Posts in Philosophy
A Kaleidoscopic Paradox

-A piece from one of my old diaries-


I’m what some might consider a paradox. This voracious ambition of mine seems to be matched only by a wild spirit. And while my mind constantly pushes for structure and progress, my heart reaches for freedom and adventure. I feel my soul begging to hold more and more as my spirit pleas to detach and release. So I live my life in short stories.

A friend once described my mind as a sponge—in a constant state of sensory overload, he said. I’m an empath by nature, and I feel everything: the speed of blood flowing through my veins, the tickle of leaves against its bark, the taste of agony or bliss within a tear. I perpetually feel the clash between this raging hunger to create and invent, and the unquenchable thirst to experience every last bit of life. Above all, I feel potential and I feel purpose.

My partner and I celebrated our two year anniversary yesterday, and in his card, he urged me to explore the world (knowing wholeheartedly that it could place distance between us). He described me as an earth shaker, telling me that I had purpose flowing out of my eyes balls. This man urged me to fly and soar, to never stop fighting for the magic I believe in—to travel the world and live as many lives as I could, write as many short stories as I could, and one day, inspire others and share my philosophy.


Ever since my very first moment of consciousness, I’ve felt that I was meant to live an extraordinary life. There was this mighty force within me telling me that I was to do something grand in the years that I walked this earth and breathed this air. This sense of magic is at the very core of my being, holding together everything I encompass. But my whole life, I’ve struggled to balance this unwavering ambition with that wild spirit from within. When every bone in my body was ready to fight to its death, a little voice in my head urged me to release all desires and lose myself in the dancing patterns of the wind.

Within the seemingly paradoxical forces, I finally found a common link: purpose. This is precisely what my partner led me to realize yesterday. (If you’re reading this and ever wonder what’s keeping this free spirit of mine so close to you, I hope this will help to explain it. I’m not chasing after things because they’re different. I’m chasing after Beauty. Expansion. Magic. Creation. I want the raw and the true, and you bring me closer to that. The meaning I live for, I find within you).

And my purpose is to approach life like a kaleidoscope. My favorite kinds of people are the people who carry a spark of magic within them—you see it in their eyes, in the way they walk and smile, and you see it in the way they live their lives. Perhaps the first thing I can do is show someone that it’s okay to live our lives this way. It’s okay to open the curtains every morning and breathe in the sun. It’s okay kick ass and let our vibrant rays explode into the air around us. It’s okay to create our own paths in life to reflect the kaleidoscopes that we are. In fact, it’s magnificent!


A little background is that I’m at a time in my life where everything around me is accelerating. Something incredible is about to happen, and I know it. Every day, I feel that much closer to my purpose. All this momentum. All this potential. I can hardly breathe on most days.

So what does it mean to live your life in short stories? Well, think of individual chapters in your life, only they’re each their own unique story. Different settings, different characters, different narrator, different author. Stop living your life by the chapter. Stop following a timeline of what you need to accomplish at a specific age. Jump around. Live the life of a 38-year-old businessman today, and then that of a 6-year-old prodigy in a few months. Defy the laws of time because why not? In the end of your 100 years (or 50 or 25), who’s going to care?

I’ve pursued my dreams and fantasies one at a time, lived different lives and become different versions of myself in the process. And I’m sure as hell not the only one. People like us, we go through life losing ourselves and finding ourselves again. We speak in metaphors because facts are subject to a limited life. We live our lives as verbs, not nouns. Sometimes we feel like we grow more in a month than most do in a year.

Think of your life. Are you living your life in chapters or short stories? Are you writing an epic poem or a research paper? And if you were to divide your life into separate chapters or stories, would you define them by traditional life milestones? Childhood, elementary school, college…etc. If you are, how long do you have to wait until the next chapter (because you wouldn’t be in control of time). Do you have titles that draw you in? Would you read your own story?

I don’t mean to glorify this kind of life, because it has its ups and downs. And more importantly, it’s really not for everyone. What I’m trying to say is that while we’re encouraged to explore and pursue our dreams, we’re also constantly reminded of the importance of stability. The life of an artist, we’re conditioned to believe, is unreliable. We’re portrayed in movies as the parents who leave their children to chase after an unattainable fantasy. We’re the ones who blindly follow the aesthetic life. That’s where the paradox in me lies.


First off, the ups and downs—that’s who we are. We embrace the patterns and colors of the universe—the positive and the negative, the light and the dark. There’s nothing wrong with that. We’re ups and downs, like notes of an unfinished song. So long as we’re the ones writing it.  Don’t be afraid to embrace the good and the bad. Believe me, there are days where I just lie there and feel the weight of all the characters I’ve yet to step into, all the stories I’ve yet to write, and then there are days where a random stranger will share his/her story with me and reveal the secret to their life.  

[At my parents’ house and I hear my Mom laughing downstairs so I’m going to take a break and see what she’s up to.]

Secondly, freedom and stability are by no means mutually exclusive. Anyone who knows me will tell you that I’m very grounded in my values and principles. Let’s take a closer look at the song example I mentioned earlier. Every song carries a unique tune, but within that lies a separate universe in how you express it. By singing the same song, two singers tell different versions of the same tale, and that song instantly becomes two. In the same sense, the way you live your life defines the tune of the song; you write the notes just like you write your story. But how you sing it, how you decide to carry the tune is entirely up to you. For example, a woman may reveal her motherhood through her pitch; if that’s the case, she should be mindful of that pitch as she composes her song. But she must also recognize that the qualities of being a mother doesn’t necessarily live in one’s pitch. It could be in her timbre, or even the pauses she takes to catch her breath.  

There was a point in my life when I didn’t know how to balance my family with my ambitions and need for freedom. (And believe me, I’m still far from mastering it). But what I’ve slowly come to realize is that things like family and principles, you can always fit them into the new world you want to create. And sometimes it’s not about balancing them every day. Sometimes you take a step back and think of how to balance your life with them in it. The timeline you’re so used to living by—replace the time values with your own principle values. Be creative. You create your fantasies and dreams. You create your desires and motivations.

It’s like time management. It’s about managing and organizing your life, not about balancing everyday so they take up equal time. A recent study about travelling parents shows that what’s most important in a child’s life isn’t the amount of time they spend with their parents, but rather, the quality of the time they spend with their parents. So don’t hide behind your kids or whatever principle it might be—they’re not your shield. My family brings me a kind of bliss that I could never feel from chasing the world. It’s a different kind of beauty, and it adds a new dimension to my life. So organize your life like you manage your time. Take charge of your life and stop with the excuses.

To the beautiful souls and free spirits—you’re made with an incredible capacity to carry life. Never stop surprising yourself by how much bigger and more beautiful you are than you had imagined. Don’t feel the need to take the conventional path too often. Never stop surprising yourself. Never stop creating. Never stop wondering. Never stop living. And never stop exhaling magic.

Just remember that your substance, your spark, and your purpose are magical. No one’s version of the world will ever be good enough for you, so create your own. Just make sure it’s a good one. Don’t just create something, don’t just be someone different. Be someone beautiful. Be someone inspirational. Be someone who carries warmth and grace. Don’t just experience life, understand it, teach it, play with it. Don’t ask for less responsibilities, ask for more strength. And when someone throws negativity at you, learn to detach from the negativity and offer them a glimpse of your world. I hope you never stop believing in yourself and the universe, cause I won’t. That’s my promise to the world, and that’s my promise to my 3-year-old self.  

And I’ll say this again, I’m far from mastering it. This is just the beginning, remember?

Concealed Within True Love

Continuity is not a theory; it actually exists, so I’ve reassured myself over two fleeting decades of animation. This single quest for clarity, especially within romantic endeavors, has dragged with such muffled mercy to the soul that my faith in such continuum has fallen inferior to what others deem fantasy. And again, I propose the question: Is a flow in progress self-sustainable?

I don’t know the secret to continuity, but in some untrodden region of my consciousness, I recognize that I won’t secure it in Keats or Shakespeare. And whether through the sirens of heaven or the indolence of hell, continuity has entertained my mind with only an exquisite spirit of inquiry. But today I stand, embowered in my own awakened and flickering eyes, upon a first glimpse of this concept so fine in texture.

Continuity in romance is not about imagining a future with someone, but about not envisioning one without them. It’s not about wandering the celestial paradise or the depths of hell, but about journeying back and forth without losing sight of that one person. And it’s not about uniting by the hand, but by the density of each footstep and pace of each breath. Lastly, it’s not about him/her being the one; it’s about the two of you becoming one.

Within his voice, I have found the therapeutic value of harmonic rhythms found only in music, and within his eyes, the enchantment of vibrating colors emitted only through light. And within his soul. I have begun to digest the manifesting expression of eternity concealed within true love.

A Piece of the Past; A Peace for the Future

My Darkest Mask

Inspired by a conversation this week, a part of me has awoken. Call it the full moon if it eases you, but that evening I opened myself up to vulnerability almost unintentionally. I don’t know the purpose of this note, whether I’m asking for acceptance or merely seeking clarity and finding my place in this universe.

Among the topics discussed were my two fantasies growing up; one to be a nun, and the other, a prostitute. Having given this some thought in the past, it appears that what ties the two together is a level of detachment from basic human emotion. 

I've noticed that I often find it impossible to feel anger. Not so much because it's a useless reaction, but because punishing oneself over the fault of another doesn't seem to me a natural flow of energy. But I digress. 

Returning to human experience, it didn't come naturally to me. I remember very well the last episode of the British show, Sherlock Holmes. In the episode, Sherlock's sister, Eurus, shares that she had always felt as though she lived in the clouds. She paints this picture beautifully by setting a girl on an airplane in the sky where everyone else is asleep. The young girl is the only one awake in a plane of unconscious passengers, with no direction and a crashing plane full of lives in her hands.   

Now Eurus’ incandescence far exceeds my capacity, but my sentiment and apprehension very much mirrors her's. Growing up, there were patterns. People learn. People think. People understand. & Well...I see, absorb, and become. 

There's always lived a detachment from mankind in me. As a young girl, I remember watching man as if from the clouds, unable to grasp their essence. I remember watching children fight over toys, and I, unable to tear my eyes off of the little red object. Was it the color, the movement of the wheels, or man's unwavering desire to sacrifice their attention riddled in exchange for a moment's enchantment? 

Most of man’s concepts and actions I found to be foolish, but I was simultaneously simply and completely mesmerized by the power of the superfluous. The child in me made a pact to find man's secret, and I began by adopting all that was man. I started feeling man’s emotion, I started calculating transactions. And my maturity was nurtured with every emotion I felt, every character I played—as was my manhood.

Then I started falling in love with things and with people. But that wasn't enough. I wanted to live, and I wanted to write the story of life—not just chapters within a novel, but also short stories, poems, epics. Oh, how enticing it all felt. And gradually, an experiment transformed into something unstoppable. I became obsessed. And on my lighter days, I crave and starve for the human experience.

I wanted to hold the light and darkness. I wanted to know. I wanted to feel. I wanted to be. I wanted to die. I wanted to live. The heightened euphoria of intimacy, the dysfunctional depth of emotional dehydration. And oh boy did I love, and love, and love. I lost myself, I re-envisioned myself, I consistently compromised the limitations of my capacity. I watched as characters redeveloped around me, almost sadistically, as I starved myself with enchantment. 

Perhaps I've fully assimilated and have become one with man. Perhaps all the silly products of man are rather nice. And perhaps money and time, human emotion and love, all the little red objects on wheels that I play with now—well, they could be common miracles. Perhaps this is all imagined and I am just man. How beautifully terrifying would that be? If I am man, must these thoughts color me despicable?


Growing up, all the adults recognized my intelligence. Cousins my age were warned to stay away from me to avoid any visible line of comparison. The cousin who I was closest in age with growing up, he bullied me. And still to this day, he tries to dissociate himself from me. Am I so grotesque? I learned to keep my mouth shut and keep my observations to myself. So now I ask questions and stop there.

And the people that I respected most, they recognized something too. And they wanted to nurture whatever it was that they saw. It was my new weapon. Or rather, a shield. Whatever it was that people saw. It was always different. I didn’t care, it gave me power and momentum. And sometimes, momentum shadows clarity.

I've been asking Who am I for as long as I can remember. When shall I muster the courage to ask What am I? Or must I surrender under the illusion of personality disorder? Oh dear, please somebody wake up, please. After all, I am just a little girl in the sky with little direction and a fear of crashing the plane full of sleeping souls. 

And this concludes the most vulnerable, darkest mask I wear. My hands tremble, my eyes water, my breath hesitates.  


A Piece of Today’s Peace

What I'm trying to say is that I've gradually fallen in love with what it means to be human. At my purest state, the word imperfections stands completely hollow. This manmade illusion of perfection averts us from simply existing and vibrating as energies. I am a compilation of vibrations. Aren’t you?

Most days, I feel like The Little Mermaid in this world so foreign, so magical. And I worry because being human feels foreign, even after so many years of falling in love with it. After my short stories are complete, I must again return to my cloud. After writing and writing, I lay down my pen and let life speak. My dimension is calling.

There are two reasons why this is relevant now:

1.       Relationship

About three years ago, I fell in love with a kind heart. He was rather simple—an intellectual and voracious learner who carried his virtues with much soul and playfulness. Such energy was to be absorbed, and I did so almost immediately. So foreign, so sheltered, my last three years have been of light and cheerfulness. And I thought, “Wouldn’t it be nice to spend my life in this story, as this very character?” There were times when I felt completely content writing chapters of a novel. I closed this novel two days ago.

Within those three years erupted endless wars between the protagonist and the writer of my story. Day after day, I found myself short of breath, drowning in the air of man, yet I continue. For three years straight, I lived in a constant state of sleep paralysis. Screaming and kicking and begging, trading all my attention to move a finger or toe. Every day, I found myself chanting, “What the hell am I doing here?” And yet again, every day, I chose to be there. And how could I not, every moment was beautiful! 

A few months ago, I also met someone with a little bit of magic, almost dark magic it would seem. What I want from this person is completely different, but he chose the black dress, and I knew he held the first paragraph to a story I want to write. He opened a door, and I exploded in agony. It was like tasting snow for the first time. My entire body drops as I embrace a ground full of falling winter, snowflakes raining as stardust. Often times in life, we meet people who emerge from thin air, staying but a moment’s time to open a window or sit beside you. And so I continue to remind myself in all my interactions with man, we destroy things by trying to make them last forever. How beautiful it is to dissolve in a moment’s time and call it infinity?

2.       Work

Entrepreneurship has always been arousing, challenging me in the most devious of ways. Commitment and organization were hardly faces I could recognize, not to mention the rallying of man support. So naturally, I was drawn to this brilliant adventure. But how can I embark on this journey if I think so ordinarily of mankind's fight for attention and competition? Encounter after encounter my identity withers challenged, and I stand here today directionless before the man-made concept of business, paddling against nature’s currents. What shall motivate me to keep impelling?

Perhaps the reason for my insecurity and deep fear of abandonment is that I don’t belong in this world. And at any moment, they will find out. And when they do, it will just be me in the sky with a crashing plane.

I’m not so delighted as to think me any different. There have been a great deal of those before me, people who saw and felt more. Many of us have assimilated into roles of man simply out of awe by the innocence of man. Some became scientists, some became writers and philosophers. Where do the rest go?

What we’re composed of is a little different. We have a little bit of magic in us.

It’s not intelligence, and that’s what we need to realize. My parents thought it was intelligence, people label it IQ. It’s simply not. So don’t call us artists, as artists are defined by what they create. Don’t call us anything, and simply coexist with us because we share a home in this magical universe.

What we’re composed of is an overflow of energy and adventure, completely and erotically vibrant. And this is what I wish to tell my partner. I feel so much, and to project that onto a relationship just isn’t fair. I travel between dimensions, and to have you wait simply couldn’t be. I tell you this as I’ve tried to tell you each day since we’ve met, I was born and raised in a universe different from the one we know, and occasionally, I must return home. I was never meant to stay in one place for too long, even though I fantasize about it every day, and will never stop asking why not.  

How many times must I arrive at this destination until I can find my journey? Or is the secret to recognize that the passengers are happy sleeping, that perhaps if I steer through the rhythm of my heart, we will safely land. What if they wake up and cannot breathe the air that I breathe. What then?