Haseo's Ink Journal

Glass

It been a while since I wrote anything. I’ve been really sick, and I don’t know if that is the drive for me to start writing more, but I think of this as a beginning and perhaps I’ll start writing my book soon. Anyways, stay safe! (sorry for the mistakes)

Light

           An idea of imaginable paradise crosses the mind of the average human. It could be because it is hard for them to achieve it or that they are not satisfied with the current events of their lives. I do not know why people dream of paradise, but I did find myself searching for the light on many different occasions. A cosmic variation that sends my being into a state of total peace and I don’t believe it requires any entertainment nor I am talking about happiness. It’s just the state of being there in the moment feeling a waterfall weight that is both physical and mental. It sounds like a common conviction, but it is haunting and yearning for that goal leaves you perturbed.

Life is not a dream

Plans are overrated

There are only motions

Knots waiting to be un-knotted

Smiles waiting to burn, ashes

Far away in a corner, fair, unfair

Thoughts intertwined leaving, drifting in agony—

I don’t know what inspired me to write fire but there I was with my headphones on finally ready to write something after all this time. I think there was a part of me ready to break the wall surrounding my heart for a while. Pardon any mistakes I have and I hope you enjoy this piece of cluster thoughts.

Fire

               I told myself that there was some sort of fire raging within me to do what others my own age couldn’t do. As a teenager, it was easy to throw all these thoughts into a sack and slam everyone I passed by in the face with it. I am older now and I don’t know if I feel a particular change in my personality that makes me different and unique than anyone else my age. In fact, I’ve regressed into a toxic emotional state where I am torturing myself non-stop in order to feel something. I am here and I don’t feel anything. Someone told me before to stop having all these feelings, but without any feelings, I am living a cycle where a routine has a reign over me, and nothing is pushing me to try any harder. Fake it until you make it. Fake is the destiny of a fool who would wake up one day to realize he has been living the life of someone else and corporate ideals, so tell me where is your fire?

               Dear fire, I do listen, but you do not listen to me. You believe that I put you into a dark corridor waiting for you to breathe your last smoky breaths. When the time comes for you finally to fade away, I’d fade alongside you into dark oblivion where sound dwindles until we are both no more. Going away, running away but we are both tripping unable to continue the road we promised to set on together. You ask me to take measures no one ever took but dear fire you are not ready no matter how much wood I throw, no matter how hard I blow, you don’t grow. My engine can’t go on you gave up on us when I was ready to do everything. All I want just falls away and my mind is changing. What is love? You told me that you longer understand that word, yet I know that you never did, you just chose to set your own standards. Those standards that make us grow apart every single day.

It has been a while since I posted here. This is just something I wrote to help me cope with the stress of school. The quote at the end is by EDEN. Enjoy  --H  ·         

I think starting an essay by claiming it’s a log takes the specific part away which that the essay tries to argue something, but throughout our whole lives, we try to argue to ourselves who we are and how society views us. Freud wrote it, and Lacan confirmed it.

·         I’ve been living with the fact that I may or may not wake up tomorrow. All I need is a perspective or a celestial calling to whisper in my ears to move on, yet life or death, it is moving on in it is own way. Humans delusion that the universe revolves around them is a continuous struggle to defy the fact that it doesn’t matter—the bug, the animal, the microbes, you and I are all the same and of equivalent value.

·         This log has been on my mind for a couple of months. My whole life, I’ve painted pictures of horror—of a child running to catch a ball that flew into the streets; the boy eventually trips and rolls on the hot summer asphalt. The skin on his knee splits open and flows with diminutive scarlet waterfall. His dust-covered hands cover his wound, and as he cried, cars are approaching, and he is waiting for a hand, unable to move or get up.

·         A chase to write or writing to chase myself because of how much I know that I lie to myself to illuminate my path and cover the truth. An essay for myself instead of a typecast of my own life; instead of what others say and whisper. If I wrote the letter “A” and pronounced it I’d be using a vocal signifier to point to a signified subject, thus if you use what I am going for—to say it, you wish to reference me as the signified. I’m not a man of linguistics, nor do I care for notions created by it. The unembellished meaning is that I am talking to myself outside of you and them.

·         It’s been a few years, and I am still pretending to be excited over things; trying to please a certain version of me that cares but knows that he’s not cared for at all. In the back of my head, my consciousness realizes the idea of commodity fetish and how everything I’d seek or wish to pursue is just a capitalist implementation of how the herd needs to think and behave. A better version than others it may be, but not truly any definitive version of myself.

·         As all these thoughts circulating in my mind, chatters of people cloud me, and I’m distant, out of focus. Monsters of anger and voices of loneliness in the realization that the model of me that keeps talking is unclear and hazy. I’d be stranded and dead if I didn’t develop the mentality to phase things quickly. Phasing pain, other feelings, people, and pretend to be entertained when all I’m thinking about is how to get out of my brain to the frustration of being more than a label of a category that’s not casted by society but by myself. “Save yourself, you can leave if you want to, and I’ll be fine if you ask me.” If you ask me, you and I are already dead and hanging by a piece of paper called a memory.

·         In my dreams, I’ve been terrified that if I actually started to think out of my cage, I would realize I have nowhere left to go or be. Scarred by a human definition of existentialism as I look in the mirror and realizing the mirror stage is nothing but a reflection on the nothing I’ve created. Love is the bolt to the heart that makes everything flowery and magical—or so said the guy in the marketing department. Love is what I left back in my cage when I tried to get out because I don’t understand it and it doesn’t understand me. All I have is a metaphorical heart, a metonymy of love but it’s a cruel one because all it ever attempts to satisfy is that persona that blows a smoke of care for others; never a physical state of satisfaction and only the horrors of not being able to phase this one away.

Hello, I’ve been working on lots of fiction lately and I felt like continuing Episode Human (nonfiction) which I started two months ago. The first part of the second piece. Hope you enjoy!

HM.

The Other Side of the End

Chapter 1: Friends

               They move around and they don’t think until you start to do; they don’t smile until you throw a clue; they always told you that you grew. You grew to forget them but, you didn’t. They didn’t want to get hurt so they told themselves that you outgrew them, but they are still around eating you. Those people who were still around you and gave you a conditional love based on you, and you alone, those people were called Friends.

The Warrior

                He was the first and he never stepped out of the ring. His eyes were hazel darkened with depression and anxiety. He loved to feel alive at the sight of possibilities and impossibilities, a realist whose struggle was the burden of knowing his limit; an elitist who never found his way to move back home as a comet; the finest friend whose sin was friending a person who threw him desperate. You fought around and forgot a lot but you still felt close to him like time hasn’t passed. But within his eyes, he’d probably wish if you were dead for leaving him behind.  

The Poet

               So many questions this poet asked. He asked about the paradise and wished-for hell to sing his ballade. A man whose fear was no implemented but more of a defense mechanism. He had dreams and he wanted to travel but honestly kept him in drivel. He told me "I'd do this and that if I left" and that's why he did not leave. He didn't know God, yet he was so close to him like Lucifer. He whispered in his own ears about Satan, but Satan was asked to be pardoned from him. He was a thinker and light to those around him but never a light for himself. A thinker who struggled with the curse of knowledge.

The Fire  

               Angry, precious, strong, weak, and confident. He moved around the world as an eruption but out of control, he lost sight of why he moved. He clung to this life like a hunter fighting the monsters of this forest called life, but his fire filled with ambition burned his way. Torn whether to stop or continue he walked, and he honed that fire staring at the face of God. He stared into his eyes and asked for more power, but not to be the kid of fire but the fire itself. By the attaining its weakness and powers, he never feared to be under its honors. He'd adapt to the other elements and form himself again; from ash, he would rise once the time came.

The Flower

The last chapter of Euphoric Distinction and the first essay in EP Human to be done. I don’t know if anyone is reading this but if you are, thanks for reading!

HM.

Euphoric Distinction

Chapter 3: The Stars

               I was born beneath the stars; I was a curse on those who raised me; I was the bone of everything that caused misery and conflict. I keep wondering, why wasn't I born somewhere else, somewhere other than this land. From life to death we wonder about our existence, I wonder if there is a way to break this curse. The curse of being alive; the curse of endless misfortune; the curse of being dead.

The Night.

               I see you, but you don't see me. I assumed you were around to bring judgment on my soul, but you're just a light in the midst of the night. I’ve been looking for you across the earth and you’re always there for me to find. No matter how dark it was, no matter how the rain hit hard, I always found you. Do I hate you? Do I love you? Are you just an old friend? This hair is barely black anymore to match your dark sky. My body is barely physical. I’m just a smoke hurting to fade away into your arms, but you don’t feel, do you? I guess that’s why you chose the night.

All I Want.

               A friend asked me once, "you seem to be really depressed, what do you really want?" I still think about this question. I've got so many questions in my head without a single answer to give you the reader or me any satisfaction. I desire death. Not at this moment but maybe someday when I achieved the mini-goals I had to this life. I don't think I want fame or money; I don't think I want family or friends; I don't think I want to be a hero or a villain. I don't know what I'm supposed to be. I guess I want you to hear my voice. I can’t sleep, but I guess if you can hear my voice that’s enough reason to live for a while.

Me.

               Hey, do you know me? You probably know a bit because you've read a lot if you managed to get to this point. I'm a human. I feel hate, I want stuff, I love people, and I respect the story. I look at my life as a mini-chapter in the book of life. I'm scared of jumping to the last page. I lived among amazing people for a long time and I was fine with being just a side-character. I'm fine being that one kid on the sideline. I find solace in evaluating my position and maybe I'm scared, you're right. But, that's me. I'm a scared child who learned stuff too early, who got hurt way before the pain was a concept in his head, who died before he had the chance to live, and who gazed at the stars before it was the time. Before it was the time for me to cry over anything.

Humans.

               You’re F U C K E D U P. You might ask why? You can never leave others alone. You must include everyone in your bullshit. You pretend to understand what you don't. Let me tell you about pain, it's when you want to tear yourself from inside and scream. You want to move a knife down from your eyes to your lips. You wish to vomit blood because the pain inside is not bearable anymore, yet when you vomit that scarlet thick liquid, you still feel the pain you want to ignore. I guess that's what it means to be human though. You assume you judge, you hate, you love, you kill, you create life. Ah, there are still some stars in the sky.

 The Book of Connections

The second chapter of my long-form essay Euphoric Distinction. 

Euphoric Distinction

Chapter 2: Glass

               It has been hard to breathe lately and maybe if I was not stuck in here, I could tell you everything. I'm a prisoner of my own paintings, that's why I stopped painting. I'm not trapped because I'm depressed, I'm not trapped because of my anxiety, I'm trapped because I lost something important. I try to reach for the glass but it's cold. My head leans against it but I cannot hear anything from the other side. Eventually, I let my tears cascade down on the memory of what was before the glass. Tears started to slide fast down, and nothing but your smile in my head.

Friend

               You were my friend and I loved the way you remembered my name even though we met for few times. You left, and I did not see you until 8 years later. I felt a connection to you and I remembered your voice when you used to carry me around the house. You were like a distant mother and more than an aunt. You loved coffee and I heard it in your voice. I still hear it; I still miss you, I cannot help but hate you at this moment. I hate you for leaving me. I've desired to bond with you more. “You’ve become so big.” “Do you remember me?” “I cannot believe that I’m watching you leaving.” Yeah, I left. I didn’t ask about you. I didn’t visit you. I was hurting because I can’t see you.

Figures

               I’ve always been fascinated by dolls. They’re emotionless and beautiful. You can feel the fragrance of wood in the air when you pick up one. For a long time, I wanted to be one of those dolls, beautiful, quiet, controlled, and ignorant. Raised by the hands of someone who cared, designed by someone to be loved. I feel weak and I don't know if I'm dying already but would I look like a pale doll when I'm there on a bench with nothing but a white spotlight. Something is keeping me away from that vision. Is it recent? Have I changed? Who made that piece of glass? I don't know if it was you; I can't tell if it was her.

The Present

               You should be who you are, but of course, you're you no matter what you do. What do they mean by telling you to be who you are? Is it possible for a human to be someone different? These questions keep popping in your head. You write this as if you were to address yourself. It's different because the present addresses me every single day. You're a hero to your sisters; you tend to smile a lot and make weird voices and impressions. You know it's stupid but you do it anyway because they enjoy it, yet you're here in the present wondering why you are not with them. It was just a wall made of glass but now it's a cage, and you wish to escape but you're just scared…

Fade

               Nothing disappears with my me. I can still hear voices in my head from years ago. I can remember every single tear I shed. No one understands, but I know that many do. According to my friend, I enjoy being in pain. I have nothing to say against that. Although, I learned to be happy. "Your feelings will fade away." Nothing I truly had feelings for faded. I don't think I'm sensitive; I just love deeply. I love my family and friends that I cannot let go, so when people started departing from my life, they did not fade from my heart. I just hope you won’t fade too because if you did, I’ll never be able to erase you.

Hope

EP Human focuses on my human side and this is the first chapter. A compilation of my thoughts on paper.

Euphoric Distinction:

Chapter 1: Anxiety

“An abnormal and overwhelming sense of apprehension and fear often marked by physical signs (such as tension, sweating, and increased pulse rate), by doubt concerning the reality and nature of the threat, and by self-doubt about one's capacity to cope with it”

         I didn't cry for a long time because I never understood what was going on with my body. I didn't eat for a long time because I never any desire for anything in front of me. I didn't look back because there was something staring at me for a long time. Did God mean to punish me or was it a fate? I believed in God for the curses he placed on my soul.

Holidays:

           I’m stubborn and quiet as I could be. I hate troubling people with my problems, issues come and go but my health is important. It’s crippling to see everybody around you when you’re alone. No family, no friends and nothing you could call your own. I know this feeling; I want to cry but nothing is coming out; I want to fix my life but nothing is working out. Hey, if something goes wrong, one hit and it’s all done. Those whispers made me believe in anything I did no matter how fucked up I was. If something doesn’t go as planned I can kill myself, right? It’ll end and no one would care.

10 Pills:

         My demons, I fought them for a long time but at certain times those demons gave me perspective on life. It was an experience I would never forget, and I would never be able to feel that rush again. The feeling when I drew closer to death. My breath started to get heavier, and my heart was beating fast. I was trapped in a vessel which was probably my room, but it was made of glass. There was powder in my hand, remnants of a pill I just took but it was not enough to shake the noise in my head. Another pill went into my mouth and I still felt nothing, why am I crying and how can I fix this? Another pill, a hazy feeling clouded my mind and another question popped up; should I take another one? I took another pill, I was smiling and crying at the same time; I felt like my body was finally at peace. Anti-depressants, anti-life, anti-me.

New Beginnings:

           You're not who you think you are. You've been doing so well with school and classmates, but at the end of the day, you close yourself. "You look so good today", "You're so smart", "You're so talented" You don’t care… you just want to feel something. You keep writing but nothing is coming out. You can’t feel a single thing. You don't want to be anything… Max credit load in college just so you don't think about your thoughts. It ended, 4 out 4? What does it mean? Ah, you're thinking again because you have nothing to do? You're hurting now.

 Love Part A:

           I’ve been disconnected for so long. I cannot see what’s in front of me; they’re all colorless anyways. I’ve been talking with so many people lately. Their light fades after a while, they call me emotionless, dependable, logical, a machine all after a while. My true colors? Do I have any? I do not lie…thus, I have nothing to say I guess. Do you see her? Who's she? A pirate? Soo excited? She is euphoric. "You're interesting," I typed. "I'm strange, to be honest." She replied. I smiled... I was happy. At work, people asked me about the break, so I thought of her. Life is strange but who was she? I went back home and I waited, but she didn't talk to me again. You wait and wait … and wait. Nothing. I try to approach her but I felt scared so I stopped at “Hi.”

Love Part B:

           Two weeks later, my boss told me to decide if I wanted to take a break from work or quit. My heart was heavy because my job was the only thing keeping me distracted. I’m graduating so I had to make the choice. He said he’d wait for my answer. At night, I looked for her… Can I talk to her? I did. I’m quiet but so she was this time. Short answers, I can’t read her feelings; I can’t hold a conversation. What does it mean to be euphoric? Music speaks to me; I hope it speaks to her. I try but I’m sick, don’t fall asleep, don’t die yet. My lungs are inflamed, my stomach is bleeding… don't die yet. "Oh yeah, you're the small kid," she said. Small? Heh.

Love Part Anxiety:

           Does she like me? No. I cannot remember the last time someone liked me. My friends think I’m weird. Weird? Graphic art? Suicide paintings? I stopped trying to kill myself years ago, I’m just showing my feelings but I guess I should suppress them I skip time; I fall asleep; I wake up just to see if you talked. I’m weird like that. “Hi.” Who are you? Why did your attitude change? You’re quieter and I don’t hate it, but I’m being random because I’m terrified. I can’t express myself. What are we? What are we doing? Do I want you to talk? I want you to be yourself. I’m confused, but I’m always confused and I get lost like a pet cat that ran away from the house. What does she? What do I see? These questions, should I stop asking them? This is my anxiety. This euphoria is making me paranoid, but I want to go through it. “I have a crush on you. And it’s scaring me.” She said.  Of course, I’m scared too but if we are future bound I guess that means something. I like you, but I’m scared of being me. It haunts my mind; It hurts my mind, but I’ll always be myself with you against my…anxiety. 

****Please only share through reblogging ****

HM

This is an experimental essay I’ve been working on for a class while visiting multiple specialty coffee places.

Homemade Coffee:

Older Brother: Remember our coffee road trips?

Younger Brother: Kinda, but the basic idea was—

Stumptown:

           You never know what to expect when you open the door of a café, and that's the beauty of it. You open that old wooden door to a mix of fruity aromas covered by the basic smell of the espresso. Stumptown has one long bar counter with brown barstools on the side for customers to watch the baristas at work. The custom-made Stumptown espresso machine is huge with three steam levers, and behind the barista, you could see the manual brewing methods that look like it has not been touched for a while.

Younger Brother: Can I have a Chemex of the Colombia Los Picos?

Barista: Sir, we don't make Chemex for one person, but would you like the drip?

Younger Brother: Eh, sure. Can I have the tasting notes?

Barista: Green apple, black cherry, and honey. Your coffee will be ready by the counter next to the barstools.

Older Brother: So, how’s the coffee?

Younger Brother: It tastes like piss. He messed up the ratio…

Older Brother: Can you estimate the ratio?

Younger Brother: 18.

Older Brother: You’re always good at this! Let’s go have lunch.

Blue Bottle Coffee:

           Have you been to an Apple store? That’s exactly how Blue Bottle Coffee looks like. The white paint is everywhere, and you could see the coffee AeroPress in action in the middle of the table like an iPhone. A two-part plastic tube that pumps filtered coffee into your cup with the lightest and sweetest taste as possible. The white long counter with light brown barstools make for the perfect IKEA look you’d imagine. The espresso machine they own is Italian made, but what is special about that machine is the way it looks. It’s a time machine.  

Older Brother: I think this is the best coffee place in San Francisco.

Younger Brother: You’re always optimistic.

Older Brother: Someone should be.

Barista: What would you gentlemen like?

Younger Brother: I will have the Three Africas blend. I assume you’re going to make it in an AeroPress?

Barista: That’s correct. You should be able to taste the golden raisins with a little bit of a winey blueberry taste. And what would you like?

Older Brother: Hot chocolate. 12 ounces.

Younger Brother: I cannot believe we’re brothers.

Older Brother: Get over it.

Younger Brother: This is actually really good. There is a nice contrast between the ground beans and the water, and I believe the beans were roasted till the first crack.

Older Brother: Aha, okay. sips.

Coava Coffee:

         The way a café is designed sets the mood for the customers, but at the same time, it defines the owner of that café. Coava Coffee looks like a warehouse that has been filled with mahogany woodwork, but the elegance is destroyed by the cheap plastic chairs sitting against the well-made wooden tables. There are about five coffee grinders for people to see next to the cashier counter, and they have those iPads with the checkout accessory. The one thing you could observe on each visit is the Vikings tattoos on the arms of the baristas.  

Younger Brother: So, you’re getting married?

Older Brother: Yeah, she is from this area. We met a year ago. Are you coming? Or you are going to skip like you did with my graduation?

Younger Brother: ...

Barista: Can I help you guys?

Older Brother: Yeah, do you have something with a strong taste?

Barista: We have the fresh Las Capucas from Honduras with an altitude of 1600-1650 meters, it makes for the perfect dark chocolaty cup of espresso.

Older Brother: We’ll have two of those.

Younger Brother: I thought you hated espresso shots?

Older Brother: Come on, it been a while since you’ve talked to me. It will be fun.

Younger Brother: Alright, I guess…

Older Brother: Sips. It tastes like tar. Agh.

Younger Brother: No, it tastes like dark chocolate. Your tongue is malfunctioned.

Older Brother: Just drink your coffee assface.

Counter Culture Coffee:

           Basic. That’s what comes to your mind when you see this place. How basic? It looks like a big kitchen. Your father decides that he is fed up with your mother so he designs the whole kitchen by himself. What does your father need? Chairs, a huge counter, a flashy sink, and many drawers because it’s practical. Fathers like to be practical. You can’t see the espresso machine because it is in one of the drawers so it does not catch dust, I assume. At least there are two expensive Baratza Encore grinders for you to mesmerize your eyes with.  

Younger Brother: You’re leaving?

Older Brother: Yeah, I've been relocated to France. You got one year to graduate and after that, you can come with me if you wish.

Barista: Hi, can I take your order?

Younger Brother: I’ll have the New Guinea Kobuta.

Barista: It’s very sweet and carries a similar taste to the Darjeeling tea. What about you?

Older Brother: I’ll just have water.

Younger Brother: I’ve been moving a lot lately.

Older Brother: Do you like Oregon?

Younger Brother: It’s 15, just like this cup of coffee.

Older Brother: Balanced.

Younger Brother: I think I’ll go back home.

Older Brother: Home?

The Blind Follower

           He learned how to eat with his right hand; he learned how to properly stand, he turned and hoped to withstand his lessons, but eventually came to understand them. What did he learn? He probably wondered for long and was eager to know why, but at a moment of enlightenment, he realized that he was nothing more than just a blind follower.

           The blind follower was born in a small village without any electricity or any kind of entertainment. His father taught him to work and he taught him how to live; his father taught him his religion and how to behave. The blind follower came to realize his routine in agony, but he sensed that there was more to this life than those lessons.  

           One morning, he woke up to the sound of a rooster on a farm close by and decided to check that farm out. There was a herd of sheep moving around with a dog keeping them in line. The herd was identical and the sheep were either eating or just waiting. The blind follower moved along with his routine, eat, work, and sleep for days and weeks.  

           The farm close by burned down one night and the owners were struggling to rebuild and raise what was left over; the blind follower pondered and felt lost. The owners’ routine was broken, ‘what are they going to do now?’ he thought. His father noticed the look the son gave to the suffering farmers, he got close and placed his hand on his son’s shoulder and said— ‘They have to adapt’.

           A whispering voice lingered in the blind follower’s mind — ‘Adapt?’ and he sought to make it as another lesson. The blind follower grew to be 12, and technology made it through to his tiny village. His father denounced Satan’s instruments, while others embraced them as tools of convenience. The blind follower saw the other children play and watch TV, and suddenly everybody else had a different routine.

In the distant village of closed minds, people saw a change that helped them with their lives. The blind follower got tired of or working for hours, where there was a way to accomplish things faster. He confronted his father and claimed that people adapted, but the father saw that his son was just a captive; a captive of Satan and a captive of a Hideous culture.  

           The blind follower told his father that he was going to school instead of working, but the father believed his son was dumb to succeed. Yet, the blind follower made it happen and made it through the top students in his village. His father was impressed by the way people praised his son and started rethinking stuff; maybe his son was adapting but what was he learning?