I never understood the purpose of writing down resolutions for the new year. The words on the paper count for nothing if you don’t actually follow them. There is no magic in the ink to force you to do it. Only you can change the way you choose to live your life.

Otherwise, its just a nice, but empty hope for the better.



Every time a new year arrives, I am reminded of what happened in the previous year. Despite the pile of flaming garbage in the foreground of 2017, I feel like not too many people focus on the things in the background which are slowly getting better.

Funny how bad news always garners more attention than good.



I started this year out with an excess of time and a mountain of boredom. I would say that has been very much solved, evidenced here by the fact that I created more than 15 times more posts in the first half of the year than the latter half.

As such, I wanted to announce that this is probably the last time that I will ever post on this blog, since I will probably have even less time on my hands next year than I do now. As for the approximately 2 times a month it strikes me to be creative, I’ll do something more productive (lol).

This was a nice outlet for me for some time, but from now on I’ll just be keeping that to myself.

Thanks for the nice comments which helped convince me my writing might not actually suck.





Glowing in the dark

Starting with one

Then two

Then the grass

is bathed in light


Out of darkness

Comes the hope

That there will be light again


The landlord showed me the place: a basement apartment with no view, no windows, out of sight, invisible to the world.

It was perfect.

There wasn’t much room either, but that was okay. All I needed was a quiet place to recharge. I didn’t need an architectural work of art. So what if the ceiling tiles looked like they were from a century ago? I could make it my own special sanctuary; natural light was overrated anyway.

If I told or showed my friends this place, they would probably question my judgement. The idea in their minds would be how someone so vibrant could live in a place so dark. But the trick to my lifestyle was that I balance spending time with people, being active and social, with returning to my hidey-hole to recover.

In the past, that place had been my dorm room, but more recently some of my roommate’s friends seemed to think that our room (and mini fridge) were open 24/7. I figured I had aged out of living at the dorm anyways, so I ventured out on the journey to find my new sanctuary.

And honestly, despite its apparent invisibility and undesirability, this place was calling to me.

It helped that the rent was excessively cheap, exactly because of its unique character.

So, this could do.


Before I even start talking about what happened to me, I want to introduce you to the world that I live in, just to give you a bit of background on my extremely sad universe.

In my world, we have the modern innovation of being able to use electricity 24 hours a day, in advanced countries at least. Where electricity is available, it is reliable to be able to be used in every aspect of everyday life, from refrigeration, cooking, light, and computers of course.

Thankfully, we do not need to deplete the earth in order to access this world, but the way we actually get it may be more heinous.

In my world, there are two kinds of people: the regular population and sparks.

Sparks are people who carry the recessive genotype for one gene on the 4th chromosome: electricity. Science still has yet to know how it works, and some with the special genotype don’t even possess the ability, but as a society we have seemingly silently and unanimously decided to exploit and abuse these people for their ability in order to power the of the population’s electrical needs.

Even before the modern age, before the understanding of their full power, Sparks have always been treated poorly. They were often called witches and warlocks, unable to explain the power that flowed through them which occasionally killed other people if it was powerful enough. They were burned at the stake, killed by their families in infancy, and just in general stopped from reproducing, further decreasing the presence of a recessive gene.

Sparks, in the modern age, are systematically identified in infancy and early childhood and raised to maximize electrical output to power our cities and towns. In the most recent statistics, only a half of a percent of the general population are born with any ability to produce electricity, and their few number support the other ninety nine percent. National governments generally keep the worst information about their treatment from the public, but it has always been a thought in the back of society’s mind that they are shoved somewhere to essentially slave away.

Whenever someone is born a Spark, they are taken away from their family at a young age and never seen again. Federal laws throughout the world take away the parental rights of Sparks at the time of their discovery. Any trace of their existence is essentially erased from the public mind, but for the few families who know of those who have been taken in this way.

I always wondered what it must be like to be one of them in that way; to be invisible to the rest of the world, never given the chance to go out and live a normal life.

Story ideas often come to me in this format: I might know the world inside and out and be able to develop the background of a character but I suck at figuring out what’s supposed to come next. I’ve always been better at reading books 😛 I just thought that this is an interesting story concept and wanted to put it out there for people to think about, since this dystopia sort of parallels our actual world in a way.


How does one sit

and sit

and sit

waiting for something different to happen?


How would you


something extraordinary

when the days are on loop


How would you

see something new

in an ordinary day

where nothing is different


How would you break out of the infinite dance?


Above is my best attempt at doing art that represents how I feel when listening to AJR – orange is Weak, red is Netflix Trip/Turning Out, and blue is Three Thirty/I’m Ready.

If you have no idea what I’m talking about, I seriously recommend that you take a listen – they just released their new album on Youtube, so go have fun.


(PS. I’m not dead, just busy. Not that anybody actually cares if I post or not. Lol.)


Hi, my name is _________ .


Is that who I am?

Can it be contained within that noun?

Would I be the same person with a different name?


“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet”

Is my name an appropriate descriptor of who I am then?


Can that seemingly random combination of symbols somehow communicate something about who I am?

Is it able to tell anything about me?


What impression does it leave?

Why does it matter?


Sometimes, I don’t feel like what my name says.

I just feel…



There’s no name to my own consciousness.

It’s just there.


Sometimes, I can forget where I am.

I can forget who I am.

In that context, my name doesn’t matter.


I’m just a person.


In an unfamiliar ocean

with no buoy in sight

but I’m somehow fine

I can swim like this


I can float from place to place

I need not be tied to anything

I do not need a weight on my ankle

nothing to drag me down

and keep me stuck


I do not need a reminder of where land is

I know it by heart

I can always return


There are islands out here

I do not know where I belong

so I’ll stick to the in between

to the waves and the fishes

and the friends I can count on

to stay in one place


The sun warms the water

that drives the waves upon the shore

that break the delicate shells

until they are all grains of sand,

unknown as what they once were,

impossible to distinguish

from the rest of the pieces.




She was aware that the teacher was speaking, but didn’t really pay any attention. What would be the point since it was being taped anyways. Every single lecture that she went to was recorded. She hadn’t even ever seen any of these teachers.

Because she was blind of course.

She had been born that way and didn’t think she was missing out on anything. The way that everybody romanticized beauty, she didn’t really understand it. She wouldn’t ever, she supposed.

There was so much poetry to listen to on the subject; imagery that was completely lost on her obviously.

‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’; to her it didn’t really matter what the rose was called anyways because it smelled the same.

She hadn’t even seen her own face before. She had no knowledge of these ‘colors’; she navigated the world in the dark, in three dimensions built for a world that could see what they were in front of. She had a world of textures and sounds, not space and light.

So maybe she was a little jealous. But she knew that there wasn’t anything to be done. She would always exist in a separate world, a separate plane than the rest of her classmates.

She’d never even met another blind person before. She had nobody to relate to in that way, nobody at all. She had some superficial friends, but she felt like some people only spent time with her because they pitied her for something she that she never had in the first place.

They were always so helpful, so quick to try and assist.

Most of the time they would stop being interested and start to drift away. They somehow assumed that since her eyes didn’t work, her brain didn’t work either and she was dumb or something.

Of course they thought that.