An exciting walk-in;
dejected walk out
Walking Dead
An exciting walk-in;
dejected walk out
Tag: reality
I’m a Fool
Sometimes all you need is assurance that your foolishness will pay off. And since it comes from Roald Dahl himself (or so I hear), it must be true.
What a comforting way to start the weekend!
Speaking of Sentimentality…
If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.
I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.
It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.
Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.
And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.
I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.
That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.
And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.
She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.
Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.
After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?
What Is The Point Of Writing?
I like to write when I’m not doing anything else. And by anything else, I mean, eating, sleeping, or watching food porn.
Since I spend quite a lot of time writing — what, you ask? Well, don’t. Anyway, what is the whole point of writing?
When you think of it, it’s nothing really.
Most people tell you the point of writing is “To share with the world — things you can’t show.” or “To educate people about something.” Better yet, “To share feelings.”
Thing is, you can do all those stuff, without writing. Why write when you can tell? We all like to speak, so why write it down? Nothing we ever write will stand for eternity — preservation ended with great literates, there are too many people who write nowadays — we can’t preserve them all forever.
Then why bother writing at all? What’s the point of spending time and energy — not to mention paper, ink, or screen time — if you’re one of those technology buffs — on something that’s seemingly pointless?
Everything we ever write — thoughts, opinions, comments, detailed explanations, stories, poems — everything you can think of, you can also speak and record. Besides, isn’t spoken word poetry already a thing? And audio books?
So why do we still write?
Not one of the countless reasons really explains the need to write.
It’s Thursday and you’re at work. You’re bored and flipping through a magazine, and you suddenly feel like you have to write. Like your fingers want something to do — other than flipping glossy pages of size zero models. There is a sudden not-so-gentle nudge that wants you to drop everything else and just write. You don’t know what to write, or how to write; there are too many thoughts in your mind. It’s almost noon; you’re feeling mildly hungry; you’re thinking of that holiday you so badly deserve; the project that needs some final touches; then again the Caribbean holiday with boozy sangrias — before you realize you’re a little short of cash, and then — from nowhere — comes the thought that the following day your salary gets credited — after all those taxes, of course. But in the middle of all these thoughts, is something, a little lightbulb, a spark of light, that tells you to sit and write.
And that’s why we write.
Certainly Uncertain
So many times in my life, I’ve felt it — that feeling of uncertainty, of not being sure of what to do, or how to do something. Anytime, any day, any where — there are doubts.
And then, from nowhere, comes clarity.
Sometimes, you just know what to do. You become so sure that you’re not even sure how you became so sure. You, who used to be so unsure of everything.
And that’s why I love Sylvia Plath.
I can’t even begin to say how much I relate to her words. I haven’t read one book of hers; just a few poems, but I already know she’s one of my favourites.
Every word, every syllable, is pure venom. Addictive, powerful and the only truth.
