soft white roll
sausage in between
soft white roll
soft white roll
sausage in between
I am neither
The greatest beauty
Nor the owner
Of all things fancy
I am me
And I am free
To all this diversity.
When I was in primary school, my mom drove a bright orange Mazda hatchback. Everyday, after school had ended, my brother and I would hang around in the canteen waiting for her to come and take us home.
My brother, with his uniform shirt untucked and maybe one shoelace undone, would be up and about playing with friends or just doing, exploring something. Me, the more introverted one, would tend to sit on one of the long wooden benches, facing the school’s main gate so that I could take note of every car that came through. And because my mom was a high school teacher, we often ended up being the only ones left waiting in the canteen, because her school ended later than ours.
I remember sighing, even if only on the inside, when yet another car had come into the school compound but it was still not the one I had been waiting for: mom’s bright orange Mazda. But of course, she always turned up, without fail. Or on some other days, it would be dad who would be taking us home, depending on their work schedules.
I sure did a lot of waiting as a child – waiting for my parents to fetch me home from music lessons (dad was usually late!), tuition classes, the library, school activities. Waiting for meals to be ready. Waiting for grandpa and grandma to arrive.
But little did it cross my mind that time, that even as I grew up, waiting was one thing that I would not be exempt from.
I still wait for many things and many dreams now. In many instances, I even make conscious decisions to wait.
It is not always fun to wait – but at least I have learnt to be like my smart little brother in his messy uniform – and take waiting seasons as opportunities to explore, have fun and do nice things that do not require waiting.
Till my bright orange Mazda arrives.
I want to bury myself amongst the musty and motionless occupants of my wooden shelves. Dust them off and watch them come to life again, finally able to fulfill their calling of transporting me into another world and another’s consciousness. I will give each of them the attention they deserve, getting acquainted with them from their facade, their first few words to me, maybe what others have said about them, and the brief attempts on their backs to summarize and lure me into all that they are.
I will pick the one that gets me wondering the most and tuck it safely amongst all my essentials, so that I can feel its weight and sense its company as I head out yet again to yet another unknown place.
I will leaf through its pages as the plane bides its time, let it rest open on my chest as I fall asleep under the sun lulled by the sound of waves – and then curl up with it again as night begins to fall and I have retreated into my paid cocoon, the warm lighting promising yet another illuminating and illuminated night. Me in a strange place, getting transported into yet another strange place – by the sheer force of another person’s words and imagination.
I don’t know them, but I am trusting them to take me to unknown places from where I will be able to find my way back.
I dropped you a word from heaven
So that you would have a vision.
I bought you at a price
Your days aren’t supposed to just go by.
I let you wade in some darkness
So that you would experience My faithfulness.
I planted in you a passion
So that you would pursue Me with abandon.
I hide from you my most intricate plans
Not to make you tip toe, uncertain
But to keep you fully immersed
In our every moment together.
I lay before you this narrow path
Because you are meant to be
I just came back from a 2-day creative writing workshop. The piece I wrote during the final exercise came out flat, unimaginative and forgettable.
I’d never seen myself as a creative writer to begin with, but now I suspect that years being in the corporate world, where the things I write have to be carefully thought through and conform to what is deemed professional, diplomatic and acceptable within the kind of image and messages that the company wants to portray – have dulled my creativity as a writer even more.
I have forgotten how to show and not tell. How to be sensorial and lead my readers to see,hear, touch, taste and smell the story that I want to tell. Until this afternoon I was not aware that a story has to begin with a conflict, followed by the process dealing with the conflict, and end with the resolution of the conflict.
I don’t even remember what the stories I want to tell are – having conditioned myself to focus on writing things to influence perceptions in specific ways. I have random ideas in my head – things I want to write mingling with the things I do not want but have to write, and they are screaming to find their places in the story where they belong.
So I have carved out the time and space for me to just read all the books I want to read; and to pen down the thoughts floating in my consciousness. To explore and play with words, phrases, sentences that will add dimension to my writings.
I want to reconnect with my creative voice, and discover myself all over again as a writer.
As part of my little personal campaign to break the habit of procrastination, I would like to imagine a life without procrastination.
When the breakthrough in this endeavor arrives, what will success look like? What are the things I will enjoy?
Procrastination refuses to let me go.
He tempts me, distracts me with sights, sounds, thoughts, taste.
He detracts and not add value to me, why do I still keep him around?
Because like poufy fluffy cotton candy, he feels good at the moment. Gooey sweetness melting in my mouth, and for that time it’s just me and the sweet nothingness.
Then minutes pass and the last morsels begin to sicken me. The sweetness departs leaving behind nothing but inertia. I gather my mass and chalk up some momentum, and all is well till the next passing candy cloud comes.