Returning To My Soul-Self and Gratitude To My Loved Ones
Thank you to my partner and my good friends. Thank you to myself. Thank you to the Universe and Nature. O Virtus Sapientiae. The Light is Here.
I decided to not proofread this piece of writing for two reasons. The first is that it is currently eight in the morning and I have not slept. The second is that I want this piece to be raw, unfiltered, and vulnerable. So even though I usually spend some time polishing my writing after the initial draft, I will not do that here. This is me at my rawest.
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Five years ago, I stumbled across an antiphon called O Virtus Sapientiae. It was composed by Hildegard of Bingen in the 12th century, somewhere between 1140 - 1180. Hildegard was a German abbess, writer, composer, mystic, philosopher, and healer. Ever since she was young, she had received numerous visions that she hesitated to record due to the startling nature of both the visions and her ability to receive them. At the time, Europe was dominated by men who claimed to worship God, but were really just aiming to replace the Divine.
The world has not changed much since then.
In the summer of 2019, I was taking one of my first college classes online. It was called Western Music History. A large part of the curriculum involved listening to Western music from various time periods. From the monophonic Gregorian chants to the polyphonic Renaissance ensembles to the fugues of the Baroque to the sonatas of the Classical. I listened to them all. It was during this time that I discovered Hildegard of Bingen and her antiphon, O Virtus Sapientiae. The Latin translates to: O, Strength of Wisdom.
At the time, I was seventeen, but I felt more ancient than the earliest humans. A large part of it is because my soul is more than two thousand years old. Another part of it was that I had felt so tired. Utterly exhausted at having to fend off low blows from a man who was physically nearly four times my age, yet his behavior showed a complete lack of emotional maturity and empathy.
My mother was afraid to stand up to him due to her own wounds, which were opened by her own mother whose hideous transgressions were not unlike her husband’s. She yielded to his every whim, and his pathetic ego felt validated every time she let him get away with his foul tactics.
I was unlike my mother. I fought back against his every nonsensical demand. I fought hard to keep my body intact, in one piece, unsullied and unbroken. But I cannot say that I emerged unscathed.
Trapped in that rural small town with no driver’s license, I had no way of creating physical distance between that devourer and my soul. So in the meantime, I worked harder than every single person around me to break free from that torture chamber.
I fell behind one semester in high school during freshman year. It was 2017. I had to withdraw right before my birthday so I could return to China and heal. To recover from the night when that man had attacked me in an attempt to rip up the notebooks that I used to record my own visions of other worlds. I saved my notebooks, and I saved myself. But that night did murder my faith in other people, especially those who currently inhabit this planet, the ones who think themselves above the Light, above the Universe, above the True Order of Nature.
In the Summer of 2017, I had thought that I would never again return to that desolate small town. Joy illuminated my veins, and stars gleamed in between my ribs. My mother did not bother me when I scribbled the stories of those other worlds onto my notebooks. All day. Every day.
I love these stories and the people who give me these stories. It is their life stories. They were my only friends for a very long time. And I want nothing more than to just spend my years with them, writing everything down and getting to know them.
I love them.
With them, I remember that love is real.
But when I found myself back in that small town in October 2017, I swore that I would not be buried there. Fueled by determination that often veered into the territory of desperation, I doubled my high school course load. The people around me only took four classes, which dropped to three or two, sometimes to even just one, as the years passed. I took five classes every semester, and two classes every summer. With the main courses finished for high school, I took college classes while knocking out those high school electives.
Despite initially falling behind, by the time graduation came in June 2020, I finished all my high school classes and my first year in college.
I worked hard because I needed a way out. I needed to get to safety so I could write the stories, undisturbed and unbothered. I needed to write the stories, or I would die. But with high school finished, a new challenge presented itself to me.
Money.
I was barred from working because that man said that he wanted me to study. And to be honest, I did not want to work. At least, not in the way that work has become in this century. A soulless nine-to-five where you murder your own innocence in exchange for food, and after being fed, you murder your children until they become soulless just like you. And the cycle repeats.
I knew that I did not come to this world to become an indentured servant, blindly following the baton of a puppeteer who does not deserve my time and energy.
But I needed to eat.
I did not know how to grow my own food. So the easiest way was to earn money. When several people around me said that publication could give me money to buy food and I could keep writing for the rest of my life, I decided to pursue publishing so I could keep writing.
In retrospect, I have learned that if you pursued apples as a means to obtain watermelons, then you never wanted the apple.
You just want the watermelon.
And the writing is all I need.
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The Dream I Once Had
In March 2020, right before the pandemic struck, I was enrolled in a Public Speaking course at my local community college. My history professor at the time had recommended for me to take that course, so I did.
My history professor is a very kind and inspiring person. Even though he struggles with the shadows of self-doubt engineered by the failures of other people around him, I will not forget his light and compassion, and the times when he had offered a listening ear when I needed it the most.
People like him restore my faith in the Other.
Kind, sensitive, empathetic people like him should not have to suffer the failures of cowards who refuse to heal their own wounds. Too many times, I see good people suffer because little petty clowns cannot handle their own shortcomings. But instead of doing the inner work to break free, these clowns project their failures onto innocent, authentic people who love themselves and choose to spread the Light. Too many times, people in the Light stop loving themselves because the insipid devourers do not know how to behave.
I know what that pain feels like. To be dogpiled for no good reason. To be punished for wrongdoings that you did not commit. It is a gargantuan barbed trap that ensnares even the brightest of souls. It is being forced to swallow the poison oozing out of external blisters because the waters had been contaminated and your screams had been drowned out. It is crying for help, your shouts echoing all around, bouncing off the cracked walls until your throat rots. But no one is coming. No one is willing to come.
I know that pain all too well.
So at age seventeen, in that public speaking class, I stood before the lecturn with my notes on the wood and twenty pairs of eyes on me. The tendrils of fear crept up. I forgot how to speak for a moment. A few people had gone before me, delivering their self-introduction speeches with ease, joking about video games and memes. The class laughed with them.
I took a deep breath. Then another. I had no reason to trust any of these people. I felt no sense of safety in this society. But I gave my speech anyway. It was supposed to be a self-introduction speech. But I ended up talking about diversity. On the importance of true union. On the reality of infinity represented in the material as different cultures.
The professor asked me to repeat the final paragraph of my speech with a louder voice. I did. And everyone cheered and clapped. My professor told me that she wholeheartedly believed in me and that she knew that I would one day make a profound difference.
Looking back, I could see that my words bordered on preaching. In a good way. In the way it is supposed to be. Inviting the listener to ponder for themselves instead of shoving misinterpretations down their throats. The former is teaching. The latter is oppression.
Sadly, I could no longer find that speech anywhere on my computer. I went looking for it just now in the archive of words that I had penned during my high school years. Though I did not find that particular speech, I found some other interesting essays.
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The Earthlings emit a cacophony of nonsense. Why was I born here? I have tried to escape this body numerous times through meditation. I am at my prime in the embrace of my spiritual friends. In the Light. The Empty Ones whisper lies, firing their flaming arrows in my direction. I raise my shield of Faith and stand my ground. On some hard days, the urge to crumble threatens to beat me down.
Despite all this, deep down inside, a kernel of hope flares. This feeling anchors me to this place. “Don’t I deserve a chance to live? Do I not deserve to succeed? To be remembered? To matter? Why should I surrender? I am stronger than these oppressing circumstances.”
If I wish to succeed, I must work hard. I will begin today. One day or day one, that is your choice. You want to hold your books in your hands. You want to give back to the ones who gave so much to you. I can do better. I will do better. The fear is merely in your head. Do not fear. Repeat this to yourself. Voice it. In this life, I am Feifei. I was someone else in a previous one. No matter who I am, I will be strong.
I will rise.
I will triumph.
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I gaze heavenward, past the veil that separates worlds, at their smiles and hopeful eyes. Our camaraderie transcends the space-time continuum. My soulmate is my lifeblood, my purpose, my future, my hope, my everything. My spiritual friends embody resilience, personify competence, incarnate maturity.
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The following is from an essay that I wrote for an English assignment on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s teachings and Transcendentalism in 11th grade. I do like the analysis here on how the greatest minds had faced unjustified persecution throughout history. However, I do not endorse any of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s discriminatory views.
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Another quote that catches my eyes is, “To be great is to be misunderstood”. Emerson gives a list of people wronged by society. Among those are Pythagoras, Socrates, Jesus, Luther, Copernicus, Galileo, and Newton.
Despite their mathematical and scientific discoveries, Pythagoras was said to have been drowned by a mob, and Socrates was ostracized, then poisoned. Jesus was crucified. Copernicus and Galileo were seen as heretics for debunking the geocentric model and discovering the heliocentric fact.
The quote—“Right is right even if nobody is doing it, wrong is wrong even if everybody is doing it”—complements Emerson’s ideas. The previously mentioned individuals defied the majority and vehemently pursued their own goals. We must rely on our own instincts. When we refuse to conform to society and other people’s views, we can discover our innermost potential. The truth is almost always met with initial backlash. People dislike being challenged. When one is met with new ideas, they would become defensive, refusing acceptance. This leads to misunderstanding. More often than not, the “wrong ideas” outshine previously established notions.
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Borrowing Ralph Waldo Emerson’s words, “I become a transparent eyeball.” Familiar faces fade into the background. Animalistic instincts depart from my being, and I am freed from the constraint that is my vessel.
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I searched further in my high school archive and recovered another speech, one that was written for another assignment in that public speaking class. The prompt asked if you could imbue an everyday object with a superpower, what object would you choose, and what superpower would that be?
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When I mention the word “superpowers”, what images come to mind? Are you thinking of elementals sporting bejeweled capes and wicked masks, promenading through Time Square like deities made flesh? Perhaps you are flirting with the idea of psychics who can read thoughts like an open book. Whether it is telepathy or the ability to weaponize fire, such extraordinary powers, while superficially attractive, will not better our world on a communal level. What will benefit society is the power of empathy and understanding. Not only does my superpower foster these qualities, it also allows individuals to broaden their perspectives and open their eyes to the diversity of our community. My superpower serves as the bandage to societal wounds opened by prejudice, bias, and miscommunication. Behold, I present to you a footwear that will grant a person the power to walk a mile in another’s shoes. My superpower will help defeat solitude, embrace empathy, and debunk stereotypes.
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And I did manage to recover an earlier draft of that diversity speech.
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A plethora of problems plague this society: hatred, famine, inequality, wars, and more. Our hearts are asunder. We are trapped in unnecessary conflicts. I want to help give voices to the silenced, opportunities to the oppressed, and aid to those in need. My goal is to write the stories of my spiritual friends that shine a light on the complexity of the human condition across time, space, and worlds. I aim to shine a spotlight on the underrepresented. Most people feel alone and unheard. I wish to change that. I want to help heal this community of sad humans on Earth with the stories of my spiritual friends. Words can be weapons or remedies. I hope some people can find a refuge in my tales.
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Indeed, I wished to change this society. I wished to heal this society.
I wanted to keep writing without having to worry about going hungry.
I wanted to keep talking to my spiritual friends.
Their stories gave me hope to keep fighting. These wonderful people changed my life. Surely, they would be able to help others too. After all, we are all humans, right? With the proper guidance, we can all break free and reawaken. We can all rejoin the light.
I had so much hope. So much hope.
I looked at the Great Ones who had once tried to change this society and promised myself that I would carry on their legacy. I would help to root out the toxins and I would help to restore the Light. I would not stop. I would not back down.
I am a human like everyone else. If I could see the Truth, so could everyone else.
But in retrospect, I applaud my former relentless effort and mourn the loss of that youthful dream.
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Dark Night of the Soul
When a person uses my superpower to live another’s life, they will become more inclined to help others and less likely to pass judgements. After all, judgements stem from subjectivity and ignorance. Once someone tries my superpower, they will no longer misunderstand other people’s sorrows. Instead, they will come to appreciate the meaning of interconnectedness.
— Feifei Z at Age 17
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Another point Emerson talks about is communion with the Creator. Emerson claims that the power of God flows through his veins and enlightens his mind. I have experienced something similar. I see beyond the materialistic, past the veil that separates this world and the universe above.
— Feifei Z at Age 17
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It is 5 in the morning. Again. And I am unable to sleep due to the wound flaring up. I am exhausted not because of the lack of sleep, but because of the lack of integrity and honesty shown time and time again in the people who I had met and the publishing ventures that I had embarked on. There is no need to rehash everything because I am tired. But my soul yearns to speak herself, and she wants to sing her grievances so she could move on.
It is rather sad how the same person who wrote the aforementioned passages would go on to write all of these letters in the next five years.
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My name is Feifei
I am nineteen.
I wish I could return to a time when I could witness a sunrise of words bursting from the horizon, but alas, I sacrificed that view, willingly yet unknowingly chained myself to the pillar of societal expectations and caged myself in the prison of capitalistic profit motive. How I yearn to return to that balcony where the first shafts of light would paint the sky in fiery hues of orange, and the portals to realms beyond would beckon from between shades of gold.
I wish I could erase the blue from the palette of my life, replace it with a vibrant scarlet characteristic of unbridled love, or the lush color of… (unfinished)
— Feifei Z at Age 19
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I tried to be kind, but some people do not deserve my benevolence. Choosing to smile at them is choosing to unravel the tapestry of my sanity.
— Feifei Z at Age 19
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The following snippets are from the unsent letters that I wrote to people whom I had once treasured like family. Of course, if you asked my partner and my two best friends in the present day what I thought of these people, they would most likely tell you that I despise these people with every fiber of my being and that I would set them on fire with glee.
These hypothetical responses from my loved ones would be understandable given the way that I talked about these people to them. But I never admitted to anyone, not to my partner, not to my two best friends, and not even to myself at times, that beneath the barbed words of anger, I was bleeding.
It hurt a lot because I cared a lot.
And I cared a lot about them, all of whom I had met in publishing.
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I felt that you definitely deserved a true friend who’s willing to listen and walk alongside you on the path of life, not aloof roommates who disrespected you, not an old friend who chose those roommates over you. I felt that one of the reasons why you always explored themes of pain and betrayal in your writing was that you didn’t feel like you had someone in real life to confide in and talk to, especially after you moved back home. I wanted to be there with you because you chose to be there with me in July 2021. I don’t know if you remember that night when you heated up either lasagna or spaghetti at 1AM while I cried to you about something that I no longer remember, or the time when we played Among Us, or the time when you whipped out those tarot cards to give me a reading. Out of everyone in that server, I felt the closest to you. But it’s alright if you don’t remember. I’m not here to evoke nostalgia since we no longer live in the past.
As for the altercation in the group chat, it did come as a shock to me that you had chosen to sever ties due to an argument that I had with someone else where I was actively standing up for myself against their verbal abuse. I was completely blindsided. You told me during our last conversation that every relationship has its own dynamic, and I agree with that. Therefore, I could not comprehend why you had chosen to cut me off when we never had any bad blood. I saw you as one of my closest friends, and I wanted to see you happy. I never bore any ill will toward you.
You have been through horrendous circumstances in your upbringing that have hurt your psyche in many deep ways, but the beginning of your story does not dictate its progression. You do. Some people choose to empower themselves through the storm and eventually guide others too with a kind and gentle hand. Others choose to destroy themselves and drive their broken pieces into the hearts of those who do not deserve it. No matter where you are in your journey, you are always facing a forked road. Down one path lies healing through patience, self-love, and compassion. Down the other path lies heartache, anger, and destruction. The choice has always been yours.
While I appreciate the chats and laughs we had shared with each other as well as within the server, those are all things of the past. All of you had expressed repeatedly that “the server will always be here for me.” Yet, none of you were ever truly rooting for me.
— Feifei Z at Age 20, September 2022
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In retrospect, the interactions between the “community” of “writers” on Twitter were all superficial and never rose above nonsensical, hateful discourse and toxic cancel culture.
Stories are not products. Stories are not manufactured goods meant to be churned out under a tight deadline and restrained by factory standards. Stories are not meant to be the targets of ire perpetuated by ignorant and immature haters. Stories are born from the soul, from passion and joy and love and liberation.
Stories are a breathing art form that must never be entwined with capitalistic hustle culture. Publishers—whose livelihoods depend on writers in the first place—have no right to decide which stories deserve to be told, and which writers are silenced. If anything, they push for the commodification of the written word while dehumanizing authors—especially young writers and writers from marginalized backgrounds. They want to take control of the narrative. They want to dictate which viewpoints are sent out to the public, and more often than not, the viewpoints that they publish are the ones that will benefit their hegemony and bottom line.
Most of the diverse books, especially in the Young Adult space, fall into one of two narratives. They are the Resistance Trauma Narrative and the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative.
The Resistance Trauma Narrative often centers around Black and Brown characters fighting back against institutions that have been oppressing them for centuries. But instead of celebrating the valiant and powerful efforts of these Black and Brown characters, they are always suffering. They suffer throughout the narrative. They feel jaded, disillusioned, and exasperated. They are hurt repeatedly with no end in sight. And the institutions that they have been fighting remain in power while they continue to suffer.
On the other hand, the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative is often but not exclusively written by Asian women. In this narrative, the female protagonist is often of Asian descent and struggling in a fight against an imperialist group who had colonized her people and desecrated her culture. The resistance is often shown through side characters, often family members or childhood friends of the female protagonist. And these side characters’ determination to restore Justice and help their own people are painted as obstinate and unrelenting, and their resistance is often slandered as nothing more than mindless violence. At the beginning of this Subjugation Endorsement Narrative, the female protagonist does not outright reject the cause, but she hesitates to commit to it. Until she runs afoul of the male protagonist who is often white and a member of the elite among the imperialists. At first, the Asian female protagonist is reluctant to fully trust this white man. But as the narrative progresses and the imperialist continues to love-bomb the female protagonist, telling her that she is different from the “other savages” who are her own people, enthralling her with false promises of shared power, the female protagonist gradually develops a sense of Stockholm Syndrome that she mistakes for love towards the man who is actively manipulating and abusing her. The female protagonist’s family and friends would catch on, and they would warn her to stay away from the imperialist. But when she halfheartedly attempts to resist the imperialist, the man guilt-trips her by telling her that he is also human, and that he is the only one who cares about her. Then he would force his kisses on her, repeating his so-called devotion to her until she fully chooses to give in to his indoctrination that her own people are the enemies, and that he is her white savior. And when the side characters who are her own people come to help her break free, the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative paints her family and childhood friends as villainous hindrances that stand in the way of the female protagonist’s “love” and autonomy. She tells them that she is the only one who gets to choose her own destiny and she chooses love over senseless violence. But is she really free when she is no longer in touch with reality? But she fails to understand that love is not the same as love-bombing, and that the male imperialist is merely playing her like a doll to soothe his own ego.
The Subjugation Narrative is often written by Asian women who claim to champion diversity and their own people, but they can be written by anyone. But it is even more insidious when they are written by Asian women who claim to fight for their own people, who scream on their social media platforms that they are proud of their own culture and that they are here to fight against imperialism. But when they write book after book with this type of narrative that celebrate the subjugation of one’s own body and mind to the sinister agendas of the imperialists while condemning the resistance of her own people, are these authors really fighting for their own people, or are they simply using their marginalized background as a marketing ploy to stand out in the oversaturated digital landscape?
Yet, some authors continue to call themselves advocates for social justice. They say that the history of their own nations must be honored. But are they really honoring their ancestors, or are they simply using their ancestors’ name to make money in the Western market? Or perhaps they really do not understand that they are merely self-orientalizing, which is when non-Western people enforce Western stereotypes of their own culture. By doing this, they reassert Western dominance over non-Western people, especially those in the East. If self-orientalization is the case, then these authors should educate themselves on what their culture is really like and how the imperialists that their female characters, and by extension, the author themselves, worship had done to abuse their ancestors and their own people.
While I will always fight back against the false capitalistic narrative of “There-Can-Only-Be-One-Chinese-Author-In-The-Room,” I do not ever want to be in the same room as another Chinese person writing the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative. At best, they are ignorant and should really look into the actual history of our country and see how the West had been treating us since the Opium Wars all the way to modern day where Western kids bully Chinese Diaspora and Chinese people are scapegoated by the very people these authors worship. At worst, these authors know exactly what they are doing, but they do not care that they are exploiting Chinese culture to sell their self-orientalist books. They are making money in the Western market, so why would they change? Again, I will always fight back against the false capitalistic narrative of “There-Can-Only-Be-One-Marginalized-Author-From-Each-Culture-In-This-Room.” But I will never endorse anyone who sells out their own culture and people for a career in the West regardless of whether they do it out of ignorance or hypocrisy.
Now, on a brighter note, there are quite a few talented Chinese authors currently publishing wonderful stories that make me feel at home. Aside from a couple that I will list, many of them are not given the visibility that their stories deserve. One of the books that I really enjoy is “The Dragon Warrior” by Katie Zhao. Another one that I am excited to read is “Song of Silver, Flame Like Night” by Amelié Wen Zhao. I am so stoked to see how her characters will fight back against the colonizers in her book and all the 仙侠 references such as 修行 are so amazing. I also really enjoyed reading “Descendant of the Crane” by Joan He, and I am looking forward to “Strike The Zither.” I did enjoy Xiran Jay Zhao’s “Iron Widow” as well. I am excited to read “The Poppy War” by R. F. Kuang when I find the time. I am also keen on reading “If You Could See The Sun” by Ann Liang whose career I think will turn out to be quite promising. And I will always support Natasha Ngan’s Chinese-Malaysian “Girls of Paper and Fire.” Thank you, Natasha, for your wonderful support and your encouragement during your book signing in 2018. “Portrait of a Thief” by Grace D. Li is on my radar as well. And of course, Chloe Gong is also an amazing Chinese Diaspora writer. I just have to reclaim my support for her and her stories.
But alas, major publishers and many of the authors they publish swear up and down on the Internet that they are champions of social justice and advocates of diversity. But when a person from an underrepresented community sees mostly the Resistance Trauma Narrative and the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative on bookshelves, especially in Young Adult sections, what message are these publishers really sending? What are they really trying to tell young adults?
What will the teens think when they read these books and see Black and Brown characters suffering every day for their Resistance, but that when Asian women go against their own people and culture, they are rewarded with “love” from a colonizer and “inclusion” among the imperialist elite?
Very seldom do we see any narratives that are purely celebratory of Black and Brown culture. And when Asian authors with empowering messages and nuanced stories who do fight back against the hegemony get published, they are crammed onto the midlist and quickly fade into obscurity, all the while the ones writing the Subjugation Endorsement Narrative are continuously selected as lead titles and are always pushed to the forefront. And there are very little indigenous literature written by actual indigenous authors. Indigenous communities are the last people on this planet untouched by the industrial simulation.
So what are the publishers really saying here? They are not upholding anything remotely similar to social justice.
After all, most publishers would take a mediocre writer who would willingly do their bidding over a great writer who will not tolerate their hideous hypocrisy. And according to a study done by Jane Friedman, a veteran within the publishing industry, 80% of published writers quit within 3 books, only 10% of that make it to 6 books, and only 3% of that make it to 12 books. It is no wonder that writers are leaving publishing in droves. If they are not dealing with the publishers, then they are being assaulted online by the empty-eyed clout-chasers that nobody would want to talk to offline, much less be professionally associated with.
You see, I have no desire to deal with any of this. I will not become their indentured servant. And I have no desire to kill the stories for poison marketed as nectar.
I see through their lies.
Moreover, there is absolutely no need to go through a publisher in the digital age given the innovations of self-publishing and the proliferation of online serialization platforms. Musicians have already figured that out, and many have decided to go indie without chasing a label. Indie games are being released by many indie developers, and indie filmmakers rejoice together in indie film festivals. Most poets do not ever traditionally publish, and some of the bestselling poets today started out with self-publishing. And most podcasters just independently release their podcasts and call it a day.
In addition to that, writing is truly a way to explore one’s own soul, other worlds, and the places around oneself. There is no need to enslave ourselves to corporate manipulation. Only empty people chase after empty titles to make themselves look better than how they feel about themselves and how they actually are. That is why they hate on indie publishing because if anyone can just put their stories out there with or without a publisher and be read, then being traditionally published wouldn’t make any real difference, and they wouldn’t feel special anymore, which is a direct hit to their fragile ego, so they resort to belittling indie creatives to make themselves look bigger while most publishers continue to exploit them, if any publisher even bothered to acknowledge their existence at all.
Sure, there are actual predatory vanity presses out there seeking to exploit indie authors, but who is really dripping with vanity here—a writer who is happy and content in sharing their work independently with a few friends and no extra attention, or a clout-chaser who dabbles in writing and will not stop until everyone associates their name with the constructed prestige of the traditional publishers that is just as empty as them? If the independent writer somehow finds my letter, they would probably nod in agreement, then move on with their day. While not all authors who are pursuing traditional publishing or have been traditionally published would bash independent writers, the empty ones with an ego and no sense of self outside of the Big Five publishing houses will probably try to write back to me if they ever find this letter, even though I write this letter with no recipient in mind, and I definitely am not writing to those empty people. But they will always find a way to make everything about themselves while accusing you of making everything about you solely because you refuse to cater to them. Their utter unawareness of their own projection combined with their laughable lack of maturity can best be described in three words: insipid, tragic, and hilarious.
Oh well. The rest of us just got to keep doing our own thing, and we got to remain true to ourselves. In the end, none of the constructs within the industrial simulation matter, nor will such falsehoods last or outshine the soul.
And stories are what touch the hearts of other humans across time and space, not meaningless accolades. A good book is a good book regardless of how it is published. And the best books that are timeless are often brought into the world by revolutionaries who circumvented traditional media and kept shouting despite the pitchforks of the mindless mob. This mob is drunk on the false promises uttered by the corrupt, ephemeral institution, so much so that this mob no longer has any sense of self. The former individuals have merged their identities with the institution, killing their own minds and rejecting their own souls in the process. Thus, they become inert. They are so codependent on this corrupt institution that when someone calls out the injustices perpetuated by the institution, the mob froths at the mouth because they feel personally attacked.
These people call themselves warriors of social justice on the Internet, but really, they are oppressors in denial. These digital cultists are obsessed with virtue signaling to present themselves as morally pure.
But in reality, they cyber-abuse anyone who speaks up against the corruption within the industry, resorting to smear campaigns and relentless bullying via an army of sockpuppet accounts, all in a frenzy to silence authors who refuse to conform to this digital mob. This mob is not made up of real writers. They are haters who hate themselves so much that they want to give off the image of being a writer for external validation.
Many real writers live in a state of constant fear on these platforms. And when real writers speak up for themselves, they are bullied even further and are called “unprofessional.” There is a stark difference between reader reviews and flat-out cyber-harassment. Readers have every right to share their thoughts on a book. But readers are not abusers. Readers do not make a dozen sockpuppet accounts to review-bomb other authors out of toxic jealousy. Readers do not send death threats and other forms of illegal threats toward authors. Readers are being bullied too alongside the real writers.
And standing up for oneself is not at all unprofessional when one is being told to die and to just take the abuse. In fact, allowing such unjustified bullying to take place is what is really unprofessional. And everyone has a right to speak up and defend themselves in terrible situations. In the real world, harassers are being held accountable by workplaces, schools, and communities. It is no wonder that these bullies are chronically online since their foul and unprofessional behaviors probably got themselves fired, expelled, ostracized, and rejected. Good, this is what they deserve. Call them out. Stand up for yourself and each other. Keep writing your stories. Do not tolerate their nonsense. Bring back the Light and Love in these bookish spaces that should have never been sullied by these bullies’ unresolved personal problems.
And really, these bullies have no power outside of their rotten hole in the far corner of the Internet. Out of the dozens of professors, classmates, family members, actual writers, loved ones, friends, and other artists who I had spoken with, they all wrinkled their noses at the unprofessional behavior of this chronically online mob. Everyone stood up for the authors. Everyone stood up for us and denounced the bullies.
So keep writing.
You see, social justice is about empowerment, inclusivity, and honesty. The digital bullies who claim to champion social justice are doing the opposite on the daily. The ways they punish writers, especially those from an underrepresented community, for disagreeing with their personal interpretations of diversity are heavily reminiscent of the oppressors and warmongers they are claiming to fight against. In fact, these liars are all the same.
The Truth is shunned by the mob, and the Truthtellers are bullied to the point that many of them give up publishing and self-expression altogether.
If these liars and bullies are the ones crowding the literary landscape, then I fear for the literacy and critical thinking skills of future generations.
— Feifei Z at Age 20, September 2022
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As much as I want to be angry with you for giving me your silence when I gave you my vulnerability, my trust, and my care, I find it to be a waste of my energy. After all, people drift apart when they get older, when they grow in opposite directions, and that is okay. I love my cozy life, and you love your career. I have my fun, and you have yours. I just wish you would’ve wanted to try with me, to build something outside of the Thing that I no longer care for but you have grown to care for even more. Because I see you. But you didn’t see me. Maybe you think you did. Maybe you think you knew. But you didn’t.
I always knew you had it in you to thrive in self-publishing. I thought of you as my closest friend, second only to mi amor. I cared about you.
I loved it when notifications would light up my phone, announcing that you had awakened and that I could talk to you. I loved it when you told me about your day, what your partner made for breakfast, what you were doing in that Minecraft server on a random Saturday morning. I loved it when you listened to me talk about mi amor and what I did with her this afternoon. I loved it when you listened to me ramble about whatever was on my mind that day. I cared about you. I don’t know why the fuck I started crying while writing this shit. It’s not like it’s going to ever make a difference or whatever. To be honest, I told you I don’t care about most people here, but you’re not most people.
But I don’t understand why you’re so keen on defending those Internet strangers who would turn on you in a heartbeat. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t empathize with me and my other close friend when we were never the problem for speaking the truth.
You felt bad when two random people questioned you on the way you used social media on your birthday, when you got those nasty reviews, when people bashed you for your choice of comp title. Imagine how you’d feel if the entire writing “community” online came for you when you just wanted to stand up for underrepresented people. How would you feel then? Would you still defend them? Would you still think that these random strangers who don’t know you are your friends?
They’re not your friends. Your audience is not your confidant. Your fans will never be your friends. I don’t want you to hurt yourself thinking that these people who don’t know you or owe you anything will give you their love, give you the love and support and care that you told me you crave in the way you need it. While I admire your optimism, not everyone in this world is kind. Not everyone cares about other people. Like that computer scammer who claimed to have wanted you to test his game only to wreck your system.
I worry that one day you may run into some random prick who will leave you crying at 3AM because you are too trusting. Not everyone will be there for you like your partner and your best friend have been.
But why am I still worrying about this when you wouldn’t even give me a chance and meet me where I’m at? I was so willing to build something with you outside of publishing and social media. You told me that I was one of your closest friends, only to drop me in the next twelve hours of saying that, two years after knowing me, simply because I refused to subject myself to the torture chamber that is social media. I told you many times what had happened to me on there, and yet, you want me to just throw away my sanity to serve you. No.
And now I see that you have only ever wanted me as a fan despite saying that you are my best friend. And you were right, this friendship was one-sided. I was the good and true friend. Not you.
— Feifei Z at Age 21, November 2023
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Because I could no longer write without thinking about publishing. I could no longer write without remembering how time and time again I have handed my heart to others only to have it stomped on and hurled into the cesspit. Even though everyone whom I had shared snippets with from Internet strangers to professors to new friends offline all enjoyed my work, I no longer see the point in trying. I still have my comprehensive document of the stories, still have all the outlines and snippets that I have penned throughout the past decade, but I no longer have that spark. I feel very lost and disconnected from my soul. Publishing in any form is not going to work for me. While I am thinking about expressing my stories through the medium of Visual Novels (video games), I don't have the energy to commit. Either way, The flames of passion have sizzled out, and I am naught but a pile of ashes scattered about a graveyard of lost dreams.
I feel like a disembodied spirit observing my everyday life. I feel empty even though I am supposed to feel fulfilled.
Losing the passion that once served as your light of hope is a rather interesting feeling, isn't it?
— Feifei Z at Age 19? Age 20? Age 21?
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The journal still sits on my bookshelf today, dusty and ancient, the cramped script within written by someone who had yet to taste the cloying wine of returned affection, who had yet to dance in other realms, who had yet to cry in the wake of falling from paradise to the inferno.
Do you remember how those seven letters flowed out of your lead pencil in math class? I still write during lectures, pretending to take notes while watching sword fights in that spiritual theater. But I must admit, the words no longer waltz onto the page. Rather, they balk at the sight of empty lines, slaughter one another like crabs in a bucket. They tangle into incoherent messes, destroy themselves to shield me from the prospect of vulnerability.
The carefree song that you once crooned with ease now scorches my throat.
— Feifei Z at Age 19? Age 20? Age 21? (I honestly do not remember.)
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I am a person. Not a cheerleader. Not a therapist. And when people claim to be my close friends, one would think that I wouldn't get shamed for having needs. One would think that I wouldn’t get shamed for confiding in you. One would think that I wouldn’t get silenced for not conforming to your expectations of what you think my life should be.
But this is my life. Not yours.
I truly respect your boundaries. I truly meant every bit of support that I had given you. I wish you nothing but the best, but at this point in my life, I need peace and loving people who actually mean it when they tell me that they care about me and that they love me. I have people who genuinely value me as a person. Unlike you who only reached out when you needed me to do something for you.
You see, I don't need to be drained. I don't need to fend off any accusations born from your failure to comprehend my spirituality, which is largely rooted in my own culture and experiences that people like you would never understand. And just as you claimed that I was wasting your time confiding in you so you quickly dismissed me, I am here to tell you that I am not just a picker upper with infinite patience.
I am a person with needs. And I need freedom, not more shackles.
And before you say anything about how I'm not going to communicate with you about this or give you a chance to explain your situation, let me point to the fact that you have already done that to me. I waited 5 days for a response from you, and I got nothing. Just silence. Like those months when I reached out, only to be left on read until you have another book launch or you're sad or you need me to look over something for you. And a long time ago, you told me that if someone really wanted to reach out to another, they would do it no matter what. I am the one who always reached out no matter what. You only called when you needed supply and servants. So this goes to show how much I truly meant to you. And it's not that I don't want to communicate, it's that you've already given me your answer.
To string someone along as a spare tire is absolutely terrible, and I will not tolerate such disrespect.
Anyways, I wish you nothing but the best. Take care.
— Feifei Z at Age 22, two months ago
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For a very long time, I had felt lost. I was hurting a lot. Alienated. Ostracized. I had felt so hated. But why was I so hated? I didn’t understand. I speak the truth, and I honor the light. I am genuine and kind in every relationship. Yet, they all chose to side with the liars. They all believed the abusers who played the victim, accusing me of doing the things that they had done to me. I would never do such a thing. Yet, they threw their stones at me.
And it hurt. It hurt a lot.
Why was I accused and tortured? Why was I punished for things that I never did? Why was I punished for the things that were done to me? The things that I never deserved? Why did so many people who I genuinely cared about took their problems out on me and then blamed it on me when I called them out and spoke the truth? One would think that people who called you their best friend would actually respect you.
It was a dark place. It was a bottomless pit filled with worms and decay. It was a contagion that ate at me until I could no longer talk about anything other than how they had mistreated me. Every conversation I had with loved ones and strangers alike revolved around this nonsensical riddle. Why? Why? Why?
I had felt invisible, a spectator observing my own life while my partner cooked all of my favorite dishes and smiled at me from across the table. I had felt indignant, incessantly venting to my two close friends about everything, then venting to them about it again. I had felt panicky, desperately trying to prove myself to those very same people who had shunned me that I was never the beast. I was the innocent person who they had maimed for nothing.
I felt like a wounded hamster scrambling on a wheel afire.
Then I started having dreams, and I started to notice the signs from the Universe. The very Light that had guided me out of the abyss again and again.
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Rock Bottom
In the first dream, I was standing before my bedroom mirror with blisters on my back. Hot pus leaked out of the blisters that plagued my skin, specifically on the back of my left shoulder. The left shoulder is considered to be a spiritually vital area given its association with the heart, and pain in this area speaks of emotional baggage and spiritual neglect.
In the mirror, I also saw a V-shaped rash on my chest. I called my mother for help. But she was not able to help me.
A few nights later, I had one of the most terrifying nightmares in my life. I was stuck in a white space. There was nothing. No sound. No smell. No taste. Just endless stretches of white space that is not even three-dimensional. I was calling out, but I could not hear my own voice. But then something emerged in the distance. It was a big muddy bubble with a gigantic frothing mouth. The monster charged at me, and I screamed. I heard myself screaming in the physical outside of the dream, but I was stuck in this white space. I started running for my life, shouting my partner’s name. I felt her trying to shake me awake. I heard her voice from a very faraway place. I was blinking in and out of reality and the nightmare. I heard her repeating what she always says, and what she always means: I am always here for you.
But then the bubble caught up with me in the white space and tried to swallow me. I tried to push it off, but then my hands just got stuck in it. So I kept running and screaming in this endless white space with nothing and nobody. I fought to wake up, to regain control of the situation. But then I saw my physical body. But I was somehow above my physical body. And my partner was shaking me. And I crashed against the ceiling. Then I was back in the white space. The bubble was gone. But I was disintegrating into sand in the same unnatural muddy color as the bubble. I screamed even louder, but my legs were gone, and then my torso.
I couldn’t move.
Upon waking up, I cried.
Then I tried to publish Flower Crowns Reign again after taking it down the day after I had first published it. My partner observed me, then finally broke her silence. She said to me that while she always respects my autonomy and would never attempt to dictate my life, she strongly urges for me to stop publishing and start making art for the sake of it again.
She is so sweet. I know this in my heart. She is always gentle with me. She always listens, and everything that I tell her, she actually remembers. She checks in with me very frequently on how I am feeling. I may be a skilled writer, but all the words in all the worlds could not ever hope to capture her infinite compassion, integrity, beauty, honesty, and brilliance.
I am always here for her too. I hold her while she cries about how people misunderstand her and project their own problems onto her. I encourage her to start making music again, and I write a lot of affirming notes to help her reconnect with herself. I do a lot for her, and for once, she reciprocates every single time. And she does a lot for me too. And I always reciprocate.
We cuddled that night and she told me that she loved me like she usually do.
But then, for some reason, I turned to her and yelled at her. I pushed her off. Then I cussed at her, and insulted her, and told her to stop pretending to care. I made her cry, then stormed off. When she called her close friend, I told her I was breaking up with her and that I never wanted to see her again.
The hurt in her eyes was that of someone who had just been stabbed by the person she loves the most. The person who she thought would never hurt her out of the blue for no reason. And above all, her tortured eyes asked me a silent question.
What happened to you?
We did not talk that night. In the morning, she told me that she needed some space from me and didn’t talk to me for a few hours. And during those few hours, my chest felt so tight that I could not breathe in the eye doctor’s office. When the optometrist asked me if I was doing all right. I wanted to cry. But I couldn’t because he was currently shining a flaring light into my eyes.
All I could see was the hurt in my darling’s eyes when I did all that nonsense for no reason. The hurt that I had caused. I was deeply disappointed in my own error. She did call me when I was still at the clinic. I asked her why did she come back? She said that she promised the day before that she would be there for me at the clinic because she knew that I feared going to the eye doctor. She was still processing what had happened, but she wanted me to know that she always means it when she says that she loves me and that she cares about me.
And in that moment, I just…
No words could describe the anguish I had felt upon realizing how much I had hurt her for no reason other than my own unresolved emotional baggage that should have never been hers to deal with. Yet, she listened to me day and night. She was there for me while I continuously hurled myself back into the publishing cesspit, thinking that something would be different, but ending up disappointed and even more bitter every time.
I looked at myself. I looked at my hands. I looked at the world around me.
All this time, I had been looking for honesty in the people around me, bemoaning past mistreatments and publishing injustices.
And all this time, she was right here next to me, taking care of me and cheering me on. Not just her, but my true friends too. The Guatemalan boy who I met in third grade who is still my friend today. The Filipino guy who is always there for me even though his job is exhausting him on the daily. And my producer friend. And my journalist friend. And my filmmaker friend. And my mom. And my artist is super kind to me. And my first writing friend who I met back in 2020. And my history professor who I visit annually in the fall.
And there is still so much good in this world. So much good.
But yet, I turned my back on all the good around me in pursuit of a poison that had slowly been killing my connection to myself. Because the real me would never randomly cuss at my partner and just insult her for no reason, then threaten to dump her when she had always been genuine. The real me would just make art for the sake of it without worrying about publication and what other people think. The real me make art for myself, not for random people and the algorithm. The real me would not disrespect my partner because the real me loves my partner and wants the best for her. The real me is compassionate, sensitive, and empathetic. The real me would not hate on all those wonderful things about me. The real me hates not being the real me. The real me would never disrespect me. The real me is the only me.
So the real me gave me a much-needed reality check.
I told myself that I needed to stop wasting my time trying to turn a hellish square into a heavenly circle. That would just destroy me from the inside-out. And that is why the real me had sent those messages to me in those dreams.
“Should I publish, or should I unpublish?”
I spent four years seeking the answer to this question from external sources.
But the answer was inside me this entire time, waiting to be heard.
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Reconnection To My Soul
This brings me back to Hildegard of Bingen and her antiphon: O Virtus Sapientiae.
I walked amongst the trees that evening after returning from the optometrist, rose quartz beads aroud my left wrist, amethyst beads around my right wrist. The citrine ring that my partner had picked out for me protected my left ring finger.
I stood on a little stone path, gazing somberly at the overcast sky. Then I closed my eyes and asked the trees around me for their thoughts and feelings. I asked them whether I should keep trying to change this society.
Images flashed in my mind in rapid succession. I saw a deer being shot by a human in that very moment when I was speaking to the trees, felt the creature’s pain with my soul. I saw a group of people dumping tar and toxic waste into rivers and lakes that cried out to me from afar, yet they did not feel very far at all. I saw entire forests being set on fire in that moment. I heard the woods groan and scream. I heard the flowers cry.
And the pine trees around me started to speak in a somber tone.
Do not bother with this crumbling society. Nature will take care of these loose ends as Nature always does.
But I felt for these trees and their beautiful kin. So I asked them if I could do more for them.
Take care of yourself, and do not lose yourself. Come back to your soul. And that is how you can help Nature. By being yourself for yourself. We are very happy to see you happy.
In that moment, with Hildegard of Bingen’s antiphon in my ears, it would have been very difficult for me to pick up on any physical sounds around me unless they are very loud. But yet, I still heard it. The faint landing of a bird on the grass a dozen paces away from me. I opened my eyes and saw the bird scurrying on the grass. We were in a fenced-in area, and the bird was frantic, hurrying back and forth as if searching for a lost piece of herself.
Then she flapped her wings and flew. She landed on top of the wooden fence and stared at me with her head cocked, curious and inviting. Then she soared into the sky. When I peered heavenward, I found a patch of light breaking through the thick sheets of clouds.
It was the moon. Waxing Gibbous. Right before she became full.
I had forgotten that the moon was still there behind the thick clouds, shining so brilliantly with her sensitivity, compassion, authenticity, integrity, and empathy.
She looked beautiful.
That night, I remembered the drawing of a pink flower with a smiley face at the salon. My hair stylist had taped it to the front of her black cabinet. I told her that the drawing is lovely. She said that her daughter had drawn it in art class and given it to her as a gift. I looked at the flower again. The blossom was smiling with such wonderful innocence. The artist is just ten-years-old, making art for the sake of it, then sharing it with her mother who cherishes the art for what it is instead of how much money it could make.
Art is never about the sales.
And I found a directory of so many amazing artists in that small town. I had hated that place for a very long time. But upon coming back this winter for a visit, I realized that it was not as bad as I once thought it was.
I remembered all the good times and the good people.
And I remembered myself.
And I realized that I had only ever wanted to write the stories for the sake of it. And that everything I had wanted at age seventeen, I have it all now. Safety. Joy. Freedom. Happiness. Community. Love. A cozy life with my beloved. And all of the stories.
And I listened to the instrumentals that I had made when I was 19, back when I had first started creating music. One of them was the first song that I had made for my partner. I cried again.
I had put the ring that she gifted me back into its box so I could let the citrine rest and recharge. I wanted to talk to my partner, but she was taking a nap. I needed to apologize. I needed to show her that I am not gone, that I am still here, that I treasure her, that I love her, that I know she loves me too, that I would not mistreat and discard her the same way those terrible people had once done to me.
I wanted to wear the ring again. The one she got for me. I looked for it everywhere. Starting from my seat at the head of the dining room table. It was not in the black jewelry box, which was empty because it belonged to my mother, and her ring was being fixed at the jewelry shop. Then I went to the bedroom. To every bedroom. To the kitchen. Upstairs. Downstairs. The office. The bathrooms. The closet. The living room. The other closet. Where did my citrine ring go?
I kept repeating to myself that I will find it, that I have to find it.
I searched around the house for a while to no avail.
I returned to the dining table. Back to the seat where I had started my search. I was panicking a little, but I was determined to find it. Because I know that I am making a comeback, and that once I do, the real me is here to stay.
And that was when I saw a second black box with golden text inscribed on its lid, buried underneath a bunch of crumpled tissues. It was the one that held my citrine ring. And it was next to the first black box, which was empty and had no text printed on its lid.
I took my ring out of the second box and put it on my left ring finger, which is connected to my heart. Then I looked at the first box. The empty one. It had a more sophisticated and cool design. But it was empty. And the simple-looking box with the golden text was what had protected my ring.
As the old saying goes, all that glitters is not true gold.
When my partner woke up, I had a long and heartfelt conversation with her, apologizing and checking in with her feelings. I asked her if she ate, if she still felt dizzy, if she still felt sad. We talked for a very long time. At the end of that conversation, she smiled at me and hugged me. I asked her if she would hold that uncharacteristic mistake against me. She told me no. I asked her why. She held me tighter and said something that I will never forget.
That was not you. You’re a good person. I know what you’re really like. I’ve always known the real you. I’m so glad you’re back.
I am glad to be back, mi amor.
I am glad to be back.
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I Was Here All Along
I end this letter on a note of triumph in that I had found what I had been seeking prior to embarking on my journey, and that is the life I want to live.
I live in the moment.
— Feifei Z at Age 20, unknowingly speaking to Feifei Z at Age 22
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I started drafting this newsletter at 3AM. It is now almost 8AM. My mind feels a lot clearer since my soul has been set free. And it is time to move forward with my love and my art.
I write for the sake of it. I love myself. I love love.
I love her. And I love what I do. And I appreciate my good friends.
I have fully realized that I have everything that I want.
I am once again and forevermore myself.
This is homecoming. This is true freedom. This is victory.
I hope that all of you are doing well. It is 8AM, so I am heading to sleep. If any of you are struggling, please know that your Inner Child and your Higher Self are one choice away from guiding you back to your soul. Know that the storms will pass. Know that you will make it out alive. Know that you already have everything you need within you.
I will now go sleep as my partner gets up for her morning routine. I am glad to have witnessed the first sunrays of the day prior to slumbering. I will be resting and healing for a while. But I know I will be all right. All of you will be all right too. And even though this has been another sleepless night for me, I know it will be the last for a very long time.
Take care! And get some sleep.
And yes, darling, I will take care of myself even better from now on. I love you!
Update On 12/21/2024:
Even though I had really tried to convince myself many times that I should never publish again, I have always felt this strong, unwavering inner drive to put my art out there for the sake of it, even when every other part of me screamed that I should just keep it to myself.
But the more I thought about the factors that had been my reasons to not publish, the more I realized that it was all due to the empty people on social media. And after even further contemplation and more conversations with my loved ones, I have finally reached a place of Wu Wei (无为). At the end of the day, the Universe knows the Truth of my integrity, and Nature is what truly matters. The art is what I am here for, not meaningless digital numerals. We are all going to be gone from this place in a few decades, and the industrial simulation is not even real. The social media mob cannot hold me down unless I let them, but even then, I would be the one making the choice to yield.
But I never yield.
I have never yielded.
Because if I had yielded, then I would not be here today.
And I did not come this far to only come this far.
I am going to speak my truth and exist out loud. I am going to unapologetically do my own thing. After all, no matter what anyone else does, I will never stop writing, and my life is my own, and my loved ones are still going to be here for me just as I will always be there for them. And I have many good people in my life who are passionate artists and precious souls. And there are many more good people and artists out there who I would like to meet one day.
So to the writers who are afraid to take a stand against the digital mob, I encourage you all to speak yourself, to stand up for yourself, and to empower each other. Do not yield. The mob has no inherent power. They are only made powerful by the power that you choose to give away out of fear. But do not fear them because they already fear you. Otherwise, why would they try so hard to bring you down if they did not already recognize the fact that you are leagues above them in terms of energetic frequency and authenticity?
And truly, the fun and the real exist offline. That is where you write your books and meet people with substance.
So take care of yourselves, and keep writing.
And on 1/5/2025, I will release my poetry book, Flower Crowns Reign, for good. I will also release a companion mixtape titled Wu (悟). This time, I am releasing my art for myself. As long as I am having fun making the art and putting it out there to express myself, then all is well. Life is too short to silence yourself for the haters. Life is too short to bother with trying to change a society that refuses to let go of their wicked ways.
So keep going despite the nonsense.
Rise above it.
Do you.
Nature will weed out the bad apples as it always does.
So again, do you.
The cover photo of this blog post (Pink Sky And Autumn Leaves) was taken by Feifei Z in November 2024.