this is what evolution means

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For the past two weeks I have gorged 

down textbook after textbook, 

fed myself sheets of notes

until I could no longer be fed.

My desk is splattered with spoonfuls of my vomit, 

chunks of semi-digested knowledge

slimy and sizzling hot 

with my stomach acid.

.

I can’t help 

but think that us students, we’re some sort of 

creature, something temporarily deformed 

and blazingly insane. Because 

after all this superfluous brain damage 

it’s amazing that 

we are still able to evolve 

into something else, each and every

one of us, evolving into something else entirely. 

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Rant on it’s-too-late-to-drop-that-class-now.

Too late to drop that class.

I sat displaced in the bloated

classroom, the air fighting its way

into my nostrils, assuming its desperate

quest down to my timid lungs that were

shrunken with self-repression and deflated

by an unbearable awkwardness. My professor

is such an idiot. My retracted

muscles pulled closer to the depth of

my bones, wringing me dry, that diabolical

force—flailing relentlessly at the

panicking words in my throat, cries for help

and salvation, save me from all this frustration,

cries that were meant to be heard. He doesn’t even teach!

I was quarantined, made to exist in this nameless

dimension, my own designated area, suffering

alone in a pool of stale discussions and irresponsibility,

and I was lost in the intensity of their breaths,

their silence, some forty three other students

whose names I did not know and would probably

never know, and I was lost, in a morally

deformed labyrinth, compelled to tread on thorny roads,

followed by an abhorrent demon lord whipping

my bare back with that disgustingly innocent

smile of his. I was dying for an echo,

a resonance, a possible improvement, but I rued,

for reaping up what I sewed. For taking this

stupid class taught by an incompetent professor

who can’t even summarize an academic article

for the love of God and asks the most

utterly retarded questions ever which

totally ruins his status as a teacher at a

prestigious university. How did he get hired anyway?

 .

End of poetic rant.

 This is my professor who assigns a bunch of hardcore reading to us and expects to come to class, having them all read, to discuss about them, while he walks around with zero teaching, zero input, and I am pretty sure he secretly blames the class for being dead if we, at times, do not talk as much as he wants. Oh come on. This is a UNIVERSITY class. And you dare call yourself a teacher.

 

Back to School

I stare out of my dormroom window, the

corner of my eye flickers uneasily

over the ominous half egg sac

drooping down from the window pane, and I

shiver from the potential birth-spurts

of eight-legged nightmares.

.

They’re going to do it again tonight,

those eager freshmen, their ritualistic

consumption of alcohol and apocalyptic

partying. Scents of marijuana haunt

certain staircases, beside some forlorn

bushes and tickle my nose. Even now,

I can still feel the droning

party-chants, the soft relentless

vibrations tumbling forth in my eardrums,

and the stuffy night air bloated with

heat and insufficient circulation.

.

So August, the month of perpetual roaming,

crept away as yet another school year

insinuated itself back into my life,

sprouted skyward into existence upon

my earthy indifference. I anticipate,

as usual, trials of brutality

of papers and deadlines and

days marked by mechanical romances,

hardcore one-night-stands with final exams.

And I anticipate,

that tomorrow,

my freedom

meets

its

demise.

Degree

A piece of paper. Golden letters. A better name.

A piece of paper. Golden letters. A better game.

Give me a reason to stay where I am.

My heart is already there because

Anyone can get a degree and

I want something more and

I want something real because this is

A real world we live in.

This is a world where

Degrees don’t guarantee you a job  like they used to;

And most of the time all they can guarantee you is

A piece of paper. Golden letters. A better name.

An empty name.

So, give me a reason to stay where I am.

My heart is already there.

And now, my body.

Soon.

Just one of those days, in which

You’re defined by the shades

Beneath your eye, marked by

Pages and sleepless nights

As well as the soreness that spikes

Up in the back of your neck

.

So used to pressure that you’re numb

When you can’t take it anymore

Everything seems dumb

Pointless, tasteless, furthermore

You know you have to get through this

.

So you tell yourself:

You will get through this.

So you tell yourself to endure.

So you tell yourself to go to sleep

When every time you close your eyes

You see exam papers

Essays

Claws

That make you breathless

.

But in that state of utter deprivation

No oxygen, no light, no freedom

You learn to breathe

To conjure fire with a snap of your fingers

To tear down walls with your mind

.

So it’s not so bad

.

Despite the fact that you’re tired

If only you weren’t a student

But you know you have to get through this

So you tell yourself:

.

You will get through this,

Soon.

Inchworm Season

Those calculated walks always put

You into some sort of a trance

Side-stepping under the trees

Like an awkward hip-hop routine

.

You navigate your body

With your carefully sharpened vision

Your feet gradually realize your future

Following a spontaneous, ever-changing map

.

The inchworms sway in the morning wind

Their lala songs swing by your ears like cotton

Wiggling their tiny bodies, calling out

For your attention, the ultimate attachment

.

Nine o’clock, they’re at their prime

In the sunlight, they each mark their spot

For an entire night, they’ve prepared for this rendezvous

So the absent-minded, will take them away

.

And the early birds walk, daily,

Into their squirming embrace

Into their soft joy

Of you being oblivious to their stay

.

Only in the mirror, do you find

These passionate, needy insects

You find them clinging to your hair,

Whispering to you, their quiet love.

I saw a Wing Cloud today…

Four more days until the end of summer…and then, my sophomore year at UBC. My summer this year is filled with new understandings. Hiding in the basement watching three movies in a row and avoiding the vicious heat, suddenly finding Sanada Hiroyuki is surprisingly and undeniably handsome. Satisfying my addiction of udons, which I gobble down greedily and crave for more. Wasting time on Facebook, making friends whom I have never seen, posting on their walls as if we’ve been best pals forever. Taking a summer class, learning that not every professor is easy to please. Reading book after book after book, developing an obsession with autobiographies and Chinese-Canadian writers. Sitting through hours that are stuffed with boredom. Speeding through hours that never last long enough.

Most importantly, I guess…I found myself. Who I really am, and…I found myself closer to God, closer than I have ever been.

I look forward to my second year. I am living in dorm, same as my first year, but this time…there’s a kitchen, so I can actually cook. Which isn’t something I’m bad at, or something I’m unwilling to do…I’m actually quite good at it, or…it might just be my narcissism. You know, it’s hard to condemn myself.

Originally I’m scheduled to move in on Sunday, but both of my parents have to work on that day, so I’m left with no car. Not that I’ll actually be motivated to move all my stuff completely on my own and drive all the way over to UBC…because I have no sense of direction whatsoever, and I get lost on roads more easily than I get lost on math. I will DIE. So…I must be super needy on occasions like this. And after all, I will mostly be away from home for a year…and this is the one of the few times I get to be a kid to my parents.

I am going to eat some apples now…haven’t eaten fruit for days.

I am also writing two short stories at the same time…flash fiction. One of them I shall send to a writing contest and see what happens. Sometimes I wonder how on earth am I going to become a published writer? There is no designated path for a writer. There just isn’t…most of us have to find (or create) our own path, compensating our ideals and dreams and trying to break all the cliches that are attached to us…

Anyway. I’m babbling now. This whole entry does not make sense. But oh well. It’s supposed to be my random babble.

(Which is the same excuse I use over and over to justify my lack of organization. Yep.)