A simple sight of blood upsets me. Even a small cut sometimes scares me. I seem to have a low tolerance for the striking uneasiness of pain or more so with gore. This reaction, however, seems strange to people who know me personally, because I write some dark stories with vivid descriptions.Continue reading
When he gives you time, does that mean it’s already a sign
That he’s interested in investing his heart?
When he asks about you, does that mean he cares
Or simply an instinct he’s compelled to do?
There are so many possibilities. Different answers, varying timing.
Guard your heart.
Guard your heart to the sudden jolt of emotion.
Guard it against the surprising attention.
Guard but keep yourself open.
Guard but listen.
After all, maybe it’s time to give love a chance.
Thoughts in response to people’s concerns about my (perpetually) single status and their constant curiosity about my actions toward this matter. These are the questions that I still don’t have answers to, but hopefully, in time, I might finally discover the answers to them.
Whenever I try to write something out of the blue, there are dozens of ideas popping out of my mind. Sometimes my writing can’t run as fast as the thoughts spreading all over my head. This is when I become too lazy to browse through the words, images, or sounds under the pile. So, I begin a story with colorful settings, engaging actions, interesting characters, but as it progresses, the life withers. Slowly. Fading. My mind catches too many distracting new sights, music, words, etc. etc.
This tale goes on and on for days, weeks, months, or even years. A great story half untold lies beneath the mountain of wavering spirits and forgotten dreams. Sometimes I am able to walk back. Scan those unfinished works and do my best to continue where I left. But the feeling isn’t the same. The memories are only fragments of myself. Change is inevitable. That half-written great poem, short story, or novel will never be the same. All of those beginnings might sound inspiring, charming, or even fascinating. In reality, none of them will have a great ending.
I write like this. As I learn more about myself, the random, annoying side of me takes over. Great beginning, but ultimately failed and dragging ending leads the writing.
Once I had a dream
I wish I could remember
Most of it withered
Only some of the pieces came back…
I hope to catch them, one by one
Before everything gets lost and dies.