How often do we find ourselves trying hard to convince people of our intentions? Quite often, in my case.
There’s something so weak about human nature that begs to be understood, to be heard, to be trusted, adored, and — in short — to make sense.
And then I saw this on Pinterest. And it made me question everything.
Makes sense, huh?
Fresh and eager –
on a Friday morning.
I’ve begun to lose interest in Paulo Coelho. And trust me, I don’t want to.
Every time I open one of his books, I look for that something I found in The Witch of Portobello. I loved that book, and in comparison, both books I read afterward (By the River Piedra I sat Down and Wept and The Devil and Miss Prym) ended up disappointing me.
The thing with The Devil and Miss Prym is that I got lost plenty of times while reading the book. I admit, I was sleep deprived, but even so, the book was a painful read. Plus, I had a bus journey of about 6 hours to look forward to, and the book was my sole companion.
I almost forced myself to finish reading this book. It’s one of those stupid things they call closure. Unless I finish reading a book, it keeps popping up in my head, bugging me, torturing me, and making me feel all kinds of guilty.
So I leaned back in my seat and, stifling my yawn to avoid my neighbour from judging me, opened the lovely-coloured cover. And every five minutes, I had to tear my eyes off the view of the street and get back into the book. That’s how slow it went.
But with all respect, the book wasn’t all a loser. It was nice, and parts of it were great. With a simple narrative, a solid story, and some good characterisation, it was a decent read.
It just wasn’t my type.
Perhaps it’s just me, but I’ve started to think Paulo Coelho is trying too hard to be philosophical and spiritual. All this talk about what’s right and what’s not, the co-existence of devils and angels, evil and good, the question of conscience, and the unmistakable victory of all things good — and here I am wondering what’s new. It’s the “same ol’ same ol’” story.
But I don’ want to give up yet. One, because I still hope Paulo Coelho had written something as captivating as Athena’s story. And two, because I had already bought a boxed set of his books that I don’t want to leave unread. Oh, and the covers — they’re beautiful with luring fresh print, and my mind seeks closure.
Part of me wants to give up on Paulo Coelho — at least for the time being, but the bigger part of me wants to read the other books too — just in case. I don’t want to miss a great book, just because I didn’t like a couple.
I’m hung up on The Blacklist.
I’m hung up on brilliant writing, cold-blooded murders, deception, manipulation, justice, and purjury. But most of all, I’m hung up on human nature.
Ego. It’s a weird word. It sounds weird. It looks weird. And it means more than its disyllabic utterance. At the end of every episode of every season of every show, I had to question my instincts about human nature and all I thought I knew about love and ego.
Humans are egotistic bastards. Nothing changes that.
But love changes anything.
The revelation surprised me. After all, I had lost all hope in humanity. I felt rather negative about humans. How could anyone demand control over another? I hated it that parents could dominate their child’s life. I couldn’t bear the thought of one person dictating entire nations. It felt like hypnosis — in a world that prides itself democratic.
But then I saw The Blacklist. It strengthened my feelings, of course, but it shook my beliefs as well.
I hadn’t thought anyone could ever care for another so much as to go to any lengths to fight for the ones they cared. No matter the price — even if it were the ego they held most dear — they’d give it up nonetheless. Because, love.
And at that moment, I regained hope in humanity. I know, The Blacklist is nothing more than awesome fiction. But we are a race that thrives on fiction. We seek inspiration in non existence. Fiction taught me survival in a world of dangerous, manipulative people. But fiction also showed me the world has people who’d give up everything they treasured to protect those they loved.
Perhaps humility will endure. Wait till I finish the series.
It’s not alcohol –
it doesn’t depress me.
It’s not weed –
it doesn’t oppress me.
It’s no narcotics,
It’s nicotine-free,
Just pure antibiotics,
that reeks only glee.
I feel it — the joy,
and a triumphant smile,
like winning a toy,
unknowing all the while.
I’m ready to disclose –
the secrets unbound,
for never will I close.
Words heal every wound.
The Chaos Within 