Three Knocks and a Scream

Writing is hard. Especially when you don't have a central idea to spring from. Most especially when the pressure and constant nudging of people having to read it and maybe mash up disquieting notions in their heads about whatever your writing presently.

I write particularly because I want to. Because it makes me feel better after a heinous afternoon. I write because I can alter any real event into perfect fantasy. I keep on drilling inside my poor brain that I can write whatever I want without others having to do with it. Maybe I just want to describe this, or that. Or maybe, I merely desire to box an event so tantalizing and worthy account and store it in an attic of prose.

Perhaps, a deluge of people would come banging at my door to lecture me on how ridiculous I jot down and rearrange words, but what can I say, I'm sorry you find my work dim-witted and mediocre? Most certainly not. If you would care so much as to fly a hundred thousand miles away to let me know, then you were most likely aroused by my writing. It made you do something, say something. Which is good. Very good. I would just have to wonder and scald each nook and crevice of my conscious mind and flow with the spontaneous murmurs it emits. Whether you like it or not...

Oh sweet bloglovin'.

Follow my blog with bloglovin

Chagrin

I walk past the halls in serious admiration of how fleeting everything I see is. The faces that look, or just maybe take a glimpse, or the bags ensconcing incongruous things, which sometimes fall and everything released explodes. The shoes that make the drone squeaky sounds that pass eventually, soothing to the ears. Everything.

I think I walked here yesterday with my pink slippers from China, which were jeered to the hilt just hampered by my deep stride. I think I greeted him with a rash smile and winked for a moment. I think I saw him wink too, or was it because he had dust in his right eye. I think I stumbled slowly, and caught my balance and went on.

I don’t care at all. High school seemed gray and bleak as wet cement on a drizzling afternoon. I think it was only yesterday I had my first toke there behind the maintenance closet. I think it was just hours ago that Dear John brought his lips, dabbed with Doritos excrements, to mine.

BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… BRIIINNNNNGGGGG… went the crimson, rusty, metal bell for the millionth time. I push the mahogany door open, air-conditioned air chafes my skin, and my body shudders inconspicuously as if I never been there the day before. I bend and slide graceful, lithe as I do each time, into the seat that four years had kept me, myself.

In or Out

“I’m just far behind.” my friend sighs in confession.

I ask my friend from what is she behind, “Is it the fact that you haven’t had a boyfriend although you’re already a high school junior? “Yes”, she mutters in a subdued manner. “Well then why do you think you need a boyfriend?” I query. “Because...” then she trails off to silence.

I know why, I just want to hear it directly spewed from her mouth. Almost everybody is dying to get one, I guess, and being in an all-girls’ school, having one entails the backing up of popularity. That is if the guy is cute. But this is not just about who has a boyfriend or not, but also in the nimiety of all other aspects of a teenager or anybody’s life for that matter. It is about why others have to helm what one should have, do, and even think.

How does the negative pole of societal standard magnetize a positive person? You don’t know? Self-oppression is the answer. In order to be drawn by the chariots of influence, it is the charioteer’s one whip of the horse that starts his part in the deadly race. Meaning, it is up to you whether or not you want to be in, or otherwise.

I don’t believe my friend could be apprehensive in divulging her notion of being ‘far behind’ if it doesn’t affect her. Because I see that it does spread in her like fire and makes her forget about who she truly is by thinking about the need to have that boyfriend instead of focusing on her own endeavors and wants.  Sacrificing your own happiness for what others will think of you is not an option in life, especially when time evaporates swifter than water boiling above its boiling point. I tell my friend, “I think that you think you’re far behind because you let yourself be part of it. You dwell too much on what others have to say when you yourself have your own voice. You say what you want to yourself and follow it.”

Think Jenny Humphrey from Gossip Girl when she was still Little J, when she tried so hard to climb her way up the social ladder as Blair Waldorf helmed her entirety, just to fall back down, worse off than what she thought she used to be.  She vehemently said she knew herself, while she did things alien to what she would really do merely to be part of something not worth the while, not worth the long run. Was she happy? I didn’t think so, but she did pull out some white, furry lessons from the magic hat of her naïve shortcomings, which I reckon did not survive as the seasons progressed.

A plethora of written musings regarding this topic may constitute tub loads of news or magazine articles, books, and blogs, however these are things that are gravely intended to be reasoned and thought about. Yes life goes on, but will you let yours go on being dictated by what others say it should be? 

WIPE IT. WIPE IT CLEAN.

Who here wants a cookie? 

 Of course I do, but my mouth is dry because my mind says so.

Who here wants a piece of apple pie?

 Of course I do, but my hands won’t budge to raise.

Who here wants vanilla ice cream?

 Of course I do, but the whole world seems to stare.

Who here wants cheesecake? 

 Of course I do, but my stomach seems to growl.

Who here wants a brownie? 

 Of course I do, but I insist that I can’t see my knees.

I bend over, try to reach em’ and I see that I can. 

I stand up again, look in the glass where a fat girl stands, face sprayed with tears. 

I take a Kleenex out of my pocket wipe the fat girl’s salt-water entrenched face.

I wipe and wipe, and wipe and wipe,

like a car wiper’s 

inexorable left, right, up, down, left, right, up, down.

Until the sun reveals itself, choking the rain, to its last remains.

The tissue has worn and the glass emerges lucid.

Fat girl is thin, startled. Her eyes refulgent, above the red arch forming beneath

the two holes bereft of snot.

Who here wants maple caramel pancakes? She knows she wants them. 
So do I.  

Debutante

 They flipped up and down. Sparkles turned around.

The wind they spawned whipped my face. I wanted it.

Everyone did. They lusted over, the vodka drenched satin.

Cerulean nails clung to smuggled smooth, calf-skin Kelly

and the music raised only spears of straw and suede,

creating, emitting the amalgam of clicks, clacks, clickitty-clacks.

It was an endless stream of dark rain, showering me liquid prisms

reflecting flickers of luminosity, where if a glimpse is met

blindness descends. Some returned, with the cackles of gold,

silver, skin iced, horrendously flagrant with the torrents of

second-hand smoke. Stomachs growled, kohl black tears flowed

on apple-cheeked blondies. Now turned crimson.

My hunched body, head down,

yearned to cease the cacophony…

I dizzied at the daunting beads grazing the chords in where sounds are

made, up to the strongest muscle, out to drip and cling to

my cherry carmex smudged lips, down on  to  the black, then blue,

then purple, then magenta, then green, then yellow, then black again

feet staring, consummately veined. Shatters I hear, I don’t care.

Apple juice was it? grasped taut on my hand-quilted Chanel.

Winds whip again, on the melted skin. Vision clouds,

indeterminate things collide, the black hole swallows me

teeth grinding, dipping me in its delicious spit. 

Who ever knows what to say on their first time?

Escape into the world of my inexorable ramblings. 

(i.e. POEMS, SHORT STORIES, NOVELS, ESSAYS.)  

You can quit and not like them, otherwise, WELCOME.