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.
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?
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.
Yes, I talk to the universe and all, especially when an awful fist of luck knocks me out like a domino falling, hitting me hard one blow after the other…or when nothing seems to be going my way no matter which way I go…or even when everything is dead blank and pitch dark yet and still the stars are too flicker on me…mostly, during the times I have to have something to blame and I could no longer force the blame on myself or to anyone. Yes, I do talk to the universe when I feel that I am the unluckiest earthling alive. It would seem like I am believer of luck. I may seem to be. But luck has never been kind to me. I even doubt if it ever exists.
Maybe when the universe is being less of a bitch and is starting to force a ray of good luck upon me, I am really not lucky at all.
Luck is too random to believe in and the universe is too bitchy to be nice to a random and insignificant earthling like me. But there is a stronger force, greater force behind the universe that makes me feel grateful instead. I am ever grateful, oh yes, I am, that as days fall off, I may falter but I don’t end with them.
Today marks the 7th day of my new year. With or without luck, I am grateful. With or without stars, I am grateful. I am grateful because I am alive to count up to this day that is about to end.
Tomorrow is another shot at winning fist fights with the universe.
Am I the only one wishing I could sleep and wake up with an opportunity to live life again, skipping the shitty parts, and even the great ones that eventually lead to shitty parts still?
I feel like this when it is cold and it is too hot to go outside either that I’d rather put up with the cold, but the roars of laughter I should be sharing with the ones doing them annoy me that I wish I were not here the first place.
The thing is, it is almost 3 pm, maybe I just need coffee.
“You are everything I never knew I always wanted.”
I have to be at a similar spot at the Grand Canyon, devouring a picnic box of Gray’s Papaya. Well gastronomic-delight aside, I think I need to be reminded each time that “love is a gift…not an obligation,” as this 1997 movie has taught me, and I guess it would be such a rush to be frozen at this particular scene of “Fools Rush In” where the idea of love-as I have first known it to be, as I have grown knowing, and as I should forever remember-first introduced itself to me. A day in this favorite movie of mine will be spent at the Grand Canyon, with the one I love, taking pleasure at the sunset and the love we have, but of course, with a box of Gray’s Papaya. That is all that’s going to happen in a day. That is all I ever wanted.
(However, if I have two more days, I want to pass by Coyote Ugly and Burlesque. A shot of margarita or a bottle of beer while watching hot girls strut their butts and do breath-taking dance routines would be such a release from a day’s work, but too unfortunate we don’t have much of these shows in the city where I live. I would do anything in this world to see a live show of this sort. But I still have another day!— which I want to spend taking a bullet for Jenko in any Jump Street movie. And since I happen to save his life, then maybe…details of my fantasies end here, before I say something cool. 😛 )
Today is the first day of September. Today I realized I have not been wearing what I am supposed to be wearing. Today I realized I have been flat, bland and emotionless for the past months. For the past months I have been hiding behind smiles and sarcasms without regard for how beaming or sour I appear to people I face. For the past months it might not have mattered to me, but it might have to those who look up to me and those who don’t and are dying to have my face off theirs.
For the past months I wore nothing but my ordinary face, but today I decided to have my make-up on.
This would be the ultimate test, the great action research, the insightful experiment: will a touch of crimson on my lips make me sound more interesting? will a stroke of eyeliner make me look more sincere? will a dash of powder make me glow with optimism? will make-up transform anything in me?