Why is it that this world feels so far away,

I was close, but now I feel really far today.

I don’t understand, but inside I do,

It’s just hard for people to remain true.

You may claim to know all about a man,

but inside that man is a deep, dark, secret plan.

Friends can be true, but times can change

Which is why this feeling is so strange.

Out of touch, out of sight, out of sound,

Without me, the world will still go ’round.

A castaway that’s been cast away

Friends of yesteryear become strangers today.

Perhaps it’s society, with its numerous plots

Whatever it is, it hurts like gunshots.

To feel lost is when all hope is lost,

When no strength is left to keep the fingers crossed.

Depression is the catalyst, aiding the reaction,

perhaps dwelling in ourselves remains the last safe bastion.

But for me, I trust not my inner being

For it speaks things I don’t wish, it says what I’m not seeing.

A complete deceit, wicked to the core

How can I ask for truth, when I need to find it more?

To lose this persona would be a blessing profound,

To dwell in the light, and in joy fully surround.

Happiness only lasts but a mere two seconds,

Before it’s all torn away in a mere few seconds.

Insecurities creep in as they did in old times,

Filling my mind of all the old crimes.

I beat desperately at them, shoving them far

But little do I realize that I’ve left the door ajar.

They flutter in, reveling in the clutter

Littering my mind with dross, I shudder.

The dark envelopes me, I am lost to all

I can no longer resist whate’er befall.

Chaos reigns high, clouding my vision,

But to remain faithful is my sole decision.

How can I disbelieve the truth of my friends?

The ones who are close, the ones that never pretend?

They are truly all I have, and yet

I find myself waking in a cold sweat

In cold blood, I could be stabbed with a cold knife

Despite all the joy comes a cruel and bitter strife.

It is refuse, and I refuse it

I banter too much, exhausting too much on wit.

Though friends knowest not, they are the reason why I’m alive,

And with surety I know that through this ordeal I will survive.

The toll that is taken upon my emotions

Cannot be described by any small motions.

Gestures alone can speak quite loud,

But right now, I can express not what I am sorrowing about.

A negativity unparalleled has taken control,

I only look to my friends to help me keep hold.

Dear friends, though my manners are quaint

You paint with truer colors than any kind of paint.

Expose my inner self with the bond we have set,

Restoring me to the jolly fellow I was when we met.

Joy has not a place to find in this soul of mine,

But I still have space for the few friendships divine.



It has definitely been a stretch of time since I last posted on WordPress, and I suppose (although I probably should be doing other things), it’s good to be back. Writing is definitely one of the more uncommon therapeutic methods presented to us at the psychiatry, but it can be the most therapeutic exercise there is.  This post isn’t going to have very much content, but it will be – I hope – an interesting rant.

Now, having changed my schedule the second day of school, I now have two English classes!!!  While most students would, perhaps, groan at the prospect, I actually rather enjoy it.  I am presented with two different ways of viewing the English language; in standard English IV Honors, we use the more analytic mindset to go about viewing English, and in Creative and Rhetorical Writing, I am able to fulfill my deepest desire: to continually improve in writing.  Despite the fact that Mr. Dalley is a good teacher in my opinion, the Creative and Rhetorical Writing class is just so perfect for the budding writer.  It definitely puts more of an emphasis on the aesthetic appeal and nature of writing, and it allows us students to be able to mature in that aspect.

However, the one scar that mars this whole situation – yes, mars, as in to disfigure, not the planet – is the fact that I have P.E. 7th period.  Why…like honestly…just..why.  Today, I realized how depressed I become in P.E. when none of my friends are there.  Playing basketball is useless because without my friends there, I lose the will to even try and just drift around on the basketball court.  I don’t talk to anyone because for a while I was the only senior in 7th period P.E., and when I go home, I don’t feel like doing anything except reflect on what an enormous waste of time P.E. is and how much I hate it and what I would do to get out of it and scheming to see if psychological problems with P.E. would allow me to be excused, etc. etc. I don’t even want to talk about it anymore because I feel depression’s tendrils creeping up on me, so I’m just going to end it here.  My rant, not my life. 🙂

– W.L.

First Attempt at Hymn Writing…

Before the Earth,

Before the sky,

Before Man only knew to say “I’m alive.”

You were there,

Making me

Into the man you wanted me to be.


Lord, you are great

I surrender my all.

Giving you praise today,

What e’er befall.

You took my sins,

and you locked them away,

Tearing the veil in two,

So now I see you.

It was You,

Who appointed me

The times and place, so why can’t I see

You bore it all

You took my sin

You cleansed me, now a new life can begin.


Society: The Monster

How does one define a monster?  Certainly, each person has his or her own various fears, but a monster must be so categorized due to unanimous belief.  Personally, my own definition of a monster is something that quells all hope of hope, extinguishes the very thought of life.  A monster such as this can only be, ironically, the system that we each have claim to: society.

Society is not the brute of a monster that other monsters can be; society is too…refined for that.  No, instead, society is the stalker in the night, the one that schemes to pit friends against one another, until even the princi”pal” becomes the princi”foe.”  Society demands all the energy of our beings to resist, and then some.  The allure of society is as subtle as the allure of the nectar in the pit of a Venus flytrap; fly in too deep, and you make another tasty meal.

Enough with the metaphors and similes and comparisons.  The real reason why I abhor society so much is that it truly has perverted the youth of America.  It corrupts us all to hold firmly to the belief that technology is the way to go, that science should be the primary voice of our reason, that success can only be measured by how much wealth one amasses in his or her lifetime.  Society is the reason why the “feel-good” story of “rags to riches” is no longer extant; it has been slain by society’s cruel blade.  Society is what causes us to lose faith in man’s innate perseverance; rather, we now judge man according to his statistical probabilities of success.  The exception has become extinct, with no exceptions.  The magic has left the air, and tonight, no love is felt either.

However, despite these brazen slurs of society, I would like to – very abruptly, I realize – close with one final statement.  I may have been corrupted by society; I too have lost faith in magic.  But, though magic no longer captivates my all, only one other thing remains; I haven’t lost faith in my Lord.

– Whit Loard (W.L.)

On War and Peace.

This post will not be as long as my other ones, but it definitely moved me.

War and Peace, A New Translation by Anthony Briggs, Afterword by Orlando Figes

Page 61, short section preceding Chapter 15.

“‘Oh, my dear count, money, money, money – how much trouble it causes in this world!’ said the countess. ‘But I do need it very much.’

‘My sweet little countess, everybody knows you’re a shocking spendthrift,’ said the count, who then kissed his wife’s hand and went back to his own room.

When Anna Mikhaylovna returned from the Bezukhovs the countess had the money ready under a handkerchief on her little table, all in crisp new notes.  Anna Mikhaylovna could see something was worrying her.

‘Well how did you get on, my dear?’ asked the countess.

‘Oh, he’s in a dreadful state! Unrecognizable.  He’s so ill, so ill…I was only there for a minute, and I hardly said a thing.’

‘Annette, for heaven’s sake, please don’t refuse,’ the countess blurted out with a blush that looked rather odd on her [aging], thin, aristocratic face as she produced the money from under the cloth.  Immediately understanding, Anna Mikhaylovna leant forward, ready to embrace when the moment came.

‘This is for Boris, from me, to get him kitted out…’

Anna Mikhaylovna’s arms were round her.  She was weeping, and the countess wept too.  They wept for their friendship, their kindheartedness and the unfortunate need for lifelong friends to soil their hands with anything as sordid as money, and they wept also for their lost youth..But the tears of both women were sweet…”

Not too long of a passage, but the content that is within deeply moved me.  Although I am not familiar with economic troubles in Tolstoy’s time, the message between the lines strikes me profoundly.  Too often nowadays, we find ourselves “spotting” our friends and having to do with money as a source of friendship, but little do we experience the purity of friendship that is untainted by money.  Though surely none of us can call ourselves counts or countesses, Tolstoy’s words provide me with ample food for thought.  The passage, to me, portrays one of the most beautiful friendships encountered in a human’s life, and though the two women wept, their tears were sweet; no hard feelings between them.  In the beginning of a book titled ‘War and Peace,’ I’d say this book purveys much more than meets the eye, so it is meet for me to take my time with this book, and fully indulge in the work of one of the greatest Russian authors that history has witnessed.

A friendship in the halcyon days of youth is to be desired; a friendship purged of any impurity is to be dreamt of.

– W.L.

p.s. I greatly encourage you to read Divine and Human and Other Works; though the times are different from ours, Tolstoy is a wonderful storyteller, infusing his works with numerous characters, and the short stories are deeply touching.

Rise of the Wit Lord.

You have been deceived already.  Yes, I am the Wit Lord (WL in public to avoid judgment), but this post is not about me at all.  This post is dedicated to someone who has become a really good friend and brother over the summer, Josh Zhang, a.k.a. J.Z.  This post is going to be sentimental, and it is going to be emotional, but the ephemeral embarrassment felt by both parties will be washed away due to the depth of the family life in Christ.

It’s kind of hard to believe that you’re going so soon, Josh.  I always tell you, from the random times that you showed up to the meeting and left the next week, I had always wanted to befriend you, and I hope that it’s safe to say that I have accomplished that goal.  However, I had no idea what kind of fellowship and friendship would follow.  At first, I didn’t know too much about you, aside from my mother’s constant praise of your linguistic capabilities.  Needless to say, I was already intrigued because of that very characteristic; I am, after all, heavily impressed by those who are capable of mastering their diction.  And although our mutual interest in English was the thing that allowed us to talk at Mammoth, we gradually found out that we had other common interests, namely tennis.

I still remember the first time we played tennis.  You came in your van to my house, and we departed shortly.  Arriving at Cerritos High School, where we would eventually play the rest of our tennis games, we rallied for about an hour until a problem eventually arose.  I remember it, and no doubt you remember it: the blister.  Not to over-dramatize the blister, nor embarrass you, but the blister was, in fact, one of the prime examples in my life’s tenure that really was spurred on by God.  Had that blister not occurred, we would not, if you remember, have gone to Baskin Robbins for ice cream and had an extremely deep talk about our own individual pasts.  One of the most refreshing moments in my life, I really got to know more about you, and it cemented our brotherhood and friendship from then on.

The next fond memory I had was when you lowered your barrier, I suppose, at the dinner tables.  Andrew and I were exercising our good-natured ribbing of Conrad, and the thing you said in response was one of the more humorous things I have heard regarding Conrad.  Andrew and I both looked at you and said something along the lines of, “This guy went to PROM!” and you calmly looked at Conrad and said, “Well done.” The laughs that that phrase generated remain a good memory of when you started to seem more comfortable with all of the brothers at the Church Assembly in Westminster.

Finally, the last memory I’ve had with you at Westminster was last night, the actual rise of the Wit Lord.  For some reason, I feel like had you not been there, there would have been no way for me to have even thought of that persona, that moniker, that alter-ego.  This entails the inspiration that you have brought to me over the course of our friendship, and for that I am forever indebted to you.

Profundity.  Humor.  Inspiration.  What more could one ask of his brother?  Josh, it’s been a great time having you around for this long.  We have played tennis approximately seven times together, and each time has been quite fun.  The fellowship that we have had, and your portion in the young people’s meeting were altogether refreshing, and just having you participate was a true blessing from the Lord.  I always consider friendship to be one of the greatest gifts of God, hence my favorite verse in the Bible, John 15:13, which says, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends,” and truly, I treasure our friendship.  Pardon the simplicity of my writing in this post; I did not desire for emotion to be obscured by labyrinthine language.  Brother, I will continue to pray for you here in America; I will pray for your success, and for the Lord’s guidance over all that you do.  You truly are blessed; cling to the Lord in all that you do so that you may bear fruit pleasing to Him.  Remember to check your e-mails, go on AIM, and go on Skype often, as well as keep us all updated through WordPress!  It’s been both a pleasure and an honor to have been both your brother and friend through this time.

And now, a piece of wit.  Many times, though hardly enough now, friends will say “farewell” to those who are departing.  However, “farewell” does not exactly have the same feel as “goodbye” or “so long.”  Should we be so bold as to cleave the word in half, we arrive at “fare well,” and that is precisely what I would like to wish you. Josh, farewell and fare well in all that you do; pray unceasingly, and keep in touch.

In all sincerity,

Benjamin Fan

a.k.a. Wit Lord

A “Thug” Life.

When we listen to rap music from the old school days,

We hear about the shootings and the cigs they blaze.

But what we don’t see is the life behind this life of “glory,”

When thugs get to shooting slugs and getting gory.

What caused this tragedy, this animosity?

All I know is that I gotta get into university.

My own personal grind is nothing like Pac’s or B.I.G’s,

my own story is based on getting A’s and avoiding B’s.

Termed by many in school as the college game,

I wonder if I keep playing, will I get fame?

Pac and Biggie were thugs til they died,

But how can I be a thug when I don’t ride?

Old school rappers knew the drive-by shootings, the death of a homie,

But all I know is that I gotta lock down in school, and make sure no one’s before me.

The thugs know the streets, and so do I

I know 183rd, just over by Cerritos High.

Though thugs fire bullets into one another,

In school, some backstab the guy they call brother.

It’s a dirty business, but students gotta hustle in their own way.

A homie doesn’t matter at the end of the day;

You use ’em, you lose ’em, that’s what goes on sometimes.

Sometimes you sit down, and you only think about the crimes

The bad times, the bad rhymes,

and think about how the times are not sublime.

They are subhuman, cold and cold-hearted,

I got hurt the other day, and it really smarted.

But we aren’t dumb, we’re just vicious,

They might have your card, but tell you to go fishes.

Out of luck, you draw from the deck of life,

As the people around you backstab with an academic knife.

But the streets of academia aren’t just negative,

Like a Duracell, for each negative there’s a positive.

Tupac and Biggie had some fake brothers, but still had true homies,

The ones that were real, the ones that really know me.

For my brothers out there, I’d do anything for you

I sleep at 8, but to help you I’ll stay up until 2.

True homies stick together, through thick or thin,

Just like Snoop and Dre, sharin’ a sip of gin.

We’ll stick it out, the hard times will go by,

But when we bury a traitor, nobody cry.

They stayed for the good times, left when it came hard

Who knew someone so “close” could be so far?

So I sit near my laptop, meditating, simply waiting,

thinking about who my true homies are, there’s no debating.

Homies for life isn’t just a street slogan,

It’s a way of life, Hulkamania, Hulk Hogan

So while Tupac and Biggie each died young

I think about all my friends who’ve listened to me,

felt for me,

stayed with me all through the fun.

It’s been a long run, but life is longer still,

Homies, I hope y’all don’t forget to stay mad real.

– Fearless

Fear of Inspiration…or Lack Thereof.

As a writer of moderate caliber (don’t want to sound too proud), I have my own personal times of great mental obstruction.  Shaun has witnessed the more desperate of these times which I have termed “writer’s wall.”  Although people generally say “writer’s block,” the word “block” in its quintessence does the anguish of the inability to write no justice.  Speaking personally, this isn’t merely some trivial block; this is a torturous and tortuous path to recovery.  To call it a recovery is also impossible; like tennis elbow, recovery is never exactly complete.  Shaun, in fact, has witnessed a particularly debilitating case of writer’s wall while in my house, seeing me physically move my hands up and down as if climbing.  Though these bouts of writing droughts are rare nowadays, they are nevertheless intensely frustrating and ridiculously inefficient.

However, there is, another domineering presence in my writing experience that has caused me much worry and anxiety; it is when I become obsessed with something or someone.  Whenever I get a thought or a person planted in my head, for some reason, all my pieces about that object or person are quite well-written, while a work on another writing of a different topic just seems to be devoid of all energy.  Although this seems like it isn’t too big of a difficulty, seeing as I am still able to write with some sophistication, but it is, in fact, a rather big issue.  When I become fixated upon that thing, I only want to write effusively and loquaciously about that topic; all else matters not.  I lose the will and the willpower to focus my talents elsewhere.

And now, I arrive at my greatest fear as a writer: the fear of the lack of inspiration.  As fellow writers, we can all concede that our craft is not whisked out of space and in no time; it is nearly an art form to forge the wonderful essays that we write.  However, few of us can say that we can truly write without some sort of inspiration.  The inspiration is the crux of our work; we feel inspired by something, and feel the driving urge to elaborate upon it.  However, when that inspiration is lacking, very little is snagged onto our hopeful branches, and we hit the aforementioned “writer’s wall.”

I merely wrote this to amuse myself due to the irony of the situation.  I have absolutely nothing to write about, and it’s that void which has brought me to write this piece.  Though this wasn’t exactly an infinite jest, it is, I suppose, appetizer for thought.  It isn’t exactly nourishing, but it tantalizes our writing senses, provoking our own experiences with writer’s wall.  I hope you’ve enjoyed my own personal relation of my occasional writing struggles, and attached is a song that keeps me going, even when the going gets tough.  Hope you have enjoyed this short blurb on the inability to write, and I hope you like the song!

Blessed (Avicii Edit) by Tom Hangs ft. Shermanology

– Fearless

Letter to a Precious Knife.

They say that one man’s treasure is another man’s trash,

But you’re the exception to the rule so brash,

How could it not have known about you, a treasure to all,

Whether you be going to school or shopping at the mall.

Though you’re a treasure, you’re also a thief in the dark,

Stealing man’s heart, and leaving behind your signature mark.

A starstruck face, with unseeing eyes,

Left with no appetite, left to his own demise.

He wallows in despair until he sees you again

He wants to talk to you, maybe become your friend.

Somewhere deep inside, he wants it to be something more

Because it’s you he’s been looking for, it is you he adores.

Like a beautiful knife, you rent his fetters in twain,

Freeing his soul, yet driving him insane.

Your beauty is lethal and quite unique,

Cutting through anything in the way of what you seek.

He cannot help but bow to your will,

Doing what you say, and following you still,

Unto the ends of the Earth, he longs to serve,

His loyalty legendary, his faith does not swerve.

An insatiable appetite for you he develops,

But it is not with love that he is enveloped.

He sits aloof, hiding true feelings,

Scared of what you might think,

Scared of his own dark dealings,

He just wants to blink.

Nay, blink he cannot, you hold his gaze eternally,

yet you only appear ephemerally,

Once a week, maybe more, maybe less,

He longs for the days when he can caress

This precious knife, without fear of pain

He desperately seeks to unleash what torments his brain.

The way you compel him is nearly unfair

But unfair you are not, with your flowing hair.

A component not usually found in knives,

But you are a dagger with a sting like beehives.

One look from you burns the tip of his ears,

He waits patiently, until it is he, to you, who endears.