Swallowed Whole

When I was younger, I used to do this exercise where I would try to think as far into the future as I possibly could until I would get bored thinking myself into oblivion.  I remember very clearly how I thought life would turn out for me in high school and college when I was young.

It didn’t turn out the way that I thought it would.

It took me so long to grasp the idea that I wouldn’t ever be able to predict the future.  I was so sure that one day I would dream the major events that would occur in my life, or that one day something would seize my body and force me to start painting the event where I would have to save a bus load of people, then I would have to decipher the date and fulfill my fate.  Oddly enough, I never did acquire the ability to see into the future, consciously or otherwise.  I think I finally started to get the idea of the permanent unpredictability of life when I arrived at college.  College was so little how I expected it to be, and so little how I expected to react to it, that it was kind of jarring.  The first week of my college career was the biggest reality check I have ever had smack me in the face.  I fell into a routine.  Things became more normal, but then not at all.  Around he third month of college I began actively dissuading myself from trying to look into my faulty crystal ball.

About 10 times a day, this would be what would happen in my brain:

“This is probably going to ha-, No, Oona.  It very well might not.  You do not have super powers, nor will you ever.”

That sounds like I was being harsh to my brain, but when your brain acts like a small child, you have to treat it like a small child.

After 2 months or so of constantly chastising my brain, I started to fantasize less and focus on future plans rather than how things would pan out.  The amount of benefit trying to envision how exactly your relationships and ventures will turn out is exactly zero, maybe in the negatives.  Making solid plans for the future is how you progress because they are concrete, rather than being built on maybe’s.  Delusion is a slippery slope, where if you slip, it becomes very easy to lose hope, and increasingly difficult to climb back up again.

Make solid plans.  Live in the present for the present, and the future will come.


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God, it’s so easy to backspace.  Writing is like a hiatus from real life.

If I want to, I can make whatever I type exactly the way I want to.  Sometimes, emotions get in the way of being excessively meticulous, but the option for (relative) perfection is always present in writing.

God, it is so easy to screw up. 

You can always try to go back and fix whatever mistake you made, but you’re going to have to overlap letters.  The first letter will always be there.  But you can always try to remedy mistakes, and that’s certainly better than never trying.  

It’s easy to get lost in yourself if you obsess over the possibility that you’ll make a mistake.  Sometimes you just have to throw yourself into the fire, and hope that you’ll come out with 1st degree burns instead of 3rd, and I don’t mean that in a pessimistic way.  

Taking chances means accepting the possibility that you might make a mistake, that someone else might, that you might get hurt.

There’s no happiness in always living safe.  That’s what the progression of society has taught you is the ultimate goal- safety.

The trap will certainly keep you from any major burns, but you will perish long before your physical body will.

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Plant Society

What if plants could talk?

I’ll tell you what if because I’ve been thinking about it for the last 20 minutes.

Trees would be the chillest.  You could always depend on trees to say something that would make you feel better because of their aged wisdom.  Trees would be like that guy whose coolness makes him funny.  He never says jokes, you just feel obligated to laugh at what he says whenever he flashes that smile that says, “you may laugh now”.  Just an extra embellishment- the thicker the tree, the deeper the voice, and the thinner the tree, the more asian the accent.

Flowers would be the ones that care about the superficial things, but are completely content in doing so.  There would be a few breeds of flower that would try to search for something deeper by talking to the trees, but they would be few and far in between.  The flowers would always be concerned about their appearance.  Flowers before blossom would be the equivalent of a bad hair day, except for months at a time.  Before the flowers blossomed they wouldn’t talk to anyone because they would be too worried about what people thought of them, thinking that they had nothing to offer.  Flowers would also be the gossip queens of the plant kingdom, which I feel almost goes without saying.  The only plant that flowers wouldn’t gossip about would be the tree, but if any plant that only had green pigmentation was around, they would get absolutely ripped on by the flowers (“like, did you see the ivy?  Yeah, lazy much.. can’t even get one other color besides green on his leaf.  Ugh, makes me sick”).

Ivy would be the fake friend that just befriends others just to get their things.  Ivy is the gold-digger of the plant world.  Ivy would come over to say hello to the flowers (gossiping unbeknownst to him) and when they would talk back to it, it would say, “oh well, I guess I’ll stay here then, if we’re talking and all”.  After that area was taken over, the ivy would push, yet again.  No one would really enjoy the ivy because it would get way too clingy, and plants would have quite enough of its presence because it was way too talkative but would have to suffer through it until humans interfered.  Poison ivy would be the dirty whore of the plant world, trying to infect humans with its gross diseased existence, and all of the other plants would openly insult poison ivy.  Even the tree would say to poison ivy, “uncool, man”, and that meant a lot coming from the tree.

That’s about it, so far.  Just a little glimpse into my thoughts this morning.

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December 24, 2013 · 6:52 am


So turns out, the ease with which writing comes and the amount of friends I have around me have an extreme inverse relationship.  When I have little to no friends around me, writing is my confidante, but when I surround myself with friends again, writing serves a different purpose.  

Writing is both stressful and cathartic.

I don’t know if I can explain why this is so to someone who doesn’t write consistently, but writing forces you to put everything into perspective (or at least as well as you’re able) before you’re able to accurately relay your feelings on paper or post, what have you.  Sometimes situations and thoughts are simple enough to put into perspective, but I assure you, that is the minority of the time.  Putting things in perspective, oftentimes, is a frustrating experience (stress), but once you figure what you want to say, it is relief (catharsis).  But… I can honestly say that I have never posted anything, wrote anything, that I felt like was perfect, that I felt like I couldn’t add to, that I felt like was immune to criticism, and there is the rub (stress).

So, sometimes, when you are surrounded by friends, surrounded by laughing, smiles, where you don’t have worries; you feel like you don’t want the stress, you feel like you don’t need the catharsis.  But sometimes your feelings don’t reach into your core, they rarely do.  Feelings are very now-oriented.  You feel without thinking.  My feelings tell me, why dig deeper, why write, you’re happy; my thoughts tell me, write, write and figure, don’t settle.  

So maybe now you can see why it’s a lot easier to write when happiness isn’t the dominant feeling.  My thoughts will always prevail over feeling eventually, but prolificacy will always be positively correlated with my unhappiness.  

It’s not sad, it’s how writing works.  It’s a lot more difficult to dig with happy.

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Pictures are worth a thousand words.


Photographs are pure reflections of what was. Photographs can weigh a thousand pounds with all that they are able to contain, because what is pictured is only a small portion of all that a photograph contains. A picture can have significantly different impacts on different individuals because of memories associated, experiences related, or seemingly no other reason but a feeling of connection to the image.

Photographs are both denotation and connotation.

Any photograph that has ever existed has had a meaning completely relative to everyone of it’s viewers.  Sure, everyone sees the same general picture, but some don’t realize details, some have a memory that reminds them of something in the picture, some will view it with an eye for aesthetics, some won’t.

Photographs tell stories.

Photographs are vessels of emotion.

Nostalgia bleeds through the ink of every photograph you have taken.

There is no limit to what can be photographed because as long as you look at something in a particular way, anything can be beautiful.  High definition highlights imperfection.  Imperfection is beauty.  Pictures have made us more tolerant of untraditional beauty.  Symmetry is pleasing, but individuality is what makes us products of this universe.

And this universe is beautiful, not because of societal standards, but because of the





Because it is everything and nothing.

It’s just easier to encompass the majesty of the universe in the word, “beauty”.

Take pictures of the universe, it deserves to be captured.




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3: 06 AM

The night feels good.  It used to feel foreign in the days when I would fall asleep 30 minutes into a movie.  Now, I fall asleep when I want to in a movie, and can stay up until 3: 06 AM, which is an absurd number for me.  Used to be absurd, actually.  Now the 3 o’ clocks are second nature to me because of exam week, then subsequently my own habits.  The exam week 3 AM nights were not even for my own benefit, oddly enough, but were most definitely worth it to the benefitted, and would do them again.

3 AM is a friend.

3 AM is where I find solitude.

3 AM is where I listen to music and write until my fingers go numb.

I love the times of night where all semblance of the real word starts to disappear and you are left with only the sound of keys clacking, or the smooth flow of pen to the rough surface of paper.  It is solitude.  It is free, being left to your own device, being left to your own thoughts, and expressing them how you may.  I’m starting to finally identify myself as a writer, and at 3 AM, I confidently say,

“I am a writer”.

At other times, not so much.  I’m much more modest.

Being a writer means that I should have accomplished something, I think, being a writer means that I have at least to be prolific,.

But at 3 AM I realize that being a writer means that I have to love writing and I have to love making people realize something through my writing.

I want to create insight.

I want to make people love.

It’s 3 AM and everything is so clear,

or at least idealistic.

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