Strangers on my wall

Here’s my offering for this week’s Picture it and Write! photo prompts hosted by Ermilia Blog. I must admit this was was a half hearted attempt but I would truly appreciate your thoughts. Cheers!

via Ermila Blog

Another day has caught up with me. The night giving way to the morning, but not without a struggle, for I sensed the rain before I heard it pelting on the cold zinc roof. The chaotic many-tiny-fisted pounding echoed with the way I’ve took a habit of feeling these days. What am I doing staying up, reading books that only feed imagination? At this point Percy Jackson is having a ball finding his path on his way of becoming a hero. In what way was that helpful? When see people my age getting jobs and slowly becoming adults, it prods an uneasy spot in me that gives way to hopeless panic.

I can follow up on the AL biology texts I’d thrown in a corner. But it’s not like I get into that field. I haven’t a clue in which way direction to stumble towards. The wind howled past me, sending the closed window to my right into a fit of nervous shuddering. I fancy it was trying to make up its mind too, hearing my mental distress and was attempting to choose a proper cardinal point.

If I was honest with myself I would admit that I knew exactly what I wanted but I find that my sense of duty a somewhat reluctant obstacle. I mean, it’s not like I could pack up and go exploring. I’m almost broke and living with my aunt and her husband to whom both I already owe a lot.

I should probably find a profession that involves traveling and learning. Archeology was shot down pretty gently and I’m quite embarrassed for myself for submitting to that conclusion they’d drawn up so confidently; my “Indiana Jones” phase. There’s this restlessness inside me that stirs at the glimpse of the churning sea, or at the uneven horizon of mist shrouded mountain tops, the drifting scent of fresh dew and the far cry of a high flying bird.

Aunt Em says that I am pining for my parents. That I want to somehow go out in the big yonder in search for a long gone trail. How do I explain to her that I gave up on them? Continue reading

Post-Matt blues: Ruminations of a forlorn Whovian

Van Gogh inspired fanart. Via Pinterest, click to see the pin.

So I’ve finished Doctor Who and am where everyone else is at, awaiting the rein of Peter Capaldi. My body spasms in tears and the time in between them can extend for days. I cry in quiet little tremors and every tear is like an arrow that leaks through the cracks in my skin and strikes my singular human heart. It is finally sinking in that Matt is not The Doctor on screen anymore. I mean, and we all can agree, that he – like the other magnificent men – will always be The Doctor. Our Doctor.

It bites every time a face is lost to time, if you know what I mean. Matt, oh, Matt. Ugh. I can’t ever say anything proper. I love him unlike any other. The funny thing is that at the beginning, I acknowledged him as the enigmatic Time Lord before I realized he was an actor. I mean that in a good way, and there are some bad ways it could go because I understand that some actors don’t like to be stuck in our minds just as a particular character. Matt, nah. He seems to bathe in every second of it.

I … I just. Oh for the love of custard and fish bits! I’ll spit it out. His Doctor was one who was filled with the pain on the inside but tried to cover it up under this ever fresh coat of happy paint; fresh because he mostly means it. He was the optimist, the best friend (and the son-in-law, hehe), ever the fighter and believer in dreams and bow-ties and fezzes. Matt’s energy and well-spring of vitality always always makes me feel better about myself and this world, more than any of the previous two had. I haven’t emphasized enough on how much of a goof he was but it was so obvious to us Whovians. Continue reading

An open letter to the suicidal

(US and International suicide hotlines at the end)

Dear fellow humans,

If you made it past a really bad yesterday it means that you’re still here today, able to reach a computer, your eyes aren’t burning badly and too blurry from exhaustion. That’s a lot than what some people can say, the ones that collapse into an unconscious heap, sleep-starved. I don’t know what your life is like so I’m not going to pretend that I do but I have an idea of  how it can knock a body down.

It’s extremely saddening to hear when someone gives up on the whole business of existing. Suicide isn’t the solution. If anything, it makes life even more terrible for those still alive. This is issue has been plaguing me off and on for the past few months; why is it so appealing? Oblivion? But what use is that? When so many people are fighting every second, grabbing with hands and feet onto the thread that still binds them to life.

“There’s no such thing as an ordinary human.”

~The (ninth) Doctor

To friends and family and co-workers and even strangers

I understand it’s difficult to spot when when someone is thinking about committing suicide but whenever you see a friend depressed or withdrawn, try to talk to them. A lot of people feel unloved and not cared for, that they’re so insignificant that their absence won’t even matter. Show them that you’re there whenever they need you.

I honestly can't remember where I found this and I sincerely hope it's not something I be sue over.

I honestly can’t remember where I found this and I sincerely hope it’s not something I could be sued over.

To you, the suicidal

Don’t do it. Please please please don’t. You’re so much more than nothing. You can turn around if you try and you really have to try. If not for your sake now, think about the family and friends and the strangers you’ll never meet, because you can affect everyone of them. One man caused the holocaust, he made that difference. So what change can you, a good person, make?

“900 years of time and space and I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t important.”

- The (tenth) Doctor

You can be so much more. There might not be anyone else there for you but you. You are all that you have and you can be strong. I know, personally, someone who very nearly killed herself for the most stupid reason and today she see’s what a fool she was. Not all worries are stupid, or inconsequential but if you’re still breathing the next day, well, it means that it hasn’t destroyed you. If you can survive another day then you can do it again, again … and a thousand other days.

Continue reading

Here’s to mothers and to trying

Thank God for mothers, and if you’re an atheist then thank … the universe? Thank goodness. I love mine, and there are moments times when I am acutely aware of how fortunate I am. She’s funny, kind and well, very motherly. Seldom do I see her genuinely serious and friends, those are times to thread lightly. Like right now, I can just walk up to her and give her an impromptu hug (most hugs are, aren’t they?) and she’ll give me a mama grizzly’s feathery embrace.

Why am I thinking about mam? I’m pissed at particularly no once person or group of persons, at the entire world actually and she makes me feel better. I want to be able to talk freely, to express myself without fear of exposing a weakness and generally not give a single crap about bigoted idiots (and I mean completely not waste any braincells) because there are some things one just can’t help at a whim. But that’s a perfect world. Of course I can abruptly choose not to but that’s instability right there. I try to be this tough girl out and about when I’m still plagued by major insecurities and my mind is split and I have to consciously make decisions of what to say in response to someone. Conflicted. I will add that I’m grumpy today.

Let me tell you something Continue reading

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green

via Goodreads.

Rated it: 5 stars

Goodreads blurb

Despite the tumor-shrinking medical miracle that has bought her a few years, Hazel has never been anything but terminal, her final chapter inscribed upon diagnosis. But when a gorgeous plot twist named Augustus Waters suddenly appears at Cancer Kid Support Group, Hazel’s story is about to be completely rewritten.

My review

It had taken me about 100 pages to really get into but after then I was hooked. I just fell in love with these two teenagers and their love story. Initially I was skeptical, I mean these were really a deep pair with all their in depth analyzing of well … everything. But I went with it, partly because I think that not everyone takes the time to discover themselves and while I believe Hazel and Augustus were both intelligent, this disease prompted them to grow up much faster. Then there’s a couple lines from a NPR.org review:

Green writes books for young adults, but his voice is so compulsively readable that it defies categorization. He writes for youth, rather than to them, and the difference is palpable …. You will be thankful for the little infinity you spend inside this book.”

I couldn’t have said it better, but Thomas did:

How unrealistic John Green’s characters tend to be has turned me off from most of his other books – the characters in this one suffered slightly from it too – but The Fault in Our Stars as a whole is John Green’s best book to date.

Like I said, at times Hazel (the protagonist) and Augustus (the love interest, but so much more) came off as wise beyond their years. They notice this, their parents notice this, and readers will notice this. However, there is something so human about the way Green portrays them that makes them relatable. They are not simply teens suffering from cancer, but teens who doubt their place in the world, who are filled with angst and longing and confusion and hope. I can’t say I’ve experienced the exact same emotions as Hazel and Augustus have, but I can say that it’s easy to empathize with them and feel their pain entirely.

I totally recommend that you read the entire review.

This is actually hard for me to write, I know what I feel but the words refuse to leave. The Fault in Our Stars is honest, frank, smart, funny, poignant and heartbreakingly beautiful.

TFIOS is the first book where I really don’t care for negative reviews, while they can seldom be agreeable, they won’t change how I feel at all as they used to tickle the doubt that usually lurks around. I can’t remember crying so much since Harry Potter four years ago, it just seems so real. The words read themselves to me as much as I read them, I felt the emotions they dictated head on, fighting it makes no sense.

Continue reading

The forgotten shore

This is my bit for last week’s Picture it and Write! photo prompt brought to you by the ladies over at Ermilia Blog. This is a continuation, but from a different view point, of Sweet sweet Isabel, finally got around to it. Cheers.

via Ermilia Blog, click to see more

The wind was whipping her loosely bound hair in a frenzy. The dark blond tendrils framed her pale heart shape face, smudging the path of drying tears. She came here for the seclusion this forgotten little beach offered the adventurous ramblers that happened to stumble upon her solitary beauty. There were only a few people who could remember that this place was blocked off on purpose by prickly foliage. Jacqueline knew why, it was for the best. If her father learned of her excursions here he would be furious. Oh, she was a grown woman of thirty and two but the mere mention of it dug up buried memories of a bloody past wreathed in screams.

The past was the past, so to hell with it. It was the last time she saw her little sister, a slight figure bundled up but only a bobbing fuzzy dot in the distance as they took her away in that tiny blue boat so long ago. Jacqueline was one of the lucky ones, the fortunate ones. Life was hers to hold and command. Even then … Continue reading

Weekly Photo Challenge: Juxtaposition

Wandering with my camera, I often find my eye drawn to strange bedfellows. Juxtapositions. Foils. Unexpected pairings.

- Michelle W, The Daily Post

 Overcome

I’d taken this some time late last year, right behind the school. The wire lined the entire compound, but this particular part of the fence separated us from the untamed green land some miles beyond. This section was shaded by a dwarf coconut tree, the one I’d like to stand under those hot days and it was on one such sweltering morning when I noticed these vines twisting their way around the length of the wire and the barbs.

The contrast was immediate. Such thriving life form that should dare to advance Continue reading

The Army of Ghosts, and I’m scared

TARDIS

How often does a television show change the way you feel, the way you see the world, even if the sensation is a momentary flame whose echo of heat will follow you to the corners of your life? I’ve mentioned before that I’m watching Doctor Who from the start, I’m now at season two, and about to see episode 13; Army of Ghosts. I’ve witnessed the regeneration of the Doctor and the obliteration of several great evils but I’m not sure I’m emotionally stable to survive this one and talk properly.

I sure as hell wasn’t prepared for this series, never dreamed how it would affect me, the way it make me want to dream and wander. I’m overwhelmed by David Tennant. Christopher Eccleston was fantastic – you’ll never hear me say otherwise – but David has that extra ‘oompf’. Rose. Oh sweet custard, Rose is a storm. Continue reading

Field of dandelions

WARNING: Serious stuffs below.

via Pinterest, click to see more.

I’ll never claim to have an organized mind so it may come as no surprise that I still can’t sort out what to scratch about next. I find that it helps to amble aimlessly until I scan on some interesting bit as I breeze by the internal mental landscape of my head. Here goes.

Being young and having the means at the ready to be almost anything you want to be is, at it’s core, a depressing state. Oh, why I’m fortunate but even then life isn’t a field of daisies. It’s almost another year and I’m not at the least anxious in awaiting my A Levels results, it can’t be good. What do I want to be when I grow up? Am I grown up? Age is no definite marker in maturity but I believe I’m almost there. I’m good with my hands. I’m my family’s masseuse and I’m constantly being told by a few members and some friends that I would do very well professionally.

I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot but certain persons don’t think it suitable for me. I have to play to my strengths and consider advice as it comes my way. I’m beginning to even bore myself here with all this dreary talk of my future, but it is what it is. I want to have a little book shop on the side whilst teaching English, eventually as a foreign language. I want to have a tight group of friends who’ll love the person I am despite my earthen scale of faults. Perhaps I watch Friends too much.

Continue reading

Picture It and Write!: Autumn and the centerfold

This is my bit for last week Picture It and Write! photo prompts. This is a lengthy one but I’ll promise you that you most likely like it, I know it’s turned out to be one of my favourites. Cheers!

Spiral Stairway

via Emilia Blog

It’s my day off and I’ve been staring at the pastel blue of the sky unblinkingly for long moments at a time. My eyes overflow at the effort and no doubt it would have hurt if the sun was between the delicate looking clouds. As it happened this sky wasn’t authentic but an armature attempt at fresco, Tia’s pride. A decent imitation though I was no expert to really say but an imitation nonetheless; a much better fallacy than the timeline of my life so far. I have to quit thinking about all of that. I’ve put it behind me, or I tried to but it’s so hard to do that when the past is what put me here in the first place.

But it’s not entirely a bad state, to be honest. I grabbed at the chance to cohabitate, it was good rent and surprisingly good company. Tia was the resident artist, wielding paint brushes and words both, but keeps a day job as a florist five minutes away. Kirsty was a chef at a ritzy restaurant in the Bronx, who could probably afford a whole flat but for reasons unknown to me she’d rather share one. I should talk more like I used to, you get answers that way. I … well, I wait tables at Clayton’s mostly the nightshifts; nothing artistic about that if you don’t count the random bad poetry I scrawl on paper napkins leaving them lying on the tables.

  “Feck it!”

I nearly tumbled off of the couch. Tia was at the other end of the living room sitting at the desk, fuming at her laptop. She swiveled around to stare incredulously at me.

“Kyrie, can you believe what that fecker, Tony, told Becky?” she said ‘Becky’ like it was the pigeon crap she was compelled to scrape off the deck.

I tilted my head to the side in silent inquiry.

“He spilled on my next installment of Ricard Octopus. This is a crucial one and I am beyond pissed,” she fumed, pulling at her dark brown hair in utter frustration. Then a maniacal light came into her eyes.

“I know what I’ll do. I’ll name a character after him then they’ll get really attached and then … I’ll go Steven Moffatt all over ‘em!” Tia erupted into a cackle the wicked witch would approve of, rubbed her palms together, sent me an conspiring evil grin and swung around to pound furiously at the keyboard.

I winced. This cannot end well for anyone Continue reading