Because I am free.

“WTF is going on?”

“My life is going to shit;
and I’m going down with it.”

I am in the midst of a mental breakdown. I wish I could so eloquently put down the circumstances leading up to my exigency. But as I try to type what I had pieced together in my head, while I had tried to mourn my flailing self-control, the monologue now escapes me.  Continue reading

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Disoriented Cogitations about Life

This week’s writing challenge requires me to write over the span of 5 days while adhering to the following prompts:

  • Day One: start your post
  • Day Two: add a quote from a conversation you had with someone today
  • Day Three: add something related to what your childhood self wanted to be when you grew up, or a dream you have for your future.
  • Day Four: add a reference to something currently in your refrigerator.
  • Day Five: add something inspired by a song you heard today. 

I have been thinking about death lately. No, I’m not suicidal (nor depressed). It all started with an episode of True Blood, and exacerbated by the recent flight tragedies. I even wrote a fictitious piece that sort of reflects my notions of death.

I have used the word ‘death’ way too many times this week, and it is beginning to leave a sour taste in my mouth. So instead, I’m going to talk about ‘living’ – or rather, the lack thereof.

Continue reading

Three songs to reinvigorate your soul.

Writing 101, Day Three: Let the emotions or memories connected to three songs carry you.
I listened to each song in full with my eyes closed, and then proceeded to write whatever that came to my mind during which.


Track: Drumming by Florence And The Machine

It fills my head up and it gets louder and louder.

Have you ever been so consumed by your thoughts that you wished there was a switch to flip it off? I remember some nights when my inner voice seem to be on steroids, keeping me away from my sleep. Some nights, I would be on the brink of pulling strands of hair out from the follicles. Some nights, I would try meditating and fail miserably. Some nights, I admonish myself aloud as though I was schizophrenic. Some nights, I pretend to count sheep like a child in his cot.

It is a wonder, isn’t it? Our minds. It allegedly makes us, humans, unique. (I use ‘allegedly’ because I am pretty sure my dogs have serious attitude problems and are conscious of many things.) I know that cognition is great and all; allowing us to think and contemplate decisions and repercussions. Sometimes though, I wonder if it does more harm on our psyche. Don’t you realise how tough we are on ourselves? Have you ever stood in front of a mirror and go, “Oh my, you look like a greek god. Change nothing about yourself. You are so awesome, don’t even bother tidying up your hair. Who needs grooming when you look like Narcissus?” We hold ourselves to impossible standards; acknowledge our own stupidity in doing so; and yet are unable to do anything about it. Or is it just me?

***

Track: We Might Be Dead By Tomorrow by Soko

But if you are not ready for love, then how could you be ready for life?

Continue reading

Freestyle senseless ramblings

Writing 101, Day One: Let’s unlock the mind. Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.


 

For the life of me, I can’t even seem to conjure relatively interesting thoughts to actually pen down. So I’m just basically going to carry on typing whatever that comes to my mind, as I sit on my bed. It’s a big, nice and comfortable full-sized bed that is slightly too big for my room. Ironically, this alluring bed has had only one person sleeping on it for the past year or so. I should probably downsize to a reasonable sized bed to create more space within this four walls. But I won’t. Just let me be hopeful why don’t you? Allow me to cling onto the notion that I’m going to get laid any time now. I just laughed in my own head. “How the hell are you going to accomplish that by staying cooped up in your room all day?” I don’t have much of a social life. In fact, I’m just existing. Just like my dogs.

Speaking of my dogs, they’re right here with me. I’ve got the fat one napping by my bed; and the mentally-challenged one sleeping by the door. All they seem to do is sleep. And exist. The only time they show any semblance of excitement is when I bring them down for their business. Otherwise, they just mope around the house; occasionally licking themselves, but mostly just sleeping. Perhaps their lethargy has rubbed off on me. That’s all I have been feeling lately- fat and sluggish. “It’s not my fault”, I say. The doctor has yet to clear me for exercise. Prior to this incident I was an exercise junkie. Oh, the endorphins. Oh, the soreness. Now, I’m just bitter and depressed. I’ve got about a week to go before I can start light exercises such as walking. YAWN! This is really depressing me.

“You know what else is really depressing?” My overstocked bookshelves of books. I picked up an expensive habit of purchasing paperbacks as a teen. It’s been several years and I still have hundreds of hoarded books that I have not found the time to read. And now that I have, it’s depressing me as well. I tend to spend the whole day reading in bed, because I simply can’t will myself to put books down. So yeah, the inactivity is compounding my self-loathing. Also, I’d like to take the time to admonish my sixteen-year-old self for buying so many goddamn crime thrillers. The worst part is, I actually bought the whole series of several different authors. James Patterson’s Alex Cross. Patricia Cornwell’s Kay Scarpetta. Harlan Coben’s Myron Bolitar. Just to name a few. I’ve been drowning myself in these paperbacks. I’m so sick of crime fiction. Seriously, some times as I am reading, I wished I was actually the character that was shot dead. “Well, I shouldn’t be wasting my precious time on books that don’t cut it for me, you say?” Sorry, but you didn’t pay $20 for it, did you?

what i think about when i run

I ran 20 laps today.

And like always, I was accompanied by my incredulously retarded sililoques while I run.
Inspired by Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief, which was set in Nazi Germany, I pretended to be a Jew.
A Jew, on the run from the grasps of the zealous Anti-Semites.

Yes, I know.
It’s ridiculous.
but it worked. for a while.

Then, I realized that I wasn’t being chased due to my non-comformity with the Aryan race.
In fact, it was the sinful nutella coated muffins I had after lunch that was doing all the chasing.

Ironically, I was sure that the monstrosity that had me running for my life, was in fact fueling my muscles with energy.

All these got me through 10 laps.
I was only half way there.
the pain was setting in.
my feet amplified the painful reverberations of my feet hitting the paved route.

paradoxically, my inner monologue comprised the following: ‘don’t think, just run. don’t think fucker, just fucking run.’