Ego Writing.

I think about writing all the time.

I'd admit that I have the notion that I am capable of writing well enough. 

While it is quite impossible for me to think of myself otherwise, due to an inflated and irreplaceable ego and all, I try my best to appear as innocuous as possible.

My friends commonly associate me with writing well. A good command of the English language. Writer in the making. 

Truth is, I don't believe for a moment that I am able to fulfill their expectations. Oh I might have some otherworldly fantasies myself, in a parallel but non-existent universe, but that don't make any of it true.

It terrifries me that anything I write is up to the scrutiny of my peers. It shouldn't. I'm well past the age where I still care, alas I do. Yet, at the same time, I seek praise from them, not out loud, but it's there, a lingering feeling of unbridled arrogance.

Can anyone be rid of their ego? The ones who proudly say they are the master of their egos, are merely slave to that of their arrogance. No matter where we are in life, our ego would be still ever present. It's just good old human nature. 

Thought we might never be rid of it in our lifetime, it is an eternal struggle to seek control over our egos. And as we grow older, our finesse grows as well, to the point of deluding ourselves that we've outgrown that immature little bitch. But that isn't always the case.

I am still thinking about writing. Most of the time.

It has been months.

Months that felt like years.

Years of academic pursuits.

Pursuits believed to lead to opportunities.

Opportunities laid bare.

Bare and ripe.

Ripe as an oyster.

Oysters for the world.

For.

it's easy
to let go
it's hard
to hold on

so we
hold on
so you
hold hard

looking for
respite
seeking for
reprieve

and so it's for...

Conjecture.

I wonder how long I can keep this up. By all accounts, I should have been thoroughly transformed into a fully functional and responsible adult by now. There ought to be some form of clue on whether I'm doing this right or not; in a perfect world perhaps. Reality often strikes when least expected to, sudden and vicious. I wouldn't be privy to the greater answers of the cosmos, much less the ones pertaining to my own life.

Am I equipped to venture forth? Did years of formal education provided me with the tools necessary to survive on my own? I mean, it's a bloody jungle out there; people getting murdered left and right without warning. An urban jungle where everyone's out for themselves, and of course, survival of the fittest.

How then, does a person strives to be the 'fittest'? It's not a matter of physical fitness, far beyond that of a simple contest of strength and endurance. However, on the other end, it is not entirely dominated by wits either. You see these successful people all the time, shuffling as a walking advert for luxury brands, and driving in their (being drove around, more often than not) expensive foreign vehicles. Successful but wit-less. 

Well, not all of them. A good number of these people worked very hard to reach where they are now in life. Alas, a greater number did not. I, being poorly educated and of shallow wallets, have no idea how their fortune came about. All I do all day long is dabble in senseless, rhetorical questions such as this. However, the lesson to be learnt here is not that life is unfair. Everyone knows that.

They must, at some point of their lives, been at where I'm currently at now. Unemployed. How did they get here today? Would I be able to achieve what they have achieved in life? So many questions to ponder, with so little answers.

Truth is, I know that there are a certain methodical steps that I can take each and everyday in order to become a millionaire. Unfortunately, for the life of me, I just couldn't figure it out.

Bachelor of Life.

I want to downplay these four years; my experiences in pursuing a bachelor's degree, somewhere far yet still within the country. I embarked upon the quest for independence, of staying by myself, a couple of hundred km's from home. Frankly, I grew up a sheltered child, given more than I could give. This period marked a sudden upheaval of my day-to-day life, of a life living in the city. The transition of migrating a backwater countryside state did not sit well with a born and bred city boy, even if I mostly stayed at home for the past twenty years or so.

At the beginning, it was pretty surreal, I was constantly in a state of disbelief that it was my own decision that led me to this place. The city served as the constant reminder that I'll never be good enough, to go out and see the world. So, I went and pursue my studies at a rural institute instead. I was not aware that there's an entirely separate campus for engineering studies, and even after four years, I did not question why is it so. In hindsight, I should have asked more and challenge more but the environment doesn't really nurture such behavior. Therefore, I grew lazy and complacent, losing the reason why I went there in the first place. In light of sounding like a total wuss and sore loser, I did not pick myself up and fulfill the potential of all that I could be.

I managed to scraped by, just like I said I would. I foretold a self-fulfilling prophecy and reaped a little good from it. Academically, I guess I did okay. Just not so much in other areas of self development, I would've like to went out and tried more things. Alas, there's just so many things to be tried at such a small and secluded campus. The amount of resources available are severely limited, but the main contributing factors remain to be my own laziness and complacency.

These four years have been life changing. Just not enough. I'm still wholly unprepared for the next stage, as I was when I entered university. I wonder if it's my curse to feel this way my entire life. Does everyone else experience the same sentiments, or am I merely being overly introspective?

I'd like to see more of the world. Beyond that of what my screen offers me.

Four.

It sounds a little pretentious, but I've already know what words to use at this exact moment. I decided from day one that when I managed to accomplish this milestone, these are the words to go to. They are neither long-winded nor fanciful; I won't be trying to pull witty analogies now, I just want to express one very simple fact with three simple words.

It is done. 

#1.

When I said I'm going to do this, I have no idea where this would take me, if it would take me anywhere in the first place at all. At least, I had hoped it might.

I probably just needed an excuse to write. To  feel the words.

Believe me when I tell you, it sounds so much better in my head; much less pretentious and snobby artsy. Fortunately, I have this little space where I could just write without a care.

Really? Perhaps. Not.

Everything I write, I write in hopes that someone might stumble upon this site and read this very sentence. I might lie and tell everyone otherwise, but that's my sincerest hope. I want my written words to be read, to feel appreciated for what I've typed. There's always this perpetual fear within, gnawing at my insides, that I am not good enough to put words to my jumbled thoughts. That's what the backspace is for; to undo and try again. Again. Again. And again.

There's not much structure in these posts, and I think that I'd like it that way. I just needed an excuse to type, even if to no one at all. Thank you for reading.

Hundred.

One hundred words a day, be it fictitious stories, idle banter or incoherent ramblings, I aspire to work my decaying writing muscles. I longed to, as a matter of fact. I blame procrastination, because its a real thing now; not just an abstract concept made up to explain how well I waste my time. Shrugs.

You and I both know that is not the underlying problem. I could fault everyone and everything else but in the end, it comes back to me. Writer's block. Heh. How does someone identifies as a writer? Is it a persona? A pen name? Do you just wake up one day, and decides that you're going to tell everyone you're gonna start writing for a living? It's not that easy,innit?

Could you suffer from writer's block when you're not even a full-fledged writer? Hell, do even real writers experience this? I have absolutely no idea.

You thought to save the world.
Now, you struggle to save yourself.

White.

"Wake up!" said a voice.

I jumped, eyes opened. I was in a small room, and in front of me was a metallic table. On top of it, lies the only source of illumination in the room, a digital lamp, giving off a white glare. Blinded by it, I tried standing up but, I could not. Panicking as adrenaline pumps into my system, I tried again, harder this time. I am strapped to the chair. I struggled as I jerked harder each time, heaving my body upwards yet the chair remains unyielding.

What is the meaning of this? What is this place? Why am I here? I asked. At least, I thought I did, as I received no response from the other party. I looked around the room as I continued to escape my restraints, searching for the source of the voice which alarmed me. There was no one else in the room with me; it was completely empty aside from the table and lamp. I pushed against the table, it didn't bulge.

I need to get away from here! I thought as I was instilled by a sudden sense of urgency induced by my immobility. I was trapped. In this windowless room. I screamed for help, hoping that someone would come to my rescue. Then, the entire room lit up and I could only see white.

The Wind Cries.

The wind howls,
Icy and biting
The eagles soar,
Mighty and regal
The sun shines,
Raw and bright
The hikers trek,
Tired but unrelenting
The clouds gather,
Moist and fluff
The mountain stands,
Tall and proud.

Future.

Who can tell what the future holds? Besides being incredibly optimistic (at the start) about it, there's not much of a discernible clear path towards the end. What end though? For survival? To self-sustain? Enjoy the finer things in life?

No matter the end goal, the struggle will be imminent and continuous. Unless, of course, if the struggle is not real, then it's a completely different story altogether. Bad pun fully intended. 

Who knows what I'll be doing in the future; I sure as hell don't. So, all the best to not knowing what to do (most likely).

Liebe.

She shivers, making hisses of condensed air which fogs up her skewed glasses as she blows into her palms, trying to transfer some bodily heat to her numbing fingers. Tucking her worn and faded purple jacket closer, she makes another attempt in tackling the problems. With a crooked black mechanical pencil held tightly in hand, neat and tidy letters slowly fill up the thin white paper as she scrawls on and on. Unbeknownst to her, evident lines of each letter began appearing on the stack of writing paper underneath, imprinted due to her powerful and heavy strokes. She hunches forward ever so slightly as she becomes more and more engrossed by the problem at hand, her nose almost touching the paper. Then, she looks up suddenly, adjusting her ever-dropping spectacles with a slight off-handed motion of her hand as she notices my scrutiny for the past fifteen minutes or so.

“What?” she asked incredulously as I smiled.