I am Stanley, a collection of 20 years of procrastination, laughter, and mistakes. I like to call myself an artist and a writer when people are around and I perform spoken word poetry among other creative projects. I am currently in college studying literature and political science, awaiting to take tests for law or grad school.
Main Project: A self aware fantasy novel, currently over a hundred pages in. :)
The night gets darker, the drinks get stronger, and he’d love to associate these feelings with the numbers on the clock or the number of cups in the sink, but it’s more ingrained than that, it’s middle school walks home in the storm, it’s uncle’s funeral, it’s the end of his twelve hour work shift and being afraid of those extra waking hours where he has to hear himself think.
The boy was born twenty years ago, worked with his parents during Christmas Day, and never got the hang of how to read maps or faces, but he loved getting lost, because home was just another strange place, it was just consistently strange. Sometimes he likes to daydream, if you asked him about the perfect person he could tell you about how soft her wrists are, the shadow on the back of her knees, the smell of her collar bone, but what he really wants to tell you is about how she will be perfect, because she will meet him when he doesn’t need her. He really wants to tell you about how he will meet her thirty days after they first say “hello,” and five seconds after “you too?” one second after “that’s amazing” — not you’re amazing, I’m amazing, but that-this-right now, is really, really great.
He’s quite lost now. He’s terrified of becoming someone he’s not, and he’s terrified of disappointing himself more than anyone else. He wrote love stories starting in middle school because he thought if someone else loved him, they could take that responsibility away from him, and god, it would be so much easier if someone else loved him so that he wouldn’t have to.
But he should. He’s really trying. He has to stop looking at the mirror like he’s looking at an accident. He’s not lost because he doesn’t know where he is, he just doesn’t really know where he wants to be. Where the fuck, do I want to be!? Is something he might say. But I wouldn’t know. I can’t answer him. I barely even like the guy.
-stanley k. cheng
I don’t know why I thought throwing parties for three days straight was a good idea.