Again, music saved me.
Listened to this and I know I have to get out of this rut.
A new day begins.
Again, music saved me.
Listened to this and I know I have to get out of this rut.
A new day begins.
What do you see when you close your eyes?
I see nothing.
Yet I see everything.
Open – eyed, I see you look away from me; see you look at no one. Making a point of it, perhaps? And when I close my eyes, I see that I exist.
At least I think I do.
But I need you to look at me. With that you’ll show me that I do, you know, exist.
Will you look at me?
I know you need it, too.
You can look away now. Or you could close your eyes. I rather enjoy the latter, but it’s up to you. Look away and you still exist in this world, close your eyes and you may end up in other worlds.
Escape…you like that, eh?
I know. I know.
Anywhere, whatever situation we may end up in, we would always want to get out of it. All that in due time. It’s a built -in mechanism, I suppose – one we can do without, but can’t.
I wonder now.
In heaven, would we still feel the urge to escape? Was it what Lucifer felt?
(Or why you are not meant to tap your own back)
Hiya No. 1!
I didn’t think you could do it, never expected you to. Why, you tried it only once before and it sucked and I know why you think you shouldn’t do it again. I do, too. But you decided to just do it; decided to just get on and write that stupid short story – that one about some baby from hell type of flippertwit.
Again, idiocy reigned.
And blast me twice, but you’ve really finished what you set out to do this time. Why, you even made an awful series out of that rubbish!
I know this wouldn’t sound much of a success to anyone but you, now don’t give me that face you know it’s the truth! But well, yes, I believe it was really an achievement for you. And I’m proud of what you’ve done. Oh come on, I mean it! I know how you didn’t have enough guts to do it; all for a number of stupid reasons if you ask me.
They’re not stupid? Pfft! Not having an English degree, not being a native speaker, inability to fluently describe what an adverb is or to distinguish who from whom, too lazy to be any good with deadlines – how are these reasons not stupid enough?! And don’t even tell me you believe those bona fide writers really know what’s different from who to whom except the letter M.
Now you believe me? Well, of course I’m proud of you, moron. I know it’s not easy to let the world know how much of an idiot you are. And it really wasn’t so bad, was it? I mean the whole experience. After all, it made you happy. And it’s great fun to stop pretending to be smart and sensible and just let out the idiocy within sometimes.
So there you have it. I just wanted to say, “Well done!” and “Don’t get used to it because I know what you have to do come the third week of this month!”
*Evil laugh time*
Mm, is this the part where I say, “It’s not you, it’s me”? No? Fine, fine.
How about bye, then?
Your amazing-er self,
“Now, now you heard it,
Tales most far from sweet,
Her music gentle, clear,
Yet each note hides a tear,
From Great West to Far East,
Rough North, Treach’rous South,
Where songs begin, nurtured,
Melody she sings to you now.
You may or may not believe,
She only speaketh what she sees;
No friends, enemies, allies, or foes,
The Wind simply exists -
To collect mem’ries long forgotten,
Tales without her would’bin lost,
An’ when End arrives she’ll bring it,
To Time, waiting on his post.
But End still lies in slumber,
The World sees not his face,
But you, m’dear, have met him,
Now you must leave this place.
So hold my hand now, don’t fear,
For I am only Death,
To other worlds we’ll venture,
A new tale you must set.”
I know it’s a little late for the latter, but then again…
Let me start by sharing to you the works of my, err,
good friend, Landix.
“The Deal” created for the story Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Devil’s Child
“Le Pedofile“, this time for Tales of the Wind’s Kiss: Music Box
Now tell me you think they’re horrifyingly beautiful.
I know, I know.
It’s vital you understand here that Landix is a lunatic. I asked for his permission to place a link here to his website but the doofus declined. Yes. Crazy, just crazy I’m telling you.
But he’s also really good, so it’s not much of a question why I collaborated with him. At least to me.
Really now, Landix is not all that bad. A little crazy, but an artist and more importantly, a friend. You’ll be seeing more of him soon. Well, I hope.
Now second, my niche.
I started this blog without much of a niche – more of decided to make an outlet for my random thoughts, rants, and music I’m too chicken to share to my mainstream outlet – the magnificent FB. I was just putting random brain droppings time and again. But very recently, it just dropped on me one late night staring-at -the-ceiling-with-headphones-at full-blast session.
My niche would be to tell stories.
I know it’s another kind of brain droppings, but at least brain droppings you can categorize. Blame it on my control freak streak. But yeah, I have decided to communicate with the world in a new way. This time I’ll use an old friend, “fiction”.
I’ve always loved stories. I learned to read because I was told those boring-looking things called books hold so much of them. I look forward to my father’s bedtime stories as a kid. As a teen, with great reluctance, I wore glasses because I won’t give up this love for stories. The glasses grew thicker with time. Yes, until now.
Maybe it’s the little truths stories always have, even though we call them “fiction“. Many men, women, and children could attest to the great power some of these little truths hold. Still, some of them are also just as what they seem, little.
And yet, it doesn’t make them any less.
I guess I will always love stories. It’s really not something you can stop. It’s part of what makes you you. Or me. Yeah, you get it.
So, logically, I created stories simply because. Like water flows because it is meant to. Like the wind dances and, yes sometimes, destroys. Destiny. Fate. Or simply choice. A choice made with ultimate love.
And like how some people treat their dogs, their dolls, or those things I think come from another planet (they say it’s called cars), I treat these stories as my babies.
There’s only one thing I ask of you. Love them or hate them, but treat these stories with respect. At core, they really meant good. For no story is evil by itself. They are what we, people, make of them. Respect them, and they will pay you back for it.
They always do – or else.
Now for the third and most important part.
Readers, Likers, Commenters, Haters, Followers, Spammers, and my dear Friends, human or not…
I thank you.
For what? Many, many things. Perhaps for licking mooses, for fighting for kids, for sharing less noticed beautiful works of art, for adding beauty to the world, for being a shcmuck of a clown, and a gazillion other as important reasons.
But most of all, for acknowledging that THIS exists.Of course, you know what I mean.
It’s easy to talk about people’s failures especially if they’re not closely related to us. That way, there’s little chance for embarrassment from being caught. Ironically, they usually find out about it anyway and we don’t really learn our lesson every time they do.
Maybe at core, sans regards to norms and mores, we really meant to be rude (I already talked about that here).
Months have passed since I last hung out with my friends. Like always, we kid, we chat about what’s going on with who, show business’s latest fails, and of course, the latest gossip – oftentimes about people we always see but never really talk to (thus, not getting the whole picture, which in turn makes it the more interesting to speculate about their closet skeletons). They’re simply the easiest targets.
It’s all really easy and fun! For a while.
Then you go blurt out one stupid line concerning religion’s flaws/increasing number of beggars/worsening state of the environment/a really awesome graphic novel/psychological explanations behind people’s behaviors/relationship between heavenly bodies and character traits/ballooning rates of divorce and abortion/the horrors of the economic environment/the justice system’s impending collapse/other things you’d WISELY not mention in a light chitchat over ice cream – and everyone turns silent.
At least for three seconds.
Then there would be those genuinely curious/concerned who respond with a question or an honest opinion about it. But 90% of the group will usually either stare at you as if they’ve seen someone who wears a denim shorts in a formal dinner (it surely isn’t illegal?) or maybe develop a sudden, very profound interest in a single focal point – usually their fingers or the floor.
It’s vastly irritating.
I also know I would probably regret that line since there still is a slight chance one or two of my darling friends will be reading this. But then so be it. Everyone must know how it feels to be an outcast once in a while. After all, we all exert efforts (consciously or otherwise) to fit in every single day of our lives. It’s simply unrealistic to, or expect to, succeed every time.
I know I don’t.
(But really, it’s written about a year ago. I’m a worse writer then. You can back out now.)
Who am I?
A question that continues to haunt man since time immemorial. But what is it that keeps him from finding the answer to that ever daunting question?
It asks not only your name or age but what makes you an individual, a separate entity and not just a statistic in an ever expanding society. If I tell you ʽI am Jenny, 19, and still a student’, can you say that you already know me?
So the question remains – who am I? I am me. But another question follows. What makes me me? That is the most difficult part. For you see, I can say that I am a daughter, a son, a student, a Christian, an artist, an atheist, a Democrat, a Republican, a Muslim, a Russian, an anarchist, a loyalist, a scholar, a rebel, a doctor, an actor, a goth, a homosexual, blah, blah, and blah…
Those are things that you can also say for about a hundred million other people. It does not define you as a separate being. They’re merely labels. And the truth about labels is that they are used not with individuals but to categorize people.
Or divide. Maybe both.
Now one may argue that he can be a Christian and a Goth, while another could only be the former and not the latter. So that defines him from another person, eh? Having a label that the other person does not share. But that is all too generalized. Can that person say with conviction that he is the only Goth Christian in the planet? Not.
And so the question remains, what makes a person an individual? How do you answer the question ‘Who am I’?
The easiest and the laziest way to answer would be to say that you are a nobody, which is an utter lie in itself because a person is always a somebody to someone else, even if it’s not for everybody. Even a tramp that society labels as a nobody is a somebody to someone else – a long-lost friend, a mother, a son, a lover.
Specifics. Yes! At last, you say to yourself, I have already found the right way on how to answer that question. I’m going to flood them all with specifics about myself.
I am Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra, 21 years old, 5’8” tall, 158 lb, a junior mechanic. My parents are Ricardo and Cecilia Madrid and my two older sisters are Anastacia and Isabella Madrid. I have lived all my life in Havana and I don’t plan of moving anywhere else. I am in love with a girl working in a paladar near the shop where I work and I plan to marry and have 2 children with her. I am and will be a mechanic for the rest of my life because that is all that I ever know how to do. I was born on the shores of this land and this is where I intend to be buried. So there, now you know me and you cannot say that there is another person on this planet who can say the same words as I have. Now you know who I am.
True, there may not be another Juan Miguel Madrid y Saavedra the Mechanic in the planet, but is that all there is to it with that person? Is that all he is? A resident of Havana who plans to have a family and be a mechanic for the rest of his life and after which reside six feet under his birth soil – is that all?
Why do we have to complicate everything? Why do we have to force him to say more about himself if that is his own understanding ?
“I must find a truth that is true for me . . . the idea for which I can live or die” as Søren Kierkegaard, the first writer to ever call himself existential (Wiki says!), has stated. Yes, it may pertain to a discussion about morality but it also rings true to a question of identity. It is never the society’s task to define a person but only the person’s own. The question who am I can only be answered by the individual because it is he who experiences his life. Society may set traditions and norms, but it is up to the individual to follow or head the other way.
For one, an environment in which a person lives in may be brutal and unforgiving, and yet it does not necessarily mean that the people living in such a place would turn out to be the same. One person may turn out to be an adapter – cold, harsh, and eternally suspicious, while the other may be a dissenter – warm, gentle, and trusting.
That is what sets the two apart, their own choices. One chooses to survive in his environment by means of adaptation, he can only survive if he takes in the characteristics that his environment requires. If I live in an environment where everyone is hostile to one another and is constantly judgmental and only seeks personal gratification and individual advancement, then I cannot allow to be swallowed whole by the situation. I have to be cold so their hostility could not affect me, nor could their judgments. I would not care less. And in a milieu where everyone seeks to trample and rise above the other, I should be suspicious to anyone’s actions. That is the only way to survive.
The other however disagrees with conforming and chooses to do the opposite – he dissents. If I am surrounded with people who treat everyone as an opponent, as a threat, then I have to be warm and live without competing with them. If I do that, then eventually they would see how I am not a threat. And eventually, if all goes for the best, then they would stop treating everyone as a threat. Yes, it may not always be true with everyone but you can’t help but influence one or two or more people because of how you treat and interact with them. I chose to be different because I want change. And I can’t just wait for it to happen. If no one would, then I will start with myself. And it will show to the people I meet. Maybe they will follow and maybe they will not. But I can’t just stand and live in a world that repulses me. If I want it to change then I have to do something. That is the only way I can truly say I have lived.
Both have made a choice, though similar they are not. But it is clear they have decided on a certain course of action for which they can live with, and it will reflect on the kind of person each would turn out to be.
So would it be safe to say that what shapes a person is his own choices? Perhaps.
But like everything else, it is subject to the big C. CHANGE.
So back to the question: “Who am I?”.
Personally, I am yet to discover that. But the good thing is I know where to look for the answers. And even with that knowledge I still can’t find the ultimate answer in the present because the place where I look for is constantly changing, trivial or otherwise – myself.
And even then, one must be open to the possibility that he may never achieve a satisfactory answer to that question for as long as he may live. But tell me, do we really have to know? Or do we just have to accept the idea that there are things that exist which are beyond one’s understanding and the best way to deal with it is to just live and savor the experience while it is still there? If meaning is what we sought after, then searching might be futile if we only limit ourselves to that which is tangible, to that which tries to explain, to human reasoning. Shouldn’t we then accept the idea that there are things our human minds will never understand, that are reserved only for the understanding of a higher sort?
Ah, Life. I can’t help but agree with the character Alyosha when he says, “We must love life more than the meaning of it”. Why can’t we just live without questioning everything? Or rather, live and question, but never despair if you won’t find the answer? Do we question the meaning of our lover’s existence or do we just continue on loving them?
I believe we may find the greatest experience of bliss in the latter.
Questions, questions…sometimes these things are enlightening. But it is faith even amongst unanswered questions that really sustains.
So who am I? I am me, but what makes me me I can’t tell you yet. I do know one thing though. I choose to live. And as much as possible, I choose to be happy.
Look at the choices you’ve made, and think about the ones you’re about to make, then maybe you will find the answer as to who you really are. Or maybe not.
But at least you will know what you want.
Image Sources here.
That I am not an intellectual. An intellectual is someone who loves to learn, tries to learn, and actually learns a lot. I got 2 out of 3. I just never seem to learn a LOT – if not any less than I do 15 years ago.
15 years ago I learned…
*To do unto others only what I want others do unto me.
(Now I do, did, probably will still do unto others what I’d offer my savings account, mini library, and promise to make a twitter account for them not to ever do the same to me. And vice versa.)
*To listen when a person speaks in front.
(So when a blabbering buffoon is on your side and trying to get as close without resorting to sticking a pole inside any orifice, um, you are excused, right?)
*To eat only nutritious foods. And only when you’re hungry.
(A lesson I have happily un-learned! Unless you don’t count eating a large chunk of chocolate when you’ve just had dinner against it.)
*To respect the elderly.
(With all due honesty, I have tried to uphold this for as long as I can remember. But there are tempting times Satan prepared himself by hiding in the guise of a septuagenarian lady, making me want to grab her cane and use it to whack Satan out of that innocent body.)
*To say sorry when you hurt someone.
(But after a decade and a half, I have de-evolved from a human into a chicken for I find myself too much of a coward to utter even this two-syllabic word without the aid of dagger looks and a terribly messy situation.)
*To not speak nor go with strangers.
(I blame the one who said “strangers are merely friends you have yet to meet”. I wonder if that person ever had the reward of meeting and having a little chat with Mr. H. Lecter.)
*To mean what you say and say what you mean.
(This time I blame the books written in the style of beautiful, subtle sarcasm. And politics, of course.)
*To never tell lies.
(Ha! Now who would I blame? You? You? Or you?)
Fifteen years is quite enough time to have forgotten all these lessons. I am certain I learned a whole lot more back then. But due to lack of practice/application of these lessons poor memory, I only have these eight to share.
Let me make it clear that I am not saying the older you get, the dumber you’ll become. Fact is that there’s a turning point somewhere in the age line (they say it’s different for everyone…I do wonder who “they” is/are) when Fate itself drives you toward the long lost fountain of wisdom.
But until you reach that point, you have no right to say you are wiser than a 5 year old.
Any lessons to share?
Images courtesy of Google Images
I’m completely at a loss.
I don’t know what to do, it’s not the first, but this time it’s crucial I need to know what to do. I know what I want, but unfortunately, what we want is not always what is right.
Or is it? Is it the one really important thing we need to focus our choices on?
I am torn between so many things I try to avoid thinking about them to avoid going nuts. But it’s just making everything worse because deep down I have this deep anxiety that stems from a voice saying, “You need to make a choice and you better do it quick“. It’s true really, even though I would kill whoever that punctiliously right voice belongs to (that’s right. Suicide. Pfft).
Nursing vs Arts?
Travelling vs Staying with the man I love?
Staying in vs Moving out?
Study now vs Study later?
To write vs Deleting this blog?
Ignore vs Slam the door twice to the face of the one knocking right now?
To be myself vs To conform?
Lady Gaga vs Katy Perry? (kidding, they’re both hideous. Sorry again, fans.)
To comment or To let things be?
To smile or To tell him/her his/her existence is so pathetic I wonder how he/she finds the guts to continue living?
To cry or To read?
To Publish or Not?
Madness this is.
Last night, I was so hungry I hit the bakery and ordered a dozen of cheap, delicious bread. While the irritable bakery lady was getting my order, a dirty child approached two of the customers dining in and begged for bread repeatedly. The two ladies just kept on talking as though they were deaf to the world. I couldn’t hate or curse that they may rot in the depths of hell because if I should be honest, I behaved just like them more times than I can remember.
How often have you turned a blind eye to the misfortunes of others when it was supposed to be in your power to help easing the burden they carry? 20 times? 100 times? A million times?
No, I am not about to preach that we should all take care of one another because every person in this earth is our brother or sister. Nor would I help you to become a better person. I have enough shame on my pants not to do that. Rather, I would like to discuss why it is so hard for us to SHARE – our time, money, food, skills, boyfriends, services, among others – without getting anything in return
But why is it, really?
Theory no. 1: We have been raised to become selfish.
I love my parents and all the adults who helped in molding me to become the ridiculously self – righteous person I have become. They have all done their best to produce an individual the whole world could be proud of (read: a RARITY). But could you remember those times they told you to keep your toys to yourself and to your brothers/sisters because that (insert neighbor’s name here) child breaks anything he ever puts his hands on? Or those moments when they told you finishing education is a must (which it is) because only then could you be a successful person? At a young age, they have already unconsciously wired us up with the-world-is-selfish/there’s-no-such-thing-as-free-lunch anthem. Not that we could blame them.
Theory no. 2: We are scared.
Scared of what? Scared of being taken advantage of, perhaps? Maybe we are thinking that there are so many con artists and syndicates today behind homeless beggars that the thought of helping them and picturing those goons enjoying your loot is just too much to handle. Maybe we are so scared that if we do something to help people, they might milk us out until we cannot even help our own sorry selves. Maybe we are so concerned of what the noble, jealous, and insecure citizens of the world might think of our every actions that for the dread of being labeled as
good people phony philanthropists (a.k.a. someone feigning higher, humanistic, ENDANGERED principles), we prefer not to make any action at all. Maybe you have your own list of secret fears that keep you from lending a helping hand to the oppressed, lonely, hungry, hopeless people in this sad, dreary, miserable world. Yeah, probably that…or maybe
Theory no. 3: …we have simply become numb.
I should have made this my theory number one. I write according to what my head dictates at the spur of the moment and this didn’t come first. However, I have a very strong gut feeling this must be the reason we have ceased to pursue the carrying out of deeds for the greater good. The access to cosmic amounts of information (no, I am not condemning the Internet to eternal damnation) leads us to be knowledgeable about the bad news happening everywhere and anywhere that we have unavoidably become cynics – unfeeling cyborgs of the information age. The world is suffering from too much lack of money, food, savings, genuine friendships, toiletries, waterproof roofs, respect, originality, compassion, and tolerance that the act of GIVING out more of one’s self already seems to be a herculean task.
It seems that as I write, I have discovered that being good really means being generous with the things you can give that will be useful to the feat of the receiver becoming a better person. Becoming a person worthy of a space in this overpopulated planet is difficult when you have a gnawing stomach. Think about it, even forgiveness is something one gives to another which in its own could very useful for the other’s achievement of inner peace.
Ahhh…Inner Peace. Wouldn’t that be bliss?
Image courtesy of Google Images
There was once a lady with a human mind – one that wants something so badly one moment, and desire the exact opposite the next. HUMAN.
She woke up all cranky and ugly, answering the people who greeted her with the enthusiasm fit for the day of one’s meeting with the Grim Reaper. Despite of the efforts exerted by the people around her to cheer her up (or maybe because of it), she remained as Little Miss Stormy the whole day. And the root of it all was the failure of her prince charming to greet her on the first second of her birth date.
And so this person, who’s disputably the perfect embodiment of the word
shallow sensible, went on making everybody’s day as depressing as it could be. She never went out of the room regardless of the calls of her mom, grandma, brothers, uncles, aunts, cousins, friends, and pet dog. She wallowed in self – pity as she stared for minutes on end at that seemingly overpowering speck on her ceiling.
Boy, that was the best birthday of her life! Or it could have been…
It could have been, if she only went out the door enough to see the banner, with all the greetings and wishes the people she ignored the whole day, made for her.
It could have been, if she have bothered to respond to all the people who greeted her via text message, posted in her online accounts, personally shouted (they have to since the door was an unrelenting opponent) their greetings to her, and those that even tried to call her.
It could have been, if she had been humble enough to open that door and taste the source of the stimulating smell coming from the world beyond her door that she had been savoring for hours. But pride kept her.
It could have been, if she only appreciated the effort her prince charming gave out to compensate for his “fault” by sacrificing being the object of his boss’s tirade only to woo and try to get her to smile and open her door to the world.
It could have been, if only she hadn’t been so silly and frivolous.
It could have been the perfect birthday celebration, if she just tweaked her attitude. Even for just a little.
But she didn’t. And so she remained the cranky, old woman the whole day of her 20th birthday, and lived to write about it.
Image courtesy of Google Search
(The last sentence was not meant to imply that old people are generally cranky. Only some of them are. Some are perfect little angels. Others remain to be nasty demons behind wrinkled masks.)
I learned one new fact of life today.
It seems that as you age you continuously experience new stages of self – discovery. What you think of yourself when you were 18, however certain you were about it at that point in your life, will almost never be the same when you turn 25.
Some people say they have been self – assured early in life, but I don’t believe it. Because life changes you, it is a factory where we are all products that need to be upgraded and enhanced regularly. And those that cannot be changed turn out to be inappropriate and are sure to belong in the bin labeled
So it’s surprising to me how, say, a piece of literature with a theme concerning self – discovery could be limited only to a category of teen/young adult literature. Ironic, since you can see middle – aged individuals certainly still uncertain about their own identities.
But why do I concern myself with these things?
You see, I plan to experience different things from what I have always been doing – it simply fails to give me a sense of happiness. I am not so proud as to want happiness per se, I merely want a sense of it. There was just no passion (yes, that’s the right word) in what I am used to do.
And lack of passion (or excess of it) is in fact deadly. It has ended the lives of many notable men, and women of course.
That is why I am about to make this blog a sort portfolio of the things I would love to AND would do – pictures, stories, social commentaries, rants, random idiocy – and it doesn’t mean it would be in a chronological order. I’m so bored with chronological.
*An image I particularly like one googling session. Courtesy of thingsweforget.blogspot.com (obviously :p).