Beautiful World

The sun has come out and the world fills with warmth and beauty. Sun kissed cherry blossoms fall slowly in the gentle breeze.

Ah, what a wonderful feeling it is to be alive, knowing that spring has come.

May we cherish our planet, our lives, and every moment in simple happiness.

Though I had not intended the post to be on this day, but indeed, I think it to be fitting. Happy Earth Day.

Bloom and Grow

Usually, on the horizon, I see clouds bearing rain, wind and thunder. On those days, I shut myself in my little room, and think. I dislike constant rain, and I find it hard to retain the strength to keep smiling and face each day anew when the rain always beats down on me.

This, obviously, describes not only my literal reality, but my metaphorical one as well.

It had felt like I have always bore some heavy load, with a gloomy outlook in the horizon, as I treaded through these past few college years. There have been sun-breaks, but always, clouds hovered in the distance.

However, I can now see a shaft of light in the distance now, growing brighter and brighter. The friends I have gained along the way have made my load much easier. And now, even the horizon looks like it will clear soon.

I have always loved to write, and I have always wanted to entertain and delight people with my writing. For years now, I have taken up ambitious writing projects of my own design and chipped and worked at it. I never know if I could show them to the world, but I could never stop writing either. It became sort of a paradox. The more I wrote, the more I invested myself into the writing, and the more I invested myself, the more fearful I became about showing it to the world.

Yet, writing became a solace to me over the past few years. It was a little seed that, I would like to think, had been well watered by the rains. Now, I feel it growing and sprouting.

I have, once again, taken up collaboration work with some close friends. Learning from the mistakes of previous attempts to do these things, we have drawn up a strong course to succeeding in our endeavors. I shall write for the project, with the inputs with our team, and hopefully, our end result would be an offering savory to the public.

I pray for our work to bloom and grow. Truly, little seed bloom and grow.

When it does, the sun shall dry me and hold me in its comfort.

I'm English and American

As a writer, I'm quite peculiar about grammar. Yet, recently, I realized I constantly switch between English grammar and nuances and American grammar and nuances.

I use words like toward and towards or while and whilst interchangeably, sometimes even in the same article or story. It seems to be a trend that as I get more enraptured by my story, the more English I become.

I find this both strange and annoying. Strange because I have only ever learned American grammar (if they even teach that in schools) and annoying because it breaks the consistency in my writing that allows for immersion. This discovery has also lead me to be much more paranoid about my writing and less focused on storytelling. Needless to say, I am very distraught.

I have a theory though about why I display this odd trait. All of my favorite books I have ever loved to read have been by British authors, or a distinctively English translation of some other author. This, added with the fact that grammar has never ever been drilled into me by my school teachers ("just write what sounds right"), probably produced in me this strange twist. Thus, when I begin to write feverishly, I draw more heavily on the books that had inspired me.

However, due to this, I am very very upset. This means that I have to go back and edit every one of my ongoing pieces for one unified style over the other. As well, at this moment in time, I cannot decide which style I prefer. Personally, I like the slightly more decorated style of British grammar, but readers would probably prefer the efficiency of American style, for it is less distracting.

Ugh. The perfectionist in me is now screaming.

Beauty

Far too little is beauty ever celebrated now.

I am not talking about the fake, tortured sort of forced beauty society promotes in super models and lusty tv ads. No, I mean serene, truthful, natural beauty.

Waterfalls and fluffy clouds. A lady walking bare feet on soft grass, the wind playing with her ribbons and white dress. Birds laughing and butterfly's flying.

I miss seeing these things. In this urban, regulated environment, sometimes I feel so trapped.

One of these days, I'll go find some sunshine and a rushing breeze that brings color to my cheeks and leaves me breathless. I'll find quiet songs whispered in the trees and poems in the sky.

Then my soul would be free to grow, once more, innocent in its serenity.

The One Thing of Passion

3:00 AM.

In this deep night of Easter morning, words hardly come to me. My mind swirls with the feverish mists of this cold. Between my spasm of coughs, I understand that I search for something, something tangible in the fog of my mind.

Logical creativity eludes me. I cannot see the paths my words wish to dictate. It travels spontaneously. Murky, dim fog gives way to moments of fleeting enlightenment. It flashes, then, just before I grasp it, it disappears back into the gloom. I am left with merely tendrils of smoke and hallucinations of its existence.

This form of creation is wholly new to me. I, rooted deeply in logic, analysis, and synthesis, cannot but feel a mix of fear and excitement as I anticipate what my searching will yield. Perhaps, in this state of my mind, the barriers to true creative genius can be breached and new territories can be mapped. Or, perhaps breaching these walls only allows for the whole coherent logic that readers depend upon to collapse, becoming a pile of word rubble and debris.

I am only certain of the existence of a vague, undefinable feeling. It rushes and bubbles, like a stream. It leads to a deep introspective search.

I had nearly given up on my pursuit of a creative, sustainable, entertainment medium. And, by medium, I mean words, particularly the flow, connection and conveyance of them. Yet, this feverish, sickly state of mine produced an irrevocable recognition of a passion within me. It will not die. I yearn and hunger.

This undefinable feeling can only be termed "passion". While browsing other works of genius, I have found a cry to try and create something similar, though altogether my own. I want to create something that not only entertains my fellow readers, but transcends me to a state of joy and happiness every time I do. Something that I can marvel at, be surprised by, and be humble about. Its existence wholly accidental but miraculous, only brought forth by my inexpert hands and chaotic mind but hailed and exalted by not only its creator but its readers as well.

This is my wish. My goal. My passion.

I pen it here so that I cannot feign ignorance of it. It has been written, black ink on white parchment. Sacred, since the dawn of language.