Categories
Lyrical Poetry

Of Belonging

“I wanted to embody the emotions I feel about ‘abandonment’, the word that I’ve chosen so as to write this poem.”


Of Belonging

Abandonment, what a sad word
For the living and this world
Everyday something is tossed away
Without chance of returning someday

Winds blow and rivers stream
While every creature dreams
Of belonging, of being cared for
And most, without wanting more

I want my whole self to be cherished
All of my thoughts unleashed
Living that good life unchained
Not a single piece of me thrown in a drain

We are a species born without furs
Our skin heated during summers
We can’t be abandoned creatures
For death awaits our fragile nature

How come we need to be dearly loved
To be wanted and be the beloved
And die in the hands of abandonment
Becoming monsters without good guidance

Somewhere someday we will remember
That we all need to be treasured
That we are connected through woumbs and oceans
And that the cries of those abandoned
Are achingly felt through our emotions.

Categories
Speculative Fiction

Fleece

“The original book cover of the Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? a Science-Fiction by Philip k. Dick inspired me to write Fleece. The theme for this story was the word ‘abattoir’, and this sheep simply inspired me.”

Lolly quickly took her habitual notebook and recorder, engulfed a piece of coconut bun, sipped a mug of warm sweetened milk tea, before rushing till her car to drive for about three hours till the next town found on the other island. She was already very late, and she didn’t like crossing the bridge on these moonless and starless nights, for all of that dark and wide space that surrounded this lighted passageway gave her terrible anxieties… because deep inside, she knew that this horrible gigantic creature of the night eyed at all passers-by.

Lolly was a successful worldwide blogger of the paranormal realm; also the author of Dancing With Ghosts and Fiona The Sad Spirit. Having herself witnessed and experienced many strange phenomena since she was very little, Lolly decided to become a private investigator who deals with all things paranormal, and created a blog with articles about her investigations. She also wrote two best-selling horror books that were inspired by the supernatural she encountered in her everyday life. Her paranormal blog Uncanny World was one among the most read website of the Internet, and she poured all her heart and soul in every article she wrote about all of these strange and frightening phenomena that some people witnessed and experienced – where most of them, Lolly often thought, lived a strange life too.

Recently, when she was investigating on site about a talking bird that the inhabitants of SD Town witnessed, she met Ranpal, a burgeoning mystic who often filmed some of the paranormal phenomena he was drawn to. Instantly these two clicked, and both decided to associate as to investigate on the various paranormal activities that people informed them about. Lolly mainly interrogated witnesses, wrote and posted on Uncanny World, while Ranpal examined the area or subject that was under their loop; did the necessary research, filmed and edited the videos to accompany Lolly’s blog posts.

Thus on that day Lolly was going to the small village of Ini so as to investigate on a series of slaughtering that took place after woolen domestic and reared animals strangely disappeared from their shelter at night. The day before Oley called Lolly for help as soon as she noticed that her cuddle pet that slept on her bed strangely disappeared in the middle of the night. The disappearance of her sheep Woolley affected her badly. At the end of the line she wailed and screamed, seemed confused and was worried sick. There was so much heartache in her voice, that Lolly decided to help her right away.

“Your hair looks like Woolley. Can I touch?” Oley asked Lolly.

Not at all estranged by the situation Lolly said yes.

“Yes… your hair is sheepskin, wool and fleece… curly black fleece… just like my friendly bud Woolley… you need to find her Lolly… please, find her,” Oley said as she achingly sobbed.

“I will,” Lolly said, intrigued by all these strange disappearances.

“You will never guess what happened last year in this little village, Lolly,” Ranpal said enthusiastically.

“No… I am unable to play the guess game right now… I am way too touched… that girl is an emotional wreck,” Lolly sighed.

“Well, in the local journal archives I read that a small meteorite fell around here… and the man that found the rock speculated insanely about this event, and I thought that it would be a good idea to go visit the guy.”

“Let’s take my car, and while I drive you’ll continue the story,” Lolly said.

“The guy’s name is Ulder, and one night while walking his dog Ully, strangely a poodle, a rock of the size of a fist fell from the sky right in front of him. The next day he told everyone what he discovered, but nobody took him seriously. Only a local newspaper covered the story, partly, and while they interviewed him three weeks later, it seemed, as detailed by the newspaper, that he was another man – he seemed tensed and paranoid every time his dog ran in the room… he insanely said that it was spying on them… that a parasite came with that rock, and professed that we were all doomed… and you know what? They wrote the article as if it was a humorous speculative fiction.”

“Well… very interesting finds… I’ve never worked on alien things, only on ghost-like things… spectral and ectoplasmic, untouchable and translucent. It’s a little village, and everyone knows everything about everyone, and are even perhaps very close to each other… so I guess that they lightened the story so as to make the guy seem less crazy.”

The front yard of Ulder’s house was in a very neglected state, as if nobody lived there anymore. The front door was not locked, and inside it did not smell of roses. On the table lay notes filled of nonsensical scribbles and newspapers from other parts of the world, all opened on the miscellaneous section with the same date that this meteorite fell down from the sky. On one of the newspapers Lolly and Ranpal read an article about people that witnessed a bright flare in the sky, on another one speculators talked about the explosion of a secret space lab, and the last one they read talked about an unknown organism that could have been released during the explosion of that space laboratory.

“Of course, this is all speculation… made up stories from insane minds… denial upon no proof,” Ranpal said.

“That’s why we are the fact-finding committee who tries to shed light on these shady issues… though we are much more incline towards what’s paranormal, I guess we could also help lift the veil upon these conspiracy theories.”

Suddenly a panicked black sheep ran inside the room, followed by a hysterical man with a saw. Immediately Lolly gently caught the frightened sheep, Ranpal took out his electroshock weapon and shot an electric charge on the man’s arm. He fell down, and Ranpal instantly took his saw and threw it away.

“No…” the man said painfully, “don’t touch that sheep… don’t touch it… your hair… your tuft curled woolen short hair…”

“Who are you? Are you Ulder? Are you the one that slaughters all of these innocent animals? Are you crazily insane or what?” Ranpal asked calmly.

“Yes, I am Ulder… I killed all of these animals so as to protect us all… they were all infected by something that only lives on living things that have tuft curled woolen coat or hair… it’s the first time that it will inhabit a human hair… I don’t know what it will do… we can’t let it leave the village.”

“I have already called the cops, Ranpal. Our work here is over. Just lock him up in the other room. We need to return the sheep, and then I have to write, and then you have to edit the film,” Lolly said as she walked the sheep till the car.

“Look! Have you seen that? She is not the same anymore… this is not your friend… it’s that thing… listen to me, there is another meteorite that fell from the sky that same day… this, is a she, because she only takes on females, so, there is a possibility that the other one that fell is a male… and if they mate, we are all doomed. They feed on iron things, but also on human and animal blood.”

“Surely we will find a right explanation for all that you claim… and know that my friend is not anybody else… she is Lolly, she is tough, she fought a demonic entity so as to set herself free from its possession… so don’t think that an alien species bred on a space lab can make her cower, nor make her lose her mind… she’ll fight till her last breath, she’ll fight that thing with all her might.”

Lolly stopped the car on the well lit bridge and stared for a long time at the void.

“He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you. An interesting quote by the philosophical man called Nietzsche… what do you think about that miss?” Asked the man who suddenly appeared from nowhere, and who strangely had the same type of hair as Lolly.

She smiled, and said, “I do think that the man was right, because from his point of view it seems that we are all puppets on a string that are unable to think from the bottom of our heart.”

“Yes. Little houses and hosts and strings.”

“Tell me, do you like coconut buns and sweet tea with milk?”

He strangely and confusedly stared at Lolly, trying to discern the depth of her eyes.

But Lolly immediately said, “O! Let me rephrase my question. Would you like a glass of thick red wine and a piece of juicy raw meat? And I’ll also invite a dear friend of mine.”

He nodded with a satirical smirk on his face, knowingly that they were both going to eat the world.

And Lolly smiled on the inside, knowingly that she was going to give to her readers one of her best articles.

Categories
Personal Narratives

Romantic Words Matter

Happy Valentine’s Day 

Human heart is an exquisite soft red organ that beats intrepidly when one reads romantic poems and stories. Instantly our brain is fired up thanks to the chemical reaction that automatically takes place when lovely words overwhelm our senses. Romantic words tickle our fancy, and other organs too, and our want to love and be loved passionately, to cherish and be cherished ardently becomes irresistible. 

I like to think that the world could be a more peaceful and understandable place if all of us read romantic pieces that make us feel thrilling and exciting emotions creeping throughout our body. Love is a kinetic energy, a feeling that can be transferred to the other so as to make them, but also the giver, feel better and happier, where reading romantic stuff can instantly put us in a better and positive state. 

I also think that healthy romance is something universal, that our cosmic nature is love, and that our higher-self radiates meta love. Each one of us is free to love whoever we want, free to express our love in every format and form that we like; love likely finds all of us in one way or the other, in this lifetime or another. 

I don’t think that reading love poems or books of romance turn you into a stupid person, or is a waste of time, nor that it induce us in error by plunging our mind in a world of confabulation and phantasm; instead, I think that reading romance mellow the heart to transform you into a softer person – you wait for it patiently knowingly that the romance you’ll experience shall make your heart race and set your feeling ablaze, same as when you read these romantic poems and stories.

Flowers, box of chocolates, coffret❤️

Romantic words is a necessity in this particular time where loveless degrading brutal sex, drowns significant passionate love making in a sea of barbarism. Yes, loveless act of copulation lower your vibration, to afterwards leave you in the gutter of despair and darkness and addiction. The pure electrical orgasmic energy that goes from the tip of your toes till the crown of your head when selfless love abounds can’t be compared to any other type of emotional experience, as you are positively energized by the love frequency which makes you vibrate higher, that restructure your whole body. And wetting your pillow every night or crying forever over the partner that left you is a sign that you haven’t really learned to love yourself first. And all this heartache and anger you feel attracts negative entities that suck your life and energy, your health, leaving you in a gloomy and deprival state. What if I told you that sadness, anger, jealousy, and all these other negative feelings turn you into a magnet that attracts bad times, experiences, and things to you… would you learn to let go, to accept that this person was only one of the many that you’ve met on your path of life, while everyday people are grieving someone that they will never see again in this lifetime. You let the other go, knowingly that you’ve loved them as you’ve loved yourself, and the love they give to another is like a chain letter that started with you, and you’re ready to love again and again and again, until your high positive energy naturally attracts your soulmate. See, you’ve read these loving words, hasn’t it somehow changed your feelings about love? Haven’t you felt a shift in your level of energy? Haven’t you vibrated a little bit higher than that in whichever negative state you were? 

In a world where many of us are unable to communicate clearly our feelings of love, romantic words matter, for the writer pours all the love they have in their heart in these poems and stories, and this love-wave transforms into a kinetic positive energy that reach the reader’s eyes and mind, so that instantly they might vibrate higher to the frequency of love, which is the most positive of all feelings that exist. To read love poems or books of romance is a blissful act that entertains the mind and inspires our own being to be more caring, soft, and loveable to the other, but also to our own self. 

The act of writing love poems is in itself an act of beauty. It comes so naturally when you are in love, or when you simply love. You feel the heat of positivity, the warmth in your heart, and you are amazed by all the love that your heart contains, and to which degree it beats each time you write the word love and romance. I myself when I wrote these love notes made for romantics, meant to be used as you wish, I felt a great deal of joy, something that’s close to what’s ethereal. I’ve also wrote twenty new mini love notes, but I was unable to upload the PDF version I made…

Romantic writings are soul soothers, a bridge that connects two hearts and mind, a link towards that infinite vessel that contains the light of love, and all you have to do, is just grab the warmness of the language of love, its softness, and this dreamful cotton candy feeling.  

Categories
Speculative Fiction

Paradise Echo

To write this story, for which ‘deserting’ is the main theme, I inspired myself from the book catch-22 by Joseph Heller. I tried to imagine why the author described war as being absurd, or even, why he wrote an absurdist fiction.

“24 January: I am still looking for it – for that hidden paradise where streams pure water; where grows trees and plants that give abundant fruits and seeds, while the sea that surrounds it is forever replenished with seafood. There are also many grottos on which creeps morning glories whose leaves and flowers are as large as a hand. It’s all stated in this carnet I found buried under a large rock. Since I read this notebook, my night dreams are filled with things of great beauty instead of ruby red nightmare. Everything seems so splendid. I know that it exists. I am sure that true paradise exists…”

Suddenly the echo of atomic waves blasted the surrounding. Pace grabbed the old leather notebook, entered his craft, and flew away as quickly as possible. The scenery offered was a desolate and bleak one; of death and misery. He knew that he had to save his life; deep inside he felt that this war was not his, that he had been enrolled by force. And then he coincidentally discovered the notebook that had been written in another time by two other soldiers like him – two different handwritings, two different epochs, one began and the other one finished. They were both like him, asking the same questions, wanting to desert that cursed place, this hopeless area of war. And this serendipitous finding he made amidst the chaos, the incomprehension, and the absurdity of war, strengthened his want to set himself free from such horrible duties, and confirmed his belief about the existence of a peaceful place.

He wrote, and Pace read: “I am not a lesser man if I refuse to make war on other men like me. Instead, I am more of a man, with a heart and empathy… I am the novel man, a civilized man.” Everyday Pace read some lines, and everyday he dreamt of evasion.

“That’s so strange, Pace, we have technological advanced devices that talk directly to our mind, and you are still doing that outdated activity. How do we call that again?… O yes… reading.” But Pace did not reply, instead he watched the sky, the only place that was not stained with blood.

“6 April: I think I know where it is, paradise. I found a strange man who had only large dried leaves on. He seemed in a neglected state, but seemed healthy. I think when he saw the carnet in my hand he knew then. I followed him till the vast cemetery of old combat vehicles… this infertile land of weaponry. But suddenly buzzing drones appeared in the sky, right above my head, and they ordered me to leave immediately this restricted area. Fortunately they didn’t search me, for they would have found the notebook, the inkwell, and the quill pen. That’s where I think that this strange wild man disappeared amidst this vast ocean of dead vehicles that lounge the horizon. Paradise is there. I know it’s there, I know that my last records will close the final chapter of this notebook. Has the previous soldier been able to reach Elysium? Perhaps… and I won’t stop writing for you to find.”

That night, intrigued and thrilled by what he had read, Pace quietly went to the restricted area, that sinistered cemetery of dead vehicles. He wanted to see that place with his own eyes.

But suddenly the buzzing drones appeared. “Name and grade, soldier,” commanded the robotic voice.

“Pace Paze, soldier Pace Paze,” he replied nervously.

“And what are you doing in a restricted area, soldier Pace Paze?”

“I thought that I saw the enemy, thus followed them quietly till this area. But apparently it was only my imagination… I think that I had a delusional moment,” Pace replied, though he never saw who they were really fighting, and why this war has been going on for fifty years.

“Okay then, soldier. But don’t forget to go see the doctor tomorrow morning.”

“26th of July: to go there you need to wear dark clothes and dark glasses, and don’t forget to pour antistatic oil on your body, so that the drones won’t be able to perceive you. I found it, I am writing this last part from here. I made it, so shall you too. This story is such a strange one. This war is only an absurd thing, a joke, a trompe l’œil. When this war started sixteen years ago, many soldiers didn’t want to form part of this war. Amidst, there were many great thinkers and builders who have set up a plan to forever live in peace and harmony some miles away from the area where war raged. That place was still untouched by evilness… it was an area of purity, and they did everything that was possible to keep it so. They created a barrier with the loads of destroyed vehicles, and also created automated drones that stopped fighters from approaching the paradise they made. But they also made sure that there were always invisible enemies that attacked this side, so that they could remain safe at the other side. And as time went by, the cemetery of vehicles became denser, it became a vast ocean that stretched till horizon, and automated machines created automated drones, while people didn’t even question why there was a war going on, they just went to war.”

On the same night Pace read those lines, he headed valiantly till the restricted area. The drones did not notice him, for he followed the instructions faithfully. He walked on a seabed of dried bones that cracked and became dust; crossed large vehicles that were riddled with holes, stained with dried blood and destroyed in the worst ways. And suddenly a dreadful feeling of guilt overwhelmed his senses. He stopped and questioned his deed. “Shouldn’t I tell them what I found? Shouldn’t I help to cease this hoax, this war that makes no sense at all… will I be able to live in paradise when I have a guilty conscience?” He had walked for eight hours and the sun was going to rise soon, he needed to make a quick decision. Thus he continued his way, but promised to himself that he will make the others change their mind. He was going to tell the truth.

At daybreak he arrived at a very high wall that lengthily stretched as far as his eyes could see. “It’s all true. Paradise is just behind this wall,” he said out loud. Keenly, he pressed the bricks of the wall in a set of specific sequences, same as instructed in the notebook, and instantly there was an opening in the wall. He entered a wide shady noisy factory that was automatically making drones – lots of them, piles of them, there was not a single human in view. He continued walking, eager to pass that door that would lead him towards the freedom from war. But that’s where he made a horrible discovery. There, in a small dusty corner filled with cobwebs, he saw a skeleton. Its hand was on the operating motherboard, and a large hole could be seen through his head. Panic-stricken and filled with dread, he ran for his life blindly, until he arrived in front of a forest. He continued to run through that wild realm of various trees and plants while shouting insanely: “where are you all… I found the notebook… at last I found your community… I am in paradise.”

But unfortunately he cried in vain; nobody answered his desperate calls. The area was completely desert, only nature subsisted. And there, suddenly, at the foot of a grotto, the imagery of sheer horror sent an immense shock-wave throughout his whole body. It was a mountain of dried bones imprisoned in the strangling embrace of morning glories.

Pace Paze had his final answer. He knew then that this war would soon be over, and that finally, after so many years of conflict, life would surely look like the paradise described in this notebook.

Categories
Personal Narratives

My Desertion From The Webhosphere

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me

2020 has been very challenging for me, I guess it has been the case for many of you. Before the outbreak of the pandemic or whatever else, I was always stuck on my PC and smartphone; always hunting down for ideas online, while trying to improve my writing skills; always going through the necessary learnings of leveling up my knowledge of the internet and its devices, of the technology-based services that I use. Have to say that before Covid-19, every morning I had enough time to write poems, fiction, think about what to blog, think about what to write; read books I borrow at the library and as well read e-books online, learn more about the services I use, learn about online marketing, be present on social media, have the time to daydream, take naps when too tired, and watch one hour of television. I guess that I’ve been quite productive during these years; I feel that I’ve been able to reach my main goals, I am satisfied with myself.

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me. I am now a carer, and my time is very limited. I have to juggle between many things, but I am learning about how to effectively organize my life and time. And though my writings have not been able to spread their wings as to fly away, or even if I haven’t been able to turn this passionate creative activity into a career, I realized that I need to write everyday as to equilibrate my life, to do an activity that is self-satisfactory and where I feel free, something that’s good for my soul. Perhaps I’ll be drawn to another activity that’s more rewarding, work on projects that will stir my passion so much that I’ll consider doing it for a very long time – that’s all I hope for, to get caught up in an interesting activity, something to really focus on, something that will make my life more beautiful than it is.

That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

Writing, blogging, or even social media aren’t getting me anywhere, and I guess that the economic crisis we are facing because of Covid-19 makes it worse for an amateur writer like me. I am trying not to look pessimistic here, but I need to be realistic, I need to clear my mind of all the lies I tell to myself. I tried, but I can’t try harder. I don’t want to lose my mind again over matters that keep frustrating me. I need to accept the fact that I did my best. Yes, I am doing my best.

I realized that I need to practice more of my writing skills; I badly need an editor to edit my writings. Perhaps I’ve self-published too soon, thinking about all those grammatical mistakes I’ve made… I made a fool of myself somehow. All of these lies I tell to myself.

Thus I am considering another publishing route, seeking help to publish my books. I think it’s more realistic to do so than suffering from trying to self-publish, suffering from trying to understand it all, suffering from all these frustrations. Perhaps the pandemic was a whirlwind that came to adjust my sail, to push me into another direction, perhaps a better one. That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

I’ve been thinking about the movie cast away lately, mainly about the end of the movie – that part where he stands in the middle of that crossroad, a metaphor for the choice that we need to make every single minute and every single day of our life, and of those signs or guides that some of us can’t ignore. And again, I had an existential crisis because of a movie😂. Again, I questioned free will, and what if… what if I was wrong again, what if writing is not for me anymore. What I need to do then? That’s what I am focusing about everyday, and yet, I keep returning to writing. Then what? THEN WHAT?😡 Silly me, cast away.

I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things

While trying to replicate my writing process and online presence, I discovered that I had been doing it all wrong since the beginning; I realized that I didn’t manage my time well and balanced my life during the course of practicing writing and learning online marketing. Of course I’ve been able to write blog articles, stories, poems, or books, but unfortunately to the detriment of neglecting my house chores, which accumulated a lot, which meant more time spent on catching up with my chores, exhaustion and stress added to the mix, need of long rest, writings and learning were delayed. I am sure that I could have done more, better, I could have been more healthier. I was way too obsessed, too deep in it; I poured my energy into too many things at the same time, I thought that I was rushing towards a greater future for me, some type of freedom, a reward, to get noticed by people of the literary circle or a potential employer, or that even I could have made a living online. But it’s difficult, mainly for someone like me that is not at all tech savvy, one who does not well understand informatics. Thus, as soon as an idea spurred in my mind I had to write it down or type it, go straight on the web to research the subject, log-in my social accounts to check other feeds and comment or like on what interests me – I was all in it for organic traffic. But there was no balance, no time routine, I hadn’t imposed on myself a time to start and a time to finish. I have taken all of that too seriously, and in the end, though I worked towards my goals with a professional mindset and an entrepreneurial work ethic, I ended up with deceptions, being unhealthy, unbalanced, alienated, unenthusiastic.

That’s why after nine years (I think!) of being on-line everyday, I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things. Of course, I still need the web to do research for my stories, to learn, to write, to read; I will also continue to post on my blog and post on my social feeds, but I don’t think that I’ll be able to be present everyday on the internet to read like and comment on other people’s posts, just like I did before.

My priority right now is writing, reading, and doing research about scientific, conspiracy, and pseudoscientific theories for Darcocyte II. It was not at all on my plan, especially after all the difficulties and obstacles I met, and that I am still meeting; but there’s something more personal and ethereal to it. It’s too late, I am inhabited by something that needs feeding. I also want to know what happens next in the story of Darcocyte; to write a book that I want to read. I just hope that it won’t take me four long years to finish this one too, and I also hope to write a little bit better than I did before😅.

Also there are those quotes about stepping out of my comfort zone that keeps appearing in front of my eyes. And where I have been thinking that perhaps I’ve given too much of my time and energy to the Webhosphere, where my activities were remaining too constant. It’s like I have to restart everything with learning how to get help, and to accept the fact that I do need help to get published. As I said, I think that I’ve made up things in my mind that only led me astray. That’s why I am taking it all back, recollecting all of my energy and pieces that have been taken out of me, as for me to start anew. Well, it already happened😤😅, that means I didn’t made it up🤔.

Categories
Lyrical Poetry

To Carry Me Away, Away

A metaphor for stubbornness – a characteristic that fits me well.

To Carry Me Away, Away 

To abandon oneself
Just for once
To give myself
To the good ones,
To close my eyes
As to be blind
And letting it and all
Carry me away, away

Why can't I let me be -
A mechanized thing
Where still the bird fly
And everything living is free,
Where we still sing
And live through a lie
With visions of strong winds
That carry me away, away

Why all my stubbornness
All are living breathing
But in my head it's merely;
I can see my heart degress
Stagnation is that one thing
That causes the fear in me,
A tension a frustration
It buries me deeply, deeply

How shall I say
How will I wave
To the world to you
That I've lost something
While I was rebelling
As to set myself free;
As to find the escape door
To carry me away, away

My battle was loud
My battle an exhaustion
But inside I found
Another type of dimension,
The things that unfold
While it whispered it told
A secret, a truth, a lie
To carry me away, away.
Categories
Speculative Fiction

Rooted Out

Four long years of work, of researching, of thinking what to write next – all of it buried in that thick muddy soil found next to the river bank. Why? Because he told her that she had written a miserable story that nobody would ever want to read, that it was a literary abomination, and finished his murderous speech by telling her that she should definitely smother the writer in her.

His words killed her that day.

All along the way, under the pouring rain, she achingly sobbed while holding tightly against her heart the leather bag that contained the depth of her thoughts, the realm of her imagination. She cried so much that an excruciating pain struck her heart, where suddenly everything looked broken – the pavement, the surrounding, her dreams, her self-esteem, her self-confidence as a writer. Nothing remained in her heart and head; she was empty, devoid of dreams and faith in life.

That’s where overwhelmed with disappointment and a nameless feeling of emptiness, she tore each page from her manuscript and buried them in the thickened muddy soil. Afterwards she stood under the heavy pouring rain, where her mind wandered back in time, right when she started to write that story. Her mind recollected every bits of happiness and pride she felt after she had been able to finish a chapter; and remembered as well those silent nightly hours where she only had for companion the sounds of leaves rattling with the breeze, and the sight of the moon and stars through her broad and wide window, all the while she wrote till the break of day.

As her self-confidence slowly returned, she suddenly realized that she had made a mistake. Instantly she fell down on her knees and started to dig the muddy soil with bare hands, in search of her treasured manuscripts. But unfortunately, due to the heavy rainfall that soaked the soil, all the thin papers had already dissolved in water. Shocked, she suddenly had a brutal seizure, while at the same time a strange and paranormal phenomenon happened. The rain stopped, and all the ink from the book manuscript that had dissolved in water suddenly emerged out from the thick mud as droplets that floated till her body. The ink covered her skin, and little by little it morphed into the words that made up her story. Her body from head to toe became the book that she had written, where each page she had torn to bury now tattooed her skin.

Suddenly she felt light as a feather; the rain fell again, but this time she didn’t get wet; it was as if she was surrounded by a transparent bubble. She felt the strange sensation of floating without a body, and in the blink of an eye she was in front of the house of Mr.Feith, that same vile writer that had been so rude to her earlier. He was sitting by the window, writing at the light of a large candelabra. And as soon as she wanted to know what Mr.Feith was writing, she instantly found herself perching at the back of his head, looking at what he was doing. That’s when she understood that Mr.Feith was busy copying word for word the story from a copy of her own book manuscript. He omitted nothing. Enraged and out of her, she knocked down the candelabra, whose candles set fire to the papers that were on his desk; then right after, all of the words that were on her body materialized in human shape in front of a terrorized Mr.Feith. It strangled him brutally, then released his neck right before he stopped breathing. Horrified, he ran away screaming insanely, while hungry flames devoured his house. Everything burned down quickly.

One month later Wri Wright slowly and painfully opened her eyes on the bed of a hospital. They said that passers-by found her unconscious by the river bank, soaked wet, with both her hands buried in the mud, alongside a leather bag.

“Hello Miss Wright,” said the man with a pleasant face. He sat next to her, a book manuscript in his hand. Her manuscript. “I was one among the passers-by who found you by the river, a little bit messed up you were. Anyhow, I gave myself permission to read your story… you are the one who wrote that, is it not? That book manuscript was in a leather bag beside you.”

“What! The manuscript was still in my bag? But!” She tried hard to remember what exactly happened to her on that day, but only blurry images of heavy rainfall, mud, and tears came to her. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember what happened that day, but I am the author of that story.”

“Well then, let me introduce myself, I am the chief editor of a well-known publishing house, and I can tell you that you are a very talented writer who wrote a very unique and captivating story… and I want to publish your book, and as well launch your career as an author… is that okay with you, Miss Wright?”

Wri Wright was suddenly overwhelmed with an immense feeling of joy and gratitude. “Thank you so much… thank you one thousand times. Yes, I heartily accept your proposition. You are making my dream come true.”

“I was on my way to see Mr.Feith when I stumbled on you… have you ever heard of him?”

“Yes, I heard that he could help me with the publishing of my book… I even had an appointment with him… but I don’t remember when,” she frowned, trying hard to remember.

“Luckily you didn’t put your book manuscript in his hand… he is a fraud and a crook. For years now he has been submitting to my publishing house plagiarized works. We were not aware, until recently, when an article appeared on him, and where our publishing house suddenly lost its good reputation… Anyway, that same day we found you, people picked him up in the street… he seemed terrorized, they said, raving mad about the devil being after him… he even burned his house.”

“Well, that would have made a good horror story,” she said dreamily.

“You bet,” he responded keenly.

***

P.S: It has taken me two weeks to write and edit this story, so practical and constructive criticism are welcomed.

Categories
Personal Narratives

The abandonment of a piece of writing is inconceivable to me

The abandonment of a draft is inconceivable to me, for it’s like abandoning a piece of myself; where this fear can even lead me towards obsessiveness. I don’t want to tuck away an idea that birthed out of my mind under piles of sheets and notebooks, to forget it in a dark corner, or even for that piece to remain untouched or unopened in the word processor. I want it to have a life, to have a chance to become concrete, to be touched by the heart and mind of others. Isn’t existence filled with objects, things, creatures, and beings that had the chance to exist, a chance to form part of reality? I know that I might seem too fanciful here while describing my fear of abandoning a piece of writing; but you know, creatively speaking about something isn’t at all superlative. 

Thus, I try as much as possible to not let unfinished writings sit for too long in my notebooks and word processor; I always try my best to finish them, to give them a life, to embellish them with the needed words so as for them to exist in the dimension of books and blogs. I think that’s why my mind is constantly busy with thinking and imagining, always trying to envision how the story unwinds. My head is a busy corner, an ant hill. 

Due to my fear of putting away an idea, a draft, or a piece of unfinished writing, I take time to create content, for I am unable to move on to another piece, to come up with the next story, poem, or blog post, not until I have finished the writing at hand. 

I made it a rule of thumb to finish what I have started, and this even though another idea arises in my mind, tempting me to abandon the work at hand. I try as much as possible to resist the urge to move on to the next writing project, because that next idea might as well remain in an unfinished state, and in the end, everything that I would ever get, is, an accumulation of unfinished drafts. 

I won’t tell you that my notebooks and online documents aren’t filled with unfinished writings, of scribbles scattered here and there, of jotted down words that beg to become sentences, of writings that I am too lazy to edit – nope, but most of them will form part of a bigger writing project, or will end up on this blog, or even as pieces added to my stories and poems. They are all mapped in my head and online files, and when needed, all that I will have to do is retrieve them. 

I prefer let something die in me instead of birthing it out from my mind to then afterwards let it in a state of abandonment; to toss it away and and let it die, to forget it, for, they come to haunt my dreams, insert themselves in my daydreams, and I just can’t stop thinking about them; they constantly arise in my mind. Thus the principle I’ve imposed on myself: to always finish what I have started, and this, no matter how hard it might be, or even, how much I want to work on another writing project. 

I have to constantly remind myself that it’s easy to imagine things and stories; but that to be able to concretize an abstract idea that only me can envision, and to unwind stories, poems, and my thoughts logically, in the universal language that most of us understand, I have to do the hard work of weaving my words together in a comprehensive and beautiful way. And it’s the fact that I have to go through the pain of all these re-writings that makes me want to abandon a draft that I have enthusiastically written; but then, it always happen that during the process of re-writings and re-edits, which I always think will be boring and not at all exciting for my mind, something else happens – that piece of writing always take a new shape, there is always a new passage that unfolds, which is always different from what I’ve imagined it to be. That’s how I always convince myself to finish the work, knowingly that I will end up with a different copy than that of my first draft, which in itself is a great reward for the reader that I am. 

If I had abandoned my writings, today I wouldn’t have written two books (well, though one is still at the unpublished state and the other had to be unpublished because it was filled with errors… but soon I’ll rectify everything), one of my short stories wouldn’t have been published in an anthology, and this blog would have been empty. To me, every single word, thought, sentence that comes out from my mind are worthy of being concretized and seen and read by other minds than mine – that is to say, to expand the field of this reality, while making it a little bit understandable, a little bit less boring, saved from the hands of abandonment. 

PS: as I am still learning the skill of editing effectively my own writings, all constructive criticism about this post are welcomed.

Categories
Occasional Poetry

Twenty Twenty One

It’s a bright new year🎉


Exactly, twenty twenty-one


It came out from twenty twenty


A year that we shall forever remember


A year of transition, of shift


The point in time the door opened


For the future to creep in deep


Without us even realizing the deed


Too busy with pandemics and threats


Apocalyptic hues burning the sky

Might be the universe upgrading

Who will ever know about the scheme

Perhaps a spell, perhaps a curse

A strange type of madness that took over.

Hence, to all that silently departed

On that spaceship that had been waiting

That hovered silently, being on standby

To all that have collapsed on the ground

And hurt themselves so badly, achingly

My heart follows them, they carry me.

It’s a bright new year

Exactly, twenty twenty-one

Perhaps we leaped in time

To erase from our fragile memory

The traumatism of twenty twenty

All of the scars it left on us

When Pandora opened her jar.

It’s a bright new year

Exactly, twenty twenty-one

And I hope, we all make it safely.

Firecrackers in the night sky

This time, compared to my former New Year’s poems, I tried to dig within the speculation realm as to come up with this poem, for it seems that all of the bad energies, from every plane and every dimension, crossed/converged/synergised at that point in time, which was 2020. How strange, beautiful, but also frightening to find these lone stars/planets/light or whatever else travel such long distances as to meet, to intersect, to harmonise, to unite, as on their way they shackle and trouble us, little mere mortals (I love me some astrology🔮).

Categories
Personal Narratives

My 2021 Motto

Every year I chose a word (theme) or a sentence (motto) that I will be able to apply in my life for one whole year, as to be able to become a better person. For example, I had chosen ‘people only understand from their own level of perception, so stop stressing over what they might think’ as my 2020 motto. ‘Do the things that make you happy; disregard everything that frustrates you’ was my motto for 2019, while ‘happiness’ was my 2018 theme. These little reminders help me to remain positive, and to live with less stress and frustrations; they help me to remember that staying happy is a powerful remedy against despair and the vacuumness of life.

I don’t want to use pills and potions, I only need to silently affirm those words everyday as to remember these affirmations each time I face stressful situations, or even when I feel these negative emotions creeping in.

My 2021 motto came easily to me for I kept hearing and seeing the same word over and over again; but it’s only while writing this post that I finalize the whole sentence of it. I guess that this word wants to exist more, and wants its definition to be spread out in the wild. But thing is, I have a very conflictual relationship with this word, for I blame it for everything that went wrong in my life. Till now I haven’t been able to find the right formula, or to make better analysis that might lead me towards making better choices.

Yes, ‘choice’, this main deterministic factor, which, I am sure determines our whole life – because certainly everything is a matter of choice. Every second of our life is shaped by a choice, whether it’s by us, or a choice made by another. We give power to other people by making a choice, or even by deciding not to chose; happiness, sadness, freedom, death, life, health, and everything else, every outcome, the whole future, are shaped by the choice we make.

Well… we won’t enter a philosophical debate about my thoughts on free will and determinism, mainly not after I’ve watched the TV series Devs, which challenged my mind on the concept of a deterministic and quantum universe (digging up SF stories here), where now I go with the moment you make a choice the mastermind instantly calculates the pathway; but I cannot decide whether all pathways have already been calculated, or whether new roads align as soon as there is input of choice, for, it is our choices that determine our path… but what about the choice? Why did I chose at first😂. Too complicated, need to leave it to the big thinkers🧐.

Anyways, I have chosen as my 2021 motto, ‘the choice I make determines the outcome; your future depends on your choice’. I’ve started to use this motto, thing that I badly need right now, or ever since I’ve lost my daily writing rhythm and daily internet routine, since I have a new occupation on my everyday schedule and where I haven’t been able to effectively balance my time since then.

I am still off-course and disoriented; I think that I have burnout symptoms. I don’t know how much time it will take for my mind and body to recover from all the forcing I’ve imposed on myself; I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get back to what I used to be doing before. I still don’t know what awaits me.

I just hope that as soon as we enter 2021, I’ll be able to make the right choices that will help me stay organized, find the right balance, make some extra time to be online, and of course to write and exercise my mind everyday. Thus my cure for the coming days, the choice I make: to write, read, watch TV, listen to music, and lots of rest.

Also, since this morning the stoicism philosophical word ‘memento mori’ (Latin for ‘remember that you [have to] die’) has been playing in my head… I guess it’s the answer to my inquiry about what might be the world’s theme… I don’t know, perhaps it’s the actual state of the world that’s been hammering inside of my mind, thus my thoughts about the inevability of death. Now should it be a reminder to me that we are all mere mortals that anyways are going to die, and that remembering that fact could help me make better choices in 2021… I still don’t know… for wouldn’t that be too morbid? Well, I need to think more about that!

Categories
Lyrical Poetry

The smell of fresh pines

The smell of fresh pines


The smell of fresh pines
Tickle my olfactory memory;
Instantly everything shines
Everything comes back to me

My heart travels back to infancy
And recollect all the joy, the laughter,
All the colors of that day I see –
And watch happily as it remembers

Oh that scent of fresh pines
It is a time travel machine
That takes me and my mind
In a beautiful Christmas dream

Those magical moments return
And I forget about the pandemics
And of everything else that hurts
Of everything that adds to the ache mix

Then unfolds in front of my eyes
The gifts, the warmth of love
A festive ambiance of big size
Happiness, when I open our treasure trove

So let the magical spirit of December
Float inside of our tired heart
And might the pines make us remember
The Christmas of our childish heart.


For the two Christmas poems I wrote in 2018, and 2019, I was inspired by the contagious festive mood of the buzzing month of December; moved by the spirit of Christmas and New Year. But this time, it was a little bit difficult for me to come up with something positive, with something that might alleviate our stress concerning the state of the world, the brokenness of things, our uneasy feelings, covid-19, unemployments, and all of the fake news, and infos hidden to us, and everything else… and of everything else. Thus I thought about what mainly automatically triggers my remembrance of those good’ol days, and it was the smell of fresh pines.

So, merry Christmas to all of you. I hope that we all might enjoy this little moment of respite.

Categories
Personal Narratives

New Goal Achieved

An invitation to the launch of the 27th title of Collection Maurice

It’s the 15th of December, at 5.50 pm we enter the Hennessy Park Hotel parking. “Let’s go back home. I don’t want to go inside. I am not in my element,” I then said to my husband, with a stirring sensation in my gut. I was simply emotional, overawed, not quite sure what was going on. Is it a dream, perhaps a prank, or am I hallucinating, I then thought, with those butterflies still swarming in my tummy. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the type of feeling that made me want to run away, because that thing seemed too grand for me, too impressive, and I, I have felt so little for all of these years, practically invisible, paving that way all alone, trying to prove to myself that I can, again, and that my mental fragility can’t rob me of the person that I have always been before my fall in the pit of depression; and now, this, now, my name alongside the greatest name of the Mauritian literary circle… I just couldn’t believe that I was there, and that I was writing a new positive chapter of my life.

After that my husband reassured me, we went inside, and a lady welcomed me to the author’s table; there she gave me the book in which my story has been published for the 27th title of Collection Maurice, a trilingual book (French-English-Creole) that has as English title ‘undercover’. Now I can… can I you think? Be at ease with calling myself an author; would they now understand what I really do, what is my passion, and how writing saved me from the obscurity so as to lead me towards the light… can you now understand?

A trilingual book (French-English-Creole) of short stories written by Mauritian authors

I was sitting there amongst the great, those enlightening minds of the literary community, and I just couldn’t believe that I was in the same room, as well as in the same book anthology as those whom I often see on television, read in newspapers or magazines, hear on the radio – those respected authors whose writings are wonderful and enlightening.

I was so awestruck that I completely forgot that I am a creative writer’s lifestyle blogger, and that taking photos for this blog is a must for me; to record and share my journey as a self-taught writer is my mission. I’ve completely forgotten to capture that important day of my writer’s life, so much I was in a dumbstruck catatonic state, paralyzed with a high dose of wonderment, but also, of fulfillment. Sadly I haven’t been able to make the most out of this opportunity; on the other hand I kept worrying about whether I’ll look good on their photos or video cameras😅.

Nothing is won yet, but I can add this experience and accomplishment to my bio and curriculum vitae. Somehow I feel that I have upgraded to the next level of my journey as a self-taught writer, which was on my plan all along the way.

It boosted my writing confidence

Lately, since going through the nightmare of re-editing Darcocyte, I had lost all confidence in my writing abilities. I was stuck with thoughts that I was a mediocre writer, and that my blog was only fake pages written by a clown. I was unable to get myself out of this failure, and my mind was again a horrible place filled with angst, where destruction was taking over because I felt that I was not good enough to create fiction and poems. My morale was very low.

I had challenged myself to build organic SEO based on Google Search Quality Evaluator Guidelines E-A-T (Expertise, Authoritativeness, Trustworthiness), but when this all happened, when my grammatical errors and bad syntaxes unraveled in front of my eyes, deep inside I felt that I had compromised my own trustworthiness. I just couldn’t take it.

But then my story has been chosen for the publication of Collection Maurice, after I have taken part in the writing competition organized by immedia. I am amongst three other new authors whose story has been chosen, and where we were all invited for the launch of the book collection. I listened happily and emotionally as summaries of the short stories written by ‘new authors’, including mine, was being read; and I was overwhelmed with joy when I took the group photo alongside the other authors, though I didn’t know which camera I needed to face😂; but I was also stunned and a little bit panic when I was asked for my first autograph🤗.

Though it all seemed impressive to me, I love that game for it has boosted my writing confidence. I want to continue submitting to the various Mauritian writing competition; and I hope that next time I will be more at ease, more present, and more active to take photos for the blog, or even to connect with others.

Categories
Personal Narratives

My Two Manuscripts

In the night-time, I dreamed that I was at a wedding ceremony on the celestial plane. The bride was beautiful; she had a wreath of flowers on her head, and she wore an ivory lace dress. On the other hand, the bridegroom was a gigantic energy being, same as the others that were present. During the whole ceremony, I held my two manuscripts tightly against my heart. And after it was over, they all surrounded the blue planet, and they showered blessings, hearts, fruits and vegetables, money, flowers, and lots of petals; as for the mortal bride, she threw some very big roasted meat😂… but the celestial beings didn’t seem to care at all. And I, I was still holding against my chest the manuscript of Darcocyte and my book of poems, all the while good vibrations beamed out from the hands of these celestial beings. Afterwards, they all receded into darkness, perhaps, so as to obscure their presence.

Seven years later – two books

Last night, right before going to bed, I watched the end of a movie, and as well as a mini documentary, which had for main theme spirituality – and I did this all the while tightly holding my two manuscripts against my heart. And I guess that’s from where stems this very weird dream. The strangeness of this ongoing peculiar time, I guess.

Thing is, yesterday I received the manuscript of both Darcocyte and my book of poems, and I couldn’t stop myself from being exhilarated, from expressing loads of happiness. And I held these manuscripts as if they were real babies, kissing them, and even having them on my bedside for the night… yes, I know, that’s a bit too extreme and crazy😂 but I tend to get very eccentric when I am overly happy.

I know that nothing is won yet, but I just couldn’t stop admiring, and thinking about these last seven years of hard work; of neglecting so many things, to the point of not wanting to go out, as to be able to finish these books. I poured all my heart, and what remains of my love in these two books, just to be able to find myself once more. I have shed so many tears, made so many mistakes, been so dramatic, and alienated, but I think that I did it, I think that I was able to find a purpose that passionate me enough to be again.

I feel that I am a little bit more emotionally prepared for whatever comes in my way. I am so excited that I am unable to focus properly while writing – my mind is stirring up, my thoughts are fuzzing in all directions. I am thinking a thousand things at the same time, and I guess that it’s making me physically and mentally tired. I need some good rest, and perhaps go out more.

Now that I know that it takes so much time and efforts to understand and to learn this whole digital thing, I want to focus more my efforts and energy towards making the necessary offline connections, for as an anonymous quote says: “The comfort zone is nothing else but a graveyard for your dreams & ideas,” where it might be true or not; for me it is somehow true, thus I guess that if these doors are closed for me, whether intentionally or not, it means that they are closed for a specific reason.

Darcocyte & Book of poems

P.S: I’ve written this post on the go, so if ever you find any type of grammatical errors or any other type of mistakes, please do comment below. Thank you.

Categories
Personal Narratives

Let’s talk about Airplanes and shooting stars

Yesterday, while closing the window of my bedroom at night, I saw a bright star in the dark sky – well, that’s what I thought at first glance. But then, it moved, and suddenly I realized that it was an aircraft in the night sky, and instantly the lines: can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, I could really use a wish right now, sung by Hayley Williams (from the group Paramore) and B.O.B were playing in my head. And believe me or not, I made a wish, while pretending that it was a shooting star. I wanted to take a photo of it, to capture this moment, but I was suddenly called elsewhere. I know that I should have taken this photo so as to accompany that blogpost, but well!

Nevertheless, I continued to think about the lyrics of this song, which by the way is titled airplanes (not, aeroplanes😅), and I told to myself, wowww! The one who wrote these lines has certainly once watched a bright object moving in the sky, at night, and instantly compared it to a shooting star, and afterwards, wrote it down, and where yesterday, these same words came to my mind when I saw a bright thing moving in the sky… isn’t that great to remember the poetry of things like that? To dwell in the beauty of the moment by remembering the lines of a beautiful song; isn’t it how life should be? Opening or closing your window, or doing whatever else, and find beauty randomly, and feel appeased in a strange kind of way. Isn’t it how serendipity looks like? Having a wonderful experience by chance.

Comparing a shiny moving object to a shooting star is such a subliminal metaphor

Comparing a shiny moving object to a shooting star is such a subliminal metaphor. That’s why I love metaphor that much, because I remember the symbolic terms and their representations much more than I remember their literal form. Well, that’s why I find figurative arts and writings interesting. They bring me those thrilling moments that I miss in my life.

This writer’s mind is surely fueled by wonders; a happy place filled with beautiful poetic words, for, as to compare an airplane to a shooting star, one’s head is, and without any doubts, a fertile land of imagination.

As for me, what I wished for when I saw that bright light which really looked like a shooting star, was, to have the same interesting and vivid imagination as the one, or the ones who wrote these creative and catchy lines; but I also wished that I could write better, and skilled enough to spot right away all of my grammatical errors.

And you, will you make wishes out of airplanes?

This is the link to The official video for “Airplanes” by B.o.B featuring Hayley Williams of Paramore.

P.S as always, if you find any type of errors that I did not catch while writing, please do comment below. Don’t hesitate to be my personal critique😅

Categories
Personal Narratives

Writing to slow down time

Time stands still when I do the things that I am passionate about

I want to be able to write more short stories, book reviews, and tips; convey more of my thoughts, feelings, and ideas. But unfortunately, my daily length of time is insufficient, ephemeral, limited.

Poems are more present on this blog because they are short forms of writings, thus I had the ability to practice the craft of writing poetry everyday, and in that way, I was able to improve my poetry skills little by little. But as far as I know, it is through writing long-forms that an aspiring writer can over time really become good at writing all types of formats, ranging from flash-fiction to essays and to the weirdest type of poems… well, at least for the autodidact, the self-learner.

Look what happened with Darcocyte. I thought that I had finished polishing the story; I personally found it good enough to sit on book shelves… but here I am, after one year that I’ve self-published it, re-editing all the grammatical errors that I now see mysteriously.

I don’t think that I would have skilled up my writing techniques if I hadn’t written Darcocyte. I am still on the phase of learning the techniques of creative writing, of conveying my thoughts properly, of writing as I wish to. But to write as I wish to, I need to know the rules as to be able to break them down properly, so as to acquire my own style of writing in English, for the reader’s mind hasn’t been trained to make sense of the nonsense. Thus my wish to be more exotic, but always working hand in hand with grammar rules and syntaxes.

But you have to practice a lot, and also read a lot; write and read, read and write, write and edit, edit and write, re-read revise and re-write, and my time is limited. I have to keep up with so many things.

As my children are on holidays, I am able, for only this whole month of December, to elope for some hours, to steal bits of my precious time so as to be able to write and practice more, and to get better at editing my own writings (until, I hope, one day I might be able to afford one).

Before the outbreak of the pandemic, I had enough time to write books, blog, be present on social media, learn, and in between manage my house chores; but after the pandemic everything changed. I lack time.

It’s hard for me to keep up with a daily writing routine, just as I did before – but I feel so low and without purpose on days where I haven’t been able to write, that I have decided despite everything to continue writing everyday, even if it’s one sentence, or even one little word, something, for time seems to slow down for me, as I have found my passion, my purpose, my happy place. And no matter how long it takes to get there, I know that in this space of mine, time stands still when I do the things that I am passionate about.

P.S: if you have any type of critic concerning this post – whether it concerns my writing style, grammar errors, or word mistakes, please don’t hesitate to comment about it. Thank you, and have a beautiful Sunday.

Categories
Narrative Poetry

You Shall See

Flic-en-flac beach sunset
Black & White Sea
Moon glow
Sunset

Yesterday I was thinking about the ocean and its creatures, but also about the darkness that prevails on this vast moving space when the sky is dark at night, mainly during a lunar eclipse. Thus I was inspired to write this surrealistic poem. I haven’t changed the words that came to my mind when I actually imagine this scene; the stream of consciousness type. Yep, I don’t even wanna know why the future tense, and why a beach in the mouth, or even who I’ll be taking out at sea tonight . . . lol

You Shall See

Tonight, I’ll take you out at sea
And you shall see the moon
Shimmering over its surface,
You’ll gently lay in my arms
And I’ll read to you a story
You’ll be looking up
And all the bright stars
Shall smile at you, then
All the deep sea creatures
They’ll swim up to us
Bioluminescent, and magnificent
Perhaps you’ll caress one
And it shall kiss your hand,
I’ll continue reading
While sea foams enter your mouth
And as the salt shall dissolve on your tongue
Your mouth shall become the beach
On which, I shall lay to read
And sleep and dream

Tonight, I’ll take you out at sea
And you’ll see, this vast territory
Extending itself wide and far
Finishing, at the horizon line,
You’ll want to go there
To swim as far as your eyes can see
But I’ll kiss you, ardently
With my salty lips made of waves
And you’ll forget, you’ll forget
This want to escape to be free

Tonight, I’ll take you out at sea
But this time, I’ll tell you something
A tale, which it is, exactly,
The whole sky shall be dark
There’ll be no light for you to see
The opaqueness shall engulf everything seen —
Whole cities behind us
The wild sea underneath us
And the horizon in front of us
You will be afraid, when you shall see
But don’t you forget, that I’ll be there
On the beach, in your tongue
There, when you shall see.

Categories
Personal Narratives

Let’s talk about the weather

Drops of rain on a white flower
Drops of rain on wild flower (Thunbergia Fragrans). Picture taken in my backyard

Perhaps by writing this post I’ll summon a heavy rainfall that will replenish our reservoirs and cool down the summer heat

Today I don’t feel like sitting down as to think about what to write next, or even to concentrate while re-editing Darcocyte. I just want to lay here, on my bed, and blog about anything that comes into my mind; but I don’t want to write about what hurts. I want to write about the weather. Yes. Let’s talk about the weather.

Right now it’s cloudy outside, but the heat is still unbearable. My house is like a sauna, and the sprinkle of intermittent rain makes it worst. They told us to save water; they have even set up a big fine for whoever is found guilty of wasting the precious liquid, for our reservoirs are completely dry. Drastic measures for drastic time, that’s how it goes, I guess.

I always feel lethargic and very tired when it is too hot. Heat seems to put me to sleep. My mind, too, gets heated up, and I am unable to concentrate, to work. I just want to lay there, under the shade of a tree, and sip lemonade while reading a book, or even while watching a good movie. Even while writing this, I feel like it’s a bit of hassle for me, and I don’t even know if I’ll be able to publish it. I went to read a column on Paris Review after I wrote only two paragraphs here, and I just came back, inspired to write down my own thoughts.

Perhaps by writing this post I’ll summon a heavy rainfall that will replenish our reservoirs and cool down the summer heat😅 . . . who knows! After all some people execute the rain dance, and it seems to work.

The heat wave was troubling me so much this morning that I even came up with a conspiracy theory, which for sure will end up in one of my science fiction stories. Clue: satellites and sun. Like what! You can find inspiration everywhere, extracting it from every type of experience and moments, even when you are suffering from heat.

Have to say that my plan for this month of December was to blog regularly, and as well as to upload everyday on social media, so as to challenge and motivate myself to write and create again, to practice more my grammar skills and writing techniques, to force myself to come up with something, and to take myself out of this gloomy ambiance am in since I wrote bits of thoughts from a shattered heart. But yesterday the pressure of the heat was way too strong, and I felt tired, and I ended up doing nothing.

Thus, my new challenge starts now, that is to edit as I write, and to make the less grammatical mistakes and bad syntaxes errors as I can.

I know that when you are self-editing, it is important to forget the work for some time, to put it aside. But I need to challenge myself upon this matter, which is the only way I know that can help me level up my writing skills, but also my editing skills.

So, dear readers, if ever your keen eyes find errors in any of my posts, or even if my writings seem non-sensical, please, don’t hesitate to give me feedback in the comment section. I am open to every type of criticism, but not to the hate type😅. Thank you in advance.

Categories
Personal Narratives

Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

A river stream

It’s patience; my impatience

A river runs deep inside of me. And it takes its source from the mountain of my mind. It slowly flows, streams patiently, and on its way, it engulfs some water creatures, some aquatic plants, and loads of pebbles and soil, and this, all the while I sit on its bank, dreamily looking towards the vast sea.

It’s patience; my impatience. And yet, the river it tells me that we are one; that its course is my course, and that all of these creatures also swim within me.

But I couldn’t wait. I wanted to speed towards the vast ocean, to meet all of its creatures, and swim freely within its large mouth — when the river in me, had not even met the other tributaries.

Thus I’ve taken Darcocyte out of my riverbed, there where it was still learning to swim, and rushed till the ocean. And there I drowned. But the river and I are one — same course, same pace, same path . . . but I was too impatient, too impertinent, a foolish head.

***

There is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes

The other day I was brought back to the reality of things, when I realized with sheer horror that Darcocyte is filled with grammatical errors and bad syntaxes.

There is no unicorn. There is no magical fairy or lamp, no fairy dust or magical wand, no wishing well, no good fortune, no celestial guides, faith don’t move mountains; the internet is not the vast ocean, it is simply a lagoon; there is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes; life is real, it is not surreal. There is only patience, diligence, hard work, logic, perseverance, the reality and knowledge of things, and in-depth analysis. The rest, only fiction, thing, that I need to wrap my mind around more often.

***

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte.

I’ve been reading Darcocyte again with new eyes, and this, after one whole year. And my heart couldn’t take it. I am stressing all over it. I have lost my writing rhythm; I have been thinking too much. My train has derailed from its track; I am staggering. From a streaming river, I returned back to a stagnant state.

Yet, most of the great writers said that the writer should forget their manuscript for some months, as to be able to re-read it with fresh new eyes, and thus be able to discern their mistakes, and self-edit more easily. And now I can confirm that it is the truth; but came to that truth a little bit too late.

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte. I am to blame for not having changed my baby’s diapers and gave it a bath for all of these months😅…

Trial and errors, and now I am going through a nightmare, a nightmare on editing street; a bad dream that came true.

***

I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next

I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next. I am filled with so much doubts now; and I have nothing to hang myself to. I’ve lost my way in a maze filled with traps. I don’t even know how to write . . . see, this is all crap, just like a robot would write. Me and my mind, we are unable to create properly, I am thinking too negatively.

It has never been exotic English. Some part of it was none-sense, ugly, bad litterature. I have failed right away as an indie-author. Yet I never had bad intentions. I wanted to embrace the e-bohemian culture, the DIY culture. For it was there that we are going, isn’t it? No. It can’t be 2020.

I wanted to do it for the others out there. For those that want to write or blog, to create, but who don’t know how, where, and with what to start. But I wanted it to be the truth of my individual experience. I wanted to be that light, even as tiny as it may seem, in this vast darkness. Just because I can do it. Just because I have the necessary determination and thickness of skin. I wanted to do it for you, for you to know the different ways you can take as to arrive at your destination — though without a dim, though without the necessary talent, and the education needed. It’s not for everyone, but for a handful of bold people, of that I can attest.

I’ve hurt myself against many interesting online services that are not available for most underdeveloped or developing countries. Services where independents and freelancers can dwell and tap into, as to free themselves from this birdcage. And most online articles are about those online services that are not available for us here. That really was my mission, to collect my own writing experience data and archive it on the world wide web database.

***

Could a book have a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready

Have to say that everything pointed elsewhere. But this stubbornness of mine, this stupidity of mine, this impatience of mine. First of all I hurt myself against a method of payment that was not available for my country (first locked door), then the pricing formulation was too complicate and obscure for me to understand (second locked door), then I was overwhelmed with all of these frustrations. Things were not working smoothly, I was not seeing clearly. Thus, could it be that a book has a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready. Have I not again listened to my intuitions? I guess so, for everything points to the mistakes I’ve made due to my impatience.

As I am writing this blog post, I don’t know anymore what to do. This whole thing is stressing me — and I hate stressful situations. I hate it when I am stuck like that. I hate it that things are not turning out like I wished them to be. I get mad like a child that throws a tantrum when I don’t get what I want😂 especially when I’ve worked hard for that something.

I still don’t know what I had in my head when I started it all out, but surely I always had good intentions.

I want to believe again, to be again, to try again

What is perfection without our own personality attach to it? Without our own magic. I have my own style of writing, not to the taste of everyone, not, for anyone — a little bit decadent, a little bit odd and surreal, perhaps incomprehensible to many readers, but always with parts of myself. I am not a book thief, everything that I’ve written has been meticulously researched online. Perhaps my texts, even my whole ideas have been mined and sold, but I will always remain the author, it’s already in the memory of the universe, in the memory of water. I am not blind, remember, I make one with the river, a river that sees clearly.

I want to believe again, to be again, and to try again. To attest of my online writing experiences. To believe again that there is a bright star that lives in the space of my mind, granting me wishes.

Thus talked the river in me:- slowly but surely; with patience and perseverence, you’ll stream till the vast sea, and there, you’ll meet the hermits and all the crustaceans; the starfish, the giant squid, the great shark, the enormous beluga, the five hundred thousand years old giant turtle, and all of the water creatures that live in the deep sea. And as for your desperation, I am water, and water cleanse and wipe out everything, from bad memories to what aches. I am water, and you are me.

Categories
Personal Narratives

Nightmare on editing street

Note written on a notepad, pen, plastic plant, and black coffee
Notepad & Black Coffee

Today I waked up and thought about how much time and effort goes in editing my writings, and I asked myself – isn’t there any other way for me to alleviate my editing struggles? Am I condemned to never be able to spot my own grammatical errors, word dispositions, and wrong display of sentences right from the start. Also, am I condemned to go through all of these re-writings and editings, and still never end up with a perfect display of what I want to convey.

What am I doing wrong? I know that editors are the ones that bring that final touch to the finished book, but still, as an independent writer, I can’t afford to hire the services of a professional editor; and, I am sceptical of $5 or $10 *editors*… But if ever I’ll hear good recommendations about one, I’ll hire their services… that’s for sure.

Thus, during these last four weeks of Nightmare On Editing Street, I have been busy with editing a Halloween story, which by the way is a story that I wrote and supposedly edited last year, and that I haven’t been able to polish as to publish for today, and this, all the while also being busy struggling with editing my book of poems – where wrong words/sentences, grammatical errors, and non-sensical lines, keep popping up in front of my eyes, and this, each time I go though re-reads.

They are like Freddy Kruger or some other monstrous serial killer from a slasher movie, that lurk in the dark, imperceptible. You look once, they are not there, you look a second time, they are there, you look again, they’ve disappeared – which I guess is their favorite sadistic game to play, which is that of causing terror and horror in their chosen victims. And in me, it’s the terror of not being able to finish what I have started, and the horror, it comes through these mistakes that I discover after I thought that the piece was good to go.

It’s non-stop edit all the way😅.

Sometimes, I even wonder whether it was me that has really written this and that, or, even wonder paranoically whether someone around is messing with me, sabotaging my online work, because, I never seem to remember about ever committing such aberrant errors, or even, committed such a degree of omission while editing. Thing that’s very odd, even creepy, if you deeply think about it. A Nightmare On Editing Street – a haunted machine.

Perhaps I should blame my daily self-affirmations, “I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences” for tricking my brain to believe that what I have written is beautiful, or even, perhaps these self-affirmations might have triggered a strange phenomenon that cause my subconscious, which is slower to react than my brain, but more precise and wiser, to filter and spot the errors each time I go through the text, so that I might really write beautiful sentences… who knows how these obscure rendering works, or not😅.

Why, why, why? Other artists like painters or sculptors, they don’t need editors to edit their art! So why can’t it be like that for creative writing? Is it because I am not a native English speaker that I struggle that much with editing my own work, or, have I not practiced or read enough. What have I been doing wrong in my process? That’s so frustrating for me to have not been able to develop a personal editing strategy that would help me gain time, and as well as to end on a high note.

Suffice that I practice more, and perhaps, write slower than I actually write, as to develop this strategy of mine. Because this time, I don’t want to lose four and half years writing and editing like I did with Darcocyte. I know there has to be another way of discovering these errors right from the start of editing, or even drafting.

Or perhaps, I am putting too much pressure on myself, and I am dramatising for nothing. In the poem The Edit I wrote: This phase of edit makes my stomach churn; For it will soon be over, I confirm.

Categories
Occasional Poetry

Heal

Write, read, drink fruit & herbal black tea, contemplate flowers… heal

Today I thought of flowers blooming
Wildly, beautifully, in the fertile soil
Their strong roots fiercely stretching
Till that secret place, that wild garden

And while musing, I became a flower
That had for mother, earth, nature
And for father, the sky, the universe
I was cherished, loved, cared for
Or should I say :
I am healthy, I am becoming
I am loved, I am cherished

The evil that gnaws me, that eats my body
It suddenly disappears, it vanishes
It cowers away in the dark, in the shadow

That hungry thing, then, with my peace
I gave it away to the wind
I gave it away to the sea, to the lake
I just, gave it away, letting it fly
Where perhaps, and from the bottom of my heart,
With hope too, and wishes too
That it will find beauty on its own
That it will learn the worthiness of love
And feel all the emotions that surge
When loving, and while being loved
And slowly but surely recycle itself
Into a soothing thing, incarnating the love
That paints tears and heartaches
With the vivid divine colors
Of all these beautiful blooming flowers.

It’s been two weeks since I haven’t written down anything. I am busy editing my book of poems, and my mind is a little bit tired too. Thus, I had decided that there will be no post today. Instead, I thought of sharing on my social media last year’s poem, titled Mindscape, which I had written for Pink October Breast Cancer Awareness month. But while writing some lines in the carnet meant to appear in the picture setting for this Pink October photo, inspiration struck, and I was able to write this little poem.

I know it’s hard right now. With coronavirus and all the rest… But we need positive waves more than ever before… and I hope that I am doing my part here.

Thank you to whoever might be reading this post. I hope it gets a little bit better for you, for us, for me, for the whole humanity.