If I were an inanimate object, I’d be a canvas; more specifically, a fresh, crisp, roll of canvas. Everyone in my life is like a coterie of artists, painting, doodling, sketching, dancing, dripping, drawing, smearing, plastering. I’m the embodiment-an expression of them. In a single canvas, I would infiltrate the souls of the misunderstood, harboring their souls as a paint reservoir. And the tears, the agony, the suffering, the pain, the anger, the depression, the rejection, the raining misery, the contempt, the envy, the jealousy, the bitterness, or perhaps on a lighter note, the energy, the giddiness, the uncontrolled wave of consciousness, unconsciousness would be splattered across my surface, soaked into the woven fibers of my being. The most enjoyable part is: that moment their paintbrush kisses me, I would be their anger. I would be a part of their misery. I would get a taste of that memory, that emotion, and the gritty, inner figments comprising it. Beyond the tangible, the world would be gazing at me with their eyes, trying to figure me out. I’d become something abstract, something with depth and purpose. I’d be a thought, a mood, a critique of the present three-dimensional world—I’d be eternal.
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The ground of my birth is ingrained in the scar of my left arm—a reminder of my motherland across the Pacific. A part of me wishes that scar away. The punctuation reminds me of my inner paradox: an unofficial term I employ in an attempt to describe the gritty turmoil within me. I may be wrong; I have yet to complete the cycle of self-discovery with only eighteen years to scrutinize in retrospect. I’m convinced there are still dim rooms within me I have yet to scour.
There are certain moments in my life when events seem to pass in a blur. I remember when time seemed to pause before the rush, somewhat reminiscent of the “calm before a storm”. My eyes met hers in what seemed like a second of mind lock, a contrived telepathy my cousin and I’ve adopted throughout the years. I squeezed my eyes shut and grew perfectly still. The chill from the slice of metal, the glint of its luster, all incredibly defined. I could almost see her hands move, the heat from her skin at close proximity to my own. The sudden prick took me by surprise, and I let out a small scream. My eyes flicked open and I watched the blood materialize from my skin. I could hear a rush of footsteps. “Hurry!” My cousin chided me, pulling my arm to hers, I watched our blood mix, “This is for leaving me to go to America.” It was then when the door chose to slam open, enveloping us in a blinding light. A rush of voices overwhelmed my swimming senses as everything around me went black.
What happened next is limited to my mother’s description of what happened at the hospital. There was only one thing that sunk in from what she said to me: “The doctor did a blood test and found out you’re blood type AB.” At the time, my childish mind was convinced it was from what we did. It took several years to realize that what comprise my inner sanctums is split. In a literal sense, both A and B blood types share common territory in my veins. In a metaphorical sense, my experiences have shaped the growth multiple facets to my being. In this blog, I will attempt to share fragments and self analysis on the anomalies of embodying a paradox.