I am:

Torn apart by the languages. My tongue trembles as guts oppress what my heart has to say. A pen holding my hand draws into plain English what my trilingual mind screams without grammar. Silly plots round the shape of my head in search of novel stories, five climaxes, two endings (one of them always a suicide), and no beginning.



I am:

Compelled to science. A subtle feeling of satisfaction touches my pride at each problem solved under the laws of Newton and the Pythagorean Theorem. And as I want to defy them even sometimes, and knowing that my devotions and effort no longer hold interest on them, they are present like gravity which I can't evade to fall on. And yet, I'm lawless toward grades that can't tell how much I'm really worth or I'll be gaining.



I am:

Egoistic to my art. Without admiration or hate, I try to love others' creations, as my photographs, drawings, and poems did not cop the bright catch of the first prize. A friend would say that I'm a dreamer. That I'm shy but sing loud.



I am also:

A small piece of Asia torn apart from my motherland to groove with the mixtures of the new continent. The new generation of the American dream, coated with Asian blood, raised under republican laws, now fighting to earn a significant place beyond the decimals of a credit card.



I am:

Questioned under deadlines and requirements. My bones shatter at each punch from the world in attempt to rearrange my priorities and likes. And as my eyes glare the calendar sad from such insanity and invisible enemy called time, I strive to make a blueprint of myself in a piece of paper to let you know who I am (at all times, a soul in colloquial response screaming, "please don't make me a piece of paper!").