In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Only Sixteen.”
Long ago, there was this stupid boy wandering around high school wasting sometime fooling around without being concerned with his academic score. Everyday was restful day and he slept almost everyday in every class. His scores had improved just a little and he was okay with it. I don’t have to be as smart as that guy or that girl over there, now do I? He asked himself while comparing himself with the top three. Life was empty and he thought everyday was just the same day.
His house was located around sixteen kilometers from school and traffic jam forced him to hit te road just right before sunrise. If he got lucky, he only needed around forty-five minutes but if he didn’t, an hour or more might be what he required. The school was chosen upon him and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He tried, believe me.
Ambiguity, anxiety, and wrath were mixed up so randomly until he couldn’t understand his own emotion. His predecessor told him to stand and cheer up. He didn’t. To work harder and smarter like his peers. He didn’t. To stay awake until late. He couldn’t. His eyes demanded sleep so much so he couldn’t stand sunshine on weekend which was practically on Sunday only.
He had his struggle over emotional, rational control over that year and the result was balanced. There was seed of rage I found in his small black book. His struggle changed his social and talkative behavior into small, quiet, independent, and hard one. I’ve heard his surroundings implied he was only sixteen and he might better himself later. No, he didn’t and won’t. For example, I saw the tip of his rage one day and that moment I realized that you do not mess with people since they don’t even know what they are capable of when in anger.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Que Sera Sera.”
Do I believe in fate or controlling my destiny? I do believe in both.
Leaving my life to fate? That’s easy but what fate is there for someone who does nothing? So, do I choose my destiny? I did and what has it got for me so far? Nothing but several tips of learning to be patient, resilient, and humble. Where has it led me until now? Nowhere since I’ve living in the same city for the last seven years while doing my best just to barely survive. I’ve waved my hands so many times to those who have departed earlier both temporarily and eternally.
I’ve never known my fate so I choose my destiny of all available destinations out there. I work my way to do something and I believe if that is my fate, I’ll get what I’ve worked so far. If it isn’t then, I don’t know. Maybe, I’ll lose my way back or I may get something else in return or I’ll get nothing at all since I’ve given everything I have? I don’t really know.
In the end, there are possible destinies and destinations. Which destinations destined to me by fate is still unclear. I don’t about you. If you’ve found yours, I wish you all the best. Should you be in same kind of boat somewhere, I wish you good luck. Keep sailing, you never know where the wind may lead you.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Helpless.”
Helplessness: that dull, sick feeling of not being the one at the reins. When did you last feel like that –- and what did you do about it?
Dull feeling? One should’ve had that already these days as one is watching growth of people around filled with joy and prosperity. Their dreams are starting to bear fruit and fame is a glory they begin to archive. Back there is a stash containing one’s plans, dreams, and supports but dreams are the only thing left.
One’s eyes have gone dry as well as one’s lips. Words have long gone and been replaced by swords. Countless drops of tears, sweats, and even blood have been shed in the name of forsaken journey. One has counted in years since one started the journey to make oneself able to stand again. However, it has been too heavy and there one starts to cry.
As one of the few without reigns, one might feel a bit of anxious. One might think of looking for help as one is walking now towards several doors where no one is there to answer the knocking. Their houses are empty since they have gone to unreachable celebration, commemoration, anniversary, or whatever alike.
It is not a cry for help. It is a cry for oneself since being unable to achieve anything burdens too much. Even walking hurts and drains one life strength. As year goes, one becomes even more helpless, clueless, and older. Such makes one wonder if this is really one’s destiny to stand on sideroad giving applause to those marching towards greatness.
Now that everything has turned to ashes and one has flipped the hourglass once more, one has to make a stand once again. In limited hours, one decides to travel back the road collecting pieces of one’s mind and regroup. Discussion about what should’ve done and shouldn’t shall be in order again. One understands time is of the essence but somehow one needs to climb that extremely tall building once again even the bleeding hasn’t stopped yet.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Sweeping Motions.”
Instead of bedroom or computer, I found my mind way messier than the two. I thought it would be just logical to say if your mind is shattered, so is your belongings. Fortunately, my old friend just gave me a visit yesterday so I had to clean up my room. It’s okay now but I don’t think that the same applies to this hive of odd ideas.
There were few masks I had to wear and somehow now I have a lot of them for each different people. I can’t meet anyone without them. I have to look like there is nothing, that my life is steady, my career is going fine, or even my plans are in motion. Now that I have to wear masks everyday, I’m starting to forget how I look like in the first place.
There were piles of papers I needed to read before I could write one or two letters but time was of the essence so I had to decide to put them away for some time. It turned out that some time meant years. They went dusty and forgotten as I had to go another way. Sometimes I wrote and read some of them. While being on it, duty called often and I had to put away my writing and reading aside. Before I knew it, I had forgotten what I had to read or write, or where I had been on that.
After years of planning and doing things too much in parallel, my room became what it had been until the day before yesterday. Papers in every corner, pile of books under mattress, stationery under table, medicine bag hanging around on the wall, suits behind the door, and several letters discovered under layers of clothes in wardrobe. You wouldn’t say that room was tidy, would you?
Now that my room has been cleaned, made up, I have begun to sort everything that has ever been inside this shattered mind. I need to put this one together before it makes my room breaks and becomes broken ship again. Even now, writing is really difficult.
There are those who claimed to be alone. Again. I wonder if they have looked at their surrounding. One indeed shall walk one path alone but I’m pretty sure there are any other passenger on the plane. You can’t say you’re all alone on that cabin, right?
Next level usually means the next upper level showing proper improvement, advancement after training. So, how does one ascend to the next level if one is now at loss of idea, mind, or even more, oneself?