Tag Archives: blogging

What Is Your Addiction?

I don’t have one.

I do have a fixation problem once in a while but it doesn’t last very long. For the moment it is succulents and cacti. It used to be scarves, then handbags, then blazers then shoes or pizza. My son’s poison is coffee. For D. anything sweet, in particular chocolates, but cakes and ice creams will do. He’s onto it too much that he hallucinates if he can’t eat any of those within three days. My Ex’s weakness is more lethal: alcohol. It’s a habit, a dependency, an enslavement it cost him our marriage and I heard that history is about to repeat itself. I hope not. I hope that he learned already his lessons but does leopard really lost his spots?

How about you? What is your addiction? 

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The Saddest Truth

“No matter how much suffering you went through, you never wanted to let go of those memories.”
― Haruki Murakami

Isn’t it just? 

Though sometimes I wish I have or would develop an amnesia. Selective amnesia for that matter. But then again I thought: the past and my experience sum me up, they made me the person I am today, laughter, tears and pain included. They are lessons learned in a hard way and I wonder if without them I will be still that naive starry-eyed chick I once been. Would I be this knowledgeable, compassionate, emphatic, pragmatic if I never went through that ordeal? I guess not. I guess I just have to accept that:

 “My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step, they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.” 
― William Golding

And I truly believe that the past is what makes me strong, keeping me in check and stopping me to fall victim to circumstances and abling me to view this life in a very sober manner and at the same time making me appreciative of the little miracles that come my way. So, I’d say shoulder on and be grateful for having those gray faces as companions.

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Halfway In Between

“I have to admit, an unrequited love is so much better than a real one. I mean, it’s perfect… As long as something is never even started, you never have to worry about it ending. It has endless potential.”

This quote above reminds me of an episode when during the happiest, wildest, confusing, enjoyable painful saddest ride of my life when I was lost looking for my rainbow connection the captain ball of my basketball team refused despite his teammates urging him to put a stop to his shenanigans and properly court me so we could all move on (meaning if I turned down the guy the next in line can try his luck and if I accept him then they will know the chase is over and life can go back to normal) he said: “Why would I do that? This way, you can all wait forever and I will always be at the head of the queue.” He was seventeen, sweet and such a handful. I was thirty-one, looking like sixteen, daring and crazy like hell but has a decency and sense not to give in to temptation. Those were the days.

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Genetic Makeup

I have always been fascinated with the DNA of everything. More in clinical ways than theoretical or scientifical. How can I explain it… I want to know the hows and whys of a living organism without spending hours, weeks, years in a laboratory or drowning myself in paperwork. I want to understand why things behave in certain ways. For example, why cacti (and succulents for that matter) know what shape to evolve and what kind of spines, glochids, spinose teeth or whatever they call it to grow to protect themselves. Why they flower when one abuses and neglects them? Why siblings who grew up in the same environment, shared the same genetic makeup, identical background, and upbringing become completely two different individuals, opposite in every way. Why two identical plants, planted side by side in the garden grow completely different from each other, one of them big and robust, the other small, thinly and dying. I once dismantled a transistor radio and a watch of my father out of sheer curiosity. I wanted to know how they work, what makes them tick. I am none the wiser of course after that episode. I lack the knowledge and the drive to pursue the interest. I am more artistically inclined than technical though I like to think I am both. Anyway, isn’t it handy if we understand the mechanism of everything so we can treat them accordingly?

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Am I a feminist?

A Scold’s Bridle is an ancient primitive instrument of repression. They were used in the Middle Ages to curb the tongue of nagging women.

If I had lived during those times, I might… I wonder… for sure they have… but I don’t nag. I merely state the obvious (privately) and my opinions and verdict are always supported by hard facts and I only voiced them out (repeatedly if previous attempts were ignored) as a last resort when the object (or is it the subject) of my dissatisfaction refuses to listen to my case and deliberately missing the points.

Publicly I admit I have some difficulties holding my rather strong views of anything I disagree about (and my sense of humor may be dark, dry and cynical but at least I have a sense of humor) but disagreement is always done with respect and tact and always politically correct that no one can accuse me of being rude. I might say what I have to say too straightforward for everyone’s taste but never in insolence and never in the hope of embarrassing or discrediting someone but rather born out of curiosity and inquisitive mind that refuses to rest unless all the options had been explored. I just can’t accept anything at face value except if my instinct tells me they are true then I shut my mouth, smile, and nod.

No, I have to remove from my mind the possibility of wearing the said contraption if ever I have lived or find myself (you never know with time traveling being possible in the future and don’t forget reincarnation) stuck in that era. But the thought is rather unsettling. Much like the idea of not being able to read and write. Imagine… I can’t think of anything worse than not being able to speak my mind and form an opinion and the freedom to voice them out politically correct or not, which leads me to another question that is in my thoughts for quite some time now: Am I a feminist?

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It’s Not The Place, It’s The Company

Beautiful evening in the dunes. The landscape is bathed in a golden haze enhancing every blade of grass, every flower top, giving them a magic cozy peaceful appearance. She supposed to be happy, tranquil. In any other circumstances, she would be for this is her kind of environment, almost alone, quiet, stunning scenery, slight breeze and water and sinking sun never failed to cheer her up. But not today. Today she can hardly breathe, she feels her chest might explode in any moment trying to hold back the tears that insist on flooding her cheeks. She’s crying hard inside. All those years of pent up emotions, suppressed anger, disappointments, and disillusions come bubbling to the surface spilling over the edge in a current of undisguised passion. She wants to shout, to lash out, to hit something but most of all to disappear, to run away as far as she could and never look back. But what comes out of her mouth is a series of choking faltering sounds that barely inaudible, threatening to strangle her from within because she knows she cannot escape, she’s trapped, a prisoner, boxed in, there is no way out.

Is this what marriage and love are all about?

She strongly wishes she didn’t get married. she doesn’t want someone, anyone to say they love her. Experience taught her that love means pain, heartaches, forgetting one’s needs, wants and desires, existing solely for others, giving up one’s freedom and dreams. Love means losing one’s self and being numb, sad and lonely… 

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I Write Because

“I write to find strength.
I write to become the person that hides inside me.
I write to light the way through the darkness for others.
I write to be seen and heard.
I write to be near those I love.
I write by accident, promptings, purposefully and anywhere there is paper.
I write because my heart speaks a different language that someone needs to hear.
I write past the embarrassment of exposure.
I write because hypocrisy doesn’t need answers, rather it needs questions to heal.
I write myself out of nightmares.
I write because I am nostalgic, romantic and demand happy endings.
I write to remember.
I write knowing conversations don’t always take place.
I write because speaking can’t be reread.
I write to sooth a mind that races.
I write because you can play on the page like a child left alone in the sand.
I write because my emotions belong to the moon; high tide, low tide.
I write knowing I will fall on my words, but no one will say it was for very long.
I write because I want to paint the world the way I see love should be.
I write to provide a legacy.
I write to make sense out of senselessness.
I write knowing I will be killed by my own words, stabbed by critics, crucified by both misunderstanding and understanding.
I write for the haters, the lovers, the lonely, the brokenhearted and the dreamers.
I write because one day someone will tell me that my emotions were not a waste of time.
I write because one day I will be gone, but what I believed and felt will live on.”

― Shannon L. Alder

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