Journey of Purpose

Reminiscent Day?

It felt like a sound of an alarm that I am unable to turn off was brooding over me when I woke up. I could still feel the numbness which I had on my head with all of those ringing. I couldn't breathe for a second, or two. I could not focus on what mattered, all I could recall was a very loud noise, like someone had placed an alarm clock on my ear like how my brother used to prank me into waking up every morning. At times he would pour some water out of a bottle or a glass onto my head, at times fight with a sleeping me until I scream at him from the ethereal plane by which time he will reply with a kick to the stomach which in turn would wake me up.

Good times.

Twenty-seven minutes past two in the morning was the time, and so without hesitation I went back to sleep. College is a very fulfilling time in my life, the feeling wherein you would think that you are truly something that is as remarkable as a genius child on a playpen. Like every time you receive a good grade you think "I am going to be a somebody out there", things like "there is no way I'll fail", "no way I will be rejected" but of course we can't all be the valedictorian, or the nobody that became a billionaire. I always wanted to write ever since I was as little as my ten year old self, a bit cliche huh, alright sixteen. The first book I ever finished was the bible, no really. Alright you got me, it was Twilight by Stephanie Meyer. I saw the film while on a date one night. We went into the movies after being denied entry to a hotel because my girlfriend who is actually 22 at the time looked like she was sixteen. Even sadder was the idea that she doesn't have any ID on her at the time. I must have looked like a fool, a very maniacal looking fool. Still it introduced me to reading more. Since then I must have read about a dozen more novels, ones like Tuesdays with Morrie, The Lord of the Rings Trilogy, The Hobbit, Southern Vampire Mysteries, Harry Potter books, 10,000 leaps under the sea, Moby Dick, Dan Brown's Robert Langdon stories etc. I seem to love the supernatural thematic instance so much that I started writing my own. Not to be famous or anything, but to leave something in case I die, suddenly so that people would see what I see in my head everyday. How I think and see things each time I go out. How I am during the holidays or how I am when I am scared. Each time anxiety strikes, or boredom kills me. As life resurrects me after a deep slumber or a mere seven minute nap.

I love writing.

About my thoughts, feelings, my moods, what I see, what I hear or touch or imagine, I love writing about things. About an ox who waited for the train to his uncle's house, to Seraphim's adventures with Elfin, plays like 'Boses, Manika' and 'Teatro Ridikuloso', I love doing it.

The feeling of someone else's imagination as they read my work in awe, the disbelief of knowing that what they have read came from me. I am not saying I am good, what I am saying is, no one that is close to me knows or believes that I can do these things. I can't tell my brother what my passion is because it doesn't matter. "It is not practical" he says, it won't bring food to the table. I wish it was the simpler times when a man can be paid with food just to write, like that awesome national hero, Mr what's his name. I wish people would stop telling me to drop my dreams, forget what I finished in college and find any job that will accept me so I can earn some money so my father who is only proud of me only whenever I am doing something worth bragging about to his friends. My brother who despite what I hsve accomplished thinks so little of me. The one who could not believe that I never missed a day's work during my time as a Language Instructor. The one person who thinks so little of me, who never truly saw what I am good at. Who once bragged that I can write without actually reading anything I have written. The only person who I thought could understand my friggin' situation.

Nothing...

I wish nobody cared, what I do so I can do it more. But why do they have to try and make me drop my dreams, just so they can tell me they are better at what they have done.

Well they haven't been to anything I've done! They don't know what it feels to be an AB English student. Or a playwright at your local Theatre Guild, they have no clue how to direct a play or train young kids into better actors. They don't know the difference between being cruelly honest about a person's private flaws like sexuality or a simple discretion on when to shut up about certain things. They always want to test your limits on when your head will blow up and then get msd at you for being mad at them. I have had it with that, they have no more credibility than a girlfriend who refuses to defend you from the people that has invited you to go to dinner just so they can exercise your own flaws in front of you. To make you feel that you can't escape and once you have had enough of what they have to say it will piss them off anyway. So what is the point? Do they think they will light you up to become more responsible so they can sleep peacefully at night? Because that is insane, why go to so much strain and idiotic excuse of a test or drive just to ruin everyone else's day.

How about your so-called bestfriend who you haven't shared or can't share any problems that you have had for to them it is only called too much 'drama'.

I have no bestfriend.

No person I can call each time I have spent too muh energy on something that may ultimately obliterate the very core of my insatiable hunger for anger. Why does it hurt so much to be like this? Can you help me in any way besides being in the mere fact that you are only a reader and a one dimensional thing such as something you read can never truly give me the simple satisfaction of a thing called 'help'?

I wish I am back on those days when standing in line to get your Christmas present is the lease of your worries.