Sometimes, it’s easy to forget the ratio of soul to the ratio of precision with steps that is involved in dancing. It’s just as easy as forgetting about how much of soul should be involved in your daily routine, as you pirouette into familiar circles around the aspects of your life.
TRIGGER WARNING: This post discusses part of my personal experience with depression. Continue reading
I found myself wondering a while ago about what it must’ve been like for me the first time it rained. I can’t seem to remember it, but I do hope that I hadn’t seen it on TV or been told about it until it happened.
Memory is a fickle thing. We want to rely on our brains to retain information, occasions, feelings, people and their names and their stories and everything that interaction with the world entails. We drift from one day to the next with words and flickers of images latching onto our mind the way plastic bags cling onto barbered wires. There, but always swaying with the wind, threatening to detach. Some stay and some depart, and there’s no pattern or rule to it. Our emotions deform them and our growth morphs them, and we still find a way to tell the story somehow. Certainty is an illusion because none of our memories are facts. But if we give into that, then how would we ever have anything to dwell on?
I walk down the street and there are strings of light hanging on the sides of buildings, stretching across from the roof of one buildings to the next; if I squint they almost look like little stars. The Christmas trees still stand, sparkling in the corner of every store. And social media is embedded with new year’s resolutions and congratulations, like there’s nothing else to talk about, to anticipate, like time crossing some imaginary finish line and arriving at a supposedly brighter, happier place where people can enjoy relatively better 12 months.
Ever since November, after NanoWriMo was done for, I have been struggling to write. I stare at the 17 chapters I’ve written over the June and November Nano’s, and I feel that, despite all the nearly ready written material I have, I cannot publish anything beyond the fifth chapter.
Let’s start with introductions.
NaNoWriMo: the perfect opportunity for every masochist out there who wants to spend a month questioning their writing abilities. Said masochists also get to question the truth and the very essence of their nature by asking quite stupid questions such as ‘Why the hell am I doing this to myself?’ or ‘Am I really such an idiot?’
***WARNING! It’s also a month for an abundance of mental and verbal cursing, moodswings, and queer cravings.
And no, you don’t get to question my interpretation.