"We’re all pretty bizarre. Some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all."

-The Breakfast Club

"And maybe I’m here, breathing in your lungs God
Walking down the capillaries of your creation"

last night,

dark, car-less road


chris tomlin

sudden urge

threw my arms up in the air

kept pedaling

didn’t fall, continuing breeze

sheer joy

Whenever I need reminding,

I listen to All Sons and Daughters. Reminder of mindblowing grace. mindblowing forgiveness. put me back in my place of humble-ness, humility. 

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It’s hard to genuinely smile and laugh here when you’re back in Korea alone. You take all the sacrifice, loneliness, long work hours to make things work out for us. How does that even make sense? You have so many hopes, dreams; you are so talented, full of knowledge. But you’re willing to wait. 5, 10, 15 years to make sure your daughters are secure first. I remember watching you walking down that railroad when the sun was setting. A strange, age-old feeling. A prance in your every step. Keeping your head up high and stepping through the aged wood, scuffing past the dirty rails. The old you was coming back right before my eyes, was so happy to have my dad back. Then I had to leave.

One valley after another

Diving is crap and you come to terms with how shattered your heart is
Broken relationships, spit-on images
Called me back to Boston
Called me to fully embrace my broken-ness
Called me to embrace the wounds and say to those I hurt, “I’m sorry”

Broken-ness has no longer become a surprise
A bugle call for joy and love to power through

Jesus loved the outcasts
He embraces them and cries with them
He calls us to do the same
These trials, so important
Open my eyes more, raw up my heart
Seeds cannot sprout without tears
Grow me
I want to be more like you

Look directly into that mirror
Into those puffy, swollen eyes
And say, “This too shall pass”

he shows up in the doorway
hollow and sunken
hair matted messy
a bruise on his cheekbone
where’ve you been
where are you now
stench of % ethanol
poise evaporated
clothes, pride
rumpled, crumpled
home, huh
i look up 
i cry out to you
"grow your actions to match the audacity of your words"

"I love watching the crazy of genius"

What Suffering Does
A tyranny of Silence

Reminds me of a time when I was sitting in the library and I got really sad all of a sudden. I took a glance at my surroundings. Everyone hunched over their papers and books. Screened walls barricading the spaces between people. Fingers kept busy with the plastic keyboard. So intent on what they are doing. So much immersed in what they are learning in their classes (or who knows, maybe everyone I saw was on facebook. people get pretty intense about facebook). All of a sudden I wondered, “what are they studying? what are they learning?” If they are investing so much time into it, they must care about what they are learning about at least a little bit right? It is so strange. We get the internship we’ve been fanning over for months and immediately announce it to the entire world on facebook. We get a sucky hall choosing number and mope about it, …on facebook. It doesn’t get much deeper than that. The creative processes and passions rolling in our brain don’t get channeled anywhere except onto an inanimate piece of white paper. For a college where we are so physically close to each other, we keep the pieces of our lives in compartmentalized boxes. It allows us to censor and edit ourselves to others. We only see sides of each other. We don’t see the full spectrum of flaws and bubbling, raw, thoughts and emotions. We become afraid to show mistakes, be mistakes, make mistakes. We don’t allow ourselves to let our boxes intermingle for fear of my oh my, what do we do when parts of our lives are not completely shoved into boxes? I realized I am becoming / became a part of this as well. These days I feel intellectually isolated from my peers. Conversation has boiled down to, “Hello,” “I have so much work,” “I am so stressed out about what to do this summer.” I am sad. I feel lifeless. It’s eating me alive - slowly but surely - whatever this thing is. I find myself falling into this “it,” isolating myself from others, being afraid to break down walls. Pretty powerful and damaging, this “it” is. Maya articulated her thoughts into eloquence I can only dream to achieve. She hit this “it” pretty hard on the head: ‘it’ is silence. 




Demo of Beat It composed using only Michael Jackson’s voice

As Jackson couldn’t fluently play any instruments, he would sing and beatbox out how he wanted his songs to sound by himself on tape, layering the vocals, harmonies and rhythm before having instrumentalists come in to complete the songs.

One of his engineers Robmix on how Jackson worked: “One morning MJ came in with a new song he had written overnight. We called in a guitar player, and Michael sang every note of every chord to him. “here’s the first chord first note, second note, third note. Here’s the second chord first note, second note, third note”, etc., etc. We then witnessed him giving the most heartfelt and profound vocal performance, live in the control room through an SM57. He would sing us an entire string arrangement, every part. Steve Porcaro once told me he witnessed MJ doing that with the string section in the room. Had it all in his head, harmony and everything. Not just little eight bar loop ideas. he would actually sing the entire arrangement into a micro-cassette recorder complete with stops and fills.”

Reasons why I laugh when people say he wasn’t a real musician.

Radiohead’s drummer just retweeted a link to you:

Congrats, babe. I feel famous by proxy now.


(Source: harrattanparhar)