On Writing: Beginnings, coping & expression

I can trace a handful of defining moments back to my days in high school. Maybe it shouldn’t come as surprising, being that mixing pot of awkwardness, doubt, and a pinch of disorientation to taste. Writing, for fun, was one of them.

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.” 

― Neil Gaiman

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Youth does not belong to the young

Journal Entry

4th March, 2017

An unfiltered shot of a view from my kitchen window at dawn.

Youth belongs to the brave, not exclusively to the young so don’t let anyone fool you.

The young waste away in insecurity not uncommon for that age, worries about real problems and petty nonsense. Sometimes – no, oftentimes throwing away precious seconds like spare change. I suppose it’s all a part of the growing pains.

Hopefully, the older we get the wiser we can become. When the cloud shifts and everything is clearer and defined, well, that’s if we’re being optimistic. When we long for the pennies lost in that one ugly couch we all had years ago.

This is the age when living means

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.