The Wind Rises: A Review

The moral of this story was very clear from the start when the film started rolling.

“The wind is rising! We must attempt to live!”

"Le vent se lève! Il faut tenter de vivre!”

— Paul Valéry, Le Cimetière Marin

This quote was repeated multiple times throughout the movie to emphasize its importance - by many characters who influenced the direction in which the wind blew. It was evident that this was going to be one of those quiet meaningful films Miyazaki Hayao was known less for. If you were a fan of his feature length animations like I am, you would have known it would be a very serious plot with  tragedies along the way. Unlike many of his past feature length animations based on historical events, this one focused solely around the main character - Jiro Horikoshi. Miyazaki tends to emphasize the importance of family and sticking together to accomplish their dreams, these sorts of morals more so than individual dreams. Surely he wanted to focus on the love of Jiro and Naoko. No. He did not. Instead, this story took the viewer to even deeper depths of emotion than his other films.

One of his last works before retirement, and I would say one of the most memorable films of his career. It wasn't the most creative or original plot. But his portrayal of this main character, whose eyesight was too poor to be able to pilot a plane, was ingenious to say the least. It was only a given fact that Miyazaki would take him to the depths of despair and make him rise to the height of the clouds throughout the film. The end was as delightful as it was a burdended sorrow. Naoko would pass away in the absence of Jiro. His role model Caproni appeared since the childhood dream of becoming an aeronautical engineer enveloped his mind. He showed him the horrors of his work and what would come as a result. His boss Kurokawa was a humorous man with a big heart whose presence drew out a chuckle with his overreaction and simplicity in expression of emotions. The audience kindled their hearts to him as he did to Jiro. His role was to be the missing parental figure he lacked in Jiro's immediate presence. Jiro's parents made very few impressions in the entirety of the film. Kurokawa was a more significant character as a father figure and Jiro's father was never seen at all. His mother was beautiful and elegant as the designs he came up with. His sister Kayo is an outspoken, strong, and independent woman whose sharp wit and generosity of heart reached out to Jiro and Naoko endlessly. Castorp, the German whose brief presence at the hotel questioned many, provoked Jiro enough to fill the void in his heart by approaching Naoko and pursuing her. Castorp was a mysterious foreigner who critiqued Hitler's regime and left much too suddenly. Honjo is a faithful friend to the end and an ever present reminder of Jiro's unfulfilled destiny. He challenges Jiro and they inspire each other to keep pursuing their career until they could finally succeed in designing their dream planes.

Naoko Satomi. She was destined to meet Jiro again from the way they parted near the beginning of the film. It was foreseen by the audience. For certain. Her role in this film would be that of a sacrificial lamb that gave her life to support a bigger dream of her husband's. He would continue to work and slave away even while she was sick and slowly journeyed to her deathbed alone. As tragic as this story seems, he rose above the wind and lived. He accomplished his goals and made his dream a reality through the desertion of his family and the love of his life. Some may look back on the comment made by Kurokawa in the cab when he stated that he thought Jiro would marry an airplane, and in some aspects, Jiro was more attached to designing planes than anything or anyone else. He neglects his health by eating sponge cake for dinner and constantly smoking. The only constant in his life from his childhood remains until the end, his dream of designing airplanes.

Ultimately, he succeeds in designing the perfect plane. Caproni congratulates him and invites him for wine - but not before relaying the message that planes are only dreams and will get lost in the sky where they belong, along with Naoko. This tragedy is bittersweet because Jiro is finally free of the burden of accomplishment and success. All the hopes of his supporters are met with grandeur. In a sense, Naoko is buried under the blueprints of his plane's designs. Her support and love gets Jiro the fuel he needs to soar above the clouds. As much as he needs her, he is painfully selfish in coming to his own conclusion as an aeronautical engineer and seeing his plans come to life as another passes on.

My final thoughts on this film linger between misery and happiness. As Jiro would feel, the loss of his love and the gain of his successful career. It is a complex feeling that induces much thought even after the credits have rolled and keeps me looking back to analyze his actions. The story has ended but the film leaves much thought to the viewer as unresolved murder scenes would to detectives and forensic scientists.

Dreaming of Another Dimension

It wasn't so long ago that I had dreams of food. Those of you that know me to the core know that I have an ever longing passion for food that cannot be denied. Just a dream earlier, I was infuriated by people hiding my food and I accused my boyfriend of stealing it. Then it turned out one of my friends had hidden my delicious steaming bowl of katsudon so I gave him the full Hanna Lee wrath that is inevitable when it comes to the obsession of food. I accused my boyfriend because he'd already downed two whole plates of donkatsu and we were at a quaint Japanese diner. They only served the most delicious meals there. Obviously I would get mad for someone stealing my food. Or worse, not even appreciating the flavour combination that is the infamous katsudon and denying me the same pleasure. So what was my dream actually about? Why does it involve a different dimension? You'll see.

It wasn't quite evening yet. The sun was still up and I was walking around my bedroom with my huge walk-in closet and the obscurely large beautiful bed was just the sight anyone would want to see before falling asleep to the most peaceful and beautiful slumber. Then, I heard gun shots. See, this is the part I know is a dream since I live in a fairly large room but my closet has not enough space and never will have enough space because I tend to buy a new outfit ever so often, thinking I need it. But the truth is, I have enough clothes (including underwear) to not do my laundry for at least 2 months, considering I would change every single day into a different outfit. So, when I heard gun shots, I did what anyone would do and ducked out of sight and peered into my windows. Then I heard someone climbing a ladder. Don't ask me how I hear people climbing ladders, I just did. This is a dream after all. Our family mansion was being invaded. By several robbers? A horde? I wasn't sure. So I stayed out of sight and looked outside the window of my closet. Yeah, I know - it's a dream closet complete with windows! Through the windows came barging in a handsome fellow. He looked like Taylor Kitsch. Although I don't personally fancy him, so I really have no clue why I would have him appear in my dream.

He's got quite the physique and the utmost pleasing of appearances, I know, but don't be fooled. He was leading an alien army into my family mansion. Just then, when he came in, I decided to do what would result in a sickness. I tried to seduce the man to make time for my family's escape. By this time, I had shouted loudly to the members of my family that someone was going to rob us and maybe kill us, so it would be wise to hide. Taylor Kitsch walked up to me with a gun and pointed it at me. I don't recall what he sounded like or what he said. I was blinded by fear. Then, ever so slightly, I hugged him and said something along the lines of, "Why don't we enjoy ourselves a little? You've got me at gunpoint. I'm not going anywhere." So I led him to my bed and sat on top of him. Yes, there was definitely no nudity because as soon as I started to kiss him, I threw up on him. Ergo the aforementioned sickness. He was utterly shocked and disgusted that I had thrown up all over him. He shoved me off, muttered something negligent, and left my bedroom. Well, that was easy, I thought to myself. I'm free of him, at least.

As I made my way along the corridors of my family's mansion, I looked for my brothers. I did not see them or their dead bodies. It was going well, or so I hoped. Then came in the aliens. I did not see them closely, only shadows because I hid behind something. Alas the futuristic creatures have revealed themselves. My dad is a pastor/reverend in real life, so in this dream, I had no idea what they could possibly want with my family or these worldly possessions. Perhaps they wanted something else? Perhaps I could negotiate with them? I had all these thoughts inside my head, brewing for answers and escape.

All of a sudden, I was swarmed by special forces sent by the government to assist in our survival. They were trying to send me somewhere safe through a vortex. They shot a gun and it created a vortex on someone's body and we had to leap through it to get to the otherside. As bizarre as it sounds, it was quite realistic in my dream. So I climbed in and the officer beside the commanding officer (or so it seemed) climbed in with me and away we were swirling into this man's gut - through to another dimension. Taylor Kitsch appeared again, and found scissors somehow. This vortex could not be sealed, so the commanding officer was trying to sew up the man's gut and by doing so, he would deliver us from the handsome evil that was Taylor Kitsch and his horde of aliens. He gnawed away at the thread and ripped it open. I leapt out of the vortex and trying to be the heroine again, fought him for the scissors. I feared being stabbed. But right then, the scissors split in two and I grabbed the other end and as fast as I could and as hard as I could, I stabbed him in the gut.

The blade of the scissors were quite long and I could no longer see the metal. Only the plastic of the handle could be seen. At this moment, the officers seized him and the aliens disappeared. I saved our family! We were free at last! I was rejoicing at our battle with outer dimensional creatures and ran all the way down the corridors to the escalators and started to descend multiple levels and finally reached the basement. I walked past the media room with thousands of books and movies and televisions into the kitchen. My brothers and my mother were standing around the long dining table discussing the events that had occurred within the past few hours. My mother was suggesting dinner options. It was only dinner time? It had seemed like an entire day had gone by. My mother kept urging me to go find my father so off I went, up the stairs where I could see the rack of bicycles on the wall, all the way up to the ceiling. Of course our ceiling was sky high, considering it was a mansion. But something was off. The bicycles stopped a third way up. They were missing. I sensed tension in my stomach as I kept climbing up the stairs. There they were. Two female aliens laughing and chatting away over glasses of wine. I was mortified. They glanced at me and continued chatting. I ran back down the stairs and informed my mother and brothers that there were remaining aliens looming about the mansion. Just then, the aliens walked down with laser guns that were the size of Super Soakers. Then they shot my family, one member at a time. I could only hear the sound of my screams as I ran off, tears running down the sides of my cheeks. I ran past our maids and remaining special forces officers. They were lurking around a hidden bathroom. I rushed past them. The door of this hidden bathroom were like those of my own closet. They slid like wall dividers. The magnet at the end snapped shut and I sighed with relief as I tried to shake of my fear. I pulled the string to give myself light. Then I heard them approaching. The aliens. I quickly shut off the light by pulling the string once again. A collapse was seen through shadows beneath my feet. I manouvered my feet ever so slightly to avoid them seeing my shadows. The door was not long enough to cover my feet and I could not risk them finding me. The tension crept up to my stomach and up to my face. I was dead meat in no time, I thought. What surprised me was not my death, but how many of them had sprung up out of nowhere. There were lines of them, an entire army of them marching along my lovely decorated basement. Their shadows marched one by one to the stairs. I froze my eyes shut. Majority of them had gone by already. Maybe I would survive. But I would be a lone survivor out of my family. I had no more hope. No will to live - there was no one to live for. Then I made eye contact. They had changed appearances and now looked human. A primped up human with their blown up voluminous hair and doll eyes, complete with the beautiful long lashes. She sneered as she shot. I felt no pain. I raised my middle finger at her and she called to her comrades as I died. She shot my middle finger multiple times as I drew my dying breath. Then all was black.

And I awoke in my room, staring at the ceiling, and at my sliding door closet. All was well again. My family was not massacred and we did not live in a mansion, but we were living and sound asleep.

A Conversation with Mohamed

It was a cold and dark night when I stepped outside of the apartment building in which I spent majority of the evening at. Niell Wycik, it read on the side of the building. I started dragging my feet across the pavement. It felt sore and cramped inside the leather boots but good at the same time. The click clacking of the heels cleared the thoughts inside my head. As I ran over the occurrences of the night, a yellow cab pulled up in front of me. The cab driver motioned for me to hop inside. I obliged.

"Where are you headed?" He asked, bright and chipper as can be. He looked me up and down and assumed I lived around the block. Scantily clad in fishnet stockings and thigh high leather boots with Minnie Mouse ears atop my head, he could tell I had a good night of partying. Quickly closing the door shut behind me, I asked for a flat rate to Yonge and Finch. "How much do you want to pay?" I counter inquired, "How much is the lowest rate you can give me?" He said nothing so I stated "Thirty dollars." He pondered for a brief moment and said, "For you, thirty-five dollars!" and held out his right hand. Firmly taking his coarsely chaffed hand in mine, I said, "Deal." He then took my hand and kissed it. And with that, we ventured forth into the unknown journey that is the most memorable cab ride of my life.

As we departed the intersection of Gerrard and Jarvis, he inquired what nationality I was part of. I stated I was Korean. He said I don't sound like I'm Korean. He asked if I spoke Korean. To that I remarked, many Koreans are very proud of their nationality and keep their heritage strong. "I speak, read, and write Korean fluently. I came to Canada when I was 11. It's funny because a lot of Koreans you face in Toronto tend to neglect the heritage that is Canadian and refuse to speak English. They maintain their sole heritage as Korean and refuse to adapt this culture as part of their new heritage." He drove thoughtfully. I asked where he came from. He stated Bangladesh. Then asked what I do for a living. I started to explain the line of work I was involved in. "I work for an iPhone application company." He replied to that statement with this. "You mean an application company that develops applications compatible to iPhones. You don't actually develop apps for iPhones because they have their own developers that come up with default applications already installed on the iPhone, like iTunes. You probably develop apps that are compatible for the iPhone, like Pizza Pizza and their order and delivery service." I did not understand what he was saying until he repeated it the second time around. I laughed. He was an intellectual who was interested in more than just money. I could tell he wanted an engaging conversation. "Ironically enough, Apple applications are not the most popular applications on the app store. They often receive terrible reviews due to the fact that they are not designed and developed with various users in mind. People complain they do nothing but drain their battery lifespan over the usage history." He said he understood their pain. "You open many applications running and your phone dies within half an hour." I laughed again and said, "Maybe if you had thirty different applications running simultaneously, yeah." "Are you the owner of your company?" "No," I said, laughing, "I work for someone else." "Well, you seem very knowledgeable about your work. You are very smart. Are you sure you don't own that application company?" "No, I'm merely the editorial manager. I only get to decide what we put out on the application, I don't develop or design." He seemed satisfied with that response.

The conversation was starting to get a little more interesting. I decided to divert his attention. I asked him what he did in Bangladesh before he came to Canada. "I was a journalism major. I mostly did editorials for international affairs." This immediately sparked my interest. "I have a question for you then. What is your opinion on how news is portrayed through the media? If you've worked in media, you know enough about the politics  and the bias that goes behind the scenes of every news story, right? I know a lot of broadcasting companies have their own political views and opinions. Does that always shine through or can you actually state what you think and know is happening?" He looked greatly amused. His eyes twinkled with further knowledge and wisdom I did not know of and I was curious to know more.

"What is your name?" "Hanna." "Well, Hanna, it is funny you should ask that. If you work for a media company, you are bound to make revenues through advertisements. These investors have their opinions and political parties they support. They get to decide what content is published and produced according to their wants and needs, so really, no media company is independent if they want to make revenues." Aha, I thought. Great insight that reaffirms my beliefs about the mass media biasing the content that is ingested every second by the world! "How do you make revenues on the application? How does the business stay afloat?" "We also run advertisements on the application. That in turn generates revenues for us." "See? Advertisements."

At this point I haggled him to drop me off at my apartment for $5 more on the agreed price. He accepted and continued to give me his two cents on the world of broadcasting media. "Say I wanted to publish or broadcast something: I met Hanna, a Korean who immigrated to Canada when she was 11 years old. In order for me to get this story out, I need 2 viable sources." "ONLY TWO?!" "Yes, two credible sources is all you need. For example, I will ask someone from the Korean embassy to confirm the information I recorded with the intention of broadcasting. I told you I would record this conversation and broadcast it, you agreed, and now I am confirming these facts you have told me are true. If they tell me that this story is false, I will then need two more sources that confirm that this story is false." I was really giddy with pleasure from having such an unexpectedly pleasant conversation with this spectacular taxi driver. "You, Hanna, supplied these facts to me, Mohamed, and I decide to make sure this information is true. Let's say one day you become a celebrity. You tell the media that you were poor and grew up having nothing when in actuality you grew up wealthy and lived comfortably all your life. I go to your family and they tell me the story you gave me is false. Now I've got a different story than the one I started with."

We had already arrived in front of my building and I was wishing I lived further away so this conversation could continue. I smiled at him and handed him three bills. He looked confused. "We agreed on $40. You gave me more." "Yes, the rest is your tip. Thank you for your insight and thank you for the ride." As we were saying our goodbyes, he took my hand, shook it and kissed it again. "Thank you. You have a good night and I will see you around." And thus concluded the amazing conversation I could never forget with two strangers in a foreign land.

A Soliloquy in the Form of a Typed Letter

I don't fall in love easily but when I do, it's with a ferocious fervor and passion I would never risk unless I knew it would be accepted. I tiptoe around potential questions waiting to be asked, for fear of rejection and unexpected outcomes I can never predict. I dig deeper into darkness when I lose my footing because it always feels like I can't get to my final destination like everyone else... Or so it seems. I feel powerful and in control when I get to be your utmost priority and appreciated when I'm not "just a girl you know." It disheartens me to learn of past lovers and stories of painful childhood. I relinquish in molten pleasure at the slightest hint of your smile. I feel loved when I can feel an emotional and intellectual connection through our words and whispers, not the entangled heap of bodies. It is far more significant to me to find out that you know how to speak another language and adore children, than to know how to play any instrument with mediocrity. I like cheesy lines that describe the beauty of my personality more than a gory dirty text message in the middle of the night. I feel loved when I wake up to find hand-written notes in code that only you and I could understand. I squeal with pleasure when you praise my cooking more than a smoldering stare at my naked body. I find you more sexy when you know how to incorporate food terms into a sentence with grace than a six pack down your abdomen. I am truly mesmerized by your wit and charm over your chiseled jaw line. I appreciate good manners and love that you would give your seat to an elderly woman or pregnant mother-to-be on public transportation. I liven up at the sound of popping corns and prefer my food bland. I love to watch movies and cry alone watching sad chick flicks, only to wish someone were there to hug me tightly until I stop crying. I feel loved when you stick around long enough to dry out my tears with laughter and kiss them away. I feel alone when I am neglected over a video game or a good sports game. I'm not a fan of games but I'm always willing to accept a challenge of Scrabble and will be more than satisfied by your depth of vocabulary over the size of your penis. I take words seriously and sometimes over analyze situations more than I would like to admit. But if you're willing to stick up for me when my best friend calls me a bitch, I'm game for a night out and maybe something more than just wine and cheese. I enjoy walking mindlessly for hours on end and will continue talking about something animatedly until you stop me, especially with topics like shoes, Star Wars, and food. My favourite reason for having someone around is to feel loved and it never fails to make me laugh when you smile at me with a mischievous twinkle in your eye. I'll lay down my life in a heartbeat if it meant my family or best friend would get to live, and I despise being lied to. Once you get me fuming mad, I like to be alone until I start feeling bad on my own. I will never leave you unless you deserve it, and I won't back down from a fight if it means keeping my food over my dignity. I love to eat while worrying about watching my figure, but you would be wise not to comment on my weight gain during strenuous periods of stress. I get stressed easily when it comes to the care of others, and I'll love you forever if my family loves you too. These are all the things I can say about myself, I don't like to lie or boast about accomplishments, unless I ate something incredibly delicious. I love to share, but if you eat my ice cream without warning, I will physically get violent without warning. Now that you have been warned, are you still up for the challenge?

Sincerely, Hanna Lee.

P.S. I will most likely find something to buy every month or every excuse of a holiday. You should stop me while you can and don't buy me flowers because I really think they are the most impractical gifts your could get a woman, unless you planted a whole garden just for my sake.

P.P.S. My favourite desserts are ice cream, cheese cake, waffles, and I will never say no to chicken.

P.P.P.S. I love it when someone leaves me a long voicemail if I don't pick up calls. I really enjoy writing down everything that sounds remotely important in lectures of any kind, and will smile proudly at you for praising my penmanship.

P.P.P.P.S. I love receiving hand written letters as much as I send them through the postal service! And when in doubt, always buy me shoes. I can never have too many. It is always a yes.

An Immigration Story: Part VIII

There were many people I befriended in middle school, some of whom I no longer associate myself with. There was a time, however, when I was in a very odd stage of losing my heritage. I only listened to western music (meaning pop, hip-hop, R&B, rock, etc.) and never even considered listening to Korean music whatsoever. I scoffed at those who had just come from Korea; we called them FOB’s (fresh off the boat) and teased them endlessly. I had become so attached to Canadian culture that I lost my Korean heritage. I rarely spoke Korean at home, only to my parents, and let’s face it: who speaks to their parents for more than five minutes when you’re thirteen? It was evident that my literacy in Korean was slowly fading away. This was not known to me at the time, but it did eventually dawn on me that I wrote my thoughts down on paper, in English. I needed an improvement, but I had no Korean friends apart from a few who I was not very close to at the time. I did not have a large interest in their group of Korean friends that seemed to be laughing at things I found highly idiotic. I was a snob to those who spoke my first language and had no interest in my culture.

My non-Korean friends, which consisted of 95% of the friends I had, laughed at the Korean FOB’s with me and we had a grand time being exclusive. We had the world at our feet and we were going through puberty – we were invincible. I had a lot of trouble with my parents at home because I rarely came out of my room and tended to blast “loud and disgusting music” they could not bear listening to. My brothers always walked into my room and read my very personal journals and made fun of me, took things without asking, and made my life a living hell. My older brother tended to have a revolution against my dad from time to time, and my younger brother followed without questioning his reason. I suffered in the middle because I had no reason to rebel against my dad. Sure, we had our differences, but I was willing to accept that and move forward with my life. It wasn’t a rare occasion my dad would become extremely sensitive about our behaviour (some could even say he was irritated by our presence at times) and throw a rather violent temper tantrum. He was quite the dramatic male and my brothers and I were constant victims of the release of his frustration at the world. But it had become common, and if anything, his anger management issues were decreasing with each year.

An Immigration Story: Part VII

Due to unfortunate circumstances, I now have to move my immigration story to my personal blog... I hope those of you that have been following my story to continue, although it may not seem as official (since it's no longer on the Law Firm's website). Thanks for reading! :)

The second mishap consisted of a girl named Stacey. She was a very mature looking black girl that got in trouble for small things every day. She liked to bother people in class, especially the quiet kids. She was definitely interested in me, because I was a new student and I was fairly quiet for the first couple of days. She picked on me and took my pencils and pens without asking and just smiled coyly when I was looking at her, astounded there was such a person who dared to take things without asking, in Canada! She was really just a bully that nobody really liked, and she wanted attention from the class. She liked to sing Alicia Keys’ and Beyonce’s songs aloud, and when I laughed at her for being silly, her face turned very somber. She would ask me what was so funny about her singing. I responded I have never heard that song before, so she would go back to singing her songs, because I didn’t know what songs she was singing anyways. She wasn’t the only black person in class, but she was the only mean black girl in class. She wouldn’t listen to anybody when they told her to stop being silly and behave herself, she wouldn’t pay attention to the teachers when they would talk to her in private, and she never listened to me when I would ask kindly for her to return whatever she took from me. I was quite angry one time and I marched right up to her to say, “Give me back my pen! It’s not yours and I didn’t give you permission to use it!” She looked at me curiously and smiled, cockily. She laughed by herself for a bit, and to my surprise, she returned my pen. I said thank you and returned to my seat. She kept staring at me for the rest of the class and I had a feeling she was beginning to like me. Surely she knew better than to assume I would become good friends with her, after harassing me so many times like that. But she did like me, and after that, she never touched my things. She started to yell at me from across the hall saying hi, and patting me on the back (pretty hard, too!) with her abnormal strength. She was an amusing person that did not know how to interact with others if she wanted to become their friend. She was so used to bullying everybody, it was hard for her to fit in as a normal girl. I did not help her, but she did stay out of trouble for a while. I’ll never know if that were due to me standing up to her or something that changed inside her. Either way, Stacey was never amongst the best of my friends, but I accepted her for who she was: a coy girl who really just wanted acceptance from her classmates through means of bullying and harassing others.

IN LOVE or just LOVE?

I've been in love before... My first real love ended in a heart break and since then, I've had to wallow over him for a long while, let myself heal, and love again...

I've been in and out of blissful love... But there comes a time in your love life when you wonder, is this what I want in a relationship? Is it really? I don't know. I'm unsure of myself and everything about my relationship, and it just gets harder and harder to focus on him. I have come to that stage at this moment. I have been stuck in this stage of my relationship for a long time. It's a loop hole that I cannot escape from, and it suffocates me from the inside...

I've thrown tantrums, I've been frustrated, I've been HULK angry, I've been caring, I've been loving, I've been kind, I've been everything you could ask for in a girlfriend and more. Sometimes. But it's not enough sometimes. Sometimes, you want something different. Or you think you do. But do you actually want what you think you do? And there you are again, back to the loop hole that got you wondering in the first place.

I've been faithful. I've considered options. I've cheated. I've renewed my faith each time, and yet, I cannot make myself happy. What will I do next? This is a question of the heart, yet the brain will not cease to think. But does my head not follow my heart? If so, why not? These questions forever linger, unanswered. It's not abnormal to feel in such a way. It's perfectly normal, as a matter of fact, to feel unsure. It only means you care enough about yourself and your future to consider other options. The what if's of your past.

Trust yourself. Go with it. Listen to your heart. Or your head, whatever will make you feel better about being in a relationship.

I used to talk nonstop about my boyfriend. Now? Not so much. What is the significance in talking about the person you have already talked enough about for the first year? Does that mean you love him any less? Maybe. Does that mean you've fallen out of love? Maybe. Does that mean you are still in love with him? I don't know... "I just don't know" seems to be the answer to every question in relation to my relationship. When I do find the answer, I hope it will place my heart in the right person's hand...

Painful Breakups

I've gone through a friendship breakup that was quite severe in high school.

I almost experienced something similar yesterday. When you have a really bad friendship breakup, the pain you feel is... Dull. When you get torn up and hurt physically, you get a rush of adrenaline released from your body to numb the pain. Afterwards, you don't feel anything. Until the adrenaline rush dies down and you feel the most unbearable pain there is. It's the worst kind of pain, and I cannot emphasize on how much it tore my heart to pieces the first time I went through it. I honestly think it was worse than the breakup with my ex-boyfriend. That was horrible for me, but this? It cannot even compare to the absurdity of the amount of pain you feel. It's indescribable how much it hurts inside. Thinking about losing my best friend, I could even drive myself to be so depressed, I could commit suicide. That's how extreme it is. That's how much it hurts for me.

Friends, for me, don't come easily. They should be precious to you, irreplaceable, and you should always feel a nice, fuzzy, warmth when you think of your best friend. I believe friendship is a different type of love: it is sometimes better than the love you have for your partner. The bond between friends can surpass the bond between lovers, because you tend to tell your deepest and darkest secrets to your friends. Of course you'd tell your lover all the complaints you have about your best friend, but that, my friends, is nothing compared to how much we talk behind our partners. It is hilarious to weigh the goods and bads of boyfriends over goods and bads of best friends. There's a common saying that goes like, "bros before ho's"... It is very true in most cases, at least for me.

Undergoing a breakup with a best friend leaves the greatest remorse and regret. You always think, what if you did things differently? What if you tried harder to make them feel closer to you? So many 'what if's' go through your mind, and at the end, you just have to ask yourself, did you try your best to be their best friend? If the answer is yes, you have nothing to lose. It's the same as any other relationship. You have to give it your all to receive their all, and if that doesn't happen, relationships often falter and ultimately fail. So, to whom does the victory go? Well, whoever tried their best. Their ultimate best - to make sure their best friend feels comfortable, to make sure they are healthy, to make sure they are content with their life and its goals.

Power to you who managed to keep a best friend around for at least ten years. Sure, you might have had major fights and arguments in between, but they help build your relationship even further. Knowing what the other person is upset about you, will help you become a better person. If you want advice from anybody, turn to your best friend. They will give you the best advice that best suits your needs, your personality, and your surroundings. If they don't know you that well, then regrettably, they really aren't your best friends. They sometimes know your potential to be a better person and help you move forward, even when you doubt yourself.

In conclusion, don't ever falter. Don't lose your best friends. Don't give up on them, especially when you're unstable, because you'll realize sooner or later, you need them more than they need you at times. But they'll put up with you for whatever it is worth. Because they're your best friends. Love them, care for them, miss them when they aren't there, and treasure them. That's the only way you'll receive their love too.

I love you, my darling best friends - you better know who you are! J'adore vous <3

You are the BEST friends a girl could ever ask for!

POEMS GALORE! (Part 2)

This piece is called "The Rose." It's a poem inspired by the flower which symbolizes love (when red lol). It's something I wrote in a hurry back in high school, but it does get the message of tender affection across, in my opinion. Please enjoy! :)

The Rose

How could something so delicate be so deadly?

How can something so beautiful be so hurtful?

You give me so much pleasure but bring so much pain.

You numb me with your astounding beauty.

How could one flower put so many smiles on peoples’ faces?

How can a rose mean giving away your heart?

You make me feel invincible and yet completely worthless.

Undeserving of such intricate, utter perfection!

How could I show you the amount of love I have for you?

The one true desire and the sole purpose of life?

I’ll give you a rose – the sweetest,

Most fragrant, and flawless one I could find.

You’re my everything and more – I dedicate this rose to you.

POEMS GALORE! (Part 1)

So... I have a guilty pleasure and it's called bleeding emotions into words, aka writing! It helps me release anguish, stress, happiness, guilt, anything I feel can be carried onto paper. This is the magic of words, and I have a collection of poems I've been writing since... Oh I don't know, YEARS before I came to Canada but I wanted to share those I have written in English :) Yay! These are essentially raw emotions converted into words that popped into my head in order to describe, for lack of a better word, my emotions at the time. I guess you could call it transcribing emotions into words! It's definitely unedited so viewers can experience the raw edge and feel of the poetry. Please feel free to comment! I'm all ears! To start off, I'll introduce one of my earliest works: it's a poem of love. Most of my poetry is of love, but this one... It meant a lot to me because of a dear friend I no longer have. It was inspired by our friendship, although this poetry is about love. I tend to think of friendship and love in similar terms because they are both intimate relationships between two people. It's very common to mistake these relationships, but why should you differentiate? They are just different types of love you have for people. Think of the people you love in your life as cherished moments in life, since time does not wait - but at the same time, emotions and feelings want to linger. It might not make sense, these words, but I hope they ring true in your heart. Without further ado, here's "My Everything":


I’m sorry you had to go through so much.

I’m sorry you had to suffer...

I hope you forget.

I hope you get over it.

But even if you don’t,

And even if you can’t be mine,

I’ll still be here for you,

‘Cause I’ll love you forever.

I’ll wait forever,

Just to get your love.

You’re worth forever,

‘Cause you’re my reason to live.

…You’re my everything.