When you're trying to move on but random nostalgia smacks you again, forcing your chest into a painful throbbing sensation, an addictive lust for darkness, an echo chamber of elusive internal thoughts. A sticky web trap of a regretful past. How many times have you mourned the death of a beautiful moment? Oh, the bitter sweet taste it leaves behind. We're all afraid of death. Empty vessel. Eerie silence and solemn. a whistle nearby echoes in your hollow body, and vibrations repeat from within the same call of the whistle. is an empty echo chamber possible? can there be an echo chamber if there is no around to produce the echo? if a sound is made in your hollow body and no one is around to see it, is there still sound? does life still exist? my heart wonders, my lungs are afraid of the answer as i scroll through a page of someone's exposed thoughts. im not that brave. in fact, im still hiding behind huge words like a pretentious airhead. trying so hard to fit into another person's empty vessel when mine isn't even full, why do i do this to myself? and after years of suffering i realize ive only wasted time. time, im sorry but i didnt treat you right. you were just a background noise, ticking away like a bomb. when is my time up? who knows when all of our times are up? im afraid of what's to come, afraid of what the future holds for me. im afraid of looking through the dark tunnel to only see the reflection of...me. im afraid of crossing through long distances of nothingness and never seeing the spark of light and hope again. im afraid ill never make it out alive--or worse, not knowing when ive reached my destination. and what if there is no destination? what if light is just a dream? like a bad dream, im just chasing the butterfly, its wings of freedom flying away from me, its perceived happiness eludes me greater and greater as i run harder and harder. i want the butterfly to rest on my shoulders. i want happiness served on a fine silver plate with butter and biscuits. extravagant lifestyle. i want trees to cover my entire bedroom and smells of roses to engulf my normally stinky feet, every single step as i make way to the kitchen. i want to chop vegetables like there's no tomorrow. i wanna laugh until my belly hurts, until im afraid of dying of laughter, not dying of loneliness as i wake up and realize i am traveling through a dark tunnel again--with dozens of other people crowding together to their next destination. their next dream job, dream goal, dream step to a dream destination. im afraid of losing who i am. im afraid of bringing in light to a huge empty vessel because my greed only wants more. there are so many nooks and crannies a single beam of sun ray can't reach--is it wrong to want more sunlight for myself? maybe all to myself. but i dont wanna stand in the way of other's need for sunlight. whatever. my heart aches right now as im typing this. none of my peers seem to take the advice of writing without breaking the flow seriously. there's always one person stopping to think of the right adjective, the right punctuation and spelling. i even see people erase answers. so of course, maybe people aren't as honest as they think they are. idk why im saying this. wait i do. i had an encounter 2 days ago on saturday when i went to grab a job application at Baskin Robbins. i was so reluctant to apply, because even though i have good memories of thuy, his mother's words still ring in my ear. i resent her for bullying my mom. i resent everyone for taking advantage of my parent's kindness. i resent people for advocating for honesty but never displaying any real transparency. i resent the connections people make so easily but sigh in relief when i realize its all fake. but then i get depressed because i realize if i want to survive in this world, i have to be just. like. that. fake, insincere, fake, insincere, lie, cheat, stab someone else in the back? s**t, sounds like all girls are like that. whatever , i dont care if it sounds sexist. sometimes its true. actually, its almost always true. who ever disagrees obviously grew up in privilege....i say that unironically. im no sjw really, but my opinions are pretty strong. anyways im getting side tracked. i dont know what to say anymore. im just bored. no, boredom creates creativity. is that redundant to say? is originality even real? who started what? who created who? why are people so obsessed with claiming what's theres? whats this cultural appropriation? i dont get mad when i see a white woman wear an ao dai. except for that one time i saw them disrespect the culture by wearing one without the pants, you know, without showing modesty. and thats not to say women should always be modest. that doesnt mean modesty is "hottesty" or whatever. whatever whatever whatever i sound like a califoria valley girl and i dont know what to do about it. i think im just a pretentious valley girl trapped inside the body of a fat chubby asian sick. maybe. i dont know. i dont know anything. the more i know, the more i dont know. the more i read, the more i learn, the more depressing this life gets. the heavy burden of knowledge weighs upon my weak a** 4'10" asian woman shoulders. and im too lazy to carry it sometimes, so ill just watch a video or two on youtube. try to pass the time with a d a n k m e m e. laugh at ironic unironic jokes white people make about the art of a e s t h e t i c s. wondering why asian people dont have something similar, but then realizing we do but we have such a high standard for ourselves that we undermine how amazing they are, so we hide them under unassuming mead and five star folders, trying to portray how externally rich we are living america rather than how internally rich we are with culture and intelligence not bc we're "asian" but because we are like any other human being who uses art as a form of expressing deep thoughts most people dont wanna dwell on. why are artists snobby? they say its because artists are fragile and insecure about their work. their drawing isnt just a drawing, its a fragmant of their soul. an entire art gallery is an entire decades worth of dense thought, feeling, experience, intrusive quirky dangerous thoughts. it is not just a pretentious vacant space where pretentious rich people walk pretentiously holding a starbucks in one hand a macbook in another. it is a showcase of who the person is. rather, a narcissistic way of showcasing, but nonetheless an insight to an individual's thoughts of society. something we can all relate to. show empathy for. am i making sense? i think my poetic streak is wearing off at this point. okay, i will end the session now. this was like therapy for me. a soothing clickity clackity mechanical led therapy.