New Blog

I started blogging at https://guevaragema.wordpress.com

I'll leave this site up. I'm not ready to take it down. :(

Why I Write

I don't remember the last time I didn't want to write. And I don't remember the last time I didn't want to read. Actually, I do remember. Three months ago. Austerlitz.

I can't decide why I want to write. There are simply too many reasons. I just know that this desire transcends the appeal and power I found in words. This urge to write was born of the powerful need to be heard. To tell stories. To be remembered. Because if there is something I fear more than death itself is the inevitability of oblivion.

I write because I want to create characters that stand the test of time. I write to better understand our struggles, our ability to deal with them, and our decisions and consequences. I write because writing is a gateway to the divine. I write because writing is a way to empathize, to think and become aware of our limitations. I write because writing makes life brighter and warmer. I write because I wouldn't know what I'm thinking unless I wrote it down. When I write, for the briefest of moments, I have the sneaking suspicion that words lend me their power to do and be anything I want. When I'm writing, I'm invincible. I'm at once everything and nothing. That's the funny thing about words: something so small contains an immeasurable amount of power. The perfect sentence, a witty remark, a play on words, that's what I love. I fell in love with words. A pure, traffic-stopping, lip-licking, chocolate rich love.

I write because there are no rules in writing. Frankly, sometimes we need to let ourselves remember that rules need not apply everywhere. I write because I wouldn't know what happiness is if I didn't. I write to color the area between black and white. I write because writing restores hope and meaning.

Writing is licking one's fingers and patting one's belly after a scrumptious meal. Writing is thinking through our fingers. Writing is beautiful. Timeless. Magical. Writing is my sanctuary. 

The Magic of the Undead

Halloween is upon us, an we can't deny our lust for the dreadful, yet conversely beautiful, undead.

Teenage girls and middle-aged women cannot resist the allure of vampirism. It is temptation in its purest form.

We dream of the tormented monster, the one who denies his very nature and strives to regain a thread of humanity. We wish him into our lives, into our hearts. We want to love the creature that doesn't want to be loved. Good girls want to change the bad boy. They want him to declare his undying affection for them.

It is true, vampires are the ultimate Doms.

Everything about them--from their looks to their imposing presence--is meant to lure us in. We're nothing more than the sheep happily trotting into the slaughter. 

Why are we, then, so enamored with the notion of the undead? 

There is no easy answer. Vampires force us to indulge in our overarching wickedness. We are inherently aggressive, sometimes driven by our basest instincts. Of course the vampire does not follow the rules. The undead can get away with everything, as they are not limited in the same way that we are. They've had several lifetimes to master stealth and wit, after all. We are covetous of the precious things they have: immortality, the cunning of the ages, their refusal to surrender their youth to Father Time.

This fantasy starts innocently: we want an emotionally available vampire, sweet and gentle, whose nights consist of pampering us and planting kisses on our forehead. But as we mature so do our fantasies. Sweet and gentle is not enough. We want passion, fire and excitement. Feelings and emotions cease to be important. The stereotype of the bad boy, seeking redemption, resonates with us. We want to save the bad boy. We want him to enlist our help. 

But even more scandalous is the fact that we aspire to be like the bad boy. We want to channel our wickedness through sadomasochistic behavior. We want to employ the threat of fangs as a means to fulfill our needs and wants. Equally arousing is the man who uses his fangs to exert dominance.

The vampire is a womanizer. His old world charm is particularly irresistible. It's the perfect tool to mesmerize and draw oblivious young women to them.  

There is no greater womanizer than Count Dracula himself. 

His strange physical deformities (Hairy palms? Really? Think about the connotations) not only seem to work in his favor but make him all the more attractive. Heavy-bosomed women parade behind him, ready to pleasure him and tend to his needs. Hello, blood bags. 

It also helps that he has a way with people and is able to magnetize them. 

I imagine Dracula to be the sugar daddy of vampires. He pays generously for the services afforded him. (If you haven't guessed, the pay is immortality and eternal youth.) Who wouldn't want to offer herself up for a taste of immortality? Don't roll your eyes. We're all greedy, after all. 

Everyone's dying, but you're not old yet. 

We want to stir the monster beneath the surface. Maybe even slough off our good girl skin and indulge in hedonistic behavior. Yes, that sounds like a plan. 

The sexual overtones inherent in vampirism flash like a neon sign. We associate it with the liberation of sexuality, a representation of our primal urges--all of the things that make us uncivilized.

The point is, all I want for Halloween is a vampire. (Edward Cullen is not an option.) 

The Inner Critic is What Holds Us Back

Why do we let fear hold us back? Why are we so afraid to oppose it? Why...?

Do we believe our ideas are not worth expressing? Do we believe ourselves unworthy of recognition, praise?

It's time we unhooked ourselves from our fears. It's time we expressed our ideas loudly and clearly. It's time we sent out into the universe our wishes and desires. It's time we asked for its help. Only then can we eliminate the fear of criticism.

Criticism isn't meant to hurt us; it's meant to push us to do our best possible work. Our inner judge patrols the borders of our comfort zone, making sure we don't venture forth out of that zone. It doesn't want us to take the next big step, to change our possibilities into realities. But must we let it make decisions for us? We must be willing to venture out far beyond the border of comfort. We must not be afraid to act recklessly, because life isn't about playing it safe. It's about placing bets and hoping to win.

Our inner critic won't completely go away. Its mission is to fill our heads with mantras of "you're not good enough" and "this isn't right for you," and the best way to diminish its power of persuasion is to play big and dangerously.

The inner critic does not want to harm us; it wants us to live comfortably. This idea of comfort is what holds us back. We are afraid to explore a world of possibilities, because we've convinced ourselves we will never survive the jungle of madness. Ultimately, this is what our inner critic wants: to force us into submission.

It tells us that, if we don't listen to it, we will only make fool of ourselves and fail. If we don't peel back the many layers of comfort, we will never break the cycle of "I'm not good enough."

We are good enough, and even if we're not, we will be. Reaching a level of good enough takes patience and hard work. Are we willing to spend years upon years perfecting our craft? Creating beauty out of fear? Art out of chaos? We won't know unless we make an effort to ignore our inner critic and set out to do what we were meant to do.

Women are so damn afraid of criticism, but we ought not take criticism personally. Criticism reveals useful information about the person giving it, not about ourselves.

As a matter of fact, it's not such a bad idea to think of criticism as useful feedback to improve a defective aspect of our work. Without feedback, we won't be able to grow into our true selves. Let's keep in mind that feedback is not meant to hurt us, but to challenge us to produce high-quality work.

Feedback is another way of saying: you need to transform your diamond in the rough into an exquisite piece of jewelry.

Polish your diamond and the result will be gratifying. I promise.

Lost in The City of Blinding Lights

New York thrums with energy, day and night. The city transports those who dare to set foot in it to places unknown, where pulsing lights and shadows converge to form a city of illusions. With its looming buildings and concrete streets, New York can be a jungle of dreams or a maze of confusion. The many avenues and turns and shortcuts can leave those accustomed to small-town life gasping for air. Literally.

It is easy to get lost in the Big Apple, and even harder to find our destination. When you no longer can rely on maps and you're starting to break out in a profuse sweat, you need only to fall on your knees and pray for a GPS. (Especially if you don't have reliable WiFi access.)

A few days ago, while in NYC, I spent two hours looking for the subway station. Exhausted, I was about ready to catch the first train out of the city. I was not getting paid enough to do this. As a matter of fact, I was not getting paid at all. I could not bear the heat of the underground station. I could not bear the stench of rotting garbage or the overwhelming sea of people. The fumes of the train made my eyes water, and sweat plastered my hair to the nape of my neck. It hadn't occurred to me that I was deep in the heart of the city.

I don't like to ask for help. I'd much rather wander the streets in hopeless desperation than confess that my sense of direction has once again failed me. I don't know what that says about me. Through the years, I've employed a simple learning technique: Look closely for clues and figure it out. Everything I need to know is around me; it's only a matter of being aware of my surroundings. Too bad this same principle does not apply to New York's subway system. While it is no remarkable feat to familiarize oneself with the underground station (as many a people have done it in the past), I was on a tight schedule. I could not afford to while away the afternoon reading pamphlets and deciphering maps.

Finally, amid swearing and sweating, I found the PATH--the transit system linking New York to New Jersey urban communities. Soon after stumbling into the PATH, I paid the fare, boarded the train, and sighed with relief. This process, unlike what I'd gone through, was both comforting and familiar.

New York is a playground for adventurers. The thrill of trekking through unknown land and discovering hidden passageways attracts tourists all year round. With surprise lurking around every corner, who would want to miss out on the opportunity to explore the big city? There is a reason New York is lovingly dubbed the Big Apple. Good things don't always come in small packages.

New York forced me to shed the cloak I was hiding in. It reinforced a sense of independence that, despite unseen threats, managed to awake in me a desire to make the city my playground. I longed to swim amid blinding lights and colossal buildings, to weave my way through the twinkling stars that surround the city in a dreamy haze of endless summer.

The New York I love is built on a field of multicolored lights and cosmopolitan dreams. The New York I love is above ground, where it lures the ambitious into dreams of success and fame, knowing quite well that it is but an illusion--hard to let go of, yet easy to shatter.

The New York I love is a complicated network of streets and buildings which, despite its seemingly welcoming aura, is equally indifferent to the faint-hearted as to those looking for adventure. But once it warms your heart, it is hard to untangle yourself from its grasp--even if it made you lose your way and tested your patience.

Welcome to New York.

To Move or Not To Move

Moving into a new house can be both a life-changing experience and a thrilling adventure. Each person is unique in how he or she deals with change. Some responses are healthy coping mechanisms, while others may prove detrimental to one's well-being. All I know is that the process of leaving one’s childhood home, and crossing over into the realm of a new one, is depressing at best, and daunting at worst. These are the times that test my inner strength, and I'm smart enough to know I'm powerless to change what's already been set in motion.  

Third-party observers might be oblivious to the conflicting emotions clashing within me. But inside, a storm rages on. Without a warning, I steel myself as a wave of nostalgia crashes over me, tossing me against the rocks and leaving me floating face up. All the while the memories created through the years and the secrets whispered wash up on shore briefly, their essence slowly merging with the sea. 

Packing has stirred memories I thought I'd buried miles and miles beneath the earth's surface. 

The ghost of memories past floats around the room, uncontrollably and recklessly, unwilling to absent itself and plunging into the conscious mind, where it plays a movie which I know all too well--life. (A room which bore witness to adolescent angst, raging hormones and baser emotions, now awaits a new occupant.) Lingering in this hormone-filled space is the formidable spirit of youth, engrained in the fabric of this perfectly imperfect abode.

The air is redolent of dirty laundry and dust. A bookshelf stands in the far corner of the room. A myriad of books sit on the shelves (most vampire fiction), their pages bent and frayed—a sign they have been read one too many times. Their covers battered and abused. A thin layer of dust covers almost every square inch of this dimly-lit cave, no matter how many times I dust and vacuum. (Clearly a mischief from the god of dust.)

The drawers of a single dresser are half open. Underwear and socks spill out of them. Deodorants, a brush, and sanitary napkins, along with an undergraduate course catalog and my class schedule, clutter the surface of the dresser. I've never bothered to arrange them neatly; I’m not as organized a person as I've led myself to think.

Today, I packed a decade of books into five boxes, careful not to damage their fragile exterior. A decade of memories, of tears and accomplishments trapped in a room that witnessed my leap from childhood to adulthood. I spent a decade memorizing the smallest details: the pink walls, the popcorn ceiling, the chipped paint. A cobweb dangling above my bed. The desk covered with textbooks and magazines. A lamp. More dust. A wooden door. 

I weaved through boxes, knowing that in a few days' time I would be starting life elsewhere. 

It suddenly occurred to me that I expected our residence to be permanent. Change was slung at me like a boulder from a catapult, and I can’t help feeling the brunt of the blow. It’s always been inevitable. 

There will always be more opportunities to create new memories, to collect the little shells that we carry with us always--wherever we go, whenever we go.

Sick Sad Little Pet

So many of us have had to say goodbye to our beloved pet; so many of us have had to bury them; and so many of us were left heartbroken.

The death of a pet scars us in ways that we can't fathom into words. It is an immeasurable level of pain that few of us can bear to endure. I remember the day my dwarf hamster died. His name was Apollo and his behavior was more feline than rodent-like. He responded to the name I'd chosen for him, and he ate more food than was necessary. But none of that mattered, because he was all the more cuddly. The healthy glow about him belied his sickness. A tumor which had formed on his stomach grew to great magnitude, threatening to devour him inside. It struck silently, dangerously, finally snuffing out the life of a beloved friend. 

Apollo died in my hands. He writhed and wheezed and struggled to force air into his lungs, the tumor conducting one last attack. Lifeless he lay, the hamster who strove to be a cat and who ate voraciously. The hours leading up to Apollo's burial proved to be distressing, and I refused to take part in the ritual. I could not bury my friend; I hadn't the heart. My dad dug a hole in the yard and lowered Apollo's make-do coffin into the grave. His final resting place. 

I have long since coped with the death of Apollo, but every now and again, I am reminded of the pain of his absence. However, I know, deep down, that my friend has crossed over Rainbow Bridge--a place in heaven reserved for our dearest friends.

Two years later, I rescued a goldfish and took him under my wing. Two days later, he died. The cause? Underoxygenation. Down he went, eyes vacant and bulging, in a swirling tornado of toilet water, navigating the tunnel that will show him Rainbow Bridge. 

Summer, Summer, Summer!

The smell of summer is in the air. The sweet fragrances fill our nostrils. Flowers on trees bloom. The days are longer and the nights warmer. Nothing can compare to the beauty of summertime. It's a kiss. It's a smile. It's a sip of wine. There is no greatest happiness than watching a star-strewn sky, or feeling the touch of a quick summer breeze caress your face.

Summer anthems play loudly, reminding us that youth is at its loveliest. Sweet memories float before our eyes, a smile drawn on our lips; all is well.

School is out. Summer stretches ahead of us like a sweet promise. The sense of peace and absence of urgency overcome us. The sun on our faces, water flowing beneath us, fireflies lighting up the way.

Our romance with summer is short-lived, addicting, but worth the post traumatic breakup disorder. It has no precedent. It's more satisfying than an actual relationship, and there are no strings attached. Once it's over, it's over. And no amount of begging will make it change its mind. For summer, there are no do-overs or second chances. Only the present.

We fall in love with summer, because summer is good to us. Summer brings pleasure into our lives. It brings hope, adventure, adrenaline. Summer makes sure we are happy. Or rather, we make sure we are happy in summer. Summer takes us to wonderful places, buys us beautiful things, and whispers sweet nothings in our ear. Summer is the partner every person needs.

With summer arise new opportunities. Opportunity to have a summer fling. Opportunity to travel. Opportunity to reinvent ourselves. Opportunity to recharge our spirit. Opportunity to start new friendships. Opportunity to do what we've always wanted to do.

Opportunities sail with the wind, unrestrained and wild, lying in wait for the next person who snags them.

Summer jolts our world-weary bodies into action. Our eyes explode in surprise, our mouth stretches into an O, and we see, for the first time in months, the full colors of life.

Summer is about starting over, and letting go of could've, would've and should've.

What Are You Reading This Summer?

A vacation is never really a vacation unless I have a bewildering array of books to choose from. I enjoy summer not because I can lie on the beach, soaking up the sunshine, but because I can stay in--homework-free--and tackle the mountain of books awaiting to be read.

To take full advantage of all that summer has to offer, I have compiled a list of books I have or plan to read:

1. The Fault in Our Stars by John Green: Make sure you have a box of Kleenex at your disposal. This contemporary love story is not for the faint of heart. Green's best-selling novel helps readers navigate the road of star-cursed romance and heartbreak. If you're looking to shed a few tears, this is the novel for you. In John Green's world, love is stronger than the untimely alignment of the stars.

2. The Book of Unknown Americans by Cristina Henriquez: America is the land of promise, of opportunities and wealth. Or so we've been made to think. In Cristina Henriquez's novel the challenges of trekking to unforeseen land are explored. This novel brings forth a new definition of what it means to be an American.

3. The Opposite of Loneliness by Marina Keegan: The talented Yale graduate who died in a tragic car crash left behind a treasure trove of writing that is meant to inspire younger generations. Marina's writing is witty, comical, and universal. Her fiction and nonfiction is imbued with the wisdom of a young woman learning what it means to be young, alive, and full of expectations.

4. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert: At age thirty-five, after moving with her husband to New York, Elizabeth realized that she wanted neither a child nor a husband. After a protracted divorce, she embarked on a yearlong trip across Italy, India, and Indonesia. Along the way, Elizabeth made three stops: Rome, for pleasure; Mumbai for spiritual reinforcement; and Bali for "balancing." Accompany Elizabeth on the journey through recovery and self-fulfillment, and be prepared to find adventure along the way.

5. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers: McCullers is the queen of freaks. While not a freak herself, McCullers made it her personal mission to give a voice to those who do not have one. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter  centers on John Singer, a deaf-mute who, despite his hearing impairment, becomes the confident of the town's losers. Touching and powerful, McCullers's characters stay in your mind indelibly.

World Cup Infatuation

Brace yourself: The World Cup is here.

While I'm not a soccer fan, during the month-long World Cup, I hatch into a full-blown soccer fanatic. There is something about sports that connect us to the world at large. We come together to show our support, to stand by our team as they score the winning goal or lower their heads in defeat. For the duration of the match, the world holds it breath and crosses its fingers as players on the field battle to claim ownership of the ball. I can't help but smile.

The world is brought together, one soccer match at a time. The best part of the World Cup is not the ridiculously handsome players or the rowdy but good-natured crowd. The best part is the simple joy it gives us. While soccer may not explain the confounding mechanisms of the universe, it makes the world a slightly happier place. As the excited roar of the crowd gains momentum, I know the world will tune in to watch the soccer battle unfold. Different cultures merge into one. Strangers greet strangers with open arms. They have been brought together for one reason: to experience the momentary joy of sports.

Nothing is more gratifying, or pleasing, than witnessing players shake hands with the opposing team. This moment solidifies the irrefutable truth that we are created equal. In the eyes of the universe, we are the same. In the eyes of soccer, we are the same. In the eyes of the spectators, we are the same. During these times of fever pitch, we overcome racism, all forms of intolerance, and individualism. And instead, we trust that teamwork will lead us to victory.

There are many ways to show our support, but the most important is to recognize that talent is a gem hidden in ordinary places. The youngest child of a cook and a municipal gardener is now the world's highest-paid soccer player. The child born and raised in a third world country reached the upper echelons of soccer. The boy whose abilities were questioned is now a professional player. We show our support, and patriotism, during the final match, when the winners finally are crowned, when fireworks drown out the clamor of the crowd. All we can do is smile.

There is more to the World Cup than a ball rolling across the field. The World Cup is the adhesive that for the ephemeral months of June and July glues the fragments of a world considered to be divisive. The World Cup gives us something to look forward to, something that will lift our crushed spirits and world-weary souls. It gives us excitement.

While I don't own a T-shirt featuring my favorite team, I do have enough lung capacity to scream at the screen. Whoa! Go Messi!

The Inside Room

We all have an inside room--the secret place where the soul is dismantled at its core, examined, and put together in a different form. My inside room is a dwelling of half-formed thoughts, soundless words, restless voices. It is a place so private, so sacred, that I dare not open the door. It is neither here nor there. It lays half on reality, half on fantasy. In my inside room there are no boundaries. All bets are off. Anything and everything can happen. Sometimes it stirs in me a feeling of premature nostalgia so profound that it brings tears to my eyes. Its walls are white. It is a creepily sterile room. It is furnished with words, words, and words. It understands, reassures, and validates. I'm safe inside. Safe, unharmed, vulnerable. I lay down the weapons I wield. I break down the walls standing between me and the Self. There are no walls. No obtrusion. No dam. Water flows freely, rapidly. It keeps me afloat. Heading everywhere and nowhere. Suspended between the promises of the present and the regrets of the past.

The inside room casts a white, blinding glow. It washes over the surface, drives out the darkness, purifies the psyche. Its glow white as snow, deadly as ice. The outline of words barely visible. Their transparency revealing their honesty. No walls stand before me. They've been taken down, disintegrated into debris.

The white room--the inside room--hums with energy. Unadulterated energy. Its aura strong enough to throw me against the wall. Strong enough to empower me. Strong enough to vanquish the fears lurking in the shadows.

The inside room is particularly restless. There is too much going on. There is not one moment of silence. Only noise. Head-throbbing noise. Voices whisper lies, rousing fear in me. They tell me I'm not good enough, will never be good enough. I know that is a lie. A cruel lie. 

But did I mention the inside room is squared into four smaller rooms? I didn't? Well, come closer and find out:

The first room contains Aspirations. What and who I will become are safely guarded in this room. The door is ajar, but I do not peek in. Inside there is an embryo. It nourishes on hard work and blood. With each accomplishment it grows. Soon, it will have evolved into a baby. This baby is the future. This baby is me, the what and who I will become. The baby, soon-to-be a toddler, doesn't cry; it falls and then gets up. 

Go down the hall, on your left, you will come across the second room: Imagination. I have made of this room a comfort zone. The surreal and romantic weave together, creating artwork and beauty which words cannot capture. Higher forces reside in this room. Call them Inspirations, Muses, God, Spirit Guides, Intuition--whatever you call them they connect me to something larger than myself. I am the piece of a puzzle once thought to be incomplete. I matter. 

Across Imagination there looms a black door. Fear. It deceives you, costumes itself up in fine clothes, traps you. Its smooth talk soon becomes menacing. Real smooth talker, fear is. O, but do not be fooled, for it wants to harm you, witness the destruction of your soul, consume the universe within. I try to stay away from this room, as far away as humanly possible. 

Next to Fear  stands a worn-out door. Splinters of wood jut out, paint peels off, scratches mark the surface. Greet Anxiety. Cold air sweeps over this room. Do not enter or else the monster of doom will latch onto you. You--the only living thing for miles around. In the event curiosity convinced you to ignore my warning, I suggest you laugh at the monster, ridicule him, pretend it's not real. I find it humorous. Two heads, a green and scaly body, clawed feet. Forked tongue. Smelly breath. A brain too small for a head too big. 

Anxiety is the mistress you try to hide but still manages to show up unexpectedly. She's cunning, beautiful, yet deadly. One single dose of her love and she will paralyze you, turn you to stone. She is a child of the night, an unclean spirit. When exposed to sunlight, she bursts into flames, crumbles into ashes. Oh, but she encapsulates the true meaning of immortality, for, no matter how many times you try to kill her, she can't die. She is a lion, scouring the streets in search of a new prey, sniffing the air for an unfamiliar scent. Beware. This room is off-limits.

The inside room abounds with surprises. I am curious and interested at what I will find next. All I can do is sit and wait out the suspense. This rich inner world is also perilous territory. The temptation to venture far is too great. And if you're not careful, you will lose your way.

The room closely resembles a circle, for it has neither a beginning nor an end. It can give great aesthetic pleasure, but it can too carry in the wind the particles of human imperfection. 

There is a star-strewn universe in us. Brilliant. Mind-blowing. Unique. But also dangerous. I feel safest when I step through to the blackness of this universe, this my inside room, home.

Open the door and brace yourself.

Even Friendships End

Everything comes to an end. School, love, friendships, everything. Nothing lasts forever. Not the universe. Not our bodies. Nothing. One day we will crumble and break, and there's nothing we can do to stop it. As my high school career draws to an end, I cast my mind back to the years that have been leading up to this moment. I've been looking forward to graduation since day one of my freshman year. I despised going to school, not because I didn't enjoy learning, but because I didn't belong. What clique was right for me? In my smaller-than-average high school, I didn't have many choices. In fact, sometimes it seemed I had no choice whatever. Instead I decided to keep to myself. I buried my nose in books and got lost in thoughts of a more pleasant reality. I was lost. I drifted aimlessly from daydream to daydream, with no direction or purpose. I was a zombie, plodding along and not caring one bit. 

I stopped caring; I had no friends. I was lonely. Numb. Anxious. The feeling of not belonging clung to me, like tiny droplets clinging to blades of grass. But I learned to cope. I dealt with it. I found refuge in words. I found comfort in nature. So long as I wasn't the target of taunts, I figured I could learn to live as a ghost floating through life. It wasn't until this year, after the worst was over, that I learned the true meaning of friendship. 

I didn't know what a true friend was. I didn't know if I would ever meet a true friend, but I did. I met more than one. 

I don't want to define other people's meaning of friendship, but I can define mine. Or at least I can take a crack at it. 

A friend is someone who is willing to leave class with you, go outside, and dissipate your fears. A friend is the person who will laugh at your jokes, no matter how stupid or lame they are, and still pretend you're funny. A friend is someone whose silence is not at all awkward, but an unspoken understanding that you need some time to yourself. A friend is someone who takes delight in your success. A friend is someone who doesn't care what you wear. A friend will embrace your quirks. A friend won't ask you to do something you don't want to do. A friend is someone who won't push their beliefs on you. A friend won't laugh at your most embarrassing moments. A friend isn't self-centered. A friend will claim you're the best at what you do and mean it--even though you know otherwise. A friend is honest. A friend will motivate you. A friend will praise your accomplishments. A friend does not let jealousy fester her heart. A friend won't judge you. A friend is loyal. A friend will not stand by and witness your destruction. A friend is a reminder that not everything is bad. A friend does not hold grudges. A friend does not think meaningful conversations are a waste of time. A friend is patient. A friend keeps you sane. A friend will not put you down. A friend is a sort of therapist. A friend will always be there. A friend is a treasure, so cherish it. 

I can count with one hand the number of people for whom I've been genuinely happy. I'm stubborn, nonconformist, and not easy to get along with. Those who have gotten to know me can attest to that. These people, however, have proved themselves loyal. They have been patient and accepting. They have been friendly and non-judgmental. And they've each earned a special place in my heart. I wish them the best of luck. 

Unfortunately, our time together is coming to and end, and I regret not approaching them sooner. 

I find comfort in knowing that, once we graduate, once we go our separate ways, the echo of our memories will linger on.

We Are Young

“No adolescent ever wants to be understood, which is why they complain about being misunderstood all the time.” - Stephen Fry

Our parents want what's best for us, but what's best for us isn't always what we want. My generation wants freedom, freedom, and freedom. We can no longer bear the rules imposed on our parents by their parents. We wants to express ourselves, set our own expectations, and beam with delight at our accomplishments. Our accomplishments, not our parents'. We want to achieve the impossible while losing ourselves in daydreams. We want to be overcome by a sense of infinite possibility. We want to feel as though we can do anything we want...anything. With the Internet at our disposal, the possibilities are endless. We are more than ever before surrounded by a plethora of information. The world is one-click away; we want to take advantage of all that it has to offer. We thirst to prove ourselves, to the world, and say that we have enough common sense to make our own decisions. We are young, too young. We know more than we give ourselves credit for. Our knowledge is--and will always be--an ever expanding balloon. We are talented, creative, and inventive, but we'd sooner seek adventures than stay home, playing the role of well-behaved children. We like to lean out of the window and let the wind take us to far away places. We are unique. We are rebels. We do what we expect of us, not what's expected of us. We are singers. We are writers. We are painters. We are scientists. The world of  our parents has lost its luster. We want a small but perfect piece of infinity. We want to build it, shape it, dismantle it, and rebuild it. We want to start at the bottom and build our way up to the top. We don't want to hold our parents' hands anymore. We don't want to hold anyone's hand anymore. We are pillars. Strong and invincible. We are trees that have weathered difficulty, suffered through storms, and endured lightning strikes. Yet our will remains intact. We believe nothing will make us crumble. We are the indestructible generation. We follow our heart's desire, indulge in pleasurable activities, and heinously disregard most rules. It's who we are. It's who we strive to be.

We want to be heard. Our voices are loud. They ring with laughter. The echoes follow. We make noise. We can't be defeated. We think ourselves powerful. We make mistakes, mutter I'm sorry, and move on. Our throats throb and clog, but we emerge stronger than ever before. We are young, yet we seem to believe time is running out. That it's somehow too late. We fear that which we cannot understand, but we can't help being drawn by it. We want more than what we have. We want to be young forever. We want freedom. We want the forbidden. We don't want expectations. We want to be ourselves. We numb the pain, hurt ourselves, and emerge stronger than yesterday. We deem ourselves indestructible. We dip our fingers into a jar of paint, smear them all over a canvas, and leave our fingerprints behind. The world is at our finger tips. We are naïve. We still believe in fairy tales and in happy endings. We cling to the fragments of a dream and refuse to wake up. We walk around with blank stares, concealing the world behind our eyes. We are strong. We swallow our feelings, struggle to keep afloat, and follow the current. We are young, too young. Life is but a winding path stretching ahead of us, which we must set upon and journey alone. But that's okay, because we are young. We think we can do it all, and we can. We are realistic; we wish the impossible. Because we are young. So young. Full of life. High on dreams. Motivated to live. Young.

The Potter Theory

I wasn't a fan of Harry Potter until recently. I didn't understand the Potter mania--my inner adult simply rolled her eyes and thought it riddikulus (get it?). Witches and wizards were overrated. In my world, witchcraft is not to be trifled with. We refuse to acknowledge the existence of witches simply because we tremble at the sight of those who dabble in the dark arts. On the other hand, Harry Potter was inoffensive, even childish. Where's the harm in Dementors? Lord Voldemort? A few magical creatures? A few years passed and I began to cook up my own interpretation of the series (with maturity comes the ability to see what most children can't). The world of Harry Potter, at first glance, seems magical, but it is far more complex than we imagine. Harry Potter is, to the examining eye, the extended metaphor of a boy suffering from delusions writ large.

Harry Potter is an orphan. All he knows is a miserable life with the Dursley, his aunt and uncle, and their nasty son Dudley--a big spoiled bully. Harry lives in a tiny room at the foot of the stairs, with nothing but the company of spiders and a few tin soldiers. A child needs external stimulation--friends, family, love--to develop into a well-balanced young man. Harry was deprived of the most essential commodities of life--food, kindness, clothes. In addition to enduring starvation, Harry was exposed to the toxicity of physical abuse. On several occasions, he mentions that "Dudley's favorite punching bag was Harry". He wore glasses held together by Scotch tape because Dudley often punched him on the nose. His aunt and uncle are doubtless complicit in this abuse. Harry is not only a wizard; he is, too, the ne plus ultra of a domestic abuse victim. The intimations of neglect are there; it is simply a matter of looking past wands and cauldrons.

Harry, in an effort to escape, and cope with, the nightmare that is his life, develops a fantasy world where is famous, rich, and surrounded by friends. According to J.K. Rowling, she has heard it suggested to her that Harry did in fact go mad in the cupboard. Of course, anyone who spends a big chunk of his life imprisoned in a tiny room is prone to lose his mind sooner rather than later. Harry's ability to create an alternate universe is called the Fantasy Coping Theory. Throughout much of the series, Harry, while at Hogwarts, is sent to the hospital no less than six times. Whilst his friends visit the infirmary for having their skin complexion altered to resemble cornflakes, Harry often sustains more common injuries (a broken arm, a cracked skull, etc). Harry, fearing the truth will earn him a punishment, concocts elaborate stories to explain the severity of his wounds. It is not uncommon for victims of domestic abuse to understate the extent of the cruelty to which they are subjected. I fell off my broom while playing a game of Quidditch. Harry seemed to have prolonged the lies as best he could.

The mind is a powerful tool. There is a key, buried deep, that unlocks wonders extending beyond human imagination. There have been instance in which the mind has given rise to superhuman powers (telekinesis, premonition, etc) in times of extreme crisis or stress situations. Harry most likely relied on his mind to maintain his sanity. It makes sense. If we had a choice between relentless beatings or magic realism, we'd of course choose the latter. There is no competition. Harry resorted to fantasy in order to survive. Our species will go to any lengths to perdure, even if it means building a school of witchcraft and wizardry out of thin air.

There were some instances in the series in which characters hinted that it was all in Harry's head. The Sorting Hat, for instance, told Harry that he "could be great, you know, it's all here in your head..." Was Hogwarts a figment of Harry overly wild imagination? Or was it a mental institution? The deepest scars are those we cannot see. There is only so much a young boy like Harry can tolerate, and provided he endured a degree of physical abuse, it would not be at all surprising to learn that he landed in a mental institution.

Let's not forget about Lord Voldemort. In the series Harry and Lord Voldemort share a connection. There is a piece of Voldemort's soul living in Harry. If we took a psychological approach to explicate this connection, it would be argued that Voldemort is Harry's alter ego, the living embodiment of his bestial, hidden self. Voldemort is everything Harry is not: evil, power-hungry, ruthless. Harry was unfortunate enough to lose his parents and resign himself to the neglect of his "family." It is surprising he managed to repress his anger for over a decade. However, less surprising is the fact that Voldemort is a personification of Harry's anger, frustrations, and dashed hopes. Basically, Harry (the superego) is in a dark cellar forever engaged in mortal combat with Voldemort (the id). At the end, the superego emerged victorious, as it once more suppressed the urges of the id.

Whether Hogwarts was a product of Harry's insanity or indeed real, we will never know. The answer depends on how much you're willing to believe.

The Shadow of Guilt

Guilt is an inherent human emotion of which we cannot rid ourselves. A guilty conscience tells us the difference between right and wrong, light and dark, sin and virtue. It permits us to look inward and redress behavioral flaws; if we're lucky, we may even develop a better sense of our behavior and how it affects others. In a sentence, guilt breeds repentance.

But what happens when our guilt is a little too extreme? It is perhaps not a good idea to wolf down five chocolate bars in a row, and we know it, but regardless, guilt soon starts to kick in. That's something we should be wary of; guilt pays you unwanted visits whenever it wants. We feel guilty for the smallest, most meaningless things in our lives. Feel bad for going back to work and leaving your newborn under the care of a stranger? Hello, guilt. Feel horrible for gobbling up not one but two cheeseburgers? Nice to meet you, guilt. Forgot to do your homework and nodded off instead? Long time no see, guilt.  

It's hard to purge ourselves of guilt. In fact, it's nearly impossible. Guilt and I interlock arms almost every day, skip down a path, and hum a happy tune. We're well on our way to becoming BFFs.

I sometimes hold myself culpable for having anxiety. I've always thought I brought it upon myself, willed it into existence somehow. Research tells us anxiety stems from a chemical imbalance in the brain, so why should I blame myself for it? This guilt isn't one-sided, however. The people I didn't expect to judge me did. They told me I should be able to keep my anxiety at bay. And if I couldn't, then it was probably my fault. It's all in your head. They drilled this mantra into my head until I couldn't help but feel ashamed, guilty, and weak. There came a point where I simply resigned myself to guilt, bowed down to it, and put myself at its mercy, vulnerable and afraid. 

There is no doubt most of us have felt guilt over something, but we have learned to cope with it. However, what happens when this guilt consumes us wholly? When there's no reason behind it? What if we cannot move on? The answer is to simply live with it. Guilt doesn't intend to make us feel bad; it wants to help us change our behavior. But unreasonable guilt blows up insecurities to billboard size. We feel guilt at having eaten those cheeseburgers because we know we should be watching our weight. Because we know that, if we don't, we'll be putting on pounds. But we need to eat. So should we feel guilty for surviving? Unless your goal is to end up like a shriveled corpse, then no. 

A few weeks ago my dad shamed me for refusing to read non-fiction literature. I seethed. How dare he criticize my literary taste? I did what most teenagers do: I sulked, ruminated, and wallowed in guilt (fraught with a dose of anger). What if he was right and fiction is in fact "garbage"? It's never too late to acquire a new literary taste, right? Some more rumination later and I wasn't close to figuring out what I wanted. All the while I was feeling bad for having spent all those years reading about supernatural creatures, a crazy man who thinks a race of extraterrestrials abducted him, the same crazy man who thinks he has come unstuck in time, and then there's the crazy man who murdered his father and married his mother (albeit unbeknownst to him). I felt guilty for filling my head with "garbage" when I should've been enlightening my mind with Plato's The Republic or Sigmund Freud's The Interpretation of Dreams. It was then, amid anger and confusion, that I saw an answer beckoning. My guilt was altogether unreasonable. I should not feel guilty for reading. There are enough years left in my life to develop a taste in non-fiction literature, after all. The best strategy I had at my disposal was acceptance. I had to accept guilt as part of the human nature. It's a small fragment of who we are, of who I am. Emotions are identified as either "positive" or "negative," but in reality every emotion is valid. But when we throw self-judgment into the mix, emotions can be very damaging. 

I sometimes wonder what guilt and conscience would say if they engaged in conversation:

Enter Guilt and Conscience

Guilt: Hello, sexy lady. Hope you had a nice break from me, but don't worry, I'm never leaving you again. I'm here to stay permanently!

Conscience: Ugh! You again? What do you want? Isn't it enough that I have others things to worry about without you hovering in front of my face?

Guilt: But...I'm not so bad. In fact, I can be very fun! And you know you like mischief!

Conscience: I do not mingle with the likes of you. I'm a lady and if you'll excuse me, I have things to think about. 

Guilt: Aw, come on! Don't be such a party-pooper. Loosen up and have fun. Do you know what fun is? It's the one thing you've never had. (Laughs maniacally)

Conscience: Ha, you're so uncouth. Off with your head. 

Guilt: You can't escape me. I've ensnared you. So let's make this fun, you and me.

Conscience: (sighs) I suppose I could learn to live with you, but of course, that will never happen. Now, begone demon.

Guilt: Baby, come back! (mockingly).

Conscience: Has anyone ever told you how annoying you are?

Guilt: Once or twice. Has anyone ever told you I'm a nagging force? I'll haunt you so long as you live.

Conscience: You're impossible! Who would want to live with you? You detestable, completely narcissistic, infuriating thing.

Guilt: Oh, so now I'm a thing? I thought I was an emotion.

Conscience: Go to hell. (groans loudly).

Conscience stomps off stage. All exeunt. 

When Jehovah and the Norse Gods Clash

It has come to my attention that, in recent years, I've found myself questioning the existence of God, the fundamentals of organized religion, with shameful frequency. This inner struggle against the religion I was taught to follow blindly has accumulated a jumble of questions that bounce around in my head. Why, if God is all-merciful, aren't we allowed to question Him? Is the Bible but a big lie? Why is there only one god in the universe? Who is God? No matter how many times I ask, I've never gotten a response.

I was raised in a strict Catholic household. Daily prayers were as normal a routine as brushing one's own teeth; I was told that praising the Lord at the early hours of the morning would please Him as much as creating the universe did. I was not sold. How can God, a single entity so to speak, be everywhere, or listen to everything and everyone, concurrently? If we were created in His image, why can't we, then, be omnipresent as well? Shouldn't we, too, possess divine powers? Where is our spark of divinity? But I can understand why this isn't plausible. Men cannot be trusted with too much power, because, as it transpires, they are inclined to abuse it. 

My questions are many. My doubts surpass my questions. I don't remember the last time I prayed or why I prayed. How does one pray anyway? Should I simply kneel and utter words? But I will be talking to the winds. Why should God listen to my pleas when the world--its "finest" creation--is engulfed in a miasma of despair? And if our destiny is controlled by an invisible string, shouldn't we then blame our actions on predestination? According to the Bible, no creature is hidden from God. God scrutinizes us like bacteria under a microscope. We are in a sense exposed and vulnerable. But if nothing escapes His eye, then He must surely see the doubts brewing in me. Right? 

During my prepubescent years, when I had set out on a journey of self-discovery, my parents would advise me to pray. Suffering from corporeal ills? Pray. Emotional dysfunctions? Pray. Trouble in school? Pray. God will help you, they said. But, if truth be told, I'm not sure I wanted to pray. I'm not sure I wanted to believe. Rather, what I wanted was reassurance, understanding, and love--all of the things which prayer failed to provide. 

The odyssey of Christianity was one of death, violence and torment. I know my Old Testament pretty well, from the Creation down to Moses. There is rape and murder in these books, deceit, incest, madness, and rivalry. The crucifixion was more or less a gruesome representation of Roman brutality. A Father who sacrificed his one and only Son on our behalf was far too extreme (albeit admirable). It displayed a love for us so great, so pure, but also deadly. The Bible tells us about a time when the wickedness of men had seeped into the crevices of earth like poison that God had no choice but to wipe out all of humanity. A catastrophic flood, he concluded, would destroy every living thing on earth. If you're unfamiliar with the story, this is the part where Noah builds an ark, fills it with two of all living creatures, and endures a flood that lasts for a period of forty days and nights. The rest is history. 

In these shadows and punishments I first encountered the primal darkness of the world. I wasn't drawn to that darkness. In fact, I was repelled by it. I didn't want any part of it. I wanted to stay as far away from it as possible, but that meant ridding myself of the book which holds the secret to eternal life--the Bible. 

The Bible and I go back a long way. It was the first book I'd ever read; the first disappointment I suffered; and my primary source of doubts. Long ago, my religion teacher advised me against taking the Bible literally. The Bible, on the whole, is laden with metaphors and symbolism, he said. I listened. On the opposing team, my parents asserted the Bible is but an accurate reflection of the creation of the world. In a sense I was being pulled in too many directions. I grew up thinking that to spurn one's religion beliefs altogether was to, ultimately, condemn oneself to eternal damnation. 

We seek religion because we're afraid of what would happen if we don't. We fear our lives would be meaningless if we suddenly stop believing. We fear the tunnel of infinity. We fear the suspension between the truthfulness of life and the nothingness of death. We want nothing more than to flee into the safety and peace of Paradise, Elysium, or Valhalla, you name it.

At this age my mind is but a congeries of questions. I have a lot of soul-searching to do before choosing a religious affiliation. And although part of me wants to devout herself to worshiping God, an even bigger part believes that, in a desolate spot in the universe, past other worlds and cosmic debris, the gods of old still exist. 

The world of Norse gods and men and giants begins with darkness, and ends with darkness. The Norse gods are mortal. Mortal gods. Just as impure, flawed, and unfit as we are. Their flaws of character--vanity, deception, unfaithfulness, pride, cruelty, adultery--proved their undoing. The gods themselves are no better or worse, in the moral sense, than humans. In the Bible, we are blamed for the darkness and everything else that came after it. But in Norse mythology, the gods are just as responsible for setting in motion the events of Ragnarök as we are.

The mortality of the gods--their hopes, fears, and weaknesses--make them all the more endearing to me; all the more beautiful. 

10 Things You Wish You Knew About Me

My circadian rhythm is not cooperating with Daylight Saving Time. This morning, as soon as my eyes flew wide open, I knew the world had been turned upside down. I glanced around my bedroom: my desk overflew with books, a shelf stared back at me, and my cat snored peacefully. Nothing seemed amiss--at least nothing of importance. I began to feel an edginess instead of the soporific calm the early morning hours seem to induce. Then it finally slapped me: I knew what was missing. It was an artifact as ancient as the universe itself, but far more precious--my jar of creativity. What I believe happened is that, before I was fully awake, during REM sleep, my right brain surrendered power to the abominable writer's block. My "active mind/relaxed body" afterglow refused to linger on. My head felt as if it was full of cotton, wrapped in gauze and under the mind control of Hypnos--if that's even possible!  

However, after an extensive period of meditation, I knew just how to remedy my "writing ills". You may be surprised, but Googling writing prompts in an effort to combat writer's block is the most time-honored panacea of all. That is until you run into another obstacle....

Selecting a writing prompt is the easy part, the hard part is yet to come. Whilst I know the gist of what I want to say, the word will not pour out. I feel as if I'm in a dark cave groping for the light switch, finding it, and feeling it disappear as soon as it makes contact with my fingers. How easy a writer's life would be if only we could pour words into a bottle, dip a brush in, and paint our innermost thoughts onto a canvas. At least then I wouldn't be struggling to form in my mind the sentences I want to write, search for the right adjectives, or finish half-formed thoughts. But I suppose a writer's tools are limited to pen and paper--or in this case monitor and keyboard.

Enough mindless chatting. Today's writing prompt is 10 things I wish people knew about me. 

Seems easy enough, right? Or maybe this is one writing assignment for which I'm particularly unqualified. 

O.K., I suppose I shall do my best. Here are 10 things you wish you knew about me but don't:

1. I'm obsessed with Greek mythology--or mythology of any kind, really. If we are not alone in the universe, then forces as powerful as God (with a capital G) must surely coexist in it. The beauty of believing is that science and magic work in tandem. Science arose from mankind's faith in magic; our curiosity to explain natural phenomena led us to create a field of knowledge far more credible than the mythical forces governing the universe. At least that's how I've come to see it.

2. Seltzer is my favorite drink. There is something about the acidic fizzle of this effervescent drink that entraps me in a cloud of euphoria.

3. I'm afraid of the dark. This is not an uncommon phobia. Mankind fears that which he cannot see. And, in the dark, nightmares come to light. Pun intended.

4. I accumulate books. I keep books I love and books I find uninteresting. If I had to estimate, I'd say I only get through one-third of a book before ransacking the bookstore for another one. 

5. I love ripped jeans. I don't like to show skin, but I do take delight in making a fashion statement. Sometimes I like to go the extra mile and cut holes in my jeans. My mother, upon seeing my newly ruined pants, simply knits her brows and sighs. Deep down, she wishes she were wearing them.

6. I have Greek ancestry. I wouldn't be surprised if I'm descended from Theseus, or Perseus, or maybe even Jason. Probably not Hercules. He did, after all, murder his wife and children.

7. I hate writing. I love having written. Writing is gruesomely difficult. It consumes who you are and what you do. And even then, I can't see myself not writing--it simply defines me. I shall let you in on a little secret: writing never ends. Whilst we live in world of words, success doesn't come overnight. One must work hard for it. Writers don't enjoy the satisfaction of retirement, because writing doesn't stop. It resembles a Ferris wheel; it spins round and round. Never stopping; always going. As Hemingway famously put it, "There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." 

8. My middle name is Maria. It's such a joy to be named after the Virgin Mary, despite my paucity of faith and unwillingness to attend Sunday Mass.

9. My dad wanted me to be called Lillian, in honor of my late grandmother. But, before any plans were set in motion, my mother decided she was going to name her last kid Gemma, after the eponymous Italian saint and Dante Alighieri's wife, Gemma. However, she added her own personal touch: my name was to be spelled with one m. I suppose she didn't imagine most people would have trouble pronouncing it.

10. I'm secretly a demigod. This isn't completely factual, but it should be. Having a powerful Olympian parent comes with a big price tag. It would make me a very high-profile target, monsters would help me along to my doom, and I would cower in fear. I must confess that, after having a steaming mug of coffee, my imagination runs wild. Let it be.

11. I know I said ten facts about me, but I'm a spirit of contradiction. It's in my nature. Also, I find candy revolting.

An Ode to Reading

"No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting." - Lady M. W. Montagu




Reading is one of the many pleasures in life that's free of charge. There is nothing better than to hunker down with a hot cup of coffee and a really great book--and I truly mean nothing. If you think you have no friends, think again. Book are your friends. A book is a friend for whose loyalty you will never have to beg--they are the best of things. Eleanor Roosevelt once said that great minds discuss idea. Well, she failed to mention that great minds also read books, and only then can they discuss great ideas. Think about it. How else can you discuss an idea unless you've read about it?

Empires have perished, races have died out, and conflict is perpetual. But books have remained a constant variable in a world where nothing is guaranteed; where the movement of plates underneath the surface of our lives threaten to shift our location in the universe.

The habit of reading lasts when all other pleasures fade. It will be present to you when your body is withering and you can no longer support yourself. It will nourish your soul even when other viands fail to nourish your body. It is an orgasmic whirl of zeal. Unparalleled, momentous, incomparable. Should I go on?

There are not sufficient words in the English language to honor the service books have done for us. Not even the nuance of the Mona Lisa can rival the beauty of reading. I'm sorry, Leonardo da Vinci.

To enter into the world of reading is to enter a world full of melodrama, fantasy, and grandiose revelations. Reading doesn't only take you on unexpected journeys; it can also stimulate you,  inspire you, nurture you, and caress you. You haven't really lived until you've read a book that you're obsessively, madly, hysterically in love with. If that's the case, then I've lived one hundred and one lives.

Reading can invigorate you, like the Fountain of Youth. It resembles a meeting with an old flame, sans the heartbreak. It is the ambrosia of the mind; the purification of the soul; the key to the expansion of the intellect; a best friend. My only friend.

I reiterate, very few pleasures in life can compete with the pleasure of reading. 

Psychic Vampires

The power of positive thinking is difficult when negativity drags you down, bursts your happy bubble, and leaves you physically drained.

We've all been exposed to malice at one time or another, and we're certainly no strangers to a bitchy person's constant whining about his life, yet doing nothing to change it. These people are often referred to as psychic vampires--or people who find pleasure in sucking the energy out of others. An encounter with a psychic vampire can leave you feeling exhausted, vulnerable, and even depressed.

Psychic vampires are leeches who slurp your life force with unparalleled relish. There is no such thing as non-intentional psychic vampires, as they are often too aware of their intentions. These people develop relationships that will give them something in return--it's often a give-and-take situation. To put it simply, their needs always come first.

An aura of negativity surrounds psychic vampires, and not even light escapes its relentless pull. Psychic vampires are more or less black holes who absorb anything and everything in their path. The old adage "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts" warns us of those with ulterior motives. Well, I say to you, "Beware of psychic vampires bearing a smile." 

It is easy to mistake psychic vampires for friends, but never let your guard down, for their veil of friendship conceals the evil behind. Beware of the wolves in sheep's clothing, for they will pounce on you when you least expect it. I can't say it's hard to identify a psychic vampire; you need only to look for the "PS" stamped on their chest. 

I must come forward and confess that I've fallen prey to a psychic vampire in the past. A few minutes of interaction with this energy-sucking predator would debilitate me and eclipse the sun in my life. In turn, I found myself suspended over a cliff. Had I let go, I would've joined the pack of vampires draining the energy of living beings. As consumers of energy rather than blood, psychic vampires, like their folklore counterparts, can infect those around them. They almost infected me. 

But when darkness and light collide, light always comes out on top. In this case, kindness not garlic can ward off a psychic vampire attack. A sign that says "Begone fiend" works, too. 

15 Quotes to Brighten your Day

Every once in a while we need a little nudge to get going and get things done. And every once in a while we need encouragement to brighten our day. Here's a list of fifteen inspirational quotes that will not only make you smile, but will also teach you that sometimes wisdom comes in all forms, even in witty remarks. 

1. "People think that I must be a very strange person. This is not correct. I have the heart of a small boy. It is in a glass jar on my desk." --Stephen King

2. "If you're going to be two-faced, at least make one of them pretty." --Marilyn Monroe

3. "A laugh is a smile that bursts." --Mary H. Waldrip

4. "What the mind can conceive, it can achieve." --Napoleon Hill

5. "Great minds discuss ideas. Average minds discuss events. Small minds discuss people." --Eleonor Roosevelt

6. "If you end up with a boring miserable life because you listened to your mom, your teacher, your priest, or some guy on television telling you how to do your shit, then you deserve it." --Frank Zappa

7. Friendship is like peeing on yourself: everyone can see it, but only you get the warm feeling that it brings." --Robert Bloch

8. "Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go." --Oscar Wilde

9. "Put your hand on a stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity." --Albert Einstein

10. "My therapist told me the way to achieve true inner peace is to finish what I start. So far I've finished two bags of M&Ms and a chocolate cake. I feel better already." --Dave Barry

11. Dogs have masters. Cats have staff."--Anonymous

13. "Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad." --Miles Kington 

14. "Going to church doesn't make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car." --Billy Sunday

15. "The world of books is the most remarkable creation of man. Nothing else that he builds ever lasts. Monuments fall; nations perish; civilizations grow old and die out; and, after an era of darkness, new races build others. But in the world of books are volumes that have seen this happen again and again, and yet live on, still young, still as fresh as the day they were written, still telling men's hearts of the hearts of men centuries dead." -- Clarence Shepard Day

10 Tips for Writers

Anxiety + Social Situations = A Nervous Teen

I hate being the center of attention. I hate finding myself amid a sea of people. When necessity arises, I endeavor to veer away from the nausea-inducing, terror-striking, blinding spotlight which seems to follow me everywhere I go. And I mean E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.

Because I'm often running away from attention, strangers strike up random conversations with me, which goes to show that, however much I hide, attention will always find me. These strangers blatantly disregard the music blaring from my iPod, and still blinded to the fact that I'm not in the mood to socialize, they infect me with good humors also. I don't mean to be rude, but random acts of socialization perforate, and infringe upon, the comfort bubble which surrounds me. I am ill at ease around strangers (people I am positively sure I will never again see in my life) and just about anyone whom I find threatening. Does that mean I'm scared of 98.99 percent of the world population? Probably.

On top of that, anxiety intensifies this fear of socialization tenfold. Put anxiety and horrible social skills side-by-side and you will have a very frightened child. I am indeed a very frightened child. Although social situations give me headaches, they're nothing compared to the early stages of anxiety. When I'm anxious, I tremble, struggle, perspire, and my heart beats quickly. Five years and about a million embarrassing situations later, my anxiety has exacerbated (if that's even possible). The symptoms seemed to have heaped one on top of another; and as if blushing and worry weren't torture enough, anxiety decided that speech was next. Social situations--which generally trigger feelings of anxiety--can send me into throes of stuttering. This is how it usually goes: I stutter, blush, embarrass myself, and replay in my head the events of the day. It's a lot worse than it sounds.

However, I'm not always a scaredy-cat. I am generally talkative and friendly around those with whom I can be myself. I must confess that they are few in number. I won't mention names, but they should know that they are the chosen ones. Very few people have managed to catch glimpses of my personality; and if you thought the Voynich manuscript is a pain to decode, I'm a hundred times more painful. I won't be decoded unless I want to be decoded. So it goes.

If there is something people shouldn't say to those who suffer from anxiety is that it's all in their head. I'm sure there wouldn't any psychologists were anxiety merely a figment of the imagination. Speaking of, I saw a therapist a few years ago. The experience was rather enjoyable--psychotherapy worked wonders for my mental health, and strangely, I found myself looking forward to the weekly sessions. Unfortunately, my therapist decided our time together was coming to an end--a psychiatrist, she said, might be more suitable. What's that even supposed to mean? That she was useless? I'll never find out.

So I'm back to square one. I haven't yet outgrown the ten-year-old child who cowers in terror at every little noise.

I should perhaps concentrate on the happy moments of my life and forget that I have anxiety. Easier said than done.

Book Hangover

I've just finished reading a book which has left me quite forlorn of purpose and as empty as a shell. I waited a year to read the fourth installment in The Heroes of Olympus series by Rick Riordan, and, to my dismay, I had to face the most dreaded moment in a bookworm's life: reading the last word.

O, how I wish I could unread the book so I could read it again. Correction: I am re-reading previous installments in the series. But that won't do--I need to know what happens next. I fear I am suffering from a book hangover--one of many, that is--and I can't shake off the feeling that I'm still living in the demigods' world.

Oh, gods, I don't think I ever left the world of Percy Jackson. Never did I think I'd be experiencing emotional trauma at the hands of a hardcover. Book hangovers don't quite measure up to post Christmas blues, no. They're worse. Imagine losing someone close to you. Do you feel grief at their departure? That's exactly what a book hangover is: literary grief.

Most people I know have read, or even heard of, Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan, but not one person has fallen in love with it to the point of obsession. Although I keep telling everyone I meet to read it, I have yet to find a suitable partner to divide the pain between us. Where's my book mate?

Below you will find a list of symptoms which indicate whether your loved one may be suffering from a book hangover:

• Restlessness
• Anxiety
• Bloodshot eyes
• Inability to concentrate
• Mistaking a stranger for a character in the book
• Excessive talking
• Roaming bookstores till closing time
• Carrying a book you finished reading weeks ago

What to do if you feel you have book hangover:

1. Stay calm
2. Read other books written by the same author
3. Listen to music
4. Write your feelings down

What to do if you're not ready to move on:

1. Catch up on sleep
2. Watch a movie
3. Give yourself a 24-hour breathing period to contemplate the beauty of exchanging your social life for five minutes with your favorite characters
4. Drink seltzer (this usually helps me)

Should the symptoms persist, consult your local bookstore immediately!

The Disease of Writing

If I didn't like, nay love, writing so much, I would've left it eons ago. But I can't. Writing is an old flame whose long-lasting effects have not yet abated. I must confess that it's always on my mind, and when it's not, well, you'd know there's something wrong with me. When I tell people I like writing, they don't ask me how often I write. Quite frankly, I don't write as often as I would like to, and it's torture.

As Pierre Abelard famously put it, "Against the disease of writing one must take special precautions, since it is a dangerous and contagious disease." If this is the case, then the writing cancer has metastasized to others part of my body. I'm doomed. There is no panaceas for the disease of writing. Oh, well. What else is there to say? Farewell, cruel world? I'm succumbing to my fate.

Oh, My Gods

Have you ever been homesick for a place you've never been to? Or for a time long past? I have. The word that comes close to describing this sentiment is hiraeth. It is a Welsh word with no direct English translation that defines homesickness for home. But I am home--at least I believe I am. But then how do I explain this inexplicable pull toward Ancient Greece?

This longing began a few years ago, when I took a sudden interest in Greek mythology. I remember I was determined to immerse myself in the world of gods, monsters, and heroes. I was enchanted by the courage of heroes and impressed by the power of the gods. I was overwhelmed; I couldn't get enough. I bought books on Greek mythology, learned about ancient Greece, and wondered if these characters had been real. I was convinced that they were real or how else could we explain the wealth of myths revolving around them?

Dionysus, the god of wine.

My dad told me his grandfather (my great-grandfather) was Greek. I didn't think much of it at the time, and my dad didn't bother to disclose any more information. I just knew that my great-grandfather was an absent figure in my grandmother's life. Regardless of his role in our lives, I still have Greek blood coursing through my veins and that's enough to arouse my imagination.

I sometimes wonder if I was born in the wrong century, or if I belong in the modern world. The condition of our world is deteriorating rapidly.The universe has seen better days, more prosperous centuries, and kinder hearts.

I'm dissatisfied with the state of this century, and maybe, just maybe, I want to run into the safety of the ancient lands. The ancient days were not any safer, no, but they were awe-inspiring. In the ancient days, people worshiped the gods they thought would bring blessing into their lives--the gods who commanded the fate of mankind. But they not only worshiped the Olympians, they also paid homage to Nature. This seems to be lacking these days.

We can heal, but Nature can't. Now we worship a false god who has hypnotized us with its many built-in features and apps--the iPhone. There is no falser god than the iPhone. We don't look up anymore, because we're always looking down. Were the gods real, they would be incensed at humankind's attitude of irreverence toward that which is sacred .

People little imagine that the gods are everywhere, but the truth may shock them.

We don't realize that we see Aphrodite in the eyes of lovers. Or that we hear Poseidon swimming in the deep ocean. Or that we amaze, and even cringe, at Zeus' thunderbolt performance. Or that we witness Helios driving the chariot of the sun across the sky each day. We even admire the beauty of Selene in the moon. When we pay homage to the dead we also pay homage to Hades. When we pray for a good harvest Demeter answers our prayers. Prometheus defied the gods and gave us the fire which we so often take for granted. We turn to Athena for wisdom and knowledge. We fear the presence of Ares in war zones. We plea to the Queen of Heaven for assistance. But most importantly, we seek nourishment in Gaia--our Mother Nature.

Myths are man's attempt to explain phenomena and the whole range of human feelings, and once you know mythology, you see it everywhere.

A Writer's Torture

I did what most writers do at some point in their lives: I deleted my work.

I was not satisfied with what I'd written and deleting it was the only way to alleviate my frustrations. I'd put energy, which I did not have, into a post I was planning to publish, but my obsession for perfection halted me to a stop. I did not publish it because it was not perfect. Or interesting. Or funny. Or intriguing. You name it.

It was insipid and dull, passionless and unrealistic, but it was mine. It might not have been perfect, but I worked hard to bring an idea to life. I carried it and birthed it, but my own insecurities prevented me from raising it.

This is the hardest and most painful part of being a perfectionist: nothing is good enough. I'm guilty of exerting unnecessary pressure on myself only to decide later I need more. O, but, wait, if our inability to reach perfection is painful for a writer, torture is deleting our words, sending them back into uncharted territory, telling them they're not important enough to be read, and dismissing hours of arduous work as useless. Yes, that is pretty painful. 

The relationship between writing and perfectionism is analogous to that of torture and death. My writing contains an infinitesimal piece of my soul--an aspect of my psyche unseen by the naked eye but present among words--and when perfectionism relegates my work to a nonexistent realm, that part of my soul is forever lost in the void of space, drowned in the River Styx, along with hope, inspiration, and countless dreams.

I am the main course at a dinner party hosted by my own insecurities. I am seasoned with doubt, frustration, and failure, and then torn apart limb by limb. My screams echo through time and space and reach the bottomless pit where noise is consumed by silence, where cold extinguishes fire, and where death overtakes life.

Am I getting too dramatic? Yes? Just a little? Agreed. You get the idea (I hope).

Cat Charmed

I am alarmingly in love with my cats. I don't mean the "butterflies-in-your-stomach-as-your-crush-approaches" love. I'm talking about the "I-want-to-squeeze-all-furry-things" love. I'm on the way to becoming a spinster whose only companionship comes in the form of cats. No, not really.

I don't know what is it about cats that's hurled me into a tunnel of obsession. I wonder if they have the ability to release chemicals that make humans fall in love with them. Maybe so.

You know how good girls like bad boys? Well, humans like cats. Cats are the bad boys every human dreams of. They are assholes, narcissistic, vain, egocentric, and just about every other adjective that describes one's own sense of importance. Welcome to the world of cats where you're nothing more than a large, non-hostile cat whose only purpose is to feed and pet the smaller, hostile cat.

My cats entered my life eight years ago; I haven't been the same since. The last traces of my former self have been washed away like a mound in the sand. I share in the pain of other cat owners, for our world revolves around the well-being of our cats. I don't exist anymore. I'm not real. My cats have cast a spell on me and I've no mind of my own. I'm captivated by their feline charm and always will be.

Each time they meow, purr, or knead a little part of me devotes itself to ensuring their safety and happiness. My cats "charm-meowed" me and I became their little minion. Ugh!

Dogs aren't nearly as interesting. Sorry.

Literary Coffee

What Happens After Your Money Has Been Stolen

Money is the gravitational force around which civilization revolves. It is a rather shallow yet indisputable truth--one which has driven our kind to commit acts of infidelity, dishonesty, and theft.

I must clarify that I'm not a money-hungry person (maybe just a little) and in the distant vision I've constructed of my future, money is a necessity but not an incentive. But how do you react when your hard-earned money is stolen under you nose?

Mistake the first: This isn't the first time I lose money (I am known for being rather neglectful of valuable objects), but this is the first I've had money stolen. It wasn't a disgustingly large amount, but it was money nonetheless. The theft took place on a cold, snowy Tuesday between the hours of 11:30 a.m. and 12 p.m. (if I'm not mistaken). I remember that earlier that morning I'd carelessly put a $20 bill in my coat pocket, hoping to buy a new novel and trusting that my personal belongings were out of thieves' way. Let's just say that I've learned to put a daily limit on assumptions. Upon arriving to the library, I placed my coat on a wooden desk--its usual spot--and made my way to the bathroom (a routine which I've religiously followed since freshman year). It never even crossed my mind that thieves were lurking in the light of day. It is also worth noting that as I headed over to the cafeteria around 11:30 a.m. the money was still in my possession--oblivious to its future abduction and unknown fate--which leads me to conclude that the crime transpired a few minutes before 12:15 p.m. (the time around which I discovered I was penniless).

Mistake the second: Who is careless enough to leave their personal belongings unattended? I am, apparently. I knew I should have hidden my money someplace safe, namely my backpack--or the safest place after a coat. I admit to being too trusting. I have fostered a blind trust in my generation and I wouldn't expect the people with whom I've gone to school to be juvenile delinquents. They've proved me wrong.

Mistake the third: I shouldn't be trusted with money, because, as noted in the aforementioned statement, I am neglectful of it. What, do I think money grows on trees? Um...well, yes. Do I think it's easy to acquire a ridiculously large amount of money? Only if it's Christmas. Nevertheless, I am unfit to manage finances of any kind, especially mine. Hence the stolen money. 

Mistake the fourth: I wasn't planning to spend money today. O, how stupid I am. If I knew I didn't want to go on a spending spree, how do I explain the cash reserve in my possession? In my defense, the flesh is weak around money. 

Mistake the fifth: Don't order coffee unless you're absolutely sure that your money hasn't been stolen. This is pretty self-explanatory. I ordered a latte from a little pastry shop only to find out that I'd had my money stolen. Luckily, the cashier took pity on me and didn't stage a public humiliation starring yours truly. The fact that I paid half of what it cost didn't stop the blood from rising to my cheeks. And had fury not clouded my vision, I would have died of embarrassment.

I am angry and I only have myself to blame. I am careless. Negligent. Irresponsible. Trusting. And absentminded. I save money because I like to buy things I don't need. But on this occasion the gods decided to play a prank on me: I saved $20 only to have someone else enjoy it (very funny). I bet twenty dollars that whoever took my money bought him/herself a pack of Marlboro. 

These kids will do anything to feed their addictions.