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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.  

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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🤔.

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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.

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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😅

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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.

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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.

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Personal Narratives

Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

Its 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.

Its 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.

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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.

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Personal Narratives

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. My brain is just consumed by the too much thinking I make as to find a way to balance my life right now. It’s still a little bit chaotic, for I still haven’t found my pace amidst life happenings.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. But a type of fear has started to consume my heart. It’s still a tiny spark, this fear – but in the long run, it might as well set ablaze whole forests in my heart, in my mind.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. No, I don’t fear criticism, because I understand that to each their own. I don’t even fear of sounding stupid, because ridiculousness never killed anyone. I don’t fear those who like to point their one finger right at me. Because I’ll snatch it out with my teeth, munch it, and then spit it out in the wild as for the vultures to chew it – see, I just wrote a horror scenario😂 also peace to everyone. Thus, I am not suffering from writer’s block.

But this fear, it concerns much more the fright of losing her … my muse … because I am not penning down lines of poems and paragraphs of stories as I used to do everyday. Yes, that’s what I fear the most right now – that she will leave me, and that I will be left to dry and wither, and finally, die a slow death inside.

I am like that passionate lover who does everything they can to prove their degree of affection and adoration to the beloved of their heart. Thus, to sit down everyday as to write is an offering to my muse, this gift of creativity. I don’t want to use my muse. I want to possess her – well, metaphorically speaking of course.

Seeing that I am not a native English speaker, I write very slowly, turtleishly, frequently stopping in the middle of a word or a sentence to think about the right English term that I should use, or even to linger on the arrangement of my words. And sitting with my muse, which to me is the only audience pleased by my amateurish writing, while thinking and focusing, is a must for me. But it takes time to make adjustments, to find the right or perfect balance between my chores, my duties, leisure, relaxation, writing a new book, blogging, imagining; to settle in a new favourable routine that’s promising for me.

And that’s where my fear stems from – the fear that in between, my muse will become dormant again, burying herself under piles of inactive feelings and random access memories agents; or even, dying out of hunger, she would leave me for another more enthusiastic and thrilling mind. That my creative influence, inspiration, will sink furtherly at the bottom pit of my mind, that same shallow area where I went to deter it, to awaken it, to activate it, while practicing vigorously for all of these years, so as to beat the odds, which by the way is my favorite game to play.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that my brain is drowning within an ocean of thoughts, amongst which, thoughts that my muse might abandon me … thus the cause of my present fear.

No. I am not suffering from creative’s block, because today, while being Friday, I have been able to write this blog post which I’ll be revising tomorrow, to finally publish it on Sunday. And while we’re at it, I’ve also got the idea about the photo I’ll be taking to ship with this blog post, which is a little note that I’ll tape on my back yard brick wall, accompanied with some wild plants. Thus, this issue has been settled. No. I am not suffering from writer’s block.

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Personal Narratives

I won’t lower down my expectations

“Garner your strength, writer, stifle the ache, for your words need to flutter”

I know that the world is shaking right now, where most of us are sad, angry, aching, mourning; and that amidst this strange and wretched time, everything appears grim, morose, and without hope – but should our own heart be alike the gloomy ambiance that’s surrounding us? That’s the question that I’ve been trying to work on since my plans changed completely during that lockdown period… since the pandemic took over our world.

And since then, I am trying to work my way through this new shift in reality, trying to adjust the sail of my ship on that new ocean vibe, reorganizing everything in my life; trying at all cost to stick with a difficult schedule, as to find time to write. Since then – well, after I came out of a whirlwind of incomprehensible deception, demotivation, and gloomy emotions – I have shaken myself up, purged my poisonous thoughts, kicked my blues away, shifted my intent, modified my plans; and after many hours of self-introspection, I have finally been able to identify the root cause of this uncontrollable deception, which clearly made no sense at all. I then knew why earth had shaken underneath my feet, causing tidal waves in my heart.

I didn’t come this far to only come this far

It was such a strange moment – that point in time when fear, doubts, what’s inconceivable, and the strangeness of my uncertainties, merged, giving birth to my distress. It was a situation forced on me, at least that’s how I felt… and I just couldn’t let those negative emotions poison my heart anymore; I couldn’t let distress overwhelm my senses and stop me from thinking; I couldn’t let distress freeze my movements – for I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

The future is not written yet, tables might turn at any point in time, and tomorrow, everything is possible, the better as the worst. Then I decided that I shall think of that tomorrow with pessimism, for I want the better tomorrows, the most exciting of all tomorrows, I want to be that glint amidst the chaos. Thus, I decided to not lower down my expectations concerning my writing ambition – that of selling my own books, books that I like, crafted things with imprints of my own sentences, and of course, to feed this blog with my thoughts and wordcrafts. I decided to continue circling my thoughts around creativity, just because I feel happy when I use writing as my main medium of expression, just because I don’t force myself to write stories nor poems, or even force myself to think about what to blog next. On the contrary, I miss creating more, I miss imagining the next story I’ll write or photos I’ll take for my web pages, or even to sit down, as to craft more poems.

In the blog post harpooning the next day, I wrote about how I overcame my doubts and my fears and of all the dramatic situation occurring … but I didn’t expressed myself on what triggered that profound and uncontrollable distress that made no sense … which I happened to understand only after I went through a series of self-introspection. Found, I’ve missed the opportunity to market Darcocyte and this blog during that period where everyone was locked up at home, with only the internet as means to butterfly and socialize. Found that my doubts and thoughts about the errors I’ve committed were stopping me from thinking clearly about what to do next. Found that I was panicking over the fact that I was making the same mistakes over and over again, with intrusive thoughts and constant feelings that I ignored my intuition once more …

"Writer, garner your strength
Don't lower your expectations
For your words need to fly
Away, into the world."

But wait! You know what? In the end I’ve understood that my overwhelming negative feelings were not even about my trials and errors concerning the business of writing … It was more about me, something more profound, something more sensitive. An opened scar. The feeling that I had lost my wings, again. How much of intense emotions I felt during such a little period of time is unbelievable. Everything shifted, mingled, and then, raptured. All that I can say here, is that it was intense, very intense indeed.

Now I am back on track, after I’ve shaken myself out of the feelings of delusion and dilemmas. I’ve gained again my sense of logic, which as you all know is necessary to live in this reality. And after I’ve spotted my errors and identified the steps that I might have skipped, or even the bridges that I might have burned, I came to accept the fact that I was bound to fail, simply because I was not well prepared – in terms of payment gateway, money, registration of intellectual property, bad devices, those wrong technical setup, my paranoid thoughts about pre-plagiarisation of my writings, not having learned in depth about the technical and marketing part of selling books online… and it goes on and on and on – all of these issues that I haven’t properly worked on, when knowingly I had emitted the intent of pursuing the journey of the independent author … but dammit it’s hard. You write the book for four years while doing intense and risky researches, exposing yourself to whatsoever they beam at you, wondering if ever the things I’ve searched for hasn’t been combed through by intelligent services or the surveillance system, yep 🤔😝😅😂🤣. Thus there were lacunas. Thus the pathway didn’t align, it didn’t flow, it didn’t set, for there were too many missing ingredients.

I am trying another route

And of course, knowing what I know now, my expectations and dreams remain intact, though I have to now take a detour. I am trying another route. It will take the time and effort needed to concretize my expectations, to concretize my dreams. I am still learning, while the fire of determination and passion burns within me. I don’t think that one remains eternally an amateur in a chosen domain, and I do think that what I am learning now will surely help me in one way or another in the future.

Also also, one of my dreams came true! Tadaaa😅 I work from home now! Tadaaa … I assist my MIL! Tadaaa … not at all on my list of expectations, but strangely, this new priority forms part in the alignment of my journey as a creative writer. Like what! My path is starting to align … be patient, I say to my heart … a little bit more of patience, I say to my heart.

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Personal Narratives

Writing abates the storm in my heart

On a wooden table, a pen on an opened notebook, a hat, a mug, and flower
writing to relax

Writing abates the storm that often rages in my heart – like frustrations, anxieties, sadness, anger, unacceptance, incomprehensiveness, and all of these other emotional disaster that wrecks my all.

When I write, my heart feels lighter, my soul soars higher, I can see clearer, and I feel happier. When I am immersed within, only facing my own emotions and all of the characters that wildly run in my imagination, I feel an in-depth connection with the cosmos, where, metaphorically speaking, we work hand in hand as to give substance to what abstractly appears in my daydream mind, and where for me, it’s relaxation to peacefully reach out for these buried ectoplasm that carry memories which stem from immemorial times.

It takes time, energy, practice, and every once of concentration as to be able to dig deep inside, in search of stories and poems. Peace of mind, of the heart, and of the surrounding environment is a must, and to remain alone with yourself in a silent room, as long as possible, is what triggers the deep dive – at least for me that’s the type of exercise that helps me to write, though how difficult the craft of writing is.

“Tell me wind, tell me tempest, tell me sea water, and everything else that carries memories and murmurs of the world, if you could guide my hand and guide my heart while I write, perhaps this heartwrecking environmental disaster, this spilled oil that traps the sea and its creatures, and pollute our beach and our air, could have been prevented…”

When writing a story I never know the type of characters that I’ll meet along the way, precisely on one of these days where I am going through an emotional roller-coaster. Love, passion, creative enthusiasm, or any other overwhelming feelings trigger the necessary inspiration which helps my sentences to come alive on paper or screen.

It is an adventure that takes place in my imagination; and though the pen is in my hand, or typing the words on a keyboard, I am only an observer who is thrilled to know more, to know how the story unfolds, eager to take part in the lives of these characters.

There is something soothing that takes place when I write, or even while trying to get the necessary inspiration and ideas for stories and poems. I am unable to describe clearly what really takes place in my heart as to share it with you, readers… all that I can say is that it’s a gentle type of peace that invades my heart, but also a bit of pleasure, an once of satisfaction, and excitement too. Thus I am unable to name with exact precision the feeling that takes over my heart when I write – this emotion that calm my nerves when I feel down.

Through writing, there have been so many emotions that have been thrown away on a stormy heartfelt day, that now, I am unable to live the rest of my life without penning down my thoughts. I don’t even want a day to go by without having mused about a story, a poem, or even, without going on thinking about what to blog next.

Perhaps this all thing that I am doing might sound silly to most; where my creative state of mind and my trying as an author-blogger wouldn’t be understood by the many… I don’t know, I am just guessing, perhaps, wrongly guessing. But still, to those people I respond, or, I’ll respond, that all I know about, is that writing abates the storm that rages in my heart.

“Wind, blow through me, and lend me your memories while I write, to abate the storm that rages in your heart : to calm down the fury in my heart.”

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Personal Narratives

Harpooning The Next Day

To be happy, make things that make you happy

I’ve been doing lots of thinking since this ill-wind blew its mortal breath upon the world. This situation, or these sequences of situations look like one of these fictional stories I watch on television, read in books, or even, same as those stories I write or daydream about . . . Sad days which surely have already inspired the writer in us.

Since lockdown, my life and my everyday habits changed suddenly, and overnight, I became the personal caregiver of my mother-in-law. I had to revise all of my priorities, and re-organise my everyday life – where I am still trying to reconcile writing my next book, blogging, parenting, my house-chores, reading, caregiving, and me-go-time on my everyday planning schedule. I had to adjust my time and even myself to this amor fati (love of one’s fate), and rethink about the basis of my own foundation. Slowly but surely, I am adapting myself to this new reality; adopting the change that came about; harpooning the next day.

I thought that I would be taken aback, or even feel dreadfully sorry about my recent decisions, while my life would be dreary . . . but it is not the case, fortunately. It is as if, my heart learned acceptance. I’ve let one of the birds that was caged within my heart flee.

Writing always haunts me, and my want to blog, write poems and fiction passionate me more than ever before. I’ve even submitted two pieces of mine during those two last months – a fiction piece, and a non-fictional one. Thus, my writing ambition has not weaken the least, on the contrary it has widened, and even perhaps, matured.

/

Right in the beginning of lockdown, doubts and darkness started to appropriate my mind – pessimistic feelings about my writing aspiration took its toll on me – I felt like a fraud, useless, stoopid, delusional. Lies lead to deception . . . and I was convincing myself that I lied to my self, because deception was gnawing my mind. My self-esteem and self-confidence took a harsh blow during this short, but yet how intense time.

The other birds in me were dying out of passion and enthusiasm.

But I am not a fraud, for I write. I am not useless; I endorse all of my responsabilities; good for others. I am not stoopid; I certainly know what I want, and certainly know what I am doing. I am not delusional; I see opportunities from my own perspective.

I’ve been doing it all wrong, of that I am sure. And though how slow I am, and how much time flowers take to bloom in me; and how slowly the birds in me learn to spread their wings, my mind is a fertile land. Perhaps I’ve seen an oasis which was only a mirage, or an oasis that they made me think was only a mirage . . . But the oasis in me is broader than this oasis, which by the way, is not a mirage.

Too bad! I guess, for I shall continue my way more individually than ever before. My fictional, poetic, and blogging happy endeavors appease my soul, and I envision a bright future filled of serenity, only because I swim inside this creative lagoon. I don’t see myself persuing these other activities that infuriate and frustrate me; that lock me up in total distress. No! I won’t give more power to negativity, for I want to live in happy places. The birds in me have the right to chirp as much as they like. I have the right to express myself, to express my creativity, and I can’t, and I WON’T, take responsability about how others personally interpret my writings – which to me is art for the sake of art.

/

If I had abandoned my creative persuit, I don’t think that I would have seen again the lagoon where I birthed out; I wouldn’t have found myself again. I would have been a total wreck. So I’ve decided that no matter what, I’ll keep trying, and if I don’t succeed, well, at least I know that I am making things that passionate me, and that I found a creative leisure that makes me happy.

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Personal Narratives

My Sudden Realization Amidst The Crisis

coupe of sparkling wine, handwritten note, in front of painting.
Cheers to the aftermath…

I have always been a quiet-over-confident type of person, mainly due to my loyalty and worship of the self; and where most of my tragedy shows stem from the fact that my self-esteem has taken a harsh blow. I lose all self-control when I feel that my self-esteem has been attacked; I see red, and I lose all sight of the pathway that I’ve slowly built.

My failures, mainly when I’ve planned and masterminded everything on my own, lead me to those feelings that are very hard for me to digest – that taste of bitterness remain stuck in my mouth for endless periods of my life.

For me, there is always someone or something else that is responsible for my failures, my mind then designating a culprit behind the unrealisation of my dreams – the start of my fall inside the pit of delusions, where these persisting gloomy thoughts turn into obsession.

Everyday I’ll be obsessing about who or what is, or are behind my failure – I’ll be telling this or that to my husband, or this or that when going at my mom’s place, looking sick, mad, psychotic, delusional, and where they will all try to assure me that it’s only in my head, and where… *sigh* well, you see the picture of them panicking when I go through this delirious phase – mother, sister, husband eyes go-go😳 while am raving mad, and being paranoiac about… well, it’s much more that I am being way to over dramatic, suffering from irrationality, going through some type of disturbance due to denial of failure, a sense that I have betrayed the self, my own self. Just a delusional type of indignation.

This obsession, it clouds my mind and prevent me from seeing what I’ve achieved, that is, my success of having written a whole book, one hundred poems for the upcoming one, as well to have written all these poems and articles for this blog, and so many short stories penned and typed here and there; this persisting indignation, it also make me forget about what I can do, that is write, versus my inability to make the right decision about choosing the right platform to sell Darcocyte, or even my incompetence to market myself, my book, this blog, my writings.

Eventually, after having been very very very angry (the delusional, irrational, and irrelevant kind), while anxieties made me eat a lot😂 – the viruses suddenly appeared, and in a strange way, my anger concerning the web, Darcocyte, and everything else that were primar sources of my frustration and craziness, quieten down. It was the shock, a large baff in my face, the sudden realization that I’ve been acting like an insane paranoiac, accusing everything and everyone, blaming others for I’ve not been able to complete my dream.

Things did not went my way and as I had envisioned them to be, which caused much anxieties and a great deal of annoyance in me; even going so far as to prevent me from finding solace in everything that I have already realized, even forgetting about all the years it took me to hone the skill of writing, the long hours of practice, the analysis of the books I love, the long wait until I finally finish Darcocyte – and then, just like that, Corona came around, slapped me in the face, and life suddenly seemed too short and fragile for me to be living inside the continuous and perpetual agony of denial, delusions, and paranoia. I am way too much in love with life and of all the beauty it contains to continue inflicting myself with the heartache of failures.

It’s hard for me, as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, a family member, a friend, to face the reality of this virus that is eating us up… It’s such a harsh situation, mainly when you have loved ones. Everything and everyone has been obliged to slow down – to think, to repurpose, to….. fill in the blank here; and where I had to rethink and repurpose my plans, too, going blindly into the uncertainty, while facing whatever is coming my way.

The aftermath of this whole crisis, what would it be? I wish I was the oracle or had that crystal ball, but everything right now is so uncertain and inaccurate, thus I continue to write and blog amidst the destruction, even forgetting that there was once denial and anger, and just doing what my heart wants, hoping that my loved ones and everyone else remain safe and sound.

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Personal Narratives

The Dedication Amidst Anxiety

“When you’re going through hell, keep going” – anon

Creativity to equilibriate

Anxiety has always been a poison to my mind – it rules me, it makes me unproductive, it fogs my mind, I can’t see clearly. My mind is an arid land when confronted to anxieties, which most of the time change into stress, and stress to depression. Ever-since my mental breakdown, I am not anymore as I used to be – I am more fragile, more susceptible, more frustrated than ever before, falling in and out of the mental prison of anxiety, and can’t think properly when darkness takes over.

Sure, to liberate my mind and alleviate the anxiety, I practice free-writing on paper, that I immediately tear after having relieved my heart of everything that hurts… but these are scribbles penned down automatically, and where I roughly write everything that’s hidden deep, locked, these layers of chaos, these cracked feelings that I am unable to shout out or say – some ignominious unlighted sentences, quasi-demonic, I will tend to say😂 I don’t know to whom these stabbing words are meant to or for, but what’s the most important, is that afterwards I feel relieved and my heart lighter, and sometimes even get some inspirational elements from where I can extract stories, poems, or even get ideas about what to blog. I love to think about this process as a phase of transmutation, where I take my anxieties, the obscure, and transform them into creativity, into writing.

It’s the calmness, the peace, the beauty of things that I perceive, and also doing what I like freely and without frustration that render me productive. I don’t thrive amidst chaos, negativity, and stressful environment, for these lugrubrious atmosphere, they annihilate every perception that I might have of an harmonious existence. Thus amidst tension, stressing factors and all the rest, my mind basculate into the dark side, the paranoia, the mistrusts, everything that’s negative, the coldness, the heartless – and instead of creation, it’s the incarnation of destruction that takes over, the duality without balance, the Yin that completely obscure the Yang in me.

And yet while writing these words, no matter how gloomy they might hit, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, for these sentences that I am writing right now, written aesthetically and creatively, they appeal as a beautiful creative leisure to my mind, insisting that I am here, alive, in full pocession of my mind, because I am taking all of the elements that’s from the well of a dream, everything that is abstract and fractal, everything that is geometric, symbolic, and formulaic, and that I am working my way through it, that I am solving, giving that which is shaped from the depth of my mind the chance to become concrete, to exist, to fly away from the darkness, the nothingness. Materializing my thoughts with these words in full awareness and a certain kind of logic. The want and need to be, stronger than these anxieties.

Thus, writing is the only interesting activity that appease my mind (well, apart watching T.V and movies😊) in times when anxieties strike, mainly during these times of health, economic, humatarian, and sanitation crisis – for I know that I am freely doing what I like, that simply writing is not a cause of frustration in my life, and that it is the balance that equilibriate my anxious state of mind of these days, and those to come.

Creativity is my own personal response to destruction, and where amidst these dark times, all that I can bring to the table, is my dedication to writing.

And what about you? What you do to balance, tackle, or cope with anxieties?

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Personal Narratives

Metaphorical and Literal

The poetic genre I love

Tea-set, handwritten note, and decorative indoor flower pot
From abstraction to expression

When earth shakes, do snakes escape from its mouth, while all roots unroot from the soil? — how can I, the author of this sentence, be surprised by what I’ve written on my own… is it my natural ability to observe from another’s perception that brings me to that conclusion, or perhaps, let us be a little insane, odd, and whimsical, and let us say that it was a presence, the muse, that murmured it to my right ear.

A crack, an opening, the underground, catacombs — yes, I write semi-automatically, plunged emotionally inside the subconscious lagoon of my core. My poems are literal, where I let whatever wants to sprout out be — I just kind of express myself unconsciously. The moment I have a subject in mind — no matter what the subject might be, I go for it; I let my creativity take full possession of my being.

Should I say that I write while accessing my Random Access Memory, I don’t know! But what I do know on the other hand, is that when I write a poem, I completely abandon myself to my needs for art, and where the finished product needs to trigger the emotion of astonishment and puzzlement inside of me, like, is it really me that has written that oddity! Else, everything needs to be rewritten, for I am unsatisfied. I like to be the reader behind the eyes that has written the work, same as I would have read any other writings. I am out of my mind when I write, but back into the shell when drafting.

The seascape joins the shorelines, giving birth to an oneiric landscape – Literal, figurative, metaphorical — these are the main adjectives that I want my creative works to be described as, and where I try my best to construct my texts in the best possible way as I want them to be, and as well as I like them, always remembering the feelings felt when reading works written by other authors, whether good or bad.

When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions. Thus, I want to write poems about everything that the world holds, wanting to be the medium through which the hatred, violence, love, romance, death, happiness, sadness, and all these emotions that have been given away to life (entity to me) incarnate themselves through the poetry I write.

Yesterday my husband and I we were discussing about a peculiar movie we like, and where both of us had different thoughts concerning the enigmatic ending of the movie, which I do think was a literal and poetic ending, opened to every kind of interpretation, the beauty of creative work. That’s when I realized that my poems too, or any other poems, could also be interpreted differently by the various type of readers, because precisely I write poems figuratively. But that’s my playground of interest — the metaphors, the flowery, the fanciful, the surreal, that’s how I fell in love with poetry, always, and that’s the degree of aesthetic that I thrive to ornate my poems with, so that readers that are fond of that genre of poetry might gain the ultimate satisfaction — at least I try to.

Being what I am, I am unable to write essays or any other serious subjects passionately, without getting bored… too detailed and prosaic for me, and where I have enormous respect for those that write these kind of intellectual articles meant for informational and educational purposes… not meant to tickle the fancy of readers, but where I would have been more than happy to have my poems being deconstructed by one of those literary critics, those thirsty for the psychology and logic behind literature. What would be the finds, the adjective of qualifications to describe what and how I write — dark, depressive, illogical, confusing, or else, I don’t know; puzzling and mystical, that’s what I would though.

Else, would I be criticized for appropriating the experience and life of others — a life snatcher, when all I ever do is trying to write with these emotions, calling them from the depth of my subconscious, drawing the ideas and inspiration from the well of my mind, and interconnecting and intertwining my own experience to that of the collective consciousness, the web of life.

Do my poems echo back emotions, the creation that’s voiceless, yet veiled with imagination? Are they movie projectors where the films display bits and pieces of what my imagination holds, though literal and surreal? Or, are the poems I write same as in dissection of a poem, a poem where elements of my own experiences sneak silently within the construction of the poetry I write. In the end, I just hope, and do my best, so that these poems I write are as literal, metaphorical, and as aesthetically pleasing to the reader’s mind, same as much as I have been conquered by this poetic genre.

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Personal Narratives

Women, Sensibility, And Fiction Writing

Happy International Women’s Day

Evening clutch bag, fake pearl necklace, eyeshadow palette, beige transparent silk scarf, and red petals scattered on an handwritten note.
The fantasque mind of women

As a reader of fiction, I never choose the book that I’ll be reading based from the name that’s inscribed on the book cover; neither will I ever pay attention to gender or race… these information are of no whichever use to me, for I have my own personal choosing criteria — and it’s where only after that I’ve read the book (of course if the author’s style pleases me) that I am interested to know who the writer is; eventually looking to read more of their work. And till now, I remain greatly appreciative of women’s work of fiction, for there is a gentleness, the acceptance, something more delicate and dreamy in their personal style of writing fiction, accentuated with these feminine delicate emotional attributes that unconsciously embed themselves right into their stories, and as well as the characters that make up these stories.

I do think that’s why fiction written by the feminine genre stirs that much our feelings as women, for we sense the understandment and delicate attention brought to these character’s conception. Anyway, doesn’t it take a woman to understand, or even to know what women want and secretly fantasize about – thus their stories fulfilling our (mostly I think) wildest dreams.

When I read fiction written by the female genre, I feel the strangeness that inhabits the depth of the soul of women, and of their thoughts that escape like birds out of a cage in the written form… I feel the relief from the frustrations… I feel that there is a parallel way of thinking that ties the feminine genre mind — some sort of mystery blended with delicate intentions, without austerity, carved in fine prose, without details to shake up our reading escape and fantasque dreamy mind.

In my opinion, all women, without exception, are all born with that maternal instinct encoded deep into our genotype from conception, thus this tendency to reassure, and to force characters to find that light at the end of the tunnel – to find their happy ending, one amongst our deepest feminine fantasy, alongside finding the right charming prince… Isn’t it so?

Of course, male writers write mostly about men because they are men, and where sometimes, or more than often, there seem to be a lack of further visualization and valorisation of their feminine character, say, only portraying depressed, insane, frigid, volatile, hysteric, melodramatic, or psychotic distressed gyals with no whatsoever chance of making it in a way or another (😅hope I am not over exaggerating here, but that’s what I’ve understood).

But what about women then? Are they lesser able to navigate in lagoons where their main character are the male genre? And what about the famous detective Hercule Poirot, main character written by a woman — Isn’t there something undeniable and unique in the way the character and his sidekicks are portrayed in the books; all these mysteries penned down like the remembrance and metaphor of our own feminine condition, obscured and intelligently nuanced for proper consumption… Or is it only again that mind of mine that is not on the same frequency as everybody else?🤭

Anyways, for me, there is still something—even as slightly as it may seem—that differentiate the writing style of a woman that writes from that of a man that writes fiction, and where the subtle, some elusiveness, and the sensibility of women, versus the detailed and roughness, dominate the scene and signature of both genre.

In women, I compare thee the poem I wrote recently, I take that step forward to reveal metaphorically and in the most beautiful language there is, my intimate and personal thoughts about the essence of women, because nothing compare, or ever will compare, to the feminine genre. I do think that our contributions to a balanced world are key determining factors to the smooth running of our society as the human race. Of course, nobody is perfect, and women, with all our flaws, feminine hormones going haywire, and lack of self-understanding, are more prone to afflictions of the mind than that of our consort, and to me, it’s these unconscious breadcrumbs left in between lines for the mind to escape on its own that beautifies and mystify fiction written by women.

So, what do think folks? Are we on the same page concerning the sensibility that emanates from fiction written by women?

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Personal Narratives

What Is A Personal Blog

hand holding mug of tea with milk, alongside diary, tablet showing blog site, and fountain pen

In my youth I always kept a diary, scribbling about thoughts, ideas, my life, heartaches, and all the rest. It was my little secret garden, my get-away for mind relaxation. I never knew why I liked recording in that diary every bits of my teenage years, but every time I finished writing about what frustrated me back then, I felt better, ready to smile to the world again. I think that most diarist would agree with me that things tend to get better, while life seems brighter, after having poured into words our thoughts.

But what about blogging then? Well, compared to a diary that has key and lock to guard against prying eyes, a blog is not for the cagey – those that want to guard intimate secrets, even though you can password protect. To me, a personal blog is much more like one of those T.V reality shows (that by the way I am fond of); log entries that are made accessible to almost all web users.

Thus, a personal blog is a futuristic version of the diary, with possibilities of doing more – for compared to the limited page of a diary, a blog has limitless pages that are easily searchable through timely archives, categories, and topics, and where you can make it available, or even share publicly.

Social medias too can be qualified as personal blog, but not for the passionate diarist – those that are into long form writing.

As for me I blog about my adventures as a writer that uses the digital system, with hope that other aspiring writers don’t do the same errors as I did, and along the way give answers to questions that they might be asking to themselves; exhibit my poems and short stories, making them freely available to those passionate readers of poetry and fiction, while demonstrating my personal aesthetic type of writing. Roughly, my desire is to inspire and motivate aspiring or amateur creative writers through my own writing odyssey, while trying to bring my own contribution to the design of a better world, because why not! I also intend to use blogging as the main medium through which I can sell my products and services in a near or far future – thus my urge to blog with such degree of passion.

I do think that the personal blog is the main hallway to the personal opinions, thoughts, interests, experiences, reflections of the one that blogs, and these characteristics, I do believe, are what make personal blogs so attractive to readers like me – those that crave genuine emotional connection through these words put down in words.

Hence, what do you folks think about personal blogs?