Tag Archives: creative writing

And Yet

A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.

— Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities)

And yet people seem to always know you. In fact, in places where people have ample times in their hands, they seem to know more about your life than you do. They create far-fetched stories about faraway places they never been and put you in the middle of their fantasy. The funny thing is others tend to believe them. Great minds think alike indeed.

Reminds me of something I’ve read somewhere that goes like this:

Gossip can have devastating consequences. We tend to have a strong negativity bias: Almost all of us pay more attention to negative information than we do to positive information. Think about the last time you posted something to Facebook, for example, and got a string of enthusiastic comments followed by a single, stinging rebuke. Which comment did you focus on?

It’s true, isn’t it?

We always tend to see the single black dot on a paper and focus on it but we forget the vast whiteness of the paper surrounding the black spot.

People love to believe fat juicy lies than the simple truth especially if it is about someone they are secretly jealous of or envious of the life that someone is leading. They will gladly swallow anything that can damage their perfect perception of you and your life. It makes them feel better about themselves. Justifying somehow their insecurities and personal issues. Often than not those sort of people will happily feed the fire till there is nothing left anymore of whatever the truth might have been. I have fallen victim of this sort of gossips so many times I lost count already the number of times people have spin gory tales about me. Mind you, my unconventional behavior and nonchalant attitude towards rumors didn’t help much with their already wrong impression of me and once upon a time I couldn’t care less.

They can say whatever they want as long as it doesn’t interfere with my agenda. But you cannot be in the middle of someone’s concept and be invisible. Sooner or later hell will break loose and often times the leading character is the only casualty because it is easier to hit a single target than multiple ones. Safety by numbers and the majority always win.  Fortunately, their movies are not my reality. Unfortunately, like one of those sci-fi movies, when you get hurt or die in virtual reality you die in real life too, the consequences can travel through time and dimensions and even if you don’t die the scars are deep it shows.

You know what they say:

It’s difficult to be the subject of a negative rumor, particularly one that has no basis in reality.

And even if:

You can’t always control what other people say about you, but you can control how you respond—and you can be resilient…

You are only human. You are not invincible. Everybody has limits and sooner or later you will reach your saturation point. And once you’re there you can only do a couple of things:

Wage a war against those who are set to harm you  (which in Dutch is equivalent to “dweilen met de kraan open.” Literally translated: Mopping the floor with the tap wide open meaning: ‘Bailing out a sinking ship.’)

Change your ways and conform. (Yeah, follow the heard and be a copy of the majority. Die before you’re dead.)

Or be a Hermit like me.

Which one it is?

Make your choice and let me know.

 

Butterfly Effect

I was watching the movie the other night (out of nothing better to do) and I realized that I have something in common with the lead character; an urge to make everything the way it supposed to be, in other words, __ perfect.

He traveled back and forth, back and forth to the future/past to set everything straight, often resulted in more disastrous events. In the end, he got it right but who knows what will happens next.

His actions remind me of myself when one time out of a strong desire to iron a crease that was barely there I burned a new Michael Kors coat. And that wasn’t the only mistake I made trying to make things right. I killed plants that way. I ruined a couple of my paintings and sketches, scratched for real the paintwork of my laptop trying to eliminate imaginary scratches, and dozens of other little things with catastrophic effect. 

I have an image in my head and I cannot rest until I am satisfied that everything is the way it supposed to be,__perfect.

Unlike other “psychological” issues in my life, this one I can trace back to my childhood. To a mother who married someone beneath her out of necessity and missed opportunities to better her life resulting in trying to live her dreams and regain her chances through her children particularly me. Good wasn’t good enough. No margin for errors, punishments were a must, encouragement/support/compliments/help unheard of, and speaking back and speaking your mind were a big no-no. Like I said in one of my posts, she once tied me around a foot of a big table whole night without supper simply because I failed to recite “Our Father” prayer in English. 

I grew up to be a perfectionist and expect no less from others. I cannot tolerate mistakes and stupidity especially from myself. I am my own biggest critic. Before anyone else has criticized me, I have already criticized myself. And often times than not when looking at myself, I cannot find something positive.

Like the lead character in the movie, I will gladly sacrifice myself, my own happiness/health/life if it means good for those I hold dear. I know the consequences of this action. I know them all too well. I suffered them all my life and some of them are still lingering making my existence an ordeal. But we all got choices and what matters the most to us is what really matters the most—that what we most value is what is most valuable to us so to each his own. 

Like the film Premonition, I think what Butterfly Effect (the movie) trying to convey-aside from every action no matter how little or insignificant has consequences- is we can’t change destiny. We can only alter the course but not the result. We will get there no matter what. It could be via a short or long way but eventually, we will get to our destination so, stop avoiding the inevitable and try to make the ride as enjoyable as we possibly could.

See You next time.   

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Guilty I Am

Remember the time I wrote an article about feeling guilty whenever I eat? Well, that is not the only thing I’m feeling guilty about.

I feel guilty if by the end of the day I have nothing to show for it. What I mean is I have an immense urge to always create and do something I can’t sit still for more than five minutes. I feel guilty if I’m not doing anything. I feel that it is a waste of time to sit and relax while you can do a million things instead. Not only I want to create I also want a proof of my labor. A tangible proof. Something I or someone else could admire and cherish. Something beautiful, something creative. If I don’t have it when the day ends, I feel worthless and guilty.

Again, I don’t know why. 

No one told or taught me to feel guilty if I’m idle. If ever, I don’t remember. The reason behind this is probably the same one why I don’t indulge in idle remarks or mere social chit-chat__ it’s pointless. If you want to say something, say something meaningful, remarkable or unforgettable. Say something kind and true and always meant it. Don’t say anything for the sake of__ just saying something or because you think someone wanted to hear what you’re about to say or just placating a person for whatever reason. And for God’s sakes don’t talk about the weather! And don’t start your greetings with “How are you?” if you don’t really want to know the answer to your inquiries or don’t have the time to really listen to the other person’s woes. Don’t say anything out of politeness. If you have nothing truthful or substantial to say shut your mouth and walk away. 

What else I’m feeling guilty about?

Cleaning and tidying. 

I’m a very clean person. I’m keen on hygiene. Not only personal hygiene but about everything. No, I’m not Mysophobic, just clean. And on top of it, I hate clutter. I cannot stand glasses, cups or anything unnecessary on the kitchen counter or coffee table. My espresso machine and water cooker are in the cupboard and only going to be out when needed. No shoes on the hallway and no coats either. People often describe my house as something that jumps out from the pages of a lifestyle magazine. My mother-in-law said my house is clinically clean. My daughter once remarks that it seems nobody lives in my place and one state agent told me that you can eat on the floor of my abode.

Of course, it isn’t true.

I just cannot rest if my house and garden are dirty and cluttered, but clinically clean it isn’t. There is dust everywhere. My house is a dust magnet. I can wipe the table clean and when I turn around, the dust has already settled in. And there seems to be always something on the floor. Mostly strands of my hair which is by the way so noticeable against the light tiles. No, my house and routine are ordinary. Just like me. 

I think I’m going to leave it here before I get totally carried away and say something irrelevant to the topic (as if I didn’t do just that) or something I might regret later.

See you next time?

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Millions Of Insignificant Feet

And slowly time begins to fade

Slipping through my fingers

Turning to grains of sand

To be stomped on by millions of

Insignificant feet

Aimlessly walking the streets

With no destination

And nowhere to turn back to.

 

Slowly I begin to rot

Layers of my happiness decaying into

Ashes

Like the layers on an old, dead tree

Cursed to be on earth

Way past its years

My face is young but my mind is

Old.

 

And weak.

My brittle bones are shattering

They will join the ashes of my flesh

To make one disintegrated me

Forgotten and lost

To be trodden on by more hated feet

Not knowing where to go.

 

Life is just a vicious cycle

Of ups and downs

Like the scars all over my body

They reflect all the steps I take in my days

Stretched out so thin

Like a piece of cloth

Trying to fit a frame much too big

We never size things just right.

 

We never know what we are doing

Where we are going

Or why we are going there

We are just millions of feet

Making the time pass

Making the scars multiply

We will all end up in ash

And be walked on again

Again

And again

To our deaths…

-found poetry from an old forgotten file.

 

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The Sweet Sound Of Basil

It must have felt woefully out of place

like the refugee placing a bowl of water safely

on his windowsill, front row seats

the spectacle: the moon reflects a stolen

memory

 

Also peculiar, the soul whose words want

so badly, but don’t answer to the self-portrait of

kings, whilst these fingertips understandably

caress: the land cannot belong, the land longs to be

rooted

 

That’s how we became the gardener and his basil

green power in between

Our sound is loud and clearly

wickedly misplaced.

 

(My only son K, wrote this poem)

broken-man

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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Fabric

The life I have painstakingly stitched together from the fragments of ruins which is my heritage and the little I know of happiness are always been threaded with pain. Yes, I take momentarily pleasures, mostly from little things and enjoy moments but those are just little patches hiding the multitude of scars and bleeding wounds which is the fabric of my being… 

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Imagination

My mother (when she was alive) had always accused me of having an over-active imagination. I don’t agree. I just happened to experience some things that other people find weird but for me ordinary. I didn’t ask for it nor fantasize about it. Who would want to imagine such things anyway? For all of the things I had experienced and seen, people might think that I believe in mystics or such phenomena but the truth is I don’t. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything supernatural, I don’t even believe in heaven or hell but I do believe in the parallel universes. I really think that there are other dimensions out there apart from this one and sometimes they collided with each other that’s why some unexplainable incidents happened. I believe there are portals to other worlds, other planes so different yet similar to ours and I am convinced that every so often its inhabitants somehow find their ways into this world and create havoc because they are scared maybe? Perhaps confused? Just happy to be here? Or simply to our understanding, evil. I don’t know. 

Here are some examples of what I have experienced so far. I let you be the judge if indeed I have an over-active imagination. For the record, it is not all of it, it’s only the icing on the cake.

Have fun reading and I hope I will not alienate you from visiting my space again. Till next time? 

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Images: Witch_IV_by_love_chizue

Agile

It’s in in the business world today_ to be agile. Especially in IT. They have agile consultants functioning as coaches, managers, facilitators, and everything you can think of. I should know, I am married to one. Mind you I have yet to see his agile side and managing capacity at home. His facilitating techniques and coaching methods think it is still early days. He must be good. They will not pay him a lot of money if he isn’t, will they? Maybe it’s me. I can’t follow conform or be govern. Unless I see that the methods are working and the leader is worth following. So far, I’m still waiting for some signs. I wonder how much more time must I wait. My time and patience are running out… 

Risky-Business

The Complete Ode To Solitude

Here is the complete poem of the passage I  featured  in one of my recent posts. This is my goal, my dream, the one thing I would like to achieve before I die…

BY ALEXANDER POPE

Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern’dly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix’d; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

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Sleep

Drip, drip, drip in the reservoir of my mind

Scratch, scratch, scratch on the walls of my consciousness

Now you see it now you don’t playing hide and seek

Within grasp cannot catch, why it’s so elusive?

Run, run, run after it and fast

Maybe still there just around the corner waiting to surprise

Almost have the taste feeling the presence but nowhere in sight

Like the wind teasing the brain better to give up?

Oh, so near yet so far like a distant___ star?

Skip, skip, skip into nothingness resign, resign, resign…

 

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