i'll admit it's cute. but as much as you wish someone will one day say those words to you, as much as you wish that someday someone will confess that he's fallen just as madly and deeply for you as you have for him -- doesn't it scare you even a little bit?
we idolize this kind of love -- passionate, feverish, intoxicating, sensual yet senseless. we speak of romeo and juliet, sid and nancy, nana and ren, in reference to the most beautiful, unconquerable form of that four letter word. is this what we are all searching for? for a raging madness whose effects are only potentially cured by time?
there's a story of a girl. more than anything, she prized her independence. she never compromised herself, never mixed with alcohol or drugs in fear of losing self-control. yet she fell just as hard as anyone else. the boy and the girl were revered as the perfect pair, their relationship idolized by adoring fangirls who had been fed all their life to aspire to this all-consuming love. but she hadn't wanted this. she didn't want to be another lovedrunk addict, craving for another shot of euphoria, utterly dependent and defenseless. you don't necessarily choose to be ill. you don't necessarily choose to be afflicted.
we think there's something romantic about violent passion. it's not just a coincidence that they almost all end in tragedy.
Indulge me for a moment while I take a break from my studying.
See that book cover? I'm going to start off with a little anecdote.
So on Monday, I was heading toward the bus stop to meet my friend S when a couple of strangers on campus reached out and handed me a novel. They had boxes of these books and were handing them out to passersby for free, so I thought, "Well, why not? Who doesn't like books?" When I met up with S, it turned out they had handed her one too.
We finally took our seats on the bus, and that's when I first read the summary on the back of the book. Since I'm such a nice person, I'm going to transcribe it for you right here:
Wild Animus tracks the reckless quest of Ransom Altman, a young Berkeley graduate who - roused by his literary heroes and love for his girlfriend Lindy - resolves to live in a new world of "inexhaustible desire."
Ransom's deepening identification with the wild mountain ram, whose passion and wisdom he seeks, drives the young lovers north - first to Seattle, then to the remote Alaskan wilderness. Alone on the unforgiving ridges of Mt. Wrangell, his imagination increasingly unhinged, Ransom begins to devise and act out a dangerous animal mythos, which he documents in a first-person manuscript, and in songs or "chants" that detail his transformation and pursuit by a pack of strangely familiar wolves.
The feverish hunt leads from the wilds to civilization and back again. And when the lovers return to brave the perilous mountain together, the truth behind Ransom's imagined transformation emerges. What they discover in those frozen heights threatens their love as well as their sanity and their lives.
Is Ransom inspired by a transcendent truth, or prey to a misguided fantasy? As his grip on reality weakens, the reader shares Ransom's fears, his hopes, and his extraordinary discoveries.
Wild Animus is a search for the primordial and a journey to the breaking point. It is a story of love and surrender, of monomania - of striving, at all costs, for a bliss beyond fear.
Okay. Now for some reading comprehension, kiddos!
What is meant by "inexhaustible desire"? How is this to be achieved by migrating to Alaska?
Why is the protagonist chased by a pack of wolves? What constitutes as "strangely familiar"? Do they look like Balto?
Heck, what in the blazes is this story about?
I will admit, as someone with a deep interest in literature and writing, I am predisposed to skepticism when it comes to books acquired by a publisher in San Mateo -- a city near my hometown in the Bay Area -- especially when it is a truth universally known that most of the major publishing houses reside in New York City. My first thought was vanity publishing, which would explain why the author would be doling out free copies of his book on a college campus. Not that I have anything against vanity press -- my mom wrote and illustrated two children's picture books, which have been great teaching tools for her art classes and neat gifts for some of our young acquaintances. Curiosity piqued, as soon as I returned to my dorm I resorted to the paranormal-heroine-with-a-crush-on-a-mysterious-guy's first line of action -- Google.
My first hit was on Amazon, to my great surprise. Even more amazing was that the book had garnered 129 reviews -- the majority of which rated the book only one star. The few that gave the book five stars were mainly tongue-in-cheek, like this one:
I, like many others, received this book for free. But unlike others, I found this book a delight to have around the house.
It served quite well as a monitor riser for my LCD screen.
My friend and I needed a book to add weight for a tofu press.
Pages 200 to 225 made wonderful firestarters when covered in paraffin wax.
One night, we took the cover and walked around the downtown Seattle area hiding our faces behind it and saying "Wooo, wolf eyes, scawwy wolf eyes", while three people behind us kept asking people "Have you seen the walruses?" in Scooby-Doo voices.
One night we drank too much and began reading the worst prose we could find in voices like Darth Vader and Mickey Mouse over a microphone to loud techno music. People apparently loved this prose more than Lynne Cheney's book on lesbian sexual relationships.
The cat ate pages 123 to 127 when we ran out of catgrass for him to chew.
The door below sometimes slams shut when coming in and out of the apartment, so rather than going out to buy a doorstop, we use the book!
Every so often you can pick a random phrase out of it that makes you howl with laughter.
Handing it to someone who's taken more than six hits of acid in their lifetime and asking them whether it's accurate in the description is highly amusing - especially when you get their faces to screw up like you've just asked them to kill the baby Jesus with a rusty spork.
It is an excellent candidate for book frisbee on a sunny afternoon in the park.
I take it with me when camping in the case that I run out of toilet paper.
Gosh, I'm sure I could find more excellent uses for this most entertaining book. If paper cuts were something desired, I'm sure you could add that as a bonus, since the cheap paper on the books provides HUNDREDS of those to the reader.
However, you might not want to expose your cortex to the language. It puts me in mind of the Douglas Adams characters, the Vogons, whose poetry is only the third worst in the galaxy. That, in of itself, is a distinction.
Like the movie Showgirls, this book is so jaw-droppingly bad that it's an entertaining read just to see how badly a book COULD be written. It's not just a gigantic cliche, it's a cliched parody of every 1960s novel or poem written by every poet or writer seeking truth within the American experience.
So if nothing else, it's a marvelous book to be used for anything except reading.
With a little more Internet snooping, I soon gathered a couple of facts:
It's not just a novel. If you examine the back cover closely, a note at the bottom says: "This novel is part of a larger storytelling experiment that includes three music CDs. Experienced as a whole, the music expresses the emotional core of the story, and the novel serves as its narrative shell."
This book was first published in 2004. Since then, the book has been distributed for free all over the country (you'd be surprised -- it's literally popped up everywhere) and even in cities like Tokyo and Amsterdam. It's been six years, and they're still going at it -- now in Durham, North Carolina.
The author has been very successful in the IT industry -- which would explain how he's been able to finance the mass distribution of this book for the last six years.
In short, according to the Amazon reviewers, this book is essentially about a guy with an LSD addiction who hallucinates that he is a ram and dies in the Alaskan wilderness.
Now, I haven't read the book yet and don't particularly have any intention of doing so (at least, not until winter break, but even then I have other books much higher on my to-read list). I will however, explain why I already have a sour impression of this book.
My friend S and my roommate became well acquainted with my dislike of this book without having ever read it -- my roommate thought I was being mean and overly critical, while S is an engineer who admitted that she was ambivalent and really didn't care about the book. I, however, am somebody who is well-read about the publishing industry and is also a writer -- therefore, is it any surprise that I have much more beef with this book?
A lot of the Amazon users bashed the book and complained about how they wasted their time. I'm not following that vein -- honestly, if a book is that bad, I usually skip to the end or Wikipedia it and then just stop reading. Really, I think there's so many negative reviews simply because it's fun to bash things as a mob.
What DOES irk me about this whole business is the mass distribution part of this whole affair. My roommate said she feels sorry for the author for receiving all that negative feedback and says I'm being too harsh. And from a writer's perspective, I sympathize with receiving such criticism -- but only to an extent. If he had distributed the book so enthusiastically for a year and then recognized that many people did not like his story or writing style, then okay -- I get it. All writers inevitably face criticism, and it can be brutal for first-time writers. But the fact that six years later, this book is STILL being distributed for free? What in the world is he trying to achieve? It's one thing to learn from the mistakes of your first book to motivate you to improve your writing -- it's another to keep pushing the same first book.
Keep in mind that as far as I know, this book was published via vanity press or POD. That means the author did not undergo the query process, which is essentially a screening process for hopeful writers. If your manuscript's not good enough, no agent is going to help you get it published. While it can be very discouraging, the brutality of rejection is what forces the most determined writers to grow and hone their skills.
Perhaps from a marketing perspective, this guy should be lauded. Articles and blog posts have been written about him since 2004 -- hell, even I'm writing about this book. However, from my perspective as a writer, this guy doesn't understand what it means to be a writer. Your first novel might be crap and it might be ridiculed, but writing is an unending learning process. I've had many setbacks with EP, but it's thrilling to think about how much I've learned and grown since I first created the story in 2007. Rather than writer, the author strikes me as either a businessman or somebody trying to make a critique/point about publicity and marketing.
The Ecstasian Phantom got nominated under the "Most Memorable" fiction category for SKoW.
For those of you who don't know what Some Kind of Wonderful (SKoW) is, it's a well-known awards site (at least in the fictionpress community) for fictionpress stories. All those stories that kept me up all night back when I was in middle school and early high school? Yup, those were some of the ones that have been crowned winners. I don't know how popular SKoW is with the fictionpress community now, but back in the day (oh man, more than five years ago) it was a BIG DEAL. These were the stories that got elevated into the spotlight, that everybody talked about (and that, unfortunately, suddenly became targets of Internet plagiarism).
To tell you the truth, I am utterly shocked and sheepish that it's been nominated, considering I haven't updated the story in almost a year. And I know exactly who nominated my story for the award. And the fact that I am utterly embarrassed about the current state of that story on the Internet, because it's now a big chopped-up revised (and hopefully much improved) mess offline.
AHHHHHH. I AM SO PSYCHED. AND EMBARRASSED.
inhale. exhale.
okay, back to taking notes on virology. spazzzzzzzzzzzzz
//EDIT//
lol. I've been so detached from the online world (with the exception of this blog and Facebook) that I'm already feeling old. I think youth is when you can check all your favorite sites every five minutes and know exactly what's going on.
So after my exhausting day (I hate Mondays) involving two biology lectures plus working in a lab for the rest of the afternoon -- I finally checked the SKoW link to see what's up. It turns out my story was nominated months ago (whoops!) and the winners were already announced... last week? Haha. Needless to say, EP didn't win -- which shouldn't be a surprise to anybody, considering how neglected that story is. In fact, if it weren't for my critique partner, I probably would never have learned about the nomination at all.
NEVERTHELESS I am still pretty exuberant about this whole business. Because IN SPITE of the fact that I am the worst updater ever who has probably alienated her entire former fanbase, my utterly neglected brainchild still managed to beat out tons of other entries to garner a SKoW nomination (because yes, "Most Memorable" is a very competitive category), I can literally feel my body surging with this insane desire to just write write and write.
Unfortunately, the fact that I have two midterms next Monday and two consecutive papers due in that same week is being a complete killjoy at the moment.
Anyways, here is one of the pretty graphics I now have bragging rights for -- one of the trophies, I suppose, for this strange saga:
I'm going to start updating a lot less frequently in the coming weeks, as my hell week is fast approaching. Therefore, I'm going to get a couple things out all at once. I'll return to the Ten Days list when I have time.
Firstly, a status update about this blog: For awhile, I was toying with the idea of making this blog more public, and now that it's been more than month since I first changed the blog url and essentially erased Heart & Crossbones from the face of the Internet, I've decided I actually prefer this newly recovered anonymity. Also, Blogger now has an interesting stats section on the dashboard, leading me to realize that almost nobody reads this blog anymore -- which means I have even greater freedom to spout out whatever I feel like. Which means I will probably write in a jumbled diary style more often now.
Woohoo!
Now onto the messy stuff:
In addition to two biology classes, I'm taking two English classes -- primarily for my own enjoyment, but also to get some GE requirements out of the way. One is on Jane Austen's novels; the other is on Asian-American Lit. I'm not enjoying the Jane Austen class as much as I expected, but I have to say Asian-American Lit is definitely changing the way I think.
I read a lot of YA writing blogs in my spare time, and one of the things that really interests me is the general outcry by bloggers asking for more diversity in YA books. To start off, let's just get it out there if you haven't figure it out already: I am an Asian-American. I intentionally make my ethnicity ambiguous on this blog, due to certain experiences I've had as an Asian-American.
As a child, I never really felt like part of a minority -- I grew up in a fairly wealthy area in Northern California with a significant number of Asians in my neighborhood. Interestingly, the first time I noticed the "whiteness" of YA fiction was on fictionpress. Back when I was in middle school, fictionpress became somewhat popular with some of my friends, who began posting poems and stories online. T, an Asian girl who I had many mutual friends with but with whom I never quite developed a relationship beyond acquaintances, posted a high-school romance story that I began to follow online. Her story was the typical fluff prevalent in the romance section of fictionpress, but what really struck me when I read her story was that all of her characters were of Asian descent. At first, I didn't think too much of it -- considering the fact that most of my friends were Asian-Americans, I didn't see anything weird about having a story on Asian-American high school students. If she hadn't explicitly given them last names like "Wong" or "Chang", you probably wouldn't have been able to tell anyway. Yet the more I thought about it, her story with Asian-American characters stuck out like neon sign against the cast of mainly white characters in almost every fictionpress story I'd encountered thus far.
I think ever since that revelation, I've been very aware of how I portray my online persona. The original cast of EP -- save Rory -- was pretty much entirely white -- mainly because I'd assumed that once you read a story with a non-white protagonist, you automatically think the writer is of that particular race. The last name I use online -- "Lee" -- was specifically chosen due to the ambiguity of its origin, as you could easily have a white, black, or Asian background with that last name. It's not that I'm ashamed of my ethnicity. My decision to make my ethnicity ambiguous stemmed from the desire to prevent my background from coloring people's perception of my writing. Whether we acknowledge it or not, people have certain perceptions of what a particular race is like -- and as a writer, I didn't want race to be a factor in how my stories were perceived.
But race shouldn't matter, right?
I'm only into my third week of classes so far, but my Asian-American Literature class is changing the way I identify myself with my "Asian-Americaness". We've read a couple of works where the writer impersonates a particular persona for commercial reasons-- for instance, a Canadian-Chinese writer from the early 1900s wrote and marketed her books as written by an authentic Japanese, complete with a pseudo-Japanese pen name -- Onoto Watanna. Obviously, she was not really Japanese at all. Another author from the same time period, Yone Noguchi, wrote The American Diary of a Japanese Girl -- despite the fact that he's a man. For a more contemporary example, you can think of Arthur Golden, who wrote Memoirs of a Geisha. In a sense, all of these books were written from a commercial angle, targeting the recurring trends in America for "exotic" Asian things. As much as we want to say that race doesn't mean anything, it does. As an example not in race but gender, if you are a girl and you read The American Diary of a Japanese Girl with the knowledge that the author is a man, your impression of the book is going to be very affected by the nagging reminder that a man is writing what he thinks a girl would write about in her diary.
But what about the reverse? Is the fact that one of my lead characters is white significant? Is the fact that I write from an ethnically ambiguous perspective also a calculated commercial tactic?
While I haven't touched fictionpress in almost a year, I have been tinkering with the story incessantly in the past year. One of the changes I made that has not appeared on fictionpress is Rory's ethnicity. Originally half Japanese half Portugeuse, I changed it to half Taiwanese half Brazilian. On the surface, it sounds like a minor change, but for me it's significant -- my family is Taiwanese, and I have distant relatives who immigrated from Taiwan to Brazil. Though I haven't met any of them, I do have distant half-Taiwanese half-Brazilian cousins out there and in fact, apparently one of my distant aunts or someone is actually a prominent judge in Brazil. The main reason behind this change is that I can write with more authority as an American of Taiwanese descent -- ideally, I should have a better understanding of Rory's mother and what kind of household Layla and Rory grew up in.
OLIVIA, the inspiration for Rory
Rory herself poses an interesting dilemma for me. Am I exploiting a Eurasian fetish by using her as one of my lead characters? How much authority do I have to write from a half-Asian perspective? The second question is easier for me to answer; having spent two years with a half Taiwanese half American piano teacher who grew up in Taiwan and thus was far more Taiwanese than American in her mannerisms, I really do feel that it depends on where/how you were brought up, not what you look like. This is why I barely blinked an eye when I read T's story -- T and I might be Asian, but we act like any other "American" teenager. We go to the same classes, deal with the same drama, get tangled in the same romance plots. As for the first question, I have a more critical response to that -- but that would require me revealing more of the storyline I have in mind, which I don't intend to reveal at the moment.
I've come to wonder if I have an obligation to represent my ethnic background, especially in an area where Asians are so underrepresented. I found myself toying with the thought -- should I make my characters more diverse? I'd already changed Patrick's background to Spanish before I ever took this class, but since I've taken this class I've started thinking about my main characters. Charlotte? Her blondness and last name is essential to my story, so that idea was immediately shot down.
Rhys? This is where it gets interesting. I love literary books, but I am also very fascinated by the commercial side of literature -- in essence, what sells. And I must frankly say that at this point in time, I do not think an Asian male lead at this point in time will reach the same leading man status as, say Edward Cullen. If Rhys was of Asian descent (which, with a few changes, I could easily make possible), like a rock version of my beloved T.O.P. (who, by the way, has heavily influenced how I characterize Rhys), would readers still accept my depiction of Rhys as the most sought-after guy at Rosecrans High? Considering the stereotype of Asian guys as lacking sex appeal, I find that hurdle very difficult to overcome.
An Asian guy oozing with sex appeal? NO WAY!
"But Sophelia!" you might say. "Look what Stephenie Meyer did for Native Americans, i.e. Taylor Lautner and Boo Boo Stewart!" However, I think the Asian stereotype is much more ingrained in our nation's consciousness than the Native American stereotype. People still think of Asians as nerds and gamers and geeks. Perhaps one day, it won't be so unbelievable to have an Asian male lead characterized as the school heartthrob.
One of my favorite YA blogs, Forever Young Adult, recently wrote a post about what they'd like to see more of in YA fiction. Number one on the list is diversity. I agree completely, but I take that wish with a grain of salt. I may be wrong, but I think none of the FYA contributors are of minority descent -- and while I'm sure they are much more open-minded about the ethnic backgrounds of YA protagonists and love interests, if you consider how often publishing companies whitewash their book covers, I don't think the readership is ready just yet. In any case, I don't have the luxury of tinkering with EP in the next few months, as my workload is beginning to increase exponentially. However, I think it's quite fascinating how race adds a whole other dimension to the discussion of commercial YA fiction.
Think about it. If your favorite protagonists weren't white -- Harry Potter was Chinese or Bella Swan was Persian -- what do you think would happen? Not only would some people snub the book with comments like, "I don't read about Muslims" or "I don't give a shit about chinky-eyed Asians," but people would analyze the crap out of these stories because in the end, our society really does care about race. They'd wonder if Bella's dependence on Edward is commentary on female oppression in the Middle East; they'd ask if Harry's rise to greatness is somehow an allegory to the rise of the Chinese superpower. I'm just making bullshit up at this point, but really -- would the world still be so fond of Harry Potter and Bella Swan if they hadn't been white?
"A girl's love does not start with the Porsche he drives or the Armani clothes that he wears but when that person shows her his pitiful side for the first time." -- from Mana by Vin Lee
01. Be the one to start the conversation when we're starting to know each other, because I'll be too socially awkward and shy to do it first.
02. Laugh at my jokes even if they're lame and make me laugh in return. Have a wacky sense of humor and enough disregard for how cool/stupid you look so that you'll be my willing partner in crime for whatever ridiculous idea I come up with next.
03. When we pass by somebody who needs help, you stop to help without hesitation -- even if you've never met her before in your life.
04. In the awkward phase when we've already met but aren't really friends yet, you aren't shy about making eye contact and saying hello, rather than looking straight ahead and pretending not to see me.
05. When I'm playing with kids, don't call me childish when my maturity level sinks down to their level -- you join right in and act like a kid yourself.
06. You've got a smile imprinted in my mind like flash photography. 07. You seem to instinctively know exactly the right things to do when I'm feeling down.
01. I'm the kind of person who has no problem spoiling the ending for herself. That is, I have no qualms about looking up the plot summary on wikipedia to decide if I want to keep reading/watching, and I have no problem with jumping around from volume to volume in a series. For instance, I read New Moon before I ever read Twilight and the second book of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants before I ever read the first one.
02. To the dismay of my mother, I played piano for 13 years of my life until I headed off to college and stopped practicing all together. Yes, I was burned out. Yes, I feel extremely guilty.
03. I've only just started to realize just how much people are intimidated by me. It's very strange to me, because ever since I was a pre-teen I've wanted to be the "Ice Queen" -- the cool and tough girl in all those books I read, not the meek and shy wallflower. My role models were tough-as-nails kickass girls, like Go-Go Yubari (minus the violent sociopath part). It took this long for me to realize that I have actually been subconsciously cultivating this persona, and as a result people are intimidated by me, when in fact I'm just socially awkward like Mr. Darcy and don't know what to say in social crowds.
04. I love love love spicy food, and the lack of truly spicy food in Durham makes me quite sad.
05. Before I went back to Duke this fall, my mother told me that she's going to start worrying about me if I still don't have a boyfriend in two years.
06. I make friends with girls far more easily than I do with guys. 07. People have attributed the word "unique' to me in a number of ways -- my handwriting is very unusual and easily distinguishable, and my sense of style is very particular -- most notably my magenta shark backpack, from which people can easily distinguish me from yards away. 08. While I, the super cynic, don't believe in fortune-telling and tarot cards (other than the fact that I greatly enjoy inventing my friends' fortunes using the tarot card deck my friend gave me for my birthday), I have never been entirely skeptical of zodiac relationships because my parents, who have been happily married for more than twenty years, have very compatible zodiac signs -- both western and Chinese.
09. I have a huge wish, one wild enough that I refuse to tell anyone about -- and I truly believe I have the ability to make it come true.
Day One: Ten things you want to say to ten different people right now.
01. My lazy eye returns with greater fervor than before It follows you through the room like a distant shadow Silently Is it possible to catch a shadow? (I think not.)
02. When I look at the pillaged words I once offered to you It sickens me And yet I still recall When we wrote of daisy fields and moonbeams And now it seems I am the only one who remembers.
03. She told me the other day A Chinese fairytale All the people shaping your life today Were the strangers who brushed past you Over the last 500 years I wonder if I would be like that girl in that story If I would become a rock for 500 years Just to catch a glimpse of your retreating back again.
04. Stop thinking you're so hip and enlightened. Honestly. It's really kind of stupid How you talk about nirvana and wisdom As you exterminate your own brain cells.
05. I tell you I admire your writing And you tell me you're flattered But underneath I can't help but wonder And if the unspoken words are instead: Hi, I'm your cyberstalker, and Leave me alone, you f---ing creep.
06. I didn't tell you the whole truth. I had a second epiphany that night, and it's that I will never be able to be what you want me to be. And I'm not sorry.
07. Despite all the fond memories we share I can still remember those moments When I was the outsider looking in Face pressed against the glass window Watching the warmth and laughter From where the heat never reached my cheeks.
08. To you, that was also a lie. While it's true I don't need the reassurance Sometimes I crave it Madly Like when I'm about to drift to sleep And I think, Night is for Twos. Not Ones. Not for solitary creatures Slinking alone in the darkness.
09. You don't know I know this But when someone told me you thought I was pretty It was the first time I'd ever heard the word Used by a guy to describe me. I don't like you in that way We both know it's not like that. But it really did make me happy To know my face doesn't make people cower in horror.
I don't listen to the Beatles much, but this is probably my favorite. I had no idea Prince was such an amazing guitarist. That solo gives me the chills.
I hate how I had major writer's block when I actually had time to write at home, and now that I'm inspired I can't write because I'm supposed to be studying. I think it's because I listen to all different genres of music when I'm working -- and usually it's the feeling when I get when I listen to a particular piece that gets me going.
The opening scene of EP, where Charlotte watches Rhys shred on the stage of Ecstasia for the first time -- I don't have the skills yet to do that scene justice. It's the goosebumps I get from the fullness of the music -- the layering chords, the resonating bass line, the howl of the guitar solo as you watch the guitarist from the dark anonymity of the audience -- I don't even know how to capture it in precise words.
If you're wondering what kind of music I listen to, my tastes vary. Whether it's Debussy, Bjork, OLIVIA, Queen, Brahms, Big Bang, David Garrett, Radiohead -- it all depends on my mood. Regardless of genre, I tend to like melancholy songs in minor keys.
it's impossible to describe what you are to me, exactly.
the first time i saw you, i thought you were what i thought i wanted to be. tough. badass. charismatic. gorgeous. i wanted that power. the first time i saw you, i couldn't look away.
yet the more i looked, the more i realized we aren't so different after all. i used to dislike my eyes -- not those coveted double eyelids like those doe-eyed starlets -- until i realized that we have the same cat eyes, with the illusion of eyeliner in the corners. that was the first time i decided i liked my eyes.
i used to love you the way a child loves the hero, in admiration and in envy. i'd watch you prowl across the stage as the thousand-eyed audience remained transfixed to your every move. i'd watch you and remember all those times when i sat in front of the piano in the recital hall, trembling as i'd pray that my fingers wouldn't slip in their own sweat. i wanted to be the extrovert instead of the introvert, the show stopper instead of the wallflower, the light instead of the shadow.
and yet, i saw more and more of myself in you each time. it's not just the eyes. when i saw you responding quietly, awkwardly, reluctantly to their probing questions about your love life, i saw my socially awkward self, distant and guarded to a fault. when i saw you joke around and banter playfully with your friends, i saw my private self, creating silly nicknames for close friends and inventing animated impromptu stories, complete with all the absurdities of a soap opera. i saw the two halves of my personality co-existing in another person.
we both dislike being touched. if we ever dated, we would never hold hands in public. we both dislike talking about our personal matters in public. we are both private people.
your face is structured in a way that looks naturally intimidating. you once complained that when you don't smile, people mistaken you for being in a bad mood. it turns out that i am the same. friends tell me they were initially intimidated by me when we first met, whether from my gladiator sandals and chained earrings or my quietness around strangers -- a symptom of my shyness that is often misinterpreted as coldness.
when i look at myself now, it's different from what i saw before i ever learned of you. i thought i was meek, ugly, dull, two-faced, stunted. it's bizarre when i see so many reflections of myself in someone i consider a hundred times more beautiful than anyone else in the world. i'm tough. i'm badass. i'm charismatic in my own way. maybe not gorgeous, but at least with those eyes of yours that everybody loves -- i can look into the mirror and i see you looking right back at me.
