It has been a few hours, and I am keenly aware of the chirping of the birds, the gobbling noise of the motorcycles, and the inexplicable fact that there are other people in my house.
It all began simply, and complicated everything along the way. The WiFi was connected (I would love it to be faster, but who wouldn’t), and then there was a storm. It was nothing original. Grey skies and white flashes, and a lazy growl a couple seconds later.
But after all of it was over, the internet was gone. It was still there, its physical form was still there, but its virtual soul was nowhere to be found. It was quiet. A storm before the calm. However, it wasn’t calm. It was like I was constricted. Continue reading “I have no internet, and I must not scream”
There are many times I am asked why? And I answer why not?
Now, it is a kind of a witty reply, but at the same time, it could be taken for unintelligence and dishonesty. Well, it is not dishonest, but I am uncertain about the intelligence behind it. Why? Cause I find it meaningful. When I am not doing it, I am thinking of it. When I am doing it, I am struggling miserably.
Struggling miserably cannot be taken as a failure. It can be taken as foolishness, but certainly not a failure. For God’s sake, I can ask you the same thing. Why are you still living? Look at yourself, you are struggling, your hard work is not being appreciated. You are growing old, and weaker and less formidable each day. Why are you still going?
Here you will give me a shrug, cause you don’t know. That will be dishonest. You will then give me a witty answer. That can be unintelligent. Now, you will say because you don’t want to die.
You are afraid to die. Why?
Cause you want meaning.
I don’t want a new TV series. I think the books and the movies are enough. I know I am not alone in this regard. There are many people who feel the same. But there are people who want this new series and I cannot blame them. I would be lying if I said I didn’t want to watch the Hobbits, the Elves, or the Dwarfs. To hear the music, see the places–I do want to so much.
But one thing reading Lord of The Rings taught me was with time, everything grand and magical starts to fade and the world moves on–the old picture remains a memory. It reminds me of the quote I came across C.S. Lewis (Letters to Malcolm).
And the joke, or tragedy, of it all is that these golden moments in the past, which are so tormenting if we erect them into a norm, are entirely nourishing, wholesome, and enchanting if we are content to accept them for what they are, for memories. Properly bedded down in a past which we do not miserably try to conjure back, they will send up exquisite growths. Leave the bulbs alone, and the new flowers will come up. Grub them up and hope, by fondling and sniffing, to get last year’s blooms, and you will get nothing. “Unless a seed die…”
How greatly this quote mirrored the current situation of this epic. It might even be the cynic inside of me talking; trying to dispell any sort of achievement which might be found in the new series, but this cynicism comes from a place of love and genuine concern. That is what I wanted to say. Here it lies.
The rain was falling outside. The class was empty and everybody was gone. I stayed behind. I had a raincoat but rather wished to leave when the rain stopped completely. I tried to write something, maybe an essay. But I didn’t know what to write about. I didn’t think I had the knowledge to write about it. But aren’t essays a personal opinion on a subject? But I wanted to write the right thing. I don’t know what kind of sentimentality is brewing in my mind. I wanted to be right, yet I wanted to write what I wanted. How can I do the two things at the same time? In all honesty, I could only do one at a time.
I like to write. I just like writing what I wanted. Yet I feel these constraints pulling at me, wanting me to take my work a certain direction. Is this for the better or for the worse? I didn’t know, neither I felt I would be getting a definite answer. I want to write what I want. Stories, poems, essays, and ramblings are my most written forms. In them, I try to be honest with what I am feeling. What emotion goes through me, goes through my hand and onto the paper. Very little, I edit what I write. Poems I have left untouched, even the typos undisturbed. They mean something to me. My inexperience. How I started this wonderful activity. If I go back and change them to my present skill, doesn’t everything become cookie-cutter in entirety?
Maybe my mistakes are not mistakes at all. Maybe these are personal touches. Maybe these things tell us we didn’t start easy. There was a time, young and we naive. We didn’t fail that moment. We wrote and maybe, even now in the future, we might look at this very moment and say, “Didn’t I make this wonderful mistake that time?”
I never really thought myself as an angry person. I did keep my calm at many times in my life. People being arrogant, insults, general plain nastiness. I was never angry. I was always in control. Until I found out that it was not anger which I was supposed to be afraid of.
I was supposed to be afraid of frustration. If anger was a short madness, frustration was like a psychotic episode put on a gradually growing cycle. Continue reading “Frustration”