when we transition and move and flow between our liquid selves

when our emotions and thoughts steer our destiny

tell me,

where am i heading?

how much control do i hold over my own life

how much does irrationality and love factor into each step we make

we are lovers, we are

so what is it that we crave

where does the insatiable and unsatisfied go

do we gulp down the emptiness and confusing

i won’t let my fragility stop me

not this time

not ever

so what is the condition for knowing

when does uncertainty dictate the floor i stand on

when am i turning into a beetle

i hate bugs but maybe life will be less diluted that way

when am i going to be sick of what i hold

what do i surrender my love to

what do i believe in

let me become what i eat

let me become what i love

recently, my inner compass hasn’t felt steady, its magnetized needle un-aligning with the vastness of it all, and i lose direction sometimes. i grab for this alignment and certainty by indulging in all that i like, going with my heart and filling my spaces with love.

i want to feel it all. i want to feel all consuming emotions that take and wash over me, enormous tidal waves that gush and fade and leave me under the burning toasting sunlight.

so here are some vignettes that make me feel like life’s only goal is simply to experience.

~~

i went on a date, one that was decided an hour before it happened. we drove up mulholland drive. he rests his head on the curve of my neck and somehow it fits perfect. he holds me in all the right ways. there’s a group of Mexican uncles next by and they’re playing music out the back of their truck. he teaches me the only Spanish phrase he knows, “una cerveza!“, and i joke that’s all we need. we hum and dance ever so slightly to the music, i giggle as he spins me against the cheeriness of it all.

i stole my friend’s cat, under the feeble excuse of him being on break. it’s a tuxedo cat that really acts more like a dog. i make an intentional, constructed effort to remember this minute because of the tenderness it holds. i sweep the cat onto my duvet, inch my face close and let his tail curl around my arm. kali uchis plays in the background and my baby’s eyes squint in comfort. the afternoon light turns my walls into a slow honeyed lace. i think how lucky cat owners are to experience this everyday.

we sit near a cliff off the malibu coastline, the waves grand and loud, unfiltered and impatient. we let the conversation wander, i close my eyes and he soothes my hair softly. it feels steady and it’s all i need. i remember thinking he has a nice laugh, giggle almost, as the tides crash and the crickets sound.

~~

each moment fades and tarnishes, so i emphasize and refine the brim and texture of these memories.

i always pride myself on my attention to detail, something that has been clarified to me as one of my greatest character strengths in all my class mandated personality tests since primary school. so i always try take notes of the unimpressive because i believe my love for the meaningless and unnamed makes up a whole lot of my own meaning. but at what point does it feel graded too? am i living or curating? i toe the line between authentic and pretty. i’m scared these wins of the ordinary only serve as aesthetic justifications in place for socially praised wins.

but maybe i’m just overthinking the complexity of my intentions. all these vignettes are indelible and make me feel my soul. perhaps i just like letting life stain me. mold me in all ways.

we seek teachings as guides, as injections and molds of who we should be, but it is ultimately up to one to find their own way back to the self, or away from the self. we are all on our own. i must find my own peace. i must heal myself.

so i look for places to sit with myself.

i found this cafe in Silverlake, a bookstore with wooden tables and simple plastic cup lattes served with orange straws. i attempt to find sanctuaries to spill myself into something, someone. anything that could hold me. dairies, dates with pretty strangers, and in between pauses of studying for my finance technicals. i sit at the end of a long table, and i observe the room. everyone is writing, spilling themselves perhaps, confiding or demanding or questioning, and i join this quest for self.

if the self is founded on memory, i am a bundle of perceptions. i accumulate and stack and gather; the good memories like harvests of a squirrel in winter, and the bad memories like muddy puddles in february rain. i don’t like my current state of uncertainty, of fluidity, of indeterminacy. i need faint traces and folding lines to turn my origami of an identity into something i can be proud of.

under the modern system, we flock to assume roles that separate self from reality. we push our exterior to built homes for our inner selves under the guise of safety nets. we do jobs that hollow ourselves as we internalize this is all we wanted anyways. the exterior us can endure what the inconvenient inner is shielded from. i don’t pay the price for the compromise of my soul. but quite frankly, i don’t believe my own convictions are strong enough to stay consistent to neither my inner nor my exterior. i don’t know if i even hold a fine line between the technical utility of my exterior and the romanticized unpractical of my interior. or maybe i’m so fragmented i can never puzzle piece myself back together.

i consider my career decisions and extended life decisions to be based off efficiency. i separate my stages of life into different selves, with different extents of how much they are allowed to explore and deepen my soul. i will treat my next year self to study abroad in Milan, or Paris, or anywhere distant enough to hallucinate into a far stretched dream. i will compartmentalize my years after college to finance and pride and prestige and what’s socially right. maybe i’m still too young, but this fragmentation seems to be the only way i can find my true authentic self within the expectations of the crowd. but even then, i need to heal to find myself. perhaps a more linear consistent version.

interior or exterior, are my textures and flavors true to heart or simply coverups for a self i yet to grow into or know? i don’t want to live a life just to never recognize and become. i want moments, narratives, dialogue, love and being. do i exist if i never confirm a state of self?

i want to be seen by myself, to be understood by myself. hopefully in this little cafe in Silverlake called Stories. to tell a story of a self i eventually get to know.