Declaration.

I'm gonna write a at least one draft per day until I get better at this. Why? because I've just read a couple of articles written solely to inspire people to write more, regardless of quality or readership. From what I could gather from the authors, a badly written draft is better than not having one. Arguing from that basis, you could say that the more shit you try to write, eventually you're going to become better, in time.

Creativity isn't found in rare individuals with a penchant for it, it's earned through hard work and repetition of accumulating experience doing that work. Well, at least that's what I've got from all those informative sites on the internet. But I could be wrong and creativity is just a rare natural born talent which could not be found in people with none of it. Then again, we wouldn't know now would we? That's why we need to stumble and fall in life, to find out the bigger questions that have no one correct answer.

A new semester. Of course you'd have certain hopes and aspirations that you'll want to live up to, I surmised each and everyone currently enrolled in tertiary education to be in similar shoes. That's the odd thing about people- all of us want things that are nearly identical yet dissimilar at the same time. What you want now might not be what he wants now but in the long run what we want wound up more or less the same. 

Let's break it down. A fulfilling life. Does it sound familiar? That's essentially what every Gen Y wants nowadays. Wealth - basically money to spend on things you need and/or want. 

You know you don't need but you'll want.

How many of us do study because that's what drives us? Passion, interest and all that crap that they saturate you with when you're just beginning to finish on your pre-u program. Having trouble deciding what course to take? No worries! Be a doctor! Engineer! Lawyer! Whatever the fuck's stereotype we have for occupation which offers stability and high wage. There was once upon a time wistful thinking that furthering your studies meant going into what you're really passionate about, lighting the spark which ignites your entire life. Yet in our culture, we're so ingrained with the professionalism infused with said occupation, there's really no point in offering ourselves a choice.

There are more of us studying for a degree merely for the sake of the degree than I could comfortably say possible. In many ways, the machine which drives are ourselves alone. We decided to embark upon this road. No the road less taken mind you, the road which everyone has walked and tells you that there's a freaking rainbow and shiny unicorns at the end of it. We carry on because everyone else is, we don't stop to think for a moment is whatever the fuck I'm doing now what I really want to do with my life?

Here's the kicker. No one does so why should I?

Epic.

Your story might not play out the way you imagined it to be, heck you might now be the farthest away from what you have in mind on the unfolding of your tale. The disparity between realities; That of your own making and that of which is real.

Point is, everyone has their own narration. A disembodied voice giving a blow by blow retelling of their everyday lives. Of course, you'd think that your personal story is most epic you've stumbled upon because we're all narcissistic to a certain extent. Human condition.

This epic retelling is all inside our heads but that those does not make it any less meaningful. I mean, it is your life and you're only going to live it once. No take twos, no rewinds, no crying. 

There's just one question. Frankly, do you think your personal story to be epic? Perhaps you're raised homeless, jumping from couch to couch, living off charity. And then now you have a house to your name, with extra money you could spend at your leisure, be it GTA V or gold iPhone. Just an example but I really could do with both right now.

Could you imagine everyone you've met up to this point or is going to meet in the foreseeable future also having such a tale to their own? Globes of yellow light encased with an orb of iridescence by the highways - numerous and uncountable, stretching all way to whatever destination it leads, into the unreaching darkness. Imagine every amber beacon that lies buzzing to be someone's personal saga. Would that be so impossible?

and in case anyone's interested, I'd like my disembodied voice to be the voice of God, Morgan Freeman.

Lunar musings.

Sometimes. 

I do wonder what did happen.

For it all to be so.

Are you looking at the same sky as I am?

Do you see the bright and round moon as it is? 

A celestial body with footprints all over.

You might see but you do not feel as I do.

The astronomical sense of how tiny we are.

What does we do matter anywhat?

Then if so, why do we do what we do?

There's no point in anything.

There's only you.

Cheesy and a new sort creepy I know but that's just about the extent of my newfound courage at sparing of this  pointless joke of a reprieve. I do try abit too much sometimes.

Vexed.

It feels like I've been here before, in another lifetime. Flashes of scenarios playing out, and I'm seeing them through a different set of eyes now. A jubilant display of logic and chaos, fused together by the brief but certain pauses in between. All these memories come to life as if they have a life of its own, and in the continuity of things, all of it lives on now and then. Yet, as real and vivid these images appear to be, I know them to be naught, taunting and full of deceit. A distant thing, to be remembered and perhaps cherished at certain times of reminiscence and that's all there is to that. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Now, I'm just pretty stumped myself that this is another one of those times.

Eburnean.

More short to mid length stories written without coherency in mind. I swear this short running commentary in the beginning will should cease. Not even really a story, just a few sentences combined to make up stuff.
Here we go-

The entire room was covered in nothing but the entirety of the light spectrum.

Pale linen and sheets. A washed out painting framed within a border of darker white, almost gray. A lighter splash of white graced the ceiling, creating the illusion of space being larger than it actually was. 

A white wooden bookcase, or plastic? Because it is the usual norm for bookcases to be made of wood. Besides, what else could it be? Anyway, the plastic/wood case was laden with books. And of course, all of the books are white, you've been paying attention to the story haven't you?

A toppled jug of milk laid on the counter, it's content almost the exact hue as the surface it is on. The liquid remains perfectly stationary, still that it seems and feels like solid - static and glued in place. The only reason why it's milk is because it's only natural to call a white liquid milk.

The lamp, emitting white light, hung from the ceiling as if it was oscillating and then just abruptly stops at the height of its motion, frozen in time and space. A low hum drones on in the background, driving through the void-like atmosphere of the room.

Everything was still. Even the tiniest of particles suspended mid-motion as if the entire notion of time itself has stopped. The most fundamental law of the universe malfunctioning at the boundaries of this very small white room. Right in the middle of all this torpid chaos, stood a person, clothed in black.

God will know why because I really have no idea why.

End.

In My Bones.

wanted to write some epic and long winded shit about how everything is so hard and why it all hurts so much but I just couldn't find the right words. There might not be any words that are 'right' for it all.

once again. sometimes, a song is all there is to it.

mighty bones of loneliness and lately, a spice of miserable feelings.