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I just read what I wrote for the earlier on batches. And I'm confused. Some days, I've written stuff that's half decent. Other days, I've written nothing short of complete bull shit. So what am I? A good writer with a few bad days thrown in. Or a not-so-great one who gets lucky once in a while. I've been pondering over this for a while now. I think the only way I'll know the answer to this is if I stop being conscious and let someone read and judge my writing. Someone who isn't my mother, that is.
He stared straight ahead of him. He knew this was it. It was either now or never. He had mustered up as much courage as he possibly could. He knew he had to tell her how he felt. And he had to do it now.
She saw him in the distance, leaning against his car. She knew from the very beginning that she was in love with him. She wondered if he could ever feel the same way about her.
They met each other half way. Because, at the end, that's what makes all the difference.
I believe in God. I believe in a superior being who has some hand in what goes on in our lives. I believe in fate. And destiny. I believe in the victory of good over evil. I know it may not seem like good is winning. But I know, that in the ultimate battle, good always wins. I believe in humanity, even though there is ample death and suffering to prove otherwise. I believe in the innate goodness of man that is often tainted by his experiences. I believe in truth. In right. In silver linings. I believe in love.
She looked into the distance. The waves were hitting against the rocks. The sun was setting, spreading a golden pink glow across the sky. She was lost in thought. Lost in the past. In the had beens. She breathed in deeply. The air was clean, with a hint of the salty seas. She missed the past. She didn't want the future. She couldn't live in the present. They all told her to move on. To find something else. But nothing and nobody could fill that void in her life. The void that was left by the death of her mother.
I can't believe that I thought I was still in love with my ex-boyfriend when I first started writing. I don't even think I knew then what being in love really was. Sure, I've loved before. I may have also been in love before. But nothing has ever felt like this. Nothing. This is different. It's intense and crazy, passionate and pure, and words that I don't even have. I know this time I'm actually IN love. And madly in love at that. I've dreamed of it all my life and now I finally know what it feels like.
Battles are fought. Wars are won. Lives are lost. In the name of religion.
A different God. A different name. The same beliefs. In different languages and different Holy books.
More important than humanity. More important than peace. More important than love.
Because it's not important what kind of people our children grow up to be. It's important whether they're Hindu or Muslim, Christian or Jewish.
What was meant to bring people together will only continue to tear them apart.
I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for all the times you made me cry. For all the fights. Thank you for sometimes being amazing but mostly not so much. Thank you for not being perfect. Because without you, I would never have known what I wanted. I would never have learned to love myself. I would never have realised I'd found true love if it hit me in the face. Because I have found it. And I treasure it more because of you.
I sincerely hope you find it too.
The alcohol cabinet is open. The whiskey is over. He's been drinking. Again. Their room is locked. I can hear him hurl abuses at her. Hurtful words. I hear her screams. Loud. Scared. In pain. I cover my ears. I pray he doesn't remember I'm here. I pray he doesn't come in. No matter how hard I try not to, I can hear it all. The whipping, the bottle breaking, the slaps, the crying.
The best job a father can do is show his children how much he loves their mother. My father does the worst job possible.
We hadn't been drinking. I had to drive us back home. I had to drive her back home. Safely. This was the first time her father had let us stay out late. I wanted to make sure he knew I put his daughter above everything else. I wanted to make sure he knew I loved her and wanted to take care of her. Because I did.
I saw the truck coming straight for us. The driver had lost control. The lights were blinding. I swerved. But I was too late.
We hadn't been drinking. They had.
I've never told anyone this before. I've never had the courage to. I've been ashamed and I don't know why. I've been scared because he said he'd kill me if I told. So I didn't. Now, I'd rather be dead.
It hurt. It hurt so much. But he wouldn't stop no matter how much I begged, no matter how much I cried. I felt dirty. Cheap. Used. I tried to wash it off. Scrub myself till I bled. It didn't help. Nothing did.
I'm wounded. Scarred for life. Will you still love me all the same?
There's something about the way you touch me. You make every nerve tingle, you make every fibre of my being shiver, you make my breath get heavy and my heart beat right out of my chest. There's something about how you look at me. You make me feel shy, you make me blush, you make me go weak in the knees. There's something in the way you say you love me. You make everything else seem insignificant, you make all my troubles go away, you make my world a better place. There's something about you. You make me love you.
Can I tell you a secret? I've killed a man. I couldn't help it. I just couldn't take it anymore. I tried to look past all his shortcomings. I tried to look past our fights and all the shit he put me through. I did love him. Once. But then it got too much for me to handle. I was angry. No, I was livid, seething. I HAD to do it. He was crying. Sobbing, really. But I was blinded by my rage. There was no other way.
I've killed a man. He died of a broken heart.
He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed, her breathing heavy. She was fast asleep. Her lips parted slightly as she let out soft tiny snores. He smiled. She was beautiful, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. And he couldn't believe she was here, with him, in his bed. He wanted to kiss her soft pink lips. He wanted to pull her close and just breathe her in. But he knew that would wake her up. He sighed. He sighed often these days. He couldn't help it. He loved her so much. All 250 pounds of her.
If you've ever had your heart broken you'll know there's no pain that's worse. Suddenly, life doesn't seem worth living and everything you thought was beautiful when you were in love loses its charm. You'll always blame yourself for the breakup. Always. No matter what went wrong, you'll always think it was your fault. In retrospect, you'll realise it mostly wasn't. But in the moment, when your heart is broken and when you're in pain, you know no logic. And then you pick up the pieces, tape your heart together and move on. You fall in love all over again.
My love for him is pure. It's beautiful. It's beyond the physical and into the realm of heavenly. It's natural. It's correct. And it's simple. I love him. I want to be with him forever and ever. I see a future with him. Maybe it's too soon. Maybe we still don't know each other well enough. Maybe it's going to be much tougher than it seems. I don't know. And, honestly, I don't care. I'll do whatever it takes to be with him. Because I'm in love with him. Truly, madly and deeply in love. It's as simple as that.
There was a time I used to read a good book every week. And now I haven't read a book in what seems like months. I've had some more time. But I've not been in the frame of mind to read. The truth is I'm distracted. Extremely distracted. I can't focus. My mind is constantly on one track and one track only. I have what they would call a one track mind. Except it's not the stereotypical one track they talk of. I'm not constantly thinking of sex. But I am constantly thinking of a boy. I am in love.
Co-dependency is a dangerous thing. As is being dependent on anyone or anything. And though we are all fully aware of this, we still allow ourselves to get dependent. We tell ourselves we're in control, that we can easily reel ourselves back in when needed. But we never do realise that instant when we cross that border and go over to the dark side. Then comes the addiction. It's a vice just as bad, if not worse. The denial is the same, the cravings are the same, the need is the same. And sometimes, there's just no looking back.
Days I have nothing to write seem to be coming too often. It makes me feel like I actually don't have much talent in the writing department. Writer's block seems to have taken over my life. And even if I'm just using that as an excuse, I cannot get myself to write about something deep and meaningful. Forget that, I can't seem to get myself to write anything even remotely interesting. What am I supposed to do to get some inspiration? To write about something different, something new, something poignant? Or should I just give this writing thing a break?
She's seen tears and laughter. She's seen pain and suffering. She's seen joy and success. She's seen loss. She's seen tragedy. She's seen love. She's seen the good, the bad and the ugly. She's been through emotional upheavals. She's seen birth and death. She's been there and done that. She's seen it all. She's the storm and the calm, the beauty and beast, the fire and the rain. She's everything and still nothing. She's all anyone needs and yet something everyone gives up in the end. She's been through ups and downs. She's like a roller-coaster.
I miss being on stage. I miss being the centre of attention. I miss having all eyes on me, everyone hanging on to every word I say. The feeling of being in control of people's feelings, of telling a story in a way you deem fit is indescribable. And when people tell you that you were brilliant at the end of the show...sigh! It's a different kind of high. It's the best kind of high. Just knowing that you held the audience's attention for even a short period of time is something else. Oh, to be on stage again!
I read love quotes and poems, stories of true love and happily ever afters. I see movies with perfect happy endings. I hear songs with beautiful lyrics. I no longer wish I could someday feel like that, like those people who wrote the poems, who played the characters in the movies and who sang those meaningful songs. Because, I'm the girl in those poems. I'm the girl that gets the boy at the end of every romantic movie. I'm the girl they sing songs about. I no longer wish I could get my happily ever after. I've already found it.
Much has changed since I wrote first last March. Quit two jobs, moved on to a third. Went from thinking I wanted to be a copywriter to working in an ecommerce start up as a manager of sorts. Started dating seriously. Went from knowing I wanted to spend the rest of my life with this boy to wondering if things will actually work out. Went from thinking I'll be married by the end of this year to wondering if maybe we should just live in together.
One thing hasn't changed. My inability to write 100 words every day.
I'm considering living in with my boyfriend until we're both ready to get married. Is it a good idea? Why do it at all? Why not just get married when we're ready and figure out the living together post that, like most people do? Do we need it? Will it fix the problems we've been having? Will it lead to us getting married or to us fighting and letting go of what we have? Will I fight my parents if it came to that? I don't know. I know I love him and want to be with him. That's all.
I don't need to be looked after. I can take care of myself. I want to be looked after.
I don't need romance in my life. I can get it from books and movies, like I've been doing uptil now. But I want romance.
I don't need a perfect love story. Most people don't get it. They make do with what they get. But I want my perfect happily ever after.
But will I settle if I don't get what I want? Or will I keep looking even if it means never finding it?
I love my job. I have a wonderful family. I'm in a relationship that seems to have a bright future. But I sometimes feel like something's missing. I don't know what it is. I don't know why I'm not satisfied, why I'm always waiting for something to go wrong, why I still feel incomplete and alone.
There are some days where everything is perfect. I wake up with a smile on my face and fall asleep with a song in my heart. I want to be like that all the time. Is it too much to ask for?
Where do I find inspiration? I've stopped reading. I watch crap on TV. It's not even like I go to new places and meet new people. I have nothing. How can I possibly expect myself to write at all when I have absolutely nothing to write about? And though I know that I need to expand my horizons, will I do anything about it? Of course not. That's because I'm lazy and unambitious. I'm perfectly okay being average even though I have the potential to excel at anything I want. Maybe my mom's right. Maybe I am wasting my intelligence.
It's becoming harder and harder to write. It's like my mind is dead, my brain has stopped functioning. This has never happened to me before. I generally always have some ideas, something that I can write about. 100 words should not be that difficult but it's getting increasingly so. I know that I can write. But I'm beginning to wonder whether I can think. Or is it that I can't do either? Is it that I've passed my prime where writing is concerned and that's it? Have I written all I ever could? Lord, I sure as hell hope not.
Does being in love mean being in a state of constant happiness, of constant satisfaction, of constant bliss? I used to think so. But now that I am actually in love (and I know I am, without a doubt) I don't think that's the case. I have moments of pure bliss, like nothing could ever go wrong. And other times, I feel like I want to sink into a hole and die. It mostly depends on how things are going with him. I hate that. I hate that he has so much control over me. But that's love, I guess.
I love him. More than anything. I know that I want to spend the rest of my life with him. He used to be there for me. He used to make me feel beautiful and special. He used to make me feel like I was his whole universe, that he'd do anything for me. He used to make me feel all the things I imagined I'd feel when I did fall in love. The thing is, I don't feel all those things any more. He's stopped making me happy. He's stopped showering me with attention. Has he stopped loving me?
Music makes me happy. Books make me happy. Writing makes me happy. I wonder why I stopped doing things that make me happy. Because I suddenly found somebody who gave me more than all the happiness I ever got from doing all those things. But here's the thing. Music, books and writing can't ever stop making me feel happy. Even if they're sad and make me shed a tear. But a boy? Well, a boy will make you cry more often than not.
So, here's the moral of the story: Don't substitute sources of permanent happiness with boys.
I need to keep reminding myself that I love this boy and want to spend the rest of my life with him. I need to keep telling myself this is a phase and this too shall pass. I need to keep repeating to myself that he loves me back just as much, if not more, than I do. Because we've been through too much. Too much for me to handle in too little time. We've had more downs than ups and more fights than good times. But even after all that, through all that, I love him. That's what matters.
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