Writing about writing

She sits there, still, fingers lingering over the keyboard, the keyboard that pleads for that special connection between key and finger tip which would lead to the wondrous expression of creativity and imagination.

But she just sits there.

The growing need to write something meaningful slowly devours her soul as she sprawls out on the desk, head in hands, thinking, groaning, moaning, dying. Dying. She's quite sure her life is seeping through her fingers right now. She has to write. She has to write!

But she just sits there.

Her mind, the place she always trusted to be filled to the brim with colourful thoughts that gleefully flit around and adorable plot bunnies that hop from base to ceiling to ground again...It was empty, blank, only sign of "life" the littered remains of dead ideas...or those so ancient Death should have long before claimed their souls. She couldn't use those. They were pathetic. 

So she just sits there.

There were thousands of things in her world she could use...So why did it seem so bleak? Why was nothing attracting her now? Why did everything look too horrible for the successful transition from idea to written words? 

Why was she just sitting there?

Was it because of her boring life? She admits that she hates the routine-wake up, go to school, sleep-and every Monday when she opens her sleepy eyes, the only thought in her mind is "What the freak am I doing with my life?" And the answer irritates her. She was supposed to learn in school to get a good job later and get money and then live a "good life" and grow old and retire and die. That was her life. That was what she was doing with her life. And that was utterly depressing. She hated it and so...she wrote. She escaped to worlds of her own where life was adventure and action and love and it didn't end with you wondering why you had wasted your chance at excitement in school or at the office. But if this was true (And she knew it was) then why was she unable to write now since life was being extremely boring?

Why was she still just sitting there?

Her computer screen glared at her and the keyboard screamed, demanding for her to type on it. But what in the world could she write about? Love? (Over-rated) Adventure? (Too long) Angst? (Depressing) Mystery? (Tiring) What? What? What? She had a freaking History lesson to pay attention to (Honestly, the teacher had been droning on about it for about half an hour already while she suffered from her own inner turmoil.) and a debate to prepare for. She needed to think of something, write about it and she would finally be free! And that need to write would stop nibbling at her soul. (She knows she stated previously it was devouring her soul but it reached its limit and got full. So it chose to nibble.)

But wha-

Writing. That's it! Well, technically it's the inability to write but it was an idea nonetheless. She could write about writing! Yes! Yes! Yes! Victory was hers!

And so she proceeded to type the prose out, just sitting there, typing, smiling...

And knowing the ending's probably going to suck but not really caring.

Humans 101

You're a human. You were born a human. You look like a human. You are a human. And hence, you must care about nothing and be unbelievably stupid. However, as much as it is by unofficial rule that you be incredibly foolish and, well, fool around with absolute retarded-ness, there are strict guidelines you must adhere to. Makes no sense? Welcome to the world, my friend. 

First of all, humans have hardly any mind of their own. Apparently, we were given the gift of thought but of course, someone decided to leave that gift to rot in the back of his mind and everyone followed him because it was just too easy to forget what differentiates us from the "lesser beings". You see, although we can think, we don't think. Isn't it too tiring, you know, to actually reflect on your actions, to give a damn about how much it hurts when you stick that Nike into someone else's face? All you have to do is hear the laughing around you from the idiots you call friends and immediately just deduce that 'bullying = good' and do it all over again. What about that bespectacled boy in the corner of the class who did nothing wrong but who everyone's always teasing? The one who sits alone at Recess, the empty chairs his only company? The one you see nothing wrong about? Well, of course if everybody else is alienating him, then you have to do the same, don't you ? Don't worry if you can't think of an insult because if you just pay a bit of attention to all the gossip around you, to what those "popular" dudes say about him, you're bound to hear something nasty which you can just repeat later. What if they realise you're just copying what they said? Well, humans do that all the time, regardless of whether they understand it at all. Oh and don't forget this. When some random, balding guy with a tie comes along, saying he can make a change, saying he can make your life better blah blah blah? As a human, you have no right to question his speeches (provided you even listened) and you just go along with him if everybody else is. Humans don't think. Remember that. Don't question whoever put on that  tag with "leader" on it even if the word looks like it was scribbled on by a three-year-old with severed thumbs. Nope. That would be so un-human-like.

Another thing about humans is that we are selfish little beings with black holes where our hearts should be. Well, we are supposed to have consciences but most people just throw it to the ground, stamp on it and then stab it if it so much as lets out a whimper. We don't care about anything. We don't care if taking the last cookie means another starving child attempting to hold on to life with his frail, tiny grasp, we don't care if refusing to yield means black eyes for everybody or broken arms or gun wounds or bloody death (because seriously, what is there to care about disappearing from this world to be lost forever in the endless shadows?). We don't care about the well-being of anyone around us except ourselves. We don't care if people out there are creating bombs using nuclear power that could wipe out mass amounts of innocent children and we don't care if wasting energy is going to lead to Global Whatever and kill us all and end all possibilities of a future generation. We don't care about using that tiny amount of effort to flick off a switch as we leave a room though we indeed give some thought to running that mile from the position in front of the television to the kitchen to the room with the iPod and then searching everywhere for that phone charger. We don't care that wasting energy might lead to natural disasters-floods with the drowning children and their agonized silent screams, droughts with the burning heat that treats the people as play toys for the sadistic toddler, anything that would give pain the "go" sign and send it hunting others down. We don't care. Need I repeat that again?

Last but definitely not the least, humans are suicidal. Do you think not caring about anything would do you any good? Especially if it's bullying and being mean and war and Global Warming? Of course not! But it is part of being a human being, this not-caring-so-that-I-would-die-soon way of thinking. We let Global Warming continue because that would mean the end of the world as we know it and don't we all just love to die? We follow foolish, incapable nitwits and address them as our "rulers" because they'll probably send you off to meaningless war every 3 seconds and wouldn't that be an awesome death sentence? Don't we just love the pain and the infinite darkness and the sorrowful tears of our loved ones? The bloodshed and the explosions and the severed flesh and destruction? The pull of all that we have known to exist into that bony grip of the Grim Reaper? The end to all the things we love and treasure with our hearts? Yes, we want that. Because we're human and we don't care about anything. Not others, not us, not logic. Nothing.

Doesn't make sense? Good. That means you're human.

Im here.

(Haiku)

Special snowflake, flits
Downwards,  downwards, cold white snow...
Disappears from sight.

Snowflakes. Each one is unique. But sometimes you just get lost in the crowd and no one can see you. No one can hear you.

Read {between} the lines

Dear Jonathan,

{I wish I could still use “dear” on you even when I’m not writing a letter.}

I’m just going to get to the point.

{Because if I don’t, the next generation won’t get to know what “trees” are...And even if I let my pen catch a glimpse of my heart and express all these feelings in written words on paper, it won’t be enough.}

You broke up with me.

{After cheating on me.}

Even though I already somewhat knew this was going to happen, to say I am perfectly fine right now would be a lie.

{Just like everything you ever said were.}

I’ve been crying. A lot.

{I'm running out of tears, really, because I’m slowly realising that our pathetic relationship was hopeless from the very start.} 

In fact, I find it hard to just get out of the house because when I hear the laughter of young  children or see a group of teens hanging out and having fun, my legs wobble and I just want to go back to the darkness of my room where there is no happiness I need to miss, no happiness around me that makes my aching heart feel empty and long for something that isn’t there anymore.

{I’m starting to take comfort in the shadows, the locked doors...and maybe sometimes that penknife lying innocently on my table. }

I really loved you.

{And I still do. Because my heart is not only blind but stupid.}

And when you told me “it was time to move on”,

{I know you meant for yourself  to “move on to Clara’s bed” but where did you say I’ll move on to again? Because I’ve lost all direction and I can't see the next destination anymore. }

I would have done anything if it could make you take your words back.

{For you to just say “I love you. I don’t want to leave you.” because another lie won’t hurt. Not as much as the truth.}

I don’t want to leave you. I really don’t. I know I have no choice if you’ve made up your mind but I’ll like to remind you of this.

{Because I think you might have forgotten. Or just not bothered to paid attention.}

Remember that rainy day when I forgot to bring an umbrella and I was drenched? The day you were coming home from an errand and you spotted my lone figure in the distance, dragging my exhausted,wet feet along the tarmac, shivering? Remember how you dashed across, wrapped your warm arms around me and sheltered me with your tiny umbrella even though you were getting wet?

{I know you’ve tossed it to the back of your mind along with all the other “trash”. But remember. Please.}

That was one of the best days of my life.

{Even if you don’t care.}

Because that was one of the only times you showed that you cared for me.

{Among all the other times you did not.}

I’ll always remember that day. It symbolises the start of some absolutely wonderful memories with you.

{And a whole lot of painful ones.}

I’ll miss you.

{Every freaking day of my freaking life.}

From,

Annabelle.

{Because I can’t use “Love, Anna.” anymore. You stole those words away from me. Along with anything that makes me smile.}

Unbreakable

This involves lots of metaphors and can be interpreted in more than one way.

It's killing me.

My fist smashes against the wall. Like a tiny fly that hits a window, I forget how insignificant this force is towards its sturdy frame because all I see is my desired place on the other side. I hear a small crack as my fists make hard contact with it again for I refuse to give up, refuse to give in. It hurts, sure, and blood trickles down my knuckles and drips downwards, staining the white floor which support prevented me from falling down into the abyss. Unlike you ever did.

I don't know why I try, really, when all you do is sit on the other side, slumped against the wall, snoring, daydreaming, anything but actually being bothered about the situation. It's not a problem to you, not something that can be solved with enough effort, apparently not something that affects you. It's just a part of your life you don't give a damn about.

Screaming, I punch the cement bricks, crying out for it to just break. All I want to do is get to the other side. The cold, black wall stares back at me heartlessly and I think I hear a bitter laugh at the back of my mind, mocking me for my inability to cause just a crack in its invincible being. I refrain from breaking down, no matter how tempting it is.

My arms are tired, aching, and I just want to sit down and give up but I don't want to be like you- just lazing there, wishing for the wall to fall but not doing anything to make it happen. Maybe you don't care about it as much as me. Forget that, you don't care. You'll like it if the wall came crumbling down but until then, you'll just pass the job on to others. To me. You refuse to help but you make a conscious effort to ask everybody else to do so. "Go on. Try." You said. And I suddenly wonder if you were truly just mocking me.

I can't take it anymore. The grass here used to be so green, the flowers so beautiful...But all is dead now. I know I never bothered about the expanding wall before but now I do. I have to get to the other side. I know it's somewhat selfish. It's not like I'm going to die here, I'm just going to get bored. I don't want to get bored. And the fact that we're already "friends" but separated by this wall frustrates me.

I scribble a letter and throw it over the wall. The wind carries it up and tosses it over and in a matter of seconds another slip of paper flies down from above and I know the handwriting's yours. I read it and am once again left wondering...are we indeed friends? We've talked so much through this passing of notes but I can't know for sure. These words, do they come from the heart, are they sincere?  How am I to know if this wall refuses to leave and you refuse to help me bring it down? You only acknowledge the   "me" I am when I hold a pen but are you afraid of the "me" in real life? What is it, really, that stops you from helping me tear these bricks down? Or are you not one bit bothered about truly knowing each other and these "notes" are just another past time of yours? The love and care in between each hand-written line...Is it fake?

I want to know. Please, tell me.

I punch the wall again, this time crying out for you but I know you don't hear...or you pretend not to. I want to meet you, the real you and I'm tired of our little games of paper tossing. I want to keep you company not through flimsy slips of paper but with my fingers in between your warm ones or our shoulders against each other. But until you agree to help me, this wall remains unbreakable.

I toss a blank piece of paper over.