1. What is my purpose? My reason? Have I done enough as a human being to leave a legacy behind? To inspire, guide, and shield. To protect, motivate, and console. To listen, to create, to cushion others if and when they fall. Those were things I wanted to embody, to live and breathe.

    It is during these times of the night that I am haunted by my own mind, my worries and fears, my frightening realization that I am a human and not a superhero who can do anything and everything.

    I never know what to do other than to stare into the abysmal dark devouring my ceiling, until I am shocked awake by my multiple alarms and live my routine days, only to come back to bed when my day is over, turning my back to want to do in order to fall into the arms of these thoughts again.

    Until the next day.


  2. Beauty in Words

    An ongoing personal project that turns steel tipped words said to me in the past into aesthetically pleasing (or so I hope) lettering pieces. It gives a sense of irony to the reader: it is both nice, but the words hurt. Should they like it? Or should they be concerned.


  3. It is an irrational way of thinking (and feeling), but Valentine’s Day is my least favorite commercialized “holiday” because I was dumped on this particular day.

    It has been a little under two years, but it still makes my heart ache and my eyes a little glossier. Nothing I can’t shake off after a few minutes.

    Time heals all wounds; at least that’s what everyone tells me.


  4. Familiar

    I had boarded a bus one morning, with the usual “stare off into space until your stop comes along” routine. I was already late for work, angry with transportation, angry that the roads around the bus route were under construction, and angry about being angry early in my day.

    That is, until I took a seat in the back and noticed a familiar face. He was asleep, his head against a loose fist. His hair had grown from what I was used to seeing years ago; was it always wavy? His eyes were closed, but for a brief moment they fluttered open to see whether or not he had missed his stop. I saw one hazel eye and continued to stare on in hopes of our eyes meeting, in hopes of getting the chance to see if the other eye - the left - was slightly darker. If it was, it was him; he had a minor case of heterochromia. He had the same scruff I grew to like in the past and same sleek profile I admired silently. I will always remember November 18, 2011.

    The bus stops, it’s my stop. Everyone but him fights through to get off the bus first. I was the last to leave, walking by slowly with the intention of getting a glance of his face, but felt too nervous, too unsure, and uncomfortable after remembering certain memories from the past.

    I turn a blind eye and leave. He continues with his faked sleep.


  5. Push

    I’ve always been the one to push people away, but lately, being pushed away by someone you care deeply about has been a painful experience so far. I want to be in their life so badly and to remain there - to be a significant chunk of what makes them…”them.” I want to be the one who gets a good morning and good night, to be the first and last thought of the day. To be the one to confide in when something happens - good or bad.

    I push at every shove. It must be annoying when that person no longer wants you to be as involved anymore - or at all. Surely they are doing it for a reason: they’re tired, they want someone new, they’ve found someone new, they need their space.

    I care and I care too much. I miss and become blinded; my mind focused on that one person.

    I love yet cannot say a thing because I know. I get it. I get why it’s happening, but have not accepted it. They cannot always be there for me anymore, even if I want to be there for them all the time no matter what.

    Silence scares me.

    Thoughts plague me.

    "What am I doing wrong?"

    "Do they hate me?"

    "What happened?"

    "What’s happening?"

    "Is there something I don’t know?"

    I am afraid of being abandoned, replaced, and forgotten. I do not want to be like everyone else in their life.

    I hang on to a single thread. I try my best not to lose that person again, but I can’t help but be afraid, be paranoid, and be angry as I fight to keep my delusional sense of significance I once had.

    It is a losing battle with what I cannot have anymore.