile would nail it; she must have known it would comply me to fall awry in doing things for her. Why I’d figure so? Like mother like daughter, we share that winning smile. That’s just it. No matter how deeply I let my mom in, she naturally knew me and I naturally knew her. No matter how measurable our bond was, whether as tight-knit as Lorelai and Rory on Gilmore Girls, or as distant as Earth and Pluto, we were still mother and daughter. Hence, like mother like daughter, there we were.

“- it’s all that matters”

I sat next to her on her bed, feeling reluctant, foreign and unusual. Without hesitation she adjusted the blanket and without hesitation, my sister, Anica, and I snuggled inside. Lying side by side, I could smell her. In fact, to this day I can still smell her and the entirety of her room. Her scent unreachable, intangible, but I will leave it at a distinct sweetness. 

---------

Last time I can recall a time when I had not felt reluctant, foreign and unusual to the thought of spending time with my mom, ironically enough, held a similar setting. My mom was expecting a girl the following winter, which consequently led us to browsing through a baby name book. On the first page displayed the A’s and each name was decorated with pink glitter letters. With each name we read, the idea of one of those names actually portraying a future being, a future sister, seemed impossible to imagine. However, the light bulb lit up for both of us when we came across the pink glitter letters that read the name: Anica.

           ---------

I was 7 years old when Anica was born; Anica was 7 years old when this all occurred. All being the three of us, together. 

Anica was on the edge of bed, which resolved to my mom entertainingly distorting her face and cracking jokes about Anica falling off the bed. While joking around, my dog, Jack, was sleeping on the floor by the bed. As the laughter amplified, due to my mom’s joke overlapping America’s Funniest Home Videos, it was no surprise that the infamous Jack awoke. There we were.

I must say, if a video camera had recorded this very moment, I would have easily submitted it to America’s Funniest Home Videos. That moment right there was truly a sight to see. 

“- to be happy”

            As light as balloons, the laughter colorfully afloat, perpendicular and out of tune, took off and landed. There we were. Dressed in our pajamas, pastel and soft to the touch, warming up our skin and our souls, cuddling side-by-side in a blanket. And as I stood up and got off the bed to leave, my mom, without hesitation, spoke from across the room, “Goodnight Ella, I love you.” And I turned around, smiled to myself with the same winning smile as my mom, and replied that I love her too. There we were.

At this very moment, even the queen of England thought to herself that this is what a mother-daughter relationship should feel like.  

The next day a package arrived on my front doorstep. In the package held a book. In the book held this:

This book was a surprise graduation gift from my mom. This book arrived the day my mom passed away.

“- to enjoy your life”

These words assure me that it will always be like mother like daughter, because these words assure me that like mother like daughter we will always be.

Tug-a-War

" I look for ghosts; but none will force 

Their way to me. 'Tis falsely said 

That there was ever intercourse 

Between the living and the dead." 

-William Wordsworth

Last weekend marked Halloween weekend 2012, leaving me with the irony that protrudes along with my halloweekend. There he was, the ghost of my past who hauntingly reappeared in my life. The only thing more haunting about his re-occurrence has to be my conclusion about his presence in the first place. However, this ghost of my past is now someone who I can finally see right through. His tricks and schemes of toiling with my emotions back and forth may of had me fooled for a little while, but now the only thing more scary than his presence is watching him vanish away into thin air.

One minute he would have my back helping pull the rope behind me, and then the next minute, he would be right in front of me fighting to pull the rope away from my very own hands, contradicting himself and everything that kept the rope together in the first place. He would reassure me and then he would disappear causing me to lose any sense of control I thought I had. It was just so easy and yet so frightening how I felt trapped to hold on to that rope knowing everything that rope symbolized. The words he said and the actions he pursued revoltingly evolved into inverses of each other leaving me wondering what was real versus my imagination.

However the thing about ghosts are that they are souls who have passed, emphasizing that they are in the past. Therefore, I think it is up to me whether this ghost is real or in my head, whether this ghost is alive or dead. My resolution is that whether the ghost of my past tries to trick or treat me, he shall remain under the tomb of all our memories because I refuse to allow his tricks to scare or fool me any longer.

Games over, I am dropping the rope.

The Nice Guy Theory

We are all just a bag of bones, bones aligned as an internal structure protecting one of the most fragile parts of all: our heart. All hearts carry the same function. They beat. All bones hold the same strength. They have the capability to break. So consequently, what sets aside the adverse differences between the good guys and the "bad" ones?

Nice guys never win. I cannot stand how frequently that has been proclaimed and how many numerous people believe that proclamation.

But here's my theory.

There is no such thing as nice guys and bad guys. I fully believe all humanity has the ability to hold goodness, which solely relies on approach. The thing about the "nice guys" is that they are so incredibly brave. They express their emotions, by throwing their vulnerability to the wind, in a wrestling ring where many possible tactics are fair game allowing the potential of damage. In comparison, these "bad guys" are the furthest thing from bad at all. Maybe they are simply numb. Maybe their emotions were defeated, by tactics that were far from fair game, in a wrestling ring that caused severe damage leaving them with broken bones, broken vulnerability, and possibly even a broken heart.

I can only hope that the wrestling ring does not permanently affect how one feels once the battles are said and done. Regardless of the results on the scoreboard, these guys do not need to attain a gold medal in order to win.

To conclude my theory, we are all just a bag of bones, bones aligned as an internal structure protecting everything we are: our hearts. Hence the words on the top of my blog and the words that created my blog in the first place,

"We all live with the objective of being happy, our lives are all different and yet the same."

-Anne Frank

Fall into Autumn

"I paint flowers so they will not die."

-Frida Kahlo

Autumn has to be my favorite season. It literally marks summer's fall and reminds us that change is inevitable and that the world forever spins round. Sometimes I think people are naturally scared of new beginnings because they are scared of letting go. But interestingly enough, what I am realizing is that how I feel about autumn is a parallel reminder to how I feel about writing and relationships.

Although autumn connotes as a change of temperature and wardrobe, I know it is much beyond that. As it gets colder, we wear thicker layers. I can still wear that tank top from the summer by adding on a scarf and a sweater. The addition of clothes does not take away from the tank top itself, rather, it emphasizes the beauty of layers. With time, I will throw more clothes on my back. My layers will only grow thicker, but my foundation will remain the same. Timeless.

Like autumn and any other season, our thoughts cycle throughout our everyday lives; they repeatedly come and go. Moments transpire into memories becoming tangible within a blink of an eye. Temperatures change and wardrobes change, but it is not a process of throwing out the old and disregarding the past. Instead, it is the process of our fated change solely relying on our permanence, allowing anything and everything anew.

Hence, why I adore and started writing in the first place. The way I see it, my writing is a canvas painting my view of the world. My thoughts, my words, whether minuscule at that moment or not, can be captured, illustrating how I felt at that very moment in my life. My thoughts, my words, which may evolve into memories, will layer onto wherever fate may take me. My words forever an artifact. 

So where there is change, there is permanence, which is why autumn is my favorite season. The colors of the leaves may change and the faces that occur in my life may differ as well, but the heat of the summer and the ghosts of the past are simply layers that have brought me to fall into autumn.

Fourteen

"Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia."

-John Green

Fourteen is a measurement defined by a number marking a moment on a timeline.

Fourteen could be the end of middle school and the beginning of high school. Fourteen could be a truth or dare first kiss, or a first attended boy-girl party. Fourteen could be singing into your hair brush to the Jonas Brothers. Fourteen could be whatever you allow.

Fourteen measures a defining number, as it has marked a moment on my timeline that I cannot help but wonder if I ever left.

I have a giant white board calendar hanging on my wall labeled with moments inked and crossed off in jet black expo marker. At the end of every day, I cross off another day and allow time to continue ticking. I was fourteen five years ago, and while middle school and high school are over, and while I can cross off having my first kiss and attending my first boy-girl party, and lastly and without hesitation, while I can cross off singing into my hair brush to the Jonas Brothers, I cannot help but wonder if at five years later, I am still where I was at when I was fourteen. Because for me, fourteen measures beyond just a defining number as it marks an immense moment of my life, which has possibly tainted how the rest of my timeline races.

Last week, I had a dream that I was in a white space surrounded by nothing and no one else but my parents who were linked together hand-in-hand with me in the middle. They were in their late 20's and I was maybe no older than two. There I was in a white space surrounded by nothing and no one else but the three of us. While the dream is a bit hazy, I distinctly remember my mom looking down at the two year old version of myself and then looking back at present-day me and smiling. There I was at my present staring at my past.

My grandma once proclaimed that the souls of your loved ones whom have passed away can communicate with you through your dreams. That was the first dream I have ever had with my mom in it since she passed away.

As I continually analyze that dream, a steady conclusion I arrive to is that my mom wants me to reflect on how far I have made it since the very beginning. While I look back, I see how many lightyears away I have grown since my middle school, high school, truth-or-dare first kiss, first boy-girl party, and Grammy award-winning hair brush Jonas Brothers singing days.

And then I remember being fourteen, which measures a defining number that marked a moment on my timeline that I cannot help but wonder if I ever left.

But it is five years later down the road on my timeline. And with my giant white board calendar hanging on my wall labeled with moments inked and crossed off in jet black expo marker, I will continue to cross off another day at the end of every day, and allow time to continue ticking.

Back to School

"They say that time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."

-Andy Warhol

Waking up to an alarm, ink on the edges of my palms, it is officially that time of the year: back to school. This year however, I hold on to a new task beyond a student as I now work as a resident assistant for my university! Change has always been something that I have embraced and feared. Yet while I equipped to face the new challenges I imagined I would endure, I found something far more fearful than change, in fact it is quite literally the opposite: stagnation.

It is as if I am back at recess standing on the playground in amazement of every option laid out in front of my very own eyes. For me, it is imperative that everything is visual and in my sight. Whether or not I should label that as a flaw or not, I must have every decision open and available for consideration. And while that may seem a bit excessive, I am starting to believe that maybe that is the beauty of the choices that we face.

Recently I have found myself in a very familiar and elementary situation, which would be conquering the school bully. The thing about a bully is that they are so engulfed in their insecurities to the point of allowing their pride and identity to be immensely affected. Although I am not threatened to hand over my lunch money to someone towering over me, I must remind myself that I cannot allow defeating, cold words or actions get the best of me.

It is like the process of elimination, each encounter presented our way will have several choices. They may not be as crystal clear as A, B, C, D, or all of the above, but when it comes down to it, you will eventually select your answer and discover if it is right or wrong. When it comes down to it, you will be faced with a 50/50 shot of handling a situation and if you believe you drew the wrong answer, do not hesitate reading between the lines of red ink. When it comes down to it, you may find yourself believing you drew the wrong fate, but scratch that mentality and read the red ink that lies between the lines and learn your lesson.

Maybe that really is the beauty of the choices that we face. Like the process of elimination, the "right" answer is always present and in front of you. It is simply just a matter of eliminating the obvious, questioning and exploring the vague, and grasping every reason why.

I may not have recess anymore, but as I am conquering my fears of embracing change, I am also conquering stagnation. However, I must realize that some things will never change. Waking up to an alarm, ink on the edges of my palms, it is officially that time of the year: back to school.

Check

“Give, and it shall be given to you. For whatever measure you deal out to others, it will be dealt to you in return.”

-Luke 6:38

I am such a list girl. With absolutely everything I do, I am naturally inclined to weigh the pros and cons because it is my way of controlling the world around me. Hence, I am such a control freak. With absolutely everything I fear, I am naturally inclined to avoid the unknown out of security. But if there is one thing I have learned this summer, it is to take those two characteristics about me, embrace them, and then let them go. If there is one thing I have learned this summer, it is to take these memories, embrace them, and then let them go as well.

Kind of like relationships? Check.

I feel like humans, out of instinct, envision the bigger picture of the puzzle before they dissect the pieces involved in creating the full canvas. And I feel like maybe that is where we are at fault. Throughout this entire summer, there were definitely days I would nag about dying over boredom. Yet as my summer is winding down, I look back and realize it is the pieces of the puzzle that create the picture, not only the puzzle itself. As my summer is winding down, I look back and realize it is each and every singular memory that define my summer, not only the summer as a whole. Kind of like relationships?

Rode and survived my first roller coaster? Check.

And like my first roller coaster, I realize that you can have the same exact moment with someone while you're going up and down the drop and yet have those two moments play out as the complete inverse of each other. If I had let my fears define my experience with roller coasters, then it would not have exactly fallen under the criterion of pleasant. If we let the bad memories of our relationships define the relationship as a whole, then it would not have exactly fallen under the criterion of a pleasant story to tell.

So there solves the puzzle to my summer and how I feel about relationships. Sort out the pieces separately, before you decipher its entirety as a whole. Maybe then you will dare to see the puzzle without a single spot tainted; maybe then we can truly look at the big picture.

• Donating to locks of love by cutting off 10 inches of my hair, check.
• Taking the Mega Bus for the first time, check.
• Going to my first baseball game, check.
• Having a new cell phone number since my first cell number from 7th grade, check.
• Peeing in the ocean for the first time, not ashamed at all and check.
• Learning some self-defense skills at 5AM, check.
• Facing my fear of heights, check.
• Going to an i-MAX theater for the first time, check.
• Bought my first pair of Steve Madden shoes, yes it really is worth listing and check.
• Doing things that can only be justified when you are still a teenager (so vague, but I'm trying not to get in trouble...), CHECK!
• Doing things that I would have never imagined I would do (also super vague, but at least I'm mysterious?), check!
• Allowing myself to be vulnerable, check.

Embrace and then let go.

Summer 2012? Check.

Post-War

"I think the day you start building the war plan is the day you start beginning the postwar plan."

-Jay Garner

There it was, my fighting words I used to recite like bullets were finally said and done. And then, silence; I was speechless because everything was truly said and done. That is just it. The toughest part of a battle is not the bloodbath but rather the aftermath.

The thing about the bloodbath is that you are caught in the heat of the moment with a rush of adrenaline that must be met. Everything you fight for and believe in is laid on the table. The thing about the aftermath is that although the war is over, the real battle is conquering what remains. Although the battles during the war were said and done, the monsters we fought, whether won against or defeated, are still present.

It is inevitable that every battle must reach it's end, within every war is a post-war. Therefore these moments of war are only temporary; however these moments of post-war, these are the moments that linger on like tattoos inked into our memories.

So there it is, the inevitable; but that is just it. Although these monsters are inevitable, they are also inevitably just as harmless and imaginary as the ones under our beds, in our closets, and in our heads. We taunt ourselves with these monsters that we create with our own two hands, who solely survive on everything we are in fear of, everything that is left unfinished and unsaid.

The post-war is all about remembering the inevitable and remembering that these monsters are only as scary as we allow. Therefore these moments of war that I have with relationships are only temporary, however these moments of post-war that I have with relationships, those are moments that linger on like tattoos. I choose what I am allowing to ink into my memories.

The Queen of Pretend

“There's a difference between playing and playing games. The former is an act of joy, the latter — an act.”

-Vera Nazarian

The idea of pretending seems to be a generally-universal concept that we experiment with when we are young. With being young, one feels limitations. Hence the act of pretending is this idea that we can transport ourselves into our own little world that our imagination invents and where it desires to pioneer and explore. It is this idea that we can be anything we want in a matter of seconds. That is the beauty of pretending, we can get away from the real world for a little while and be whatever pops into our mind. However the flaw, or rather the truth behind pretending is knowing that no matter how deep we fall into the rabbit hole of our imaginations, we will eventually have to step out of the wardrobes of our own Narnia's and accept and return to the real world, which is the act of accepting and the returning to ourselves.

To pretend is to select perspective; to pretend is to devise what you see. As a kid, I was the queen of pretending. Pretending was a crown I wore as it was a game I played. However my mastery of pretending fell short when I realized that the mere concept should remain a game and nothing more. With beauty there is perspective, and just like that my perspective of beauty within my status of being the royal highness of pretending was in fact my flaw. No matter how long I wore my crown and no matter who I pretended to rule, the real threat and end to my reign would be the inevitable of snapping back to reality. As much as I wanted to stay queen, I could only wear the crown for so long.

I will always be the leader of my own world, however my imagination can only reign so far past my reality. To imagine is not necessarily to avoid. And as the queen of pretending, I can keep my reign of power as long as I remain consistent in imagining rather than avoiding.

That is the real trick to the game; that is the real trick to wearing the crown of pretend.