Appreciating June Tenth

On June 10th of 2013, a former love shattered me. She delivered a logical and illogical reasoning for shattering me that lived with me for the entirety of two years. I made mistakes in my pursuit of her and it led to her disappearing from my life. The shock of it drove me to tears and a sensation I had never felt before. Emotional pain settled in. Unhindered emotional pain massive enough to drive me to obsession. I bored my friends with the story of the shattering, what followed the shattering, and the dramatics behind it. I had a chance for what could have been a lovely relationship and sabotaged it to cling to my former love. Fragmented I was.

On June 10th of 2014 I have no notes on. I have no recollection of it. It was a regular day full of anguish and video games. Or maybe there wasn't anguish. I knew I wasn't happy but I didn't feel depressed. It's just forgotten. A nice sign of recovery I believe since the anniversary of my shattering was forgotten just like that. Apathetic I was.

On June 10th of 2015, I wrote a set of paragraphs on the person I crushed on for a semester or so. The paragraphs closed what was my mini log on having a crush on her after being broken for so long. 

Now on April 8th of 2016, I decided I wanted to share my old log on my little crush. Then I got lazy because copying and pasting to the blog does not keep the document in its original arrangement. As such, the bit of poetry in there loses its value and the paragraphs become difficult to read. While rereading my little last paragraph, I noticed the funny coincidence that I would write of moving on on the same day I was shattered two years prior. Whether I did it consciously or not, I cannot figure now but if I did it as a joke for current me, well played past me. The last paragraphs to my log on a short crush are as follows....

  "Months have passed since I opened this particular log. Love lived not in quirky Roxanne. It lives elsewhere. What was in Roxanne was the beginning of true recovery. I never confessed to her in the entire year that has passed. We seldom speak nowadays due to some awkwardness. It seems like this was inevitable when she found herself a boyfriend and lost need of my tutoring. I would be sad to revisit my memories of Roxanne if they were all that significant. But infatuation dies quickly. That is where she differed from the past. I took a liking to her that faded quite quickly. While I still find her cute, her personality at times is a repellent to me. Infatuation dies quickly and so does the romanticized lens I saw her through. 

  I credit most of my recovery from the past to her. Meeting her seemed uncanny when my hormones and emotions were out of control. She brightened up my morning and days while helping me regain self-control. She did all of this without knowing exactly how much I liked her but suspecting that I did. I never confirmed whether she knew or not but I am an obvious fellow. And perhaps her experiences have sharpened her senses and allowed her to distinguish those smitten with her more easily. Writing now without my smitten eyes, I see the time we had as a necessary experience.

  With only five entries prior, I remember why so little was written. Some crushes are meant to be enjoyed as just crushes. This was one such crush where I felt deep down that things would not work. I longed day after day to bring myself to confess. Instincts and defense mechanisms kept me from doing so. I knew that if I allowed myself to write about her with the rose-colored lenses I had, I would have suffered a similarly shattering experience in a short amount of time. Now all that remains are the sweet memories with a bland aftertaste of my time as Roxanne's tutor, friend, and admirer,"

Some people remember dates for the joy it brought. Some remember it for anguish. I remember it because of the perfect balance the day has had so far. One year, it was the bane of my existence. It was the day I was shattered. Two years later, it was the day of my reassembly. June 10th is a day of joy and anguish. Whether I saw them with lens of despair or hope, June 10th served as pivotal day in my quest for wisdom. Here's to June 10th, a random day of the year made significant by random failures in love.

A First World Problem: A Static Gamer

A young gamer once said, "I'll never get bored of games. I love them all and will play for the rest of my life. There is a special kind of enjoyment found only in video gaming. The feeling of triumph over difficult levels, the compelling stories, the wacky characters, the various abilities, and a plethora of catchy tunes and jingles drives me to buy game after game and beat the ones I won dozens of times."

 As a guy in my early twenties, I've been a young gamer for as long as I can remember. At times, an old man would creep up from inside and ask me why I play so often. I could never answer directly as games lured me out of my thoughts. Tonight, the old man has not said a word and I played games for hours to compensate for a burdensome week. I finished with one game and started searching for something else to play.

Without a word I searched. I scanned and scanned only to judge everything as uninteresting. It seems that the amount of unique games is finite. I just don't know what to play anymore. I can only imagine what the young gamer I was back then would say to me now. He'd go, "what happened? why do you own so little games?"

An old man once said, "I don't know how you can play these games all day. There is so much more to life that young gamers lose out on. The feeling of emptiness as hours fly on by, the predictable stories, the pointless characters, the repetitive abilities, and a barrage of repetitive jingles and tunes looping indefinitely."

As a guy in my early twenties, I've been a gamer for as long as I can remember. With my current skill level, games seem to have become entirely too accessible for me. It does not take long for me to grasp a game, understand the concept, and entertain myself. It does not take long for my mind to drift off into another land assessing the game I am playing and saying things like, "this game is just not like the older ones." Dissatisfied  I am with modern gaming, the lonely modern gaming world I live in.

To leave the modern gaming world, I often seek the past gems. I download emulators, and play games from the 90s and 2000s. In the older games, I find a fragment of the gaming happiness I carried for the past two decades. It seems sticking to the realm of retro gaming would be enough for the first few hours. But the entertainment granted by a retro gaming is a fleeting thing. And to this guy, it has already disappeared. The challenges of old seem pathetic and for the new challenges in old gems, I have virtually no patience.

What am I to do? For now complain a little until I can either, transition fully out of being a gamer or reacquire the joy in gaming I once had. As a guy in my early twenties, I feel it is too soon for me to be having this feeling of emptiness in the gaming I loved so dearly. On the other hand, this could be the perfect time to transition out of consistent gaming at home and launch into a frenzy of productivity.

This right here is the definition of a first world problem. A first world problem for a guy in his early twenties finally feeling how static video gaming is and is unable to drop video gaming completely for reasons more complex than he understands. This first world problem would be a perfect start if I were writing a book on developing escapism in children. After all, as an escapist, I understand what it is to use a playful medium to cope with the overly bitter taste of life.

Venting on March Madness

Blocked. Clutter formed a dam. Nothing flowed. Everyday life blocked out the creative desire. Everyday life coupled with several troubling events.

It started with death. Death of someone who once loved my mother. A man of olden days back when my siblings all lived together. This man died without warning. The news of his death were sudden. His death was irrelevant for the most part.

It continued with death. The death of another who once loved my mother. A man of olden days troubled by alcoholism. This man died and everyone knew. His last moments were drawn out. He fell ill, went to the hospital, entered a coma, and woke back up to say his goodbyes. His death troubled me more than I expected even though I did not witness it.
What I did witness was the state of weakness he was in.

My last sight of him remained for days. In order to see him, I had to don protective gear to avoid bacterial infection. In a protective cloak, gloves, and mask, I approached his bed. I said nothing. I couldn't say anything. The sight of his fading eyes and the tube down his throat stunned me. I could only stare in silence. I could only think of how he gave me Donkey Kong Country for Super Nintendo so many years ago. I could only think of how he inadvertently bestowed upon me my love for jazzy music. A man I remember being healthy was by death's door. The sight stunned me and drew sorrow from an emotional well I ignore on a daily basis.

Our eyes were locked. He moved his eyebrows as my mom continued her prayer. I wonder if he recognized me beyond the mask. I wonder if his raising of the eyebrows were a whimsical kind of thing as if he was saying, "look who's gone and grown up now." Perhaps it was a sorrowful move as if saying, "look at how pathetic I am now." Perhaps those eyebrows were just curiosity as to who was the man in the mask tearing up while staring at him. I never knew an action as simple as raising one's eyebrows could be so confusing. For days I obsessed about those eyebrows and refused to draw for fear of his image resurfacing.

Flowing. For a couple of days, creativity flowed. Doodles were made and techniques were learned. It felt as if I was free from emotional complications. It seems there was more in store for me throughout the month of March.

It continued with grim news.

One Friday evening after taking my beloved home, I ran into an old classmate. His words to me ruined my recovering positive energy.

"Remember Ariel. He has brain cancer. Stage 4."

In disbelief I could only respond with, "No way." I continued on home in disbelief. I hopped on Facebook, the social site I loath most, to confirm what I just heard. One of my oldest friends, my best friend during middle school, told me himself that it was true. We arranged to hang out and have managed to keep in better contact.

Anguish settled in. I could not and still not decide which feeling is worse: finding out he had has cancer or the guilt that I had to find out through someone else. Cursing my distant nature and lamenting his condition, I have been away from internal peace for a couple of weeks. "A horrible friend I am. Why him? Will he live? I wish the next time I saw him would be better than this. Something like my wedding. "

Flowing. The anguish starts flowing when I start speaking. When I try to remember days with my friend and fail to do so, anguish increases. Venting works only for the moment. Every word here does nothing for those that need it. Two of my mom's exes are dead and my oldest friend has cancer. Thoughts leap from subject to subject revolving around the frailty of life. And pessimism takes the wheel as life's pointlessness becomes my answer to each internal question.

Blocked. To prevent any irrational actions, I blocked my thoughts. I avoided writing anything and dove into my everyday responsibilities.

Flowing. To recover, one needs to move forward. Lamenting the days of old proves pointless. The days are flowing and to swim with it, I move forward. Repairing my old bond so that if this or next year is his last, I at least have that much.