CKNGUYENER

"I desire the things that will destroy me in the end." — Sylvia Plath

Category: Self

4:12 am

It’s a curse to be such an innately happy personality trapped inside a realistic, protective, masochistic, untrusting, and skeptical mind.

You’re unhappy, and people don’t believe you. Because you smile. Even when you cry.

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Detour

I am a dirt path you didn’t mean to turn onto,
a one-way street too narrow for other vehicles to pass beside.
No way to turn around, you could only keep going.
And while driving through, you were captivated by sceneries you would’ve otherwise missed,
Bold hues and untouched beauty.
Things you’ve never imagined, that you never knew existed.
And you never felt so alive.
Until you hear the busy roads,
the freeway calling you back to the destination you were originally seeking.
You drive on,
Back on schedule,
As if the time spent with me
Was no longer than a detour.
And almost as instantly as you found me,
You leave me.
Just a vision in the rearview mirror,
Until suddenly I am no more than a memory.
And you continue on,
And you get to where you needed to go.

Twenty Four

It’s funny to think about where you thought you’d be at certain ages growing up. When I was in the Fourth Grade, I planned out my entire life by age, with a very specific timeline: 18 – graduate high school. 22 – finish college. 24 – married, maybe with a kid on the way. 27 – second kid on the way. 50 – kids have left me, and the hubs and I can finally go travel.

Now I’m terrified at the idea of having children so soon, not to mention being married. Some might call it a fear of commitment, but I call it “not settling.” I have new goals now, and they are 80% career-related. That’s what I’m committed to. I want to attempt to reach my goals while I still have the youthful yearning  and energy to complete them. Not to say that having children in your twenties keeps you from reaching your goals, but I just want to be able to zip off to New York for an event anytime I’d like, without worries or guilt. (Of course, the idea of having kids after 30, and having two generations between my children and myself, is equally as terrifying, but that’s another issue for another blogpost.)

The point is – I’m selfish. That’s why I don’t even have a dog, as much as I die over videos of baby rottweilers. But I think your twenties should be all about “you.” That’s the age range where every decision you make ultimately shapes the rest of your life, whether pertaining to career paths, starting a family, or your own understanding of yourself. It’s the real age of “growing up” and it’s the time you should begin to accept that.

I’m turning 24 in two days. I’m not married and hopefully don’t have any kids on the way (bad joke). I’m nowhere near reaching my career goals, but I’m taking baby steps. I may not have a clear path, but I’m following the stars, and I think if I stay focused, no matter how lost and existential I feel, I’m going to get there. And I have confidence in that. I might not believe in much, but I believe in that. Maybe it’s not about timelines, but about outlines. Accomplishing the to-do list, as opposed to due dates (no pun intended). And all I have to do is remember to have faith that I can, and that I will, and I will. Age is just perspective.

Honestly, as long as the hubs and I can still go traveling at 50, I’m good.

2017

This is still going on.

What Are Feelings

Sometimes it amazes me how intensely I am able to convince myself of having feelings.

Sometimes there are no feelings and I know throughout the process that there are no feelings, until the process comes to a halt. At which point, my mind convinces myself that there were, and currently exist, the feels.

And once there is no longer need for feelings, suddenly I think that I am full of them.

I don’t know what is real, and what is not, and never do I really know how I feel, or if I do. I am excellent at mirroring another person’s feelings towards me, and I am excellent at disguising my own feelings from myself. So if I do begin to realize the feelings, I never know if they were always there or if they were made up on the spot.

What are feelings? You would think that someone who makes all her decisions based off of them, who wears them on her sleeve for the world to know, who lets them impact her day so severely, would know. But I don’t know. I don’t know anything.

But I do know myself pretty well. And I know for a fact that I am, at least internally, emotionally, a very convincing liar.

Running In Circles

Life works in cycles. Just count how many remakes come out in theaters every year. Flared jeans? I thought we’d gotten rid of that evil long ago. How did it find its way back into our lives? And don’t get me started on bellybutton tattoos.

Just as the seasons have changed, so have my feelings. That’s how it should be, and that’s all I’ve ever known: Temporary joy, followed by anger or sadness (or a bit/lot of both), followed by stoicism and a whole new level of “done” and then one day, I’m just over whatever it was. And I don’t even think about it anymore. And I find temporary happiness again, somewhere else, in something or someone else.

lion-king-circle-of-life

It’s what I’ve accepted as the way of life, and I’m okay with it. But when the temporary happiness wants to regenerate in the form of something that once brought me happiness (as well as anger and/or sadness), that’s when I’m not so okay with it.

Because I can’t control emotions. I can’t cage them. I have to let them run wild and I have to just try to keep up, which is hard for me because I don’t run. Cardio has not been and never shall be my friend, and neither shall metaphorical cardio. But that is another thing that I’ve learned and accepted in my short 20-something years of life. Feelings cannot and should not be contained.

Plus, I’m sort of a control freak.

So here comes that temporary happiness again, and I’m afraid to admit it’s coming back in you. Someone who has brought me much anger (in myself) and sadness (in many things). But before that, much happiness. I’m hoping that I’m wrong, that it’s just the oncoming summer, that’s making me reminiscent of good times. But I remember October and I remember January, and if we’re as seasonal as life is, I better get ready to run.

Dream Goals

Today, the DJ for tonight’s wedding asked me something that I haven’t been asked in a while. For the past year, I have been finished with school and out in the “real world.” It was surreal for about 2 months after graduation, and then it was perfect (in concept). I was offered a full-time job in the area of my interest among people that I liked, immediately following college. Wedding coordinating at a venue and catering company. So of course, I took it. And like any project I take on, I immersed myself in it.

But tonight, the DJ asked me, “What is it that you really want to do?” I asked her what she meant, and she rightfully said, “I can tell that weddings isn’t your dream goal. I mean, you seem like you enjoy what you do, and you were great to work with today, but I can see that this isn’t what you want to end up doing.”

So I told her the truth, that no, as much as I do love working weddings and creating memorable event experiences for people, my end goals are bigger. I told her how I want to work on award shows, their after parties, product launches, fashion runways. Red carpet, high-profile, cushy budget, 1000+ guest count.

These were goals I used to share with anyone I’d stumbled upon back when I was in college, going to school for Event Management. And for the past year, I started to look at these goals as more of dreams, and though the passion is still strong, the burning belief that I could reach these goals had begun to fade.

Drunken Conversations Vol. I

Nothing was said for a few seconds. We sat there comfortably, in silence, in darkness.

And out of nowhere, he said it.

I wish I could remember for the sake of the story if I was already looking at him, if I was leaning my head on his shoulder, if he was already looking at me quietly but complacently. Thoughtfully.

But I can’t remember, and I guess that’s what this new series of blog posts is all about.

His question took me off guard. I never expected him to address what we were doing, or initiate a conversation about it. I never expected to ever talk about it with him. Not really.

But he said it, and I looked at him, unable to really give him an answer, not because I was in shock (partially) that he brought it up, but because I really didn’t know what would happen.

“This is going to end badly, isn’t it?”

The Lost Generation

As a completely objective, third-party observer, I’ve watched and I’ve noticed something about the people of my age group. There’s this common denominator amongst the kids of “Gen Y” and it’s called misery.

We are all terribly sad. But why? What has the world done to us to make us so wildly unhappy? Is it something in the water? Our lifestyles? I refuse to believe that 20- and 30- somethings were this broken and melancholic fifty years ago.

I mean, okay. There’s the angst that we all felt in high school and growing up. I’m sure all teenagers of every generation have felt that. But why does it seem that these days, we are not growing out of it? Why is it so difficult for us to just figure out what we want in life? Are there too many options?

When did we become the lost generation?

New Book, Old Story

For the past 3-4 years, I’ve considered myself an “ex-writer.” In high school and the beginning of college, I used to write poems, song lyrics, short stories — the works. Everyone who knew me knew that it was an integral part of my life. But one day, I just stopped. It didn’t feel like I could do it anymore, and I didn’t fight the feeling to end that relationship I had with writing.

It was about 6 months ago that I was inspired to write again. There were a few factors involved, but one main one. And I mostly wrote 90% of my writings about that one main factor. I decided to create a collection of all the scribbles I’d scrawled about this one factor, and that’s the project I’ve been working on for the past week or so.

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So far, it’s about 20 half-pages filled with a rollercoaster of feels and “intimate details” as one fellow writer described it when I lent her my prototype. I’m also playing with the idea of sharing it with the world. But I’m not sure how or through what. For now, the booklet, rightfully titled The Candid Travesty of a Non-Relationship just sits indifferently on my laptop, caged in solitude.