home is a vacuum

Home sucks like a Hoover vacuum cleaner.

 

I can’t breathe here.

Like literally… I can’t.

I think I might have bronchitis. That might just explain a lot of things.

That might explain
not being able to sing for the past three weeks or so,
not being able to sleep on my back without choking,
not being able to talk

to them,

makes me feel far away and distant

in outer space,

just floating

with bad communication and hairline fractures

gasping for air.

 

I don’t know.

Just my best guess,
which is the best I ever get
nowadays.

 

just keep swimming – a journal excerpt

Grief sometimes comes in waves,
and today was the high tide.

Day by day, I feel its ebb and flow, oscillating like the tide.

Some days, it is calm and still enough, I can see my own reflection on the surface. Other days, I wake up with the water up to my neck and the sadness gnawing at my insides.

Man was never meant to swim the ocean. Man was never meant to say goodbye.

Yet we swim,
our hearts at the mercy of the seas.

I first felt it come when I was walking down College on my morning meanderings after breakfast. It came up on me by surprise and one of the first thoughts I had – as if bred from instinct – was,

“What did I do wrong?”

As if I made a mistake by being sad.
As if I was responsible for the waves.

Remember it is the ocean you are swimming in,
Remember your helplessness in the seas,

and remember, you have a rescuer.

Some days, the high tide will come and you will have to swim for your life.

And when it does, always remember –

“It is not your fault.”

 

gorgeous white couples

that one time i was almost cool

I am coming back to this coffeeshop.

I just spent an afternoon working on a track for a beat tape that I’m putting out in November. It’s called Innamission, and it’s kind of a big deal.

Not that it’s super good or anything, but I’ve never done anything like this before. Half the time, I don’t know what I’m doing, which is kind of a fantastic and terrifying feeling.

The barista mixes my drink,
I mix my drum samples,

– two artists, busy refining their respective crafts.

Half an hour passes, and he walks over to me.
“Hey man, I got a question for you.”

I pull out my earphones.
“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Do you make music?”

“Yes.. *ahem*, yes I do!”

I quickly fix my hair. And my posture.

“Nice, what type of music do you make?”

“So I’m really into hip hop and R&B – I’m making a beat tape right now.”

Whoa. I get to say that.

“Oh nice, man. That’s sick. Can I hear some of it?”

Mom’s spaghetti.

“Err yeah uhm sure! I’m not really done with this track yet so I’m not sure if it sounds good yet… Wanna listen?”

“Sure!”

I hand him the headphones quickly, attempting to hide my palms sweaty. Haven’t been this nervous since I don’t know.

I can’t hear what he’s hearing, but enough hours of staring at the same MIDI drum patterns, I know when the beat drops, just by looking at the tiny grids and colored blocks.

And when it does, I catch him nodding silently, at 86 BPM, in the corner of my peripherals.

“This is dope. I can totally hear this on SoundCloud.”

HELL YEAH IT IS, I scream out loud, my voice echoing off the cement walls of the coffeeshop.

“Thanks, man”, I respond timidly, way too quiet for him to hear through the earphones.

We small talk for a few minutes. The whole time, alls I’m thinking is,
plug the beat tape. Just plug it, dude.

But in walks a young and hip-looking, gorgeous white couple and I lose my chance.

“Gimme a minute, gotta take care of these guys.”

That’s okay. He’ll come back, and when he does, I’ll plug my beat tape. Maybe I’ll even plug my SoundCloud, I think to myself, ignoring the fact that there are only two songs on there, neither of which are very impressive.

Only he doesn’t come back. But more customers do come in. More gorgeous, hip, white couples.

His shift ends 20 minutes later, and so does my short-lived moment of almost-coolness.

“Nice talking with you, man. Hope to see you back here some time.”

I pound his fist.

Oh you will, barista friend. You will.

 

looking for Job

a journal excerpt

You know what I’m feeling right now?

I feel like there were a lot of things that didn’t have to happen this summer.

Things that caused unnecessary emotional stress and needless pain,
Things awfully timed,
Things unfolding in the worst way possible,
Things beyond my control that I could not prevent,
Things that no matter how much I prayed against,

still happened.

None of this had to be this way.
But they are now. And I got hurt.

You know what I’m feeling right now?
I feel like all those things that happened, You could have stopped,
but You chose not to.

That perhaps, the demons are out to get me
and You’re letting them.

Because maybe, they have this idea that if You let them torment me, I will fall out of love with You. So they go after what I treasure the most.

My dreams. The magic. The wonder.

Disenchant the Kid.

And maybe,

You have this idea

that they are wrong.

 

#Jobsearch

porta-potty peeple

There once was a society of people who carried porta-potties with them everywhere they went.

It was the emblem of their culture.
Everyone owned one and from the day you knew how to stand, you had your very own porta-potty. While most future to-be parents shopped for their to-be child’s dolls and toys, this peculiar people group shopped for porta-potties.

As their culture shifted with the times, so would their porta-potties. Depending on what was trending at the time, their porta-potties would reflect that in their design.

Some years, there were burgundy porta-potties. Other years, there were lavender ones. Some had door knobs, assuming its owner had the means to afford such a pretentious and pompous status symbol. Common folk just had door latches.

In recent decades, porta-potties with straps became the universally accepted norm. Roller potties were frowned upon.

They customized the potties with lightweight material so that the heaviest thing they had to carry was their own shit.

Contrary to poopular belief, the Porta-Potty Peeple were a clean and hygienic society. Developments in porta-potty tech allowed them to build air-tight compartments that sealed shut so that the stench would not soil their breathing air.

Despite being a heavily communal culture, those of the porta-potty society were a quiet, hush-hush bunch. They mostly kept to themselves and had few words to say, if any.

If they were so bold to throw a social gathering, or a potty party, they stood at least four feet apart from each other, as to respect each other’s personal space. Even in conversation, they made sure to not cross the sacred four-feet radius and disturb their neighbor’s pee’s.

The Porta-Potty Peeple were great listeners. Mostly because they did not talk much. A conversation usually involved standing next to one other, looking intently into each other’s eyes, nodding quickly, and delivering a brief series of mumbles and grunts. Only if it were absolutely necessary would they use words.

No one could quite grasp the Porta-Potty Peeple.
No one understood why they would pooposefully choose the portable pooping experience when the luxury of modern-day plumbing was so readily available.

And though no one said it aloud, everyone had the same question blaring in their minds.

Where did the poop go?

Surely, it had to go somewhere. Right?
Surely, the poop reservoirs of their potties had to fill up and some point. Surely, they had to poop. Surely… they had to have buttholes..

…Right??

One day, the world discovered that it was not just their potty that was portable, but their lifestyles. They packed their things and politely made their unannounced exodus from our lives, never to be seen again.

They left most of their things in their houses, for they did not need much. Only their precious porta-potties.

They were last seen trudging quietly off into the horizon with their porta-potties strapped to their finely-toned backs.

The world watched in semi-stupor as the Porta-Potty People made their muffled and modest voyage to their next temporary destination, with four feet of spacing between each of them.

And just like that, they were gone.

Normal life resumed the next day.

No one said it out loud but none could shake the feeling that something was just a little… vacant.

No one outright admitted it but none could deny that a part of them missed the Porta-Potty Peeple. That despite their pooculiarities, it was nice having them around.

Pee’s be with you.

divine love affair

January 17th, 2017 –––––

She is like… like white, fluffy sea foam rushing through sandy toes. She is like salty mist blowing through my ocean-blue hair. Like the shifting texture of windblown sandscapes. She is almost hypnotic, like the waves. I wave back.

Like the upside-down world as I lay on a fresh pillow of grass in the middle of somewhere. She is like the auburn glow of fallen leaves, the perfect accent to green pastures. She is like the sway of the trees. She likes to speak to me with the sway.

She is somewhere in the wind. Gentle like a woman’s touch, powerful like a woman’s heart. She is.. somewhere in there.

She is like soft skin.
She is the perfect season.

She is the most caring and gentle person I know. Just her presence makes me feel warm. Like every hour is golden hour. She is like the perfect nudge or squeeze on the shoulder.

She is the best of storytellers.

She looks deep into my eyes and finds a lost child, lost in the playground of his dreams. She drops the world for the child and dives into his dreams. Not to pull him out, but to play with him. I tell her, “Wait! Just a little while longer”, and she waits. She tends my cuts and bruises, just by listening to me.

She looks deep into my eyes and finds a lost child and says, “I believe in you.”

She is the best of storytellers.

Her eyes. Oh man, her eyes.

Something about her gaze pierces me, through my burning tears, through my dark, fathomless eyes, through my soul. Her eyes possess magical powers. They make me feel known and understood completely. It is almost too intimate. Makes me feel like the most important person in the universe.

She looks at me tenderly. And somehow, my world slows to a standstill and I can see the stars.

Yet even these eyes do shed tears.

Wait. Just a little while longer. And she waits. No matter how big or small the wound. We sing the same song of heartbreak together – she seems to know exactly when to sing alto harmony, when to sing in unison.

She looks at me tenderly.

She is slow-burning blue fire.
Like me. We join hands and dance like the flames.

She is affectionate, yet empowering. Her heart is more delicate than mine, yet it burns with fiery passion. She is vulnerable, yet unbreakable.

January 22nd, 2017 –––––

We were this close, looking straight into each other. Our mouths slightly buried in our crossed arms so we smiled with our eyes.

She was beautiful. I knew her eyes could see right through me. All we did was look at each other but we felt alive. This moment was exactly when we needed to be, where we needed to be. Everything else faded to the blurry margins of our peripherals.

Sometimes, romance is this game you invent on the spot while you play it. And somehow, she just knows what the rules are.

I took a deep breath, opened my mouth a hint, and slowly blew into her face. I didn’t think she could get any prettier. Her bangs were gently pushed aside as my breath softly caressed her forehead. I thought it was cute the way she squinted.

Her turn.

She drew her own breath and blew. It was a long one, putting mine to shame. It rushed through my head and through my hair, soothing my mind and massaging my soul. My head felt clear and crisp, the way the wind is on a brisk winter morning.

We went back and forth, taking turns blowing, playing this arbitrary game meant only for fools, only for lovers.

Only for us.

January 17th, 2017 –––––

“Who is your God? What does He mean to you?
What does He look like? What does He wear? What does He smell like? Who is God to you?”

“Who is my God? My God is…

Well, He is a woman.”

long-distance | prompted 1

The following piece is a response to prompt 1 of the Raconteurs, a storyteller’s collective I recently kickstarted with some of my friends and fellow bloggers. Check us ooouutttt: raconteurcollective.com.

Dear _______,

Hello friend. Not too long ago, I would have never thought of writing this letter to you. I think I had nightmares of that sort of thing. The world has not been too kind to me recently and lots of things in my life have changed. But it seems things have changed for you as well. So here we are, I guess.

Sometimes, I can’t help but to feel like our friendship is on a timer. If we know we will have to say goodbye for good, is it even worth saying hello? If I know I’m going to lose you, is it worth giving into our friendship? Maybe we can evade the heartache. Or at least cushion ourselves from it.

I know, it sounds silly. But you know I have a soft spot for goodbyes. I never know whether it’s better to peel off the bandaid nice and slowly or to just rip it off in one fell swoop.

I guess it doesn’t matter anymore when your friend chooses for you.

When you get about halfway through the slow-peel, you kinda wish you just ripped it off. Like, just pull the damn thing off already.

It’s weird. You’re still here, but you’re not really here. I’m still here but you said goodbye already. Hello? I’m still here. You’re still here but I already miss you. We’re both still here but our relationship is emotionally long-distance.

You probably already know this but I’m learning that just because we don’t talk anymore doesn’t mean we’re not friends. I’m trying to tell myself that more and more. Really, I am. But you know how it is. I’m a slow learner.

I’m beginning to think that this timer isn’t so much for our friendship as it is for myself to learn these things.

So I guess I should thank you? For letting me… erm.. “practice”. So it won’t be so heavy later. One less farewell to lament when summer comes.

Maybe by the time this gets to you, I’ll realize that I shouldn’t have ever sent this to you. Maybe I’ll be proven wrong. Maybe we’ll be friends again. Like, the type that talks to each other. Then you’ll read this letter anyways and things will get a little awkward but it will be okay. Because this isn’t the first time I’ve wanted to send this letter. Because we’ve done this before and we can do it again.

And maybe it won’t work out. Maybe we won’t be that type of friends but I’ll learn to be okay with it. I’ll have to. Timer’s ticking.

You have a beautiful soul – I’ve never seen one quite like it. I’m really going to miss you. I already do.

Take care, yeah? We probably won’t see each other anytime soon but maybe I’ll catch you in my dreams.

Thanks for the memories.

Love,
Justin

deep space – journal snippets

This past year, I started journaling differently. Less bullet pointy. More fluid. Less note-taking, more storytelling. Aside from the fact that it makes the task of reflection way more exciting, I’ve come to see that God is much like a storyteller Himself.

As the semester comes to its close, I get to indulge in my favorite part: re-reading everything I’ve written. The adventures. The movie scenes. The poetry. I decided to transcribe some excerpts and quotes from my journal and compile them into a timeline of sorts. Just as a fun experiment. Enjoy!(?)

 

“Blood. Sweat. Tears.
All fine choices for ink in a time like this.” – the last entry [December 19th, 2016]

August 22nd, 2016 [Day One of school] – I didn’t know I could turn into a robot

“When the pace of life is too fast for the soul to keep up, it rips out through its fleshly cage, leaving the body soul-less, life-less, color-less. Cold like metal. I can smell the rust. […] Is it happening again? Are the darkest chapters of my story repeating themselves? Am I facing my biggest fears once again? Jesus, I’m scared. I feel alone.”

August 24th, 2016 – Midweek Nothingness

“But then again, no matter how long you stay in Thailand, your body never really gets used to the humidity. I pray the same over my soul, lest it gets used to feeling pain.”

September 4th, 2016 – the wind blows eastward

“My body has lost too much blood. Each day, I wake up with soreness and exhaustion weighing on my body. The phone has been charging all night and by dawn, it is still at 11%. Did I even sleep? But it doesn’t matter. The relentless tempo of time stops for none. […]

I’m sick and tired of being tired. I’m tired of fighting pain.”

September 5th, 2016 – “fight fire with fire” published on the reverie.

“I’m dyin’ out here, Jesus. And I’m tired of it. Was this not my prayer in Thailand?”

September 6th, 2016 – In the Mourning, When I Fall…

“The lament has begun. […]

Why am I running? Because I’m scared. That no one will get it. […]

The Lord rests in the shadow of the moon.

‘Your pain is all you’ve ever known.'”

September 12th, 2016 – “grip strength” published on the reverie.

September 18th, 2016 – Oh look, nothing

“I’m still nervous to draw near to Jesus because recently, I’ve associated that with pain. It’s like hanging with a surgeon. Damn.”

September 21st, 2016 – pockets of Joy

“Go play, Justin. That is your mission. That is why I created you… I want to show you how to fly.”

September 25th, 2016 – Just tryna savor this, but everything’s flavorless…

“I think my soul’s nerves are in shock… In a similar fashion to how my leg’s nerves were shot after the centipede bit me. My bruise felt numb for a good month or so afterwards. Damn centipede.

The things that usually give me life and joy don’t do quite the same anymore…

Damn. Who am I?”

October 2nd, 2016 – “stone the prophet” published on the reverie.

October 2nd, 2016 – “pain, revisited…”

“Yet an invitation was extended to me to make their pain, my pain. Will you take it? […]

If not now, then never. And so I dive in. My nerves re-awaken from their slumber of numbness and welcome the sting and rush of fiery pain.

It is almost ‘refreshing’ to feel something, even pain, after your nerves have been shut off and in shock for so long.”

October 5th, 2016 – so WHAT THE FUCK HAPPEN

“I fell into a whirlpool monday night. […]

I am alone. No one is here for me. They’re busy. It’s late. They’re tired. It’s so draining to go to them. It won’t help. I’m by myself. I am alone. Lonely. All alone.

Jesus, where are You??  …Hello? God, it hurts. I don’t know what’s happening. I cannot hear you. Please help me. Rescue me.

No answer.”

October 8th, 2016 – “the crescent’s edge” published on the reverie.

October 9th, 2016 – Storms coming…

“The force of the gravity was so powerful and overwhelming… I could not escape from it. I just got sucked into its gravitational pull and it was over at that point. No matter how hard I tried, I could not escape.

Space travel is an incredible thing but doing it alone can be terrifying at times.”

October 17th, 2016 – so that was my last FallCon… I guess??

“I don’t understand. Did I do something wrong? […]

I return home with no story to tell. not even kayaking. […]

I’m getting more sad, more often. Episodes upon episodes like a netflix binge.

I need a fucking massage. and alcohol.”

October 18th, 2016 – [untitled]

“Hi. I really need more of you in my life. I’m navigating through a thick jungle of black holes. If I am not careful, I might step on a trap. […]

When I go to bed each night, the world becomes still enough for me to feel everything again, especially the things that hurt.”

October 19th, 2016 – “the return” published on the reverie.

October 21st, 2016 – MORE STINKY SHITS, YAY

“I have nothing. everything in my life is falling apart.”

October 23rd, 2016 – Week of Stinky Shits

“He listens to me, absorbs and feels everything that I feel. Com Paseo.

He looks at me tenderly.

He wants to take it all in. The pain I feel. He wants to receive it and hold it with me, for me.

He looks at me tenderly.

He is so so in love with me. He is mad for me. He is eager and always waiting to talk with me.

He looks at me tenderly.

His gentleness, His listening heart, His deep care disarms me. I surrender.

He looks at me tenderly.

October 30th, 2016 – ⌘Q

“I feel like there’s no one person that I can fully depend on. I want there to be a friend who can always be there for me, all through the day. Through the depressing waking moments, through the anti-social meal times in the dining hall, through the daydreams while I sit inattentively during lectures, through the YouTube binges, through the moments in the middle of the week when there’s nothing I want more than to fly kites at the beach, through the times of stillness when I stare off into blank space, through the nights when the loneliness is unbearable, through the pain, through the wonder.

Who will slow down their lives from the busyness of the world? Who will press pause the mad game we call life? Who will care enough to have their days be interrupted and stopped? Who will slow down for me?

Only they will find the Kid.

Jesus: I wanna be that person for you. Will you let me?”

October 31, 2016 – Today, I let go of the rose

“The petals lay wrinkled and dampened, pigmented by beauty and bloodstains. I don’t even know what my fingerprints look like anymore.”

November 1st, 2016 – “bare minimum” published on the reverie.

November 7th, 2016 – Day of Adventure

“Treasures everywhere. Today was a gift. One of my favorite days in this semester, hands down.

I got back home and almost instantly found myself driving into a black hole.

Oh SHIT. what’s happening. the pain. grounding. how do i do this thing. don’t get sucked in. external world. where am i. what are your surroundings. describe it to me.

breathe.

oh god.”

November 9th, 2016 – OH GOD. SARAH SAID A LOT OF THINGS.

“Will people have the time for me? Will people have the patience for me? Will people want to sit with me?

Jesus: I will. I have all the time in the universe and I will lavishly spend it all on you. I wanna be your best friend.”

November 13th, 2016 – turning point?

“We love moments of nonetheless. We like big buts. […]

Sometimes, we don’t want to hear nonetheless… Sometimes, it just sucks. […]

Trapped in the limbo of hating where I am, yet immobilized by the pain and unable to move forward.

Sometimes, pain is inconsolable.”

November 15th, 2016 – “homesickness” published on the reverie.

“I can’t stand being apart from them. I just want to be with them. That’s all I really want.

Old friends. New friends.”

November 22nd, 2016 – a respite for the soul

“Man. I don’t wanna be sad anymore.”

November 23rd, 2016 – “homelessness” published on the reverie.

November 25th, 2016 – black friday 2016

“thursday was already black. […]

is emptiness better than pain? i don’t know. idk if one is inherently better than the other but in a time like this, i need a break. my soul is tired. i need rest.

and if nothingness will give me that rest, i’ll take it.”

December 4th, 2016 – New Wineskins

“He cries. We both close our eyes.
The God that wants to be my friend, He is a little something like this. Gentle. Tender. Soothing. Affectionate.”

December 6th, 2016 – “writer’s block” published on the reverie.

December 11th, 2016 – of finish lines and end times

“‘blisters on my feet, i crawl back home / frozen from the sleet burned sand and stones / nourished back to life by life alone / with one shake of the mane, regain the throne’ – Matt Thiessen […]

Seems like I’m always off-time. Bad timing. I experience time differently than most people. Never really recovered from jetlag or something. […]

Fill me, Jesus.
Come and show me that you’re everything I’ve ever wanted and some.”

December 13th, 2016 – “metamorphosis” published on the reverie.

December 19th, 2016 – so that just happened

“‘I did it. It’s over at last.’ –text message to Paul [thursday dec 15, 2016, 3:54PM]

I cried on the bus ride home.
With my forehead pressed against the icy window, I watched two streams racing across the glass, one of winter rain, one of warm tears.

I pulled off my helmet. I can breathe. My soul heaved a heavy sigh, expanding far wider than my lungs ever could. […]

A forest of black holes.
Kid Wonder’s most dangerous mission yet.

No man has ever ventured this far into the cosmos. And I’m confident that no man ever will.

This deep into space, man can only dream of traveling to. Many may seek, but only few will find.

Only children.”

metamorphosis – a reflection on my last Fall Semester

“Who am I?”

The loudest question echoing in my mind of late – the tension of my heart. A fun question when you know the answers, a haunting one when you don’t.

I wonder if caterpillars have midlife, existential crises like humans do.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and not recognized the person standing in it? Has even your own reflection become a stranger?

It is so routine, so habitual, that we overlook the slightest of changes in appearance. The nuances in color. The subtlety of texture. We glance over the minutia of change.

One day, it hits us. We stop in our tracks, frozen by unfamiliarity and cold air.

There is a change in the wind. The canvas of the woods shine a different hue. It seems so sudden that the leaves put on their yearly red-ish, golden outfit. Without invitation.

For us Southern Californians, we are reminded that Autumn is a thing. A sigh of relief. We sigh again because we can see it in the air for once.

This past semester was a season of shedding leaves.

I have occasionally toyed the thought of plants being able to feel pain and emotions. You know, human things and such. If they could, I think I now have an idea of how shitty of a time of year Autumn and Winter must be for them.

It is a time of death and release. It is a time of amputation. Imagine having to amputate your body parts a couple times a day for a few months. Imagine doing it every year, like some twisted family tradition. SoCal has it good.

It is time of acknowledging the outlets and instruments we use to receive sustenance and life from the world around us, only to saw them off.

It is a time in which we must face the reality that our leaves do not work anymore. No matter how hard we try to cling onto them, they will eventually fail us and leave us as unsatisfied and lifeless as they are. They will brown and die. And we will have to let them go. We will watch little children play with them and trample on them with their size-three rain boots.

Maybe it would be better if trees didn’t feel things.
Maybe I should just be a plant.

The recent months of my life have been bitterly cold. I have watched, often in horror, my leaves slowly change color, wither, and die. They’re not working anymore. It seemed like every week brought a harsh gust that would blow through my branches. My leaves – the things and people I depended on for love – would be lost in the wind.

I have been stripped bare. I’m almost naked, save a couple leaves. Wintertime is here and it’s not as holly jolly as I remember it to be.

To confront the truth that the devices we depend on for love no longer serve us anymore is terrifying, to say the least. Those places are now off the map. A coffee smudge. Be it money, status, family, significant others, self-image, knowledge, busyness, or what have you, our fears are eventually realized when we discover that those things will never quench our thirst.

For me, it was friendship.

I have wanted to run away countless times this semester. I don’t know where, but just far away. I didn’t want to face the reality that my friends could not love me in the way they have so faithfully in the past. I was afraid no one could ever understand me anymore. And the people who could were not there. I didn’t want to confront the prospect that I just might be as alone as my fears told me I was.

When the memories you’ve tried your hardest to bury begin to surface, you run. The places we run to may differ but we all run somewhere. Human nature, I suspect.

Who am I?

When your soul is being tortured, you start to see parts of yourself that you didn’t think could live inside of you.

Amidst the darkness of loneliness and depression, I must confess there is still something strangely beautiful in death. In seeing the autumn leaves adorn our city walkways like ornaments. In the crisp, icy winter wind. In the letting go.

Even as I release the thorny rose from my grip, I see beauty and bloodstains. I can’t always tell which is which but there is something oddly remarkable in that.

There is pain, there is promise. There is heartbreak, there is hope.

Jesus once met a woman who was thirsty for relationship, a little like how I am myself. He invited her into a season of Autumn. Her leaves happened to be lovers.

“Give me this living water you speak of”, she begged Jesus, her desperation now more real than ever.

To which He responded, “Then give me your thirst.”

Here’s to new wineskins, autumn leaves, and hungry caterpillars.

Here’s to springtime.

bare minimum

Part-time student. What time does class start again? Do I even want to go to class?  Your Krispy Kreme donuts got nothing on my glazed eyes. Like, look through the glass because they’re supposed to be windows right? I don’t know. I’m there but the professor still notices my absence. So much for perfect attendance. She moves closer to me and tries to get my attention, channeling her lecture entirely in my direction. She thinks I’m suspect. Great. This again. I’m kind of skimming the textbook, I suppose. I am only enrolled in two classes. Just gotta go to school twice a week. I can do this. Wait. I don’t even know anymore. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

I swear I’m not voting for Trump but.. we all build walls, right? My bricks just tend to be invisible. I build them up and tear them back down, like Lego blocks. What am I doing. Where are my friends? Do I have any friends? Of course I do. Get away from me. What am I doing. I should at least show up. Or text you. Pray for you? Mm… Hang out. You know. Friend things. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

At least I did it, right? People showed up. I made it happen. Check. Rinse and repeat. But what about praying for them? Do I even vision for them? What does God want to do in their lives? What about the friendship outside of a structured meeting? It’s okay, at least we got the job done, right? Wait. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

Oops. I’m so sorry. This isn’t relationship, this is damage control. Maybe if we buy more buckets, the leak will stop. “I’m sorry”. I’m hurting you. I just need to try harder because you’re doing a stellar job so it’s on me. Wait. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

Shut up, damn phone. Waking up is perhaps the biggest victory of the day because it is the first. Some days, I don’t want to. I pull my covers over my head in an attempt to pretend that it is still nighttime. The light of a new day doesn’t have quite the same effect anymore. My body aches but my soul aches more. Maybe I can go back into that dream. Maybe I can… No. I need to get up. Just gotta roll out of bed. Roll back into life. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

Holy shit. We did it. It’s meal time. “Gin Kao!“, I hear him grumble. We scooch our butts a couple feet to the left into the kitchen, grab our charcoal-stained bowls, swat away the flies still feeding on the grub stuck to our dirty utensils from breakfast, and scooch back into the dining room. As he takes the first bite, we hastily mutter a quick prayer under our breaths before joining him. Alright. We just gotta get through dinner. Heavy breathing. We’re in a minefield. One wrong move. I’m already on his bad side. Eat faster. But wait, what about learning how to love him? What about sharing life with him? Asking him how his day was? I don’t even know anymore. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

Oh my god. Damn roosters won’t shut up. Please. It’s still dark outside. You have ONE JOB. No, no please, not the radio… My body aches as I roll around in an attempt to find a slightly less painful position on my concrete mattress. My forearm feels like a research paper written in braille. How. How did they get inside our mosquito net again? Did I even sleep? I don’t want to get up. Another day of suffering. Days are longer here. Maybe it’s the gravity. Okay, just gotta get through breakfast. Just four more days until Sabbath. Can I even make it?

Bare minimum.

Okay, just a few more hours until nighttime and I’ll be able to take refuge in my room. Maybe if I just sit in that corner of the dining hall, no one will notice me. Make sure to face that way. Hmm, if I watch three 45-minute episodes, I’ll make it through the evening and I can go to bed right after. Two more days until the weekend. Can I even do that?

Bare minimum.

Life. What are its prerequisites? Maybe if I can just get a C.
How many more days? Months? Years? How much more death before new life? How little manna do I need to pack to survive another day in the wilderness?

Bare minimum.

 

 

Why am I here?

Bare. Minimum.