Ravit's Blog

The powerful summer dies only after it has stayed for too long. Until it fades into the grander, more mellow autumn. I grieve the summer only as it dies. After its death, I abandon its beauty and the innumerable gifts and memories it has bestowed. I leave them to be rediscovered in the vague archives of memory, where events become entangled with emotions, smells, and memories of forgotten people. Summer dies slowly. As the mighty aging sun succumbs to its mortality, its blinding white brilliance is replaced by a mature golden-orange glow. The large green persimmon leaves can no longer hide their browning curled edges. The broad expansive day begins to shrink, still fighting back against the ascendant night. Back-to-school advertisements creep into the newspapers. Golden rays of sunset stretch out upon the two-story houses as the day ends, each day a few moments earlier than the previous day. Freedom. Lemonade. Popsicles. Cold baths. Water guns. 2% milk. Dirty feet. Stiff dry blades of ...

Maybe I should give up trying to give my posts titles by default. The topics I write about are often too spontaneous and diverse within each post to be given an appropriate, cohesive, and concise title. The flat sheet may be the most cumbersome invention in the history of bedding, maybe other than the quilt cover. Especially when the fitted sheet already has the elastic that holds the sheet in place, what was the motivation behind leaving the flat sheet in its plain rectangular form? Maybe it was merely to make the bed-making process more difficult so that bed-makers would feel better about their bed after having made their bed. Maybe compounding additional layers of complexity onto the bed-making process, while unnecessary, would render the procedure of bed-making a more sophisticated skill that reflects the ability of the bed-maker. I began reading War and Peace  today. I heard that doesn't have a well-united plot the way most novels do and that the book itself is hardly a book b...

Once again, I retreat into my quiet place of introspection--the scratchpad of my imagination where my ideas find an outlet. I find it such a strange thing that I often begin writing blog posts having hardly anything to write about but then stumble upon ideas that then form into extended thoughts, sentences, and paragraphs at length. A couple of days ago, I found myself in a weird situation. I was browsing through Netflix and was planning to decide between two TV shows to watch--Seinfeld or Sherlock. I told myself I would watch Sherlock and then proceeded to search for it; I discovered the show wasn't on Netflix, but to my surprise, I felt a small feeling of relief or happiness rather than feeling disheartened. Even though the choice was in my hands, it seems I had picked the choice I less wanted, despite my (subconscious?) preference for the other. Back to this idea of these posts writing themselves. It really does seem as though they are writing themselves, and I am merely witness...

Welcome to a fresh outpouring of ideas from the bowels of my soul. Watch as the thorny messy jumble of ideas tangled up messily inside my head manifest themselves in a semi-structured form in a flowing procession of words. My mind is racing. My thoughts are cloudy and dissonant, not beautiful. I threw up yesterday. Vomited into a bucket at 2 in the morning. It wasn't the vomiting that hurt so much as the intense cramping in my stomach that occurred in the moments leading up to the vomiting, accompanied by sweat, pins and needles, and the putrid smell of bile in my belches. This, I would say, is not a very beautiful side of life. What is going on inside my mind? An evil concoction of fear, guilt, and panic is ravaging my thoughts and seeping through every pore of my body. It is sad that almost nothing is guaranteed in life. When people become depressed, their ability to perceive beauty is diminished. They cannot even such ordinarily beautiful things like a good song, book, piece of ...

Today was my first full day on-campus at UCLA. Living in the 8th floor of my dorm building, going about my day as a typical student. There are several hundreds of people regularly packed within this 10-story, each story identical to all others and each room being identical in furnishings to the others. I feel anonymous because to a large degree, my individual identity has been displaced by my group identity. To the strangers around me, my identity can be reduced down to a finite set of characteristics of my life. Where I live. What my major is. What classes I take. What my sleep schedule is. What my meal plan is. What clubs I'm in. I am constantly reminded that I am but one of an uncountably large horde of people buzzing about their lives, each life carrying an infinitely intricate set of thoughts, emotions, and attitudes; and yet each life remaining in large part oblivious to the intricacies of the many others like it: the tragedies, the celebrations, the monotonies of even the pe...

Today, I had my first driving lesson. Within the span of 2 hours, I started the engine of the car in the driver's seat for the first time on my own and also drove up to 45 mph. Steering felt strangely familiar, but I was shocked by how sensitive the gas pedal is. I learned that when it comes to acceleration, driving a car is nothing like riding a bike. Steering and braking have their similarities. The gas pedal is so sensitive that a minor accidental depression can lead to a sudden jerky . Most of all, while driving I was surprised by how easy it must be for someone to crash a car if they wanted to. Lampposts, curbs, walls, other cars. So many things around that one can ram the car into. The car only stays in its lane if the driver guides it so. I don't know why I find that so surprising. Perhaps sitting in the passenger seat beside or behind a responsible driver for so many years has made me feel as though it's very difficult for one to make a car go anywhere it's not ...

I'm having writer's block right now, meaning that I am failing to generate any worthwhile topics for discussion in this blog post. Hmmm. I wish I had Spiderman's powers. Why is this an immature thing to wish for? Swinging through a city would be a thrilling experience no doubt. Sometimes I daydream about being Spiderman. Perhaps I shouldn't have shared my blog with my college counselor. Thankfully, no one reads this blog post. Not even my parents. Recently, they asked me why I don't write blog posts anymore, which is odd, since I do still write blog posts. Maybe even they don't believe that I could still be writing. The only unlikely scenario in which I envision my blog blowing up is if I become a high-profile criminal or if I write something racist. Then people would be very interested in what I have to say. Especially lawyers. What's that you say? Ohhh, don't pity me. I'll be just fine. Self-pity leads one down a road to destruction. Hey! Look! Let...