Christine Luc

I had another night where I stayed up late wondering what it means to be human.

It feels so cliched, right? Is it though? To just write off a thought like that and go on living without thinking about it?

What does it mean to be human, though? It’s incomprehensible the amount of suffering a person will go through to assert the right to live day after day. Reading about the disasters in Foxconn, I just don’t understand it. Maybe it’s just part of our DNA. 

I don’t know how to articulate this, or maybe I’m just uncomfortable with talking about it.

I’ve read stories about dogs that lie by the side of their owner’s grave and see people’s comments about loyalty and whatnot. Sure it’s loyalty. But it’s also suicide. These are dogs that will probably die by the side of their owner. Giving up on living.

And reading about people that’ll work 60 hours a week in horrible conditions, breathing in toxic fumes, living in cages. What motivates them?

It’s not an answer I really want to know, is it.

A clean home.

This evening, I invited a few friends over. I made the event a few weeks ago and neglected it, to be honest. Part of me didn’t even want people over, but I’ve been in a melancholy pit for the past couple of weeks, so I thought having people over would help. Even so, I procrastinated on cleaning, hoping they would all collectively flake on me. 

A half-hour nap later, I shook my boyfriend and got to cleaning. He did the bulk of the heavy lifting, I have to admit, but cleaning felt like sorting out the recesses of my confused and frustrated mind. I rushed in some spots, took way too much thoughtful consideration in other spots (the bathroom, always need to show the guests a neat and clean bathroom), and picked through clutter for meticulous sorting that made sense to me and only me.

Friends came and went, and good times were had. A few beers and a good long chat made for a lovely Sunday evening.

When I bid them goodbye, I turned to my living room. So fresh, maybe not as fresh as it could be, but homey and fairly neat. Lived in, but still vibrant and waiting for more memories to be made.

Tomorrow is Monday. I really thought it might be an oppressive force. Nowadays, I’m rather tired of introverted thinking, and a messy home would make me sad and hopeless, like it was too clear that I’m incapable of getting my life together. With the hallway clear and the junky stuffs shoved in a corner, now I know I’m just being melodramatic, and I’m ready to take on the week like any good upstanding citizen.

On writing, egos, and the rights of the individual.

After heavy internal debate, I’ve decided to write again.

I stopped regularly writing for at least 5 or 6 years, so considering this is somewhat of a personal milestone, I thought I’d lay out the reasons why I feel this change.

Putting aside that Emma has heavily guilt-tripped me over my own disregard for whatever mildly remarkable (wow, remarkable is such a strong word here, replace it with something more mundane, like a fresh paperback novel without bent edges) thoughts I happen to say out loud in her presence.. here’s what I’ve been thinking lately.

I now disagree with my previously perceived right to decide whether what I have to say is worth saying or reading. I’ve been abusing that right by simply not writing what I feel is not worthwhile for others to read, even future versions of myself. Other people may disagree, which already sounds arrogant to even think, but it’s more arrogant to make that decision on behalf of other people. So, I’ll just write whatever I am inclined to think, and let whatever comes of it exist without me being meddlesome.

I mean, as an art history major, it always annoyed me whenever artists burned past works. Historically speaking, those works are significant for gaining insight into the artist’s later works. I thought it was unfair, and not within the artist’s right to decide that. The artworks took on a life of their own, and other people who interacted with those artworks might’ve felt a personal connection of some kind, separate from the identity of the artist. To just destroy those works, crappy as they may be, could be some kind of cultural injustice and artistic dishonesty.

So now I write again.

Regarding memory and memories.

I hate writing, particularly of a personal nature regarding my own thoughts.

Writing for me feels like recording the tantrums of an indignant young bratty actress. I just want to word vomit all over this blank space and then hope against all that nobody read it or noticed it, especially myself.

The problem with writing, particularly typing online (which we seem to still call writing, even without the action of putting pen to paper, almost to make it sound more quaint than it really is), is that it’s so easy to just delete everything you just thought. Of course on paper there’s that same issue; you just cross it out and hope nobody tries to read through the scribbles over your uglier phrases.

Especially in this day and age of people being mindful of their careers and the leering eyes of nosy recruiters, it’s even more crucial to keep your thoughts to yourself. Goodness, the only people that seem to read your livejournal are the ones that you desperately want to keep out =P

It seems unfair though, for me to just not write all of my petty and insecure feelings. Yes, it is part of my agenda to grow old and gloss over my likely dull and utterly mundane life and recall only the most delectable parts of youth. 

For posterity, I really should fight against that.