I wouldn’t say it’s a poem, but I would say it’s for you.

So many things I’ve felt, so many things I’m feeling: like

the lips, the teeth, my hands that go numb from time to time;

unwelcome visitors crawling across my arm, still not wanting to disturb them;

hoping to be an anarchist someday – not in a way so extreme as starting a revolution or in a way so dull as loving someone your family doesn’t approve of, but in a way that falls somewhere in between;

watching the words pour out of your mouth, pour out of your mouth and drip down the sides – they drip down the sides and spill all over me.

And I suppose if I’m still in the business of missing things, there are a few things I could miss:

I could miss the blue days, the warm days, but I don’t. I could miss the excitement that came along with summer, the uncertainty, perhaps, but I don’t.

Instead I miss your words.

NationalGeographic.com

NinJump

Suddenly, the reminiscence of me as a little kid playing an old game on the iPad bumped into my mind in the middle of the calculus class.

Can’t remember exactly when, it was around the time the first iPad just came out, the smart touch-screen tablet.

The game is about the players are able to control a ninja character, and the ninja is keep climbing up on the wall. Right, there are two walls, and the ninja is able to jump between these walls. The goal is to climb as high as possible while avoiding evil squirrels, dive-bombing birds, enemy ninjas, throwing stars, exploding bombs and more.

Can’t remember the name at all. Asked my friends, they knew and played this game also, but they don’t the name either.

Even did some research online, finally, found the name “NinJump.” And I entered this name into the search box in the app store on my phone, but it shows no results. Okay, I guess they probably took this game off, for whatever reason. Let me just keep it in my past memory.

photo credit: winudf.com

Power Nap

I nap, a lot. I go to sleep late whenever overwhelmed by work or by myself. So if I got tired in the day, I would crawl into my bed, curl up and sleep like a baby. 

Photo credit: gq.com

Almost everyday, I have about one hour of free time during the daytime. That’s when I head to my relatively comfortable bed for some paralysis.

My name is (beep for anonymity), and all I want is a good day’s sleep. 

What’s so good about sleeping in the day?

I have dreams where I remember everything. It’s more of a conscious experience than senseless resting. Unlike a lucid dream, I don’t know that I’m dreaming. 

It’s amazing how sometimes, I’m truly alive when I’m unconscious. The dreams are beautiful.

However, it’s a nightmare trying to wake up from them. As a puppet under the strings of the educational system, I’m always on a clock. Beep, beep, time to be fed. Beep, beep, fetch that bone.

So I choose to go to sleep. Am I avoiding things? 

My name is (beep for anonymity), and all I want is a good day’s sleep.

Should I be done with day-sleeping? It feels like more hurt than help. Maybe I should discard my hobby.

But I know I’m not going to change. Maybe I’ll stop napping when I turn vegan. See you in ten years.

But for now, beep, beep.

why is it? you.

Credit:https://pixels.com/featured/aztec-sun-olga-ponomareva.html

a brick wall,

why is it that when I lean into you

like a brick wall you can support me

or cause my world to tumble down

brick by brick

like a brick wall

warm,

why is it that when I put my neck on your shoulder

it’s warm and comforting

even though

sometimes

it shouldn’t be

on a hot day.

why is it that on a hot day when it is dry and breathing is a chore

you make me so happy to just be there

to just enjoy

the

way

things are

and you’re there

why is it that when I see you

I know you’re there

when

even you don’t really know if that’s true

smiling.

why is it that when you smile

even when i scowl back at you

you still manage to make me happy

Levitate

Sometimes I just contemplate random stuff.

It is hard to explain it in words, but it is like reflection time, thinking about

how unplanned and pathetic my life is. 

I pretend unconsciously that I’m doing well, but in fact, I know something’s not right.

I need to get my life together. I need to be more organized and planned.

I’m in a rush.

I will levitate from bottom to top again.

I need strong motivation.

I will try my best.

I will be the most successful one in my family.

pc: GameSpew

Dreams from my Childhood

Before I was proficient, understanding language, my dreams would be primarily in symbols (I wasn’t a very verbal child). Now I’ve never written this down or spent much time reflecting on it, but from around the time I was 3 to the time I was 9 or 10 I would have very odd, indescribable dreams; a single, short line, accompanied by a circle and a square I believe would race around the room I would sleep in while remaining totally silent. And at moments I would hear a deep buzzing that I could not describe, the racing became more intense and increasingly antagonizing while appearing exactly the same. An unnerving simplicity that I didn’t understand frightened me beyond my greatest beliefs and I couldn’t describe them to my family for the life of me, haunting me for years after I stopped having them.
I used to live in a three-story house. To be fair it was a house divided down the middle with a wall so it could house two families, but regardless it felt large to the small child that I was. My house had an area where the stairs, which were all right above each other, and near the basement, there was an entrance to my dad’s office which was leveled slightly below the ground floor of the house but still sheltered slightly from the basement. And in the mornings or late afternoons when things were dark, but not enough to turn lights on, that area would have a shadowy appearance that terrified me. So sometimes, I dreamt that I was standing there, alone, in the early morning, when my parents were still in bed an eternity away on the third floor of my house, I would be frozen on that landing, surrounded by shadows and uncertainty, where I would hear a despaired howling, like one would hear on the Alaskan tundra on a cold winter night, but unnervingly human. And I would be unable to escape that desperate gale-forced cry, and then it would just end.
Photo Credit: Mechanics of Being

don’t touch my hair…

When I was young, I had straight hair: golden, shiny, long curly hair. People would say, “Olivia, your hair is beautiful, don’t ever touch it.” In a sense, I felt quite pompous because of my hair. I knew people were attracted to it. My mother called it mermaid’s hair and I took extreme pride in the comment. I loved the attention my hair drew; it became key to my identity. Being young and blind to cultural and social cues, I flaunted my hair and reveled in the jealousy of others. 

But then I grew up. I stopped living in the trance of my innocence. I became aware of the culture of my family and I didn’t know where I fit into that.

Being African American, Filipina, and Caucasian, I was surrounded by many cultures at a young age but grew up in a town where the ethnicity was mainly white which was reflected in my appearance with my long, straight, golden hair. The blonde hair that tickled my back as I walked side to side was a label for things that I didn’t understand at five years old, and that was my heritage. My hair was not the type of hair that you would see on a little black girl.

My African American family and my Filipina grandmother would always have something to say about my hair. It was too frizzy or too straight and never right for their standards. 

As I grew older and insecurities rose, my hair became frizzier, longer, and harder to manage. During my middle school years, I was confused and grappling with a loss of identity. With no relationship with my heritage, and trying to guide myself through my pre-teen years, my hair reflected the struggles I was facing. My hair was developing, and so was I, but I didn’t know how to control it. It and I were lost, and this struggle for a sense of identity lasted years. 

Then something happened during the summer between my freshman and sophomore year where I felt a sense of need. So, I cut my hair, all of it, and I felt fantastic. A fresh, ear-length, haircut was what I needed to not only feel confident but awake. 

photo credit: pinterest.com

My sophomore year of high school was a major awakening for me and my relationship with my ethnic identity. I understood the history of blacks in America as I began to read poems from Maya Angelou and read about corrupt African American communities in the works of Toni Morrison. I explored music relating to the struggles of black men and women, and began to experience my culture. I also felt a need to connect to my Filipina heritage as well. I began to cook more of my grandmother’s traditional Filipino recipes and shared them with my friends and family that didn’t understand my culture. 

My hair reflected the feelings that I was developing for my culture. It was curly, big, darker in color, and felt like me. I finally accomplished the sense of identity that I had been searching for in my young teenage years. I wasn’t just a girl, living in caucasian town with frizzy uncontrolled hair. I was a woman, who knew what she wanted and who she was who just so happened to have big curly locks on her head. 

Now, I love my hair just like I loved it when I was a little girl. I am able to bounce my curls all day without feeling the judgment of my family. I don’t care about what people have to say about my looks and how I am not enough in terms of my heritage.