To say it is not so would be an honest lie, we humans are imperfect. [I must make a disclaimer before continuing though: for me to state that humans are imperfect does not denote that it is to my belief that humans are inherently flawed. That would be a false statement. To my belief humans are born naturally good, however as we mature we become only characteristically good because of the causal – our environment.] It is the imperfection in all of us that make me ponder…

why in all of our imperfections do we set such high expectations that are often times astray from our own measured perfection?

And why have we vowed to change someone so that they may be absolute in the mold we have created? I think it is rather selfish of us for wanting to do so. Giving someone the notion of a remodification of the self can only be understood by the individual as being subordinate to the autocratic propagandist suggesting the change. Liberally allow those that do need changing to do the changing themselves, and in doing so, you are freeing them of your expectations. By preference, rather than suggesting change to someone for whatever it is that you feel they are without, be inviting of the traits and quirks that friends possess that make them who they are and most importantly, support whoever they wish to become in the future. Those intoxicating expectations (intoxication for both parties) we set for others is only a defense mechanism that only weakens us because of its distance from reality. To truly care for someone is to look pass those flaws and to truly care for yourself is to let go of that exacerbating vanity. If we cannot intrinsically accept our own imperfections, and the imperfections of others, what then can we resort to? Genetic selection?

Traveling

A few months ago, I was seeing a guy whom I could share all my aspirations with. I grew up with him so it was not quite unusual for him to hear me spasm at undetermined moments about places I wanted to go to in the near future, or things I wanted to accomplish. One late night studying for exams, I came up with “the most genius idea” I had ever thought of and I wanted to share that with someone. I picked up my phone knowing that it was three in the morning, called him and told him, “I want to collect 192 jars of dirt!” He replied with that being the most random, and strangest of ideas he had ever heard of – but he listened and did not laugh.

By 192 jars of dirt, I meant one hundred and ninety-two jars filled with dirt from one hundred and ninety-two countries of the world. Blame the United Nations for that number. Realistically, 192 is an “irrational” number, thus I will amend that and say as many countries as possible. Dreams are often laughed at and I ensure you, if you are laughing that you are indeed neither the first nor last. For that I blame reality. I say, let’s start filling up some jars…

My close friend and I are planning a backpacking trip to South America next spring. We plan on starting our trip in Bogota, Colombia and walk our way down [or ride a chicken bus] to Ecuador, and finish our trip in Machu Picchu, Peru. We had originally planned to go to Venezuela and Bolivia (cheapest country in South America) also, but time and money has put a restrain on those travels. Another friend plans to tag along with us and if you are interested, do let me know. In this case, but not in all, the more will be the merrier!

Harvard announced that WorldMUN is going to be taken place in Taipei, Taiwan in the spring. I hope to go, but let's see how SRMUN works out first!

Study Abroad plans have been pushed back.

Side note: I cannot say I want to transfer out of Charlotte anymore. The expense is low which will allow me to put more money into traveling which is what I truly want to do. So screw being a conventional college student?

I rouse on the scrawny shoulder of a restless soul
Loud was the sound of his hastening heart
And his burdensome breathing that struck my curiosity
Were the thoughts that were dotting his mind as heavy as his breathing?
Were the dreams that were caressing his genius of reciprocal ambitions, or
Were they of future daunting tasks or of dissatisfactory pasts?
Like gypsies, does his mind prowl the pleasures of life without planning the pursuits?
Does his wearisome heart? Does his searching soul?
Far from wordlessly, I lay hushed beside him, wrapped in his fainted arms
Was this the admiration I had once asked for?

To which heart am I cheating when I say that emptiness still lies?
That the quanta of expectations are not nearly met?
Then what is it that I am lingering for? That I yearn for?
Am I that gypsy whose mind is confused?
Whose paths are mazes and undefined?
My longing to stay swathed in his arms is neither unwelcome, nor invited
Who is then to say who has the nomadic mind?

I moved my head and glazed at what I thought was my disappointment
He opened his eyes, and slowly graced my face with his hand
As if he was making some sort of anthropological observation over
The areal clash of my freckles, wrinkles and molds that made its existence
Or coexistence for that matter
His hand was as rough as the many foreign grounds he’d traveled upon
But so soft was his comfort and so gentle were his kisses
So truthful and so abundant were his embraces
But worrisome was I as to not be of just convenience

I cannot restrain myself from asking if I was to be only a detour in his travel
Or lesser, one of multiple detours in his soul search
And to where would his compass lead him next?
To what language? To what law and to whose bed?
To whom would my heart laid rest with then?
Such should not be the question of a nomadic mind