You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘thinking too much…again’ category.
Reality as we know it does not exist.
We make up our own reality by our perspectives and experiences that make us who we are. This collaborative effort of mind over matter influences the way we see things and how we react to certain situations, setting us apart from everyone else and creating ambiguity to a word that technically doesn’t exist…“subjective reality” would be more appropriate to use.
So if reality doesn’t exist, how do we know whether or not a situation possesses truth? How do we know if people are sincere as they’re pretending? How do we unconsciously give moments different levels of significance? If something was placed in the middle of a hypothetical examining table and a handful of people observed it, what would be that object’s reality? For example, if there was a rotting red apple sitting on a table by itself, peoples’ opinions can span from one end of the (un)bias spectrum to the other- “garden of eden,” “temptation,” “grandma’s apple pie,” “garbage,” “poverty,” “hunger,” etc. How does something so plain and simple acquire an identity without a person exhibiting their personal attitude towards that object? –because really, it can’t.
I’ve always considered myself a realistic person with idealistic thoughts. Although I like to idealize things in my head, I know when to see things for what they really are. I’m beginning to wonder if my pessimism, cynicism, skepticism, and my other array of –isms are pushing me away from something that’s always been genuine.
Radiohead’s ’Videotape’ has officially gotten to me.
I’ll finish this blog tomorrow night. Tengo sueno.
I’m not the same person I was five years ago, I’m not the same person I was last year, and I’m pretty sure there’s a subtle shift in character from the person I was last month. So what happens when you realize that the person you’ve been so close to for the past few years has changed so little.
You’re angry at the person because you know they’re not doing anything in life to further themselves- to fulfill their potential you know they have. You’re angry because you feel like they’re holding you back. And then you’re angry at yourself because you feel so selfish for wanting that person to change.
But what happens when you’re not at the same page anymore.
What happens when you stop caring.
I always get excited when school starts because it not only means challenging my brain that has been dormant for the past three months and realizing I still have what it takes to graduate, but it’s also that time of the year when you witness the fortitude students have to stand in line for hours just to obtain a simple card that will prove to be priceless. Riding on the train always promises a quick escapade through the city I’ve grown to love. Just by jumping on the Red Line you’re able to see different cultures thriving in different neighborhoods which makes Chicago’s diversity the backbone to its success as an economical and social community.
This kind of unity has paved a road where America has grown to be a common ground for all walks of life. We tend to forget that the U.S is not one country nor did one race access its progression. The first settlers in America were all descendants from different ethnic groups and we continue to strengthen that connection today by opening ourselves to be “adopted’ by American culture. We find it so hard to define what “American culture” really is because American culture refers to a collaboration of people from all over the world who share their different perspectives in order to function as a whole. Being “adopted” by America doesn’t mean comparing yourself to the person next to you, but it means being culturally aware and responsible. As humans, we all inherently share the need to feel connected to people- to feel that we are needed and that we belong. Many people new to the U.S often think that they have to abandon their native culture and hastily adjust to stereotypical American ways from drinking coffee every morning to watching Monday Night Football.
Coming from a different country is challenging enough and no one should ever feel like they have to adapt to something right away if they’re not ready for it. I know if I had to leave America and live the rest of my life in the Philippines, it would be one of the most tumultuous transitions in my life. During my trip to the Philippines when I was 15 years-old, I vividly remember having a mild case of culture shock. Once my family and I stepped outside the airport door, there were crowds of men who were helping arriving passengers hail taxis and helping them with their luggage in exchange for tips. It was hard to distinguish which men were actual airport employees because most of them were just wearing a t-shirt and jeans. The next few days of my trip I would realize the severity of this impoverished country as road side venues made of bamboo stalks selling steamed corn and sugar cane were more common than air-conditioned convenient stores. Pollution was everywhere. The sidewalks were buried with garbage that it overflowed to the streets only a few feet away from where homeless people were constructing tents made of grocery bags. Traffic lingered throughout the day as dense gray clouds powered over the pastel blue sky and you could always smell the odor of rubber toasting under the sun. I couldn’t imagine living in such a place that cared so little about its environment and people, but my cousin has spent his whole life in the Philippines until a few years ago.
Two years ago my parents adopted my 17 year-old cousin as their own son in order to bring him to the U.S and grant him the opportunities that few people have in the Philippines. The Philippines is a third world country, like many Asian countries, that is striving to resolve its poverty-stricken economy. If my cousin had stayed in the Philippines, aspirations of becoming a nurse would become nothing more than a dream as he worked in his father’s farm with little education. When my cousin arrived in America it was noticeable that he had second thoughts about coming here. It was as if he had nothing here, but so much to look forward to. In the past we only saw him every two years or so during vacation so my family and I didn’t have a familiar close knit relationship with him. During the next two years, we would build a relationship that would be the foundation from which he viewed American culture.
Although both my parents are Asian, they have come a long way to teach my siblings and me how to acknowledge our Filipino background while living an American lifestyle. My parents are always insistent that we treat our elders with as much kindness and respect as we can and that children should take care of their parents when their parents are old. But the same parents who believe in attending Sunday mass together and eating dinner at the same time are lenient about the way we dress, the fast food restaurants we’ve grown to prefer, and the fact that curfews are often misunderstood.
My cousin is now enrolled in college and planning to major in nursing. He’s slowly but surely learning something new about American culture everyday, but he realizes, like many people, that grasping American culture isn’t nearly as important as contributing to it.
One topic I vividly remembered in my psychology class in high school was the opponent-process theory. According to this theory, our feelings are continuously in a “waking/sleeping” process- if we feel a particular emotion, the intensity of that emotion unconsciously corresponds to that of its opposite emotion. For example, the more we feel happy, the more our stimulus for sadness increases vice versa. I found this theory to be very interesting because my life revolves around this process. Although I can not ascertain its relationship with my feelings, it has answered some of my careless, and often impulsive contemplations.
Exuberance is something I question…a lot. Which is not a healthy nor sane thing to dwell on because why would anyone question their happiness? I question these feelings often because I know it’s just a temporary feeling, and that melancholy is discreetly meandering in my veins.
That was my thought of the day.
With each passing day I see myself shifting back to my “old self.” The “old self” who was an apathetic loner and dwelled in her own desolate void she found comforting. The “old self” who would get lost in her contemplative habits that triggered her own self destruction. Her cynicism had the power to manipulate her sanguine thoughts into unusual, negative desires that prevailed through her sporadic actions she later regretted. The “old self” that would take everything in, but let nothing out. I suppose I’m not as rundown as I was in the past, but the truth of the matter is I’m having trouble distinguishing the importance between the realistic expectations I need to achieve versus my idealistic expectations I simply want to fulfill. Realism and idealism exist in their separate realms, but clash within our pensive minds. It’s a never ending debate with ourselves and when we find a way to pacify both what we want while satisfying the appetite of the real world, we still feel incomplete. But we all do right? Even if we claim that everything’s perfect, there’s always a few reasons, big or small why there’s always that subtle insecurity we feel every time our chests rise. But it’s all part of life, right? Because in order to succeed in life you need a dream to follow and you can only get there if you have the logic to know how to pave your path? Sorry about my rambling. I wonder if I got my point across, but then again, I don’t really care as long as I know what I’m talking about.
Thinking of ways to bring myself down is my favorite pastime. As I quote myself a few weeks back, “I’m a success and a failure, adhering to two minds in one body.” I guess I’m a twofold paperback novel.
it’s easier to point the finger at someone else than blaming yourself. It’s easier claiming that others have changed when in fact, they weren’t the only ones. It’s easier for people to see the changes in you than it is to see for yourself. So, without delay, I, Jillian Andrada, has changed, is in the process of changing, and will always change. But the spotlight doesn’t blind me. in fact, no red light flashes above me, no sirens go off because I’m just like any of you, a flawed human being. Like our environment and society that changes to accommodate the inevitable process of new ideas, new norms, new beliefs, we change in accordance to our lives. It’s a slight, delicate manner in which daily comings and goings unconsciously affect the way we perceive things. If someone you trusted lied to you, if someone emotionally or mentally hurt you, the impulses derived from these certain situations are inscribed in your mind, altering the way you think. Within duration, this becomes a habit as our character adapts to this new trait. The fault in changes occurs when you see others changing when in truth, you lack the attention on yourself to acknowledge and accept the changes that are happening. Until an enlightenment manages to our minds, we don’t give too much thought to our daily lives which is slowly, but surely changing. When someone says, “you’ve changed” don’t take it as an insult that it’s triggered as. Be open minded to the suggestion without being so defensive. it’s the what we consider insignificant changes in ourselves that we often overlook.
I feel as though I am a vigorous leaf hanging from a desolate branch. I exert warm hues of gold and orange, yet I am my own entity whose mind is jaded and whose eyes are vigilant. I find solitary an attractive friend- the comfort of my single heartbeat, the intuitive gain of introspection, the warmth the dim light exerts from a single bulb at the corner of my room.
Ironically though, I’m far from being lonely and tainted misery no longer paints streaks of black and red across my sun kissed horizon. I’m impulsively looking for a flaw, a gap, a crack on my picture perfect life that I can amusingly dwell on, realizing how ignorant I am and finally having a reason to cry, but I don’t. Sometimes all this adoration and love I receive is suffocating. There’s no space to rebel nor a reason to create blunder. I’m not familiar to this overwhelming feeling of security or stability and now that I have what I always wanted, I’m not exactly sure how to appreciate it.
Although my inner angst has nested itself in my mind’s unmended crevices, I’ve learned to cope, understand, and acknowledge its presence in a realistic manner of acceptance, allowing me to move on. For once in my life, I’m not holding back. I’m living to make no regrets and idealism and realism are holding hand in hand, tightly grasped and resilient.
Instead of being an English teacher, I should just become an overbearing fictional writer who would be found dead after years of living in an abandoned shack on the coast of Jamaica. I’d die with a knife in my hand after slicing my finger tips and skin off and in my shirt pocket, sheltering my heart, would be a note quoting alanis morisette, “wouldn’t it be a shame if I knew how great I was five minutes before I died. I’d be filled with such regret before I took my last breath.”
When I get off topic, I get off topic.
Speaking of alanis morisette, I didn’t trim my hair, nor did I cut it. I simply chopped my hair off leaving enough to cover my head. It was a spontaneous decision, like all the choices I’m known to make, and although I wasn’t sure how much I liked it after it was freshly cut, I have no regrets now…mostly because there is no room for regrets now! It reminds me of alanis morisette. I may be the only 17 year old who knows who she is, let alone still listens to her music, but she’s my inspiration. Anyways, for those of you who weren’t contemporary rockers back in the 90’s, alanis morisette was known for her angry love songs, her incredible lyrical syntax, and her super long hair that extended past her thighs? (it was in one of her music videos). Recently, her positive lifestyle corresponds with her new short bob- thus, ridding herself of her angst and becoming a content person. To cut my story short, if you read the last two sentences carefully, you would have understood my point.
