Verbosity

Too wordy. 

I get that remark all the time. What if I would be given the chance to appear unedited, like my written thoughts were a director’s cut of a film? How I wish I would truly have that chance and still not be judged for my syntactic struggles.

Whenever the tip of my pen is about to code overlapping dependence, or attempts to build excessive modification, I know my musings are about to turn into nightmares. Still, like drug to my diction, I allow the manuscript to be heavy on words, because suppressing the “breathings of my soul” might just suffocate me or leave me dry. 

Sometimes, fragments are the riddles I’ve been looking for to stitch together the broken pieces of the entire truth. I find pleasure in using numerous fragments to trigger nerve impulse by every torn tale, ripped reality and fractionated feeling. I know there is a more grammatically acceptable structure than my disintegrated dogma, but sentence fragments are the literary bricks that complete my thoughts. Without them, I might break apart. Literally.

Consider revising.


This is the expert advice I often get, and rarely consider. I have tried resolving this internal conflict I have with the writer who writes and the writer who’s right, trapped inside me. I am not done trying yet though. I still have debate skirmishes inside my head if I wish to be a writer or right-er because trying to be both seems to be an endless struggle. 

And I just want to write. Does it have to be that hard?

Palilalia

Words are all I have, which is why I sometimes do not have enough of them to express substantially my point, so I end up saying “actually” or “technically” over and over. In the same way, at times,  I only have  a word or two to deliver my exact point, like “exactly” or “precisely.” These verbal tics, annoying as they seem, turn out to be the excellent choices for conversation starters and terminators after all. 

What would I ever do without them? 

We have all been in boring and not so boring classes in high school, and the only thing that has kept us entertained is drawing sticks on our notes to tally a word that our teacher would say over and over again. As we grow older, we realize that some old habits die hard, and we continue to build fences on memo pads whenever we are trying to make it out alive of a staff meeting or conference, because the one presiding seems to end each statement with the same word. 

Sometimes, we wonder, there are over a hundred thousand words in the dictionary, but why do people have to keep on repeating but one?

What is more interesting is, to some people this tic manifestation is categorized as a disorder. While parents of children with autism worry over their children’s pathological speech behavior, here I am, merely making a complex deal out of my self-diagnosed palilalia, as my own form of withdrawal from being annoyed with myself, because denial and anxiety get the best of me whenever my mind stalls for a better way to enunciate my thoughts. While it is a disurbing language disorder to some teens and adults, we belong to that portion of the class perhaps who take this disordered speech patterns of our teachers or colleagues as a thing to make fun of. 

Why is that?

Amidst burning issues and challenging situations, we do run out of better words to say and take diction for granted, to a point that we trigger the red light for language check. Still we scald our tongue with words like “crap” and “damn” (I have to filter the real words for these two) over and over again, meant or half-meant. I guess this is the same feeling when we say “okay” or “alright” though we never mean them, because these are all we can comfortably say to avoid having to explain ourselves or telling the truth about our feelings. This is the same as well when we say “I was like” or “you know” when there isn’t really something like it or no one really knows, but we say it repeatedly anyway because we “literally” have nothing else to say. 

Are we better off running out of words to say then? If I do, what do I say?

Non-linear Thoughts

I am starting to believe my brain is a briefcase of graphic organizers.

How I wish I could sort my thoughts in compartments and mentally label them, each time I have to challenge my own reasons behind decisions that I make by every turn of the clock.

 How I wish I could trace back the dots I connect in my mind in a trail of wise guesses and second guesses just the same, each time I demand from myself the validation of my own principles. 

How I wish I could cross over timelines in my brain and relearn or unlearn the tricks and trades of banal existence, each time I look for better options than the ones that I thought were already the best.

How I wish I knew how to declutter my brain, because I am beginning to feel that this mind map I carry with me is not only divine but also deadly. 

Depresso

Coffee never asks questions. Coffee understands.

There comes a point in your life when silence turns out to be your dearest friend, and coffee keeps you both satisfied, although it can never pour fillings through the holes in your heart.

My love affair with coffee is more than just a fad or fling. Coffee has saved me from a lot of raw truths I could have said in the wrong way. In numerous instances, coffee has kept me from making a big deal out of harsh realities that were better pondered on and left unsaid. If I were just drinking coffee for the heck of it, I would not act like my life were dependent on it, because it truly is. It is not an act. I am truly living with a strong reliance on coffee to fuel me, to sustain me, to resuscitate me, to restore me.

Coffee is both lifeblood and lifeline. 

I am trying to be hopeful that this dependency is not a bad thing, because sometimes, (or most often than not) I credit to caffeine the tiniest drop of confidence I have to face daily mundanities. Living a life measured by coffee spoons is reality for me, even if there may be shades of meaning along with it. I have had my fair share of misfortunes but most of these frustrations have been caffeine-fixed.

Still, though a potent stimulant, there are a lot of actualities that coffee can never change, heal or subdue, whichever is necessary. Coffee can only help get past murkiness and sharpen the edges. To me, this is more than enough consolation. 

Give me coffee or give me death. I rest my case.

Time Check

I notice how every second seems to race with my heartbeat. I notice how the clock seems to give me mini panic attacks all the time. I notice how time seems to run out so fast.

What I do not notice is that, every second lasts the same way, the clock works the same way, and time goes by the same way.

I never want to notice how the clock strikes every hour because I know that I have not stricken out enough items on my to-do list. I never want to notice how the clock stays undaunted by pressure while I disintegrate at every turn of the clock. I never want to notice how the clock feels unthreatened when deadlines are undeniably gruesome.

I wish I could trade places with a clock even just for a second. But I can’t help but wonder, will it ever change how I battle against time—time and time again? I guess not.
Clock

atm

At the moment, I feel like I have ticked off the things I need to do for the day but at the back of my mind I know I have more checklists to attend to.

At the moment, I feel hungry that I want to splurge on every piece of junk food sold at stalls nearby where there seems to to be a great celebration over suspension of classes because it is sports fest season, but my pocket seems to be unwilling to take that splurge and my weary mood won’t stand a second amidst the festivities.

At the moment, I enjoy the sound of the tapping of the keyboard that I do while writing down this blog as well as the synchronous ticking of the clock telling me to not waste time away over blogging because I have letters to send out and reports to accomplish, but I am pretty much enjoying myself all rambled up in this piece I am writing so the heck with deadlines.

At the moment, I want to grab my bag, put on my earplugs, touch my playlist on shuffle and let the first song decide how I shall feel the moment, but let me unplug all sockets first and turn off all the lights because it is already way past my official duty hours.

 

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[Image not mine]
Photo credit: http://www.so-many-places.com/2014/11/my-writing-desk/

Threads

How you love to hate me now.

Brushing and untangling the threads back then nearly drove me crazy but I stayed, until you pulled that one weak thread and I just snapped. I turned my back and walked away leaving you to believe it was the petty argument I was so upset with. I did not even bother to clarify things or offer reasons at all. I gave you silence because when you pulled  that one weak thread, it was enough to dry me out of words to say. I have nothing else left to say. I do not know what to feel and how to feel anymore.

Holding my weak thread, you continue to have power over me. In my silence, you had all the words to say in order to make me feel worthless and miserable because you could not get me to speak of reasons you would like to hear why it had been (for you) too easy for me to just throw away what we have. In my silence, I did not bother to express that you were wrong to say that I did the thing you hate I did without thinking how it would hurt us both. I did it with a heavy heart. You should know better. You cast the weight upon my heart yourself.

What I did is unforgivable.

You are taking what I decided to end with you to your grave, to your last breath, to eternal damnation. The rage is clear and regret is not visible. You said I killed you. Well you have killed me twice. You got all threads wound up on me leaving me no room to breath. You are unwilling to accept how sorry I am that things would have to amount to this but you left me with no choice because for you, I have no right to leave you. You have left me many times and yet we got to where we were before I mustered my own courage to do it myself that time. It is true that I did not even give it a second thought. I did it carelessly. Well I have been careful and caring for a long time, but the burning threads had to stop. You have scarred me way too deep.

It easier to ravage the rubble than resurrect it.

The threads are unmanageable. It takes a long to time to untangle, but it takes a split second to coil them, tear them, destroy them or throw them away. You are unwillingly to restore peace because of what seems to be a crime that I committed against you. You think you are the only one who is in pain here. You have all the right to destroy me because what I did to you is unacceptable. You have my weak thread, so I think you can do whatever you want. So if you think living with the wreckage will make things better for us, then burn the ashes further. I have nothing left to offer. There is nothing left in me for you destroy so you are only wasting your time.

I don’t know you anymore.

You said you are the same person I used to know but I taught you just how you are supposed to treat me by the feelings I accused you of making me feel. For you, my wrecked feelings are accusations and never real. You don’t believe in me. I now understand why it is easy for you to hate me as much as you love me. Do you even love me after all? Well it does not matter now I guess. Even if I wanted to take back the things I have said and undo the things I did, it would never change the truth I have seen surfaced out from you that I have not known before, and I would not want to risk being faced with the scary stranger I am facing now ever again.

I have said sorry already. For you. For everything. End of thread.