Faith.

Blind faith is bullshit. The faith is in a smile, in a proof of happiness. A proof that can never be mathematical- well, perhaps for some. I believe because I see everything I believe in vividly. Give me day, with bright contours to offset the doubts of night. And give me night then, to soften the harsh angles of the day. Give me something I can believe in, a flash of joy. A smile is simply a physical result of a tiny switch turning on something wonderful within the soul.

And the people in my life... well, they have such beautiful souls. When they smile, all the happiness of the world beams and illuminates my life, proving that everything I have to live for exists.

And there is my God, in the face of my baby brother, a tiny angel. In his big blue eyes. In the voices of my friends, my pillars of strength. In the warmth of my family. In this struggle for existance, I can believe that perfection exists.

Now there is a faith that will never blind you and lead you astray.

I will not cry another tear. I will not become an Ophelia to a Hamlet, a toy to a boy who only wants me for some physical attraction. I am beginning to doubt that there is ever anything more than that. I threw away my heart but I never gave anybody the key. And so here I sit, empty, and afraid to trust, afraid to pick the shriveled organ from the sewer and give it to somebody to repair. This way, nobody knows where it is. I hold this key to my soul close to my empty chest.

When the streetlights come on and the fireflies flicker, we were walking back home making plans.

These plans never turn into action. And if they do... what am I supposed to say? Here's this black thing, try to love it.

It was once my heart.

I am so afraid.

It suddenly rained on us and for the first time I felt pure. As if my heart had been washed clean and made new, and I was ready to hand it away once more. But the key is still in my other hand and my hands cannot bear to make this pretty ornament wearable. My sin is creating gods out of men. Feeling too deeply. Trusting immediately. And having a key that can do nothing to protect my heart.

I can't trust you.

Like autumn turns leaves, winter will breathe, cold on our necks, snow in our paths.
Wherever she goes, all that I know about us is that beautiful things never last,
That's why fireflies flash.

Please be more than a flicker.

Aliens have taken over my body.

In third grade, a teacher told me that I would never be anything outstanding.

"You are not organized. You are impulsive. You are all dreams and no substance, all heart and no thought."

Dear Colleges.

I agree with her.

You are strongly mistaken.

Thank you for the grants. For the admissions. The honors offers that claim they will make my UC experiences the same as private schools. I appreciate them more than anything, but... I am still unorganized. I am still impulsive. My favorite thing to do in my pastime is dream, and listen to music, and have silly romances that go essentially nowhere. Sometimes I like to cry for hours just to get the emotion out of my body.

160 students. Out of 20,000. You picked me? I will never believe that this was not a mistake. I don't belong anywhere, I never have. I'm a bastard breed of two countries, and all of a sudden you want me? Is it because I'm a martyr for education? A pincushion for human rights? A mouth for the voices in this community?

That doesn't make me anything special. I still don't even know why I am here. I have dreams. I want to be a student at the University of Chicago, learn every available language, figure out what I want, find a boy who will make me want to stay. I can compromise, but you make it difficult when you offer me... what's it called? A dove in my hands, when I still have my eye out for the falcon flying overhead.

I think I'm a fraud. I'm sitting here holding a new acceptance letter, evidence of my existance. This paper represents all I have been for the past four years. I have lost friends, boyfriends, even family to this silly process called education. And yet I am so in love with learning. I have become a hermit within a society. But have I earned this... I wish I could tell.

Happy Valentine's Day

I don't want a prince Charming to come and sweep me off my feet.

I know exactly what I want: either to spend the evening alone, to spend it with friends and ignore this orgy of commercial love, or to find that guy I have in mind, who I am sure would never step foot in Southern California.

I can't stand cold weather but hey, if freezing is what it takes to find him, I'm fine with that.

We will only go out in spring and summer anyway. I haven't thought beyond those two seasons. Drink the sunshine like a drug, and lie out in the tall grass of Someplace, Somestate, Somecountry. We will talk in some language. About something beautiful. We will bathe in impresision. Perhaps tomorrow we will wake and find each other in our own imagination. He will know, as will I. But we will be artists, together, creating a moment, creating a future on an easel of nothingness. We won't be standinging in line waiting for a movie to open or cuddling in the backseat of a dirty car. Well, we'll see. I'm alright with the back of pick up trucks, but this depends on the warmth of the summernight and just how many crickets happen to be serenading the moon that evening. We will play music and sing. And the melodies will spin into the air and melt into everything natural. I'm still a kid, and we'll be children. We'll set a curfew for forever and plunge into innocence. Rebirth. Isn't that what love means, after all?

"I'm Yours"

Dreams have this funny way of building on top of each other like a mountain.

And they don't fall in the predicatable way. No, they just unstack quickly, and you wonder: where have they gone? They took so long climbing onto each other, figuring out functionality, begging, praying, existing... and then they leave so quietly you barely notice that you don't want to be a Hollywood actress anymore or that you don't love the boy you were willing to sell your soul for a few years ago.

How childish, you think.

And go on to wanting something else.

So practicality is a way to check dreams. To check how quickly they may vanish, to secure them in the chain of being. And I think I just found out that you are my practicality.

Is there really anything else to say?

I'm sorry I can't love practicality. I'm too much of a dreamer.

(Then again. Love tends to be an aquired skill nowadays)