From the Mind of a Metafor

Ipso Facto

2008-06-06T19:01:00.002-04:00

“Do you see, Calliope? This child has blasphemed against your name! Do you see, how he twists your words into seething perversions? Do you see, how he writes himself into absurdity, all ‘in your name’? Do you see? Do you see?—”

Tribulations of the Reader

2008-05-23T21:26:00.002-04:00

To you, whom are reading: do you wonder why I post so often? I wonder, too. Perhaps it is because, even in plain solitude, I hesitate to speak my mind. Worry not — you are not missing much.

Aphorism

2008-04-27T23:54:00.001-04:00

Those who do not know ‘fear,’ know it by some other name.

Patterns

2008-04-25T01:38:00.002-04:00

As I look at the audience of this blog, I wonder: has it always been like this? More importantly, is it going to stay this way?

It seems only two things are expected from me: silence and tranquility.

xkcd

2008-04-25T01:32:00.002-04:00

Ha-ha! The only difference between this and my situation is that she and I were never anything. Maybe "ex-infatuated"?

Fukú (Zafa!)

2008-04-22T23:10:00.002-04:00

Fukú americanus

fukú

From the Pulitzer-Prize winning book The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Díaz.

Missing

2008-04-17T21:21:00.002-04:00

“Love is the liberty of being a prisoner to your beloved, and somehow that is not a contradiction.”
O secret poet, O secret poet! Where art thou, artificer?

It seems I can only keep bad company.

(More Nietzsche and some Junot Díaz to follow.)

Eating up words

2008-04-17T20:47:00.003-04:00

Turns out I did get chosen (Math “Summer” Camp; see “From ‘no-life’ to ‘too-much-life’”), even though they said “only 50 students,” picked “only 50 students,” and those “only 50 students” did not include me. I would think it fate, if I didn't know any better. . .

In other news, the College Board Customer Service representatives speak over 9,000 words per second, and do not know fear. To make things worse, none of them spoke Spanish, which forced me to use my perfectly-written-but-horribly-pronounced English (I have this terrible accent, and I kept trying to speak faster than the person that was attending me; I'll leave the rest to your imagination).

Well, I've made it so far; let us see if I can reach the top of the mountain. Thirteen out of fifty—will I be one of them? Ha! I haven't the option to ponder such things. I must reach the top—an incomplete ascent is not a laudable accomplishment.

Memoirs?

2008-04-16T21:35:00.002-04:00

I might (or might not) copy some old ‘journal’ entries to this blog; it all depends on my self-esteem at the moment, though—don't expect much.

78

2008-04-16T21:25:00.002-04:00

I am the murderer—I am the victim—I am the murder. I am an instance—I am eternity.

Conundrum?

2008-04-13T23:22:00.000-04:00

To be something, to be naught—both are frightening.

More Nietzsche

2008-04-10T21:20:00.002-04:00

tropical

lives beyond

one

mediocre

to conceal its irony

From Beyond Good and Evil, part nine (“What is Noble”), section 262.

Martyr

2008-04-10T21:15:00.002-04:00

Torture, sacrifice, death, crucifixion—
There are many more martyrs than saviors in the world we live in.

From "no-life" to "too-much-life"

2008-04-09T22:07:00.003-04:00

I just found out that the date of the Math “Summer” Camp (May 2-4; talk about a misleading title) I wanted to attend conflicts with the date I'm scheduled to take the SAT (May 3). Now, even if I do get chosen, I still won't be able to go to one of those fancy international olympiads.

I currently gaze at the computer screen—calculating the troubles ahead, reminiscing how easy things were when I did nil during weekends.

Today was hard; I fear tomorrow.

Edit: guess what? I wasn't chosen! I'm just too mediocre for people who don't even know their seasons!

Brilliance

2008-04-03T22:31:00.003-04:00

You shine bright, to obfuscate your many holes;
use shields of brittle gold, with no resilience;
'tis limelight that conceals your bitter souls,
and an evil toll that makes ye bold, brilliant.

People often mention how marvelously—miraculously—our heroes overcame great tribulations; yet, must they not overcome tribulations in order to be heroes? Is it not necessary for heroes to trouble, to suffer?

Is there not something very wrong with every hero—with every valiant warrior?

Obedience and Revolution

2008-03-27T23:45:00.002-04:00

Abide by the rules, if you are incapable of reinventing them.

Catharsis

2008-03-16T22:27:00.002-04:00

In a cold world such as this, feeling is dying—sympathy is suicide.

Ellipsis

2008-03-12T21:35:00.001-04:00

—E. Dickinson.

Concession

2008-03-12T21:25:00.002-04:00

I'll never be understood—by her, by him, by anyone. Alas, even I shan't comprehend myself.

The Pit and the Pendulum

2008-03-10T23:04:00.003-04:00

«Amid frequent and thoughtful endeavors to remember; amid earnest struggles to regather some token of the state of seeming nothingness into which my soul had lapsed, there have been moments when I have dreamed of success; there have been brief, very brief periods when I have conjured up remembrances which the lucid reason of a later epoch assures me could have had reference only to that condition of seeming unconsciousness. These shadows of memory tell, indistinctly, of tall figures that lifted and bore me in silence down — down — still down — till a hideous dizziness oppressed me at the mere idea of the interminableness of the descent. They tell also of a vague horror at my heart, on account of that heart's unnatural stillness. Then comes a sense of sudden motionlessness throughout all things; as if those who bore me (a ghastly train!) had outrun, in their descent, the limits of the limitless, and paused from the wearisomeness of their toil. After this I call to mind flatness and dampness; and then all is madness — the madness of a memory which busies itself among forbidden things.»

—Edgar Allan Poe.

Moot

2008-03-06T00:59:00.001-04:00

It's sad to know that you're not really good at the things you are sought for.—

To wade through the tempest

2008-03-05T23:55:00.003-04:00

Hark, soldier:
wade through the tempest,
find your way home.

I try too hard. Every day, I'm constantly reminded of that seemingly undeniable aphorism (I say aphorism, of course, because unwritten Puerto Rican laws strictly forbid any attempt at productivity). Be it with love, with school, with life—I put too much ‘strain’ on myself. “Just relax, son. Don't take everything to heart.” I suppose my parents are right—what with the recent visit to the hospital, after a panic attack (or something similar) had me thinking that my heart was beating irregularly—but they fail to understand the situation I'm currently in.

I find myself dwelling in the depths of nihilism—believing in nothing, questioning everything—looking for purpose; and, at times, it provides a terrible sense of excitement, satisfaction. Yet, after the thrill, the bemusement, the brief convulsions of ecstasy—I feel empty, lost. While looking for some misplaced motive, I seem to have misplaced myself in a bizarre conundrum that reeks of pessimism: namely, a deep infatuation for a female that could never love me, and—much worse—could never understand me.

The debacle is aggravated further: I have slowly come to doubt my own worth, especially the one that my friends assign to me. It seems I am only useful for Chemistry or Math problems—anything school-related, to be honest. Don't get me wrong—I am completely obsessed with Science and Mathematics, and it does not really bother me to help. The problem here is that I feel more and more like a machine; more and more like I should be the one being typed on, rather than this broken-down computer. I feel impersonal, material—I feel used.

I'm in love with one of my closest friends, yet it is with her that I feel most used—and, thus, most useless.

“Dear—darling—don't kiss me goodbye: when have you kissed the things you use?” I've always wanted to say that to her.

Wise

2008-03-04T18:51:00.002-04:00

Never take directions from someone who has lost himself. On that note, forget every bit of advice I've ever mentioned.

Diurnal Delirium

2008-03-04T17:47:00.003-04:00

—Pablo Neruda

As the teacher read these words, they reverberated in the innermost trenches of my soul. They clinged to me, like I've clinged to her—they held me down, like the sleepless nights where I find myself treading from infatuation to insomnia, from insomnia to insanity. It was suffocating. I felt trapped, lost: the poem was a cage—I, its sole prisoner.

Is love, indeed, a cage? The vox populi claims it gives you a sensation of freedom, yet I feel the grip tightening by the second.

These will not be the last words for her; the tenderness of her hands make one enjoy this slow death.

Nocturnal Ambivalence

2008-03-04T17:45:00.002-04:00

02/22/08

The shot that rang out

Bang.

The quiet roar

Empty, as the life that once was;

The ever-elusive hope—

The absurdity of it all, the forgetfulness of the living—

The bright red and blue

From my own collection.