Someone said that our character peaks between 20-30.

What we are during this time is probably what we will be - well yes, we will pick up different personality traits, weird eccentricities. But this is different from character.

Assuming this is true, I realize I can’t go around acting like an idiot anymore, for fear it’ll stick like that. It’s like what your mum would say when you made funny faces for the heck of trying them out - “be careful or your face will freeze like that.”

I have to find my face - one maybe that isn’t the sum of what I’ve read. Or, what am I saying? Maybe most definitely the sum of all I’ve read.

One thing is for sure, the book of my face isn’t going to help me find it. It’s been constantly suggesting I get the new timeline, give my life a narrative. I hear after a while it’ll just automatically change your settings to timeline - if this isn’t aggressive I don’t know what is. Why does facebook assume that everyone will want to remember their life in chronological order? We can’t live without forgetting. It’s when we forget to forget that it becomes a problem.

Anyways, I want to find my face. When I do I’ll brush it off, inspect it, examine it, confirm that this is what is good, stick it on my face with some substance, and hope it sticks.

http://news.discovery.com/earth/korean-dmz-teems-with-wildlife-120217.html#mkcpgn=rssnws1

It reminds us that these are imagined/political boundaries.

There are some people who don’t like Caller ID.

I love it.

Have you ever saved a phone number just for the sake of screening them? For example if the person’s name is John Smith, instead you save them as : don’t pick up. Sometimes I wish I could have Caller ID for my life, you know? Don’t you wish you could tell who was coming into your life, and whether or not you should screen them? When you meet someone something would flash:

Person A: jerk. Don’t pick up.

Or

Person B: will be a great friend, get to know better.

It’s a mean vision I know. And I don’t feel like this all the time. There’s value in working at a human relationship, I know this. Learning to get along with someone you don’t have a natural affinity to is hard, but rewarding. It’s part of growing up, becoming a mature person. But it doesn’t mean that we don’t have those days where we wish we could always and only talk to people that we like, people we get along with easily. There are some people who just bring out the worst in you. And you want to blame them, like it’s somehow their fault. But often it’s not. Often it’s my fault. Caller ID in life would mean that I never saw the hollow and empty bottom of my heart, my character. In a perfect environment of zero pressure, it’s easy to be a good person, to deceive yourself that you’re a good person. I get it. I see the necessity of having to live in reality, bumping into this person and that. It’s just that, it’s terrifying sometimes. To see me for who I am, who I can be, how much I can hate. You know, hate isn’t even the word. Hate is something. I am repelled at how indifferent I can be. Sometimes I just don’t care. And I want to tell them, from a place that I don’t want to admit exists inside me, ‘please just leave me alone. Please, graciously step out of my life. Stop making me see how much I can dislike you.’

This blog is becoming a weird confessional journal. This can’t be healthy, or very flattering.

disclaimer: This blog does not cite any references or sources. There are no sources in any real persons, living or dead. John Smith is a hypothetical concept.

Or, is he? haha.

For any Torontonians happening to s(tumbl)e on this - something to do this weekend: A collection of Chagall’s work is on exhibit at the AGO.

It was really worth seeing.

I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.