Twenty-Five and Productive

Here passes another year, and I'm now 25, with a whole lot of things to look forward to. Mentally, I think I've gone through too much, but frankly, I believe these depressive episodes brought with them something good. Something better. Feeling empty, I assume I just wanted to fill the space I had in me, and continuous writing began.
     Previously, I would have been afraid to tackle a plot that served something more than a short-story, but man, I have enjoyed every little up and down I experienced with this novella I'm working on. The characters slowly came to life, and I soon began to see them as friends. It saddened me to witness the loss of some, but still, I remain forever in their debt. Sure, I may be the writer, but I can't really say that I completely control the flow of the story, or the characters' actions, and that in itself brings me tremendous joy and quite the confidence too. I can safely say that this year brought with it a new package of passion for me.

     And without further ado, here comes another excerpt of my work-in-progress; a novella titled Silence...

Through the forest and its bumpy routes, Eugene spoke into the air, “We’ll soon be there.” Words could not be directed towards Castor. No one was to suspect a plan was in action. In his prison, Castor remained quiet, his eyes wide from the shocking reality they’ve witnessed. The woman in cuts and bruises had long gone to pester another one, yet Castor’s stare still settled on her. To the people around her, she seemed a vermin: a fly that wouldn’t buzz away from one’s ear; a cough that wouldn’t go for months. The continuous shoving of her lanky frame nauseated him. Could the same have had happened to Yanni? He thought, and worry drew itself on his roughened face.

How Fires End

Well, here's another book that has left me with many questions to dwell on, and I cannot seem to move on to another. How Fires End by Marco Rafalà was, to me, an exquisite journey through memory lane, and I can't stress enough how compelling it all was.

5 out of 5 stars.

     In short, it was a book that had handled every detail with extreme care: relationships, history, setting, and character voice and development. And in all of its ups and downs, I was left to question the need for one's memory, relate to Salvatore's loss of faith, and share his regrets.
     For me, the book presented a variety of subjects, and through them, I focused on one's memory. I have come to ask myself whether it's even healthy to cling into certain memories, and thus, question why we allow their creation in the first place. The dead, for instance, are to be remembered, otherwise, well, they're completely dead. However, isn't remembering them a way for the bomb in us to detonate? Aren't we better left with no memory of loss, or else we are haunted by them and are then destroyed, or permanently damaged?

     Well, it seemed to me that Salvatore's refusal to let go of his brothers' death caused his fall in the end, and resulted in further loss, as David ends up following leads into the past. Salvatore's firm grip on the past begins to slowly loosen, I believe, when he's confronted by his son. It all went downhill from there, and everyone around them was affected -- broken.
     Memory was what caused their demise, and it puzzles me. Salvatore kept those memories hidden, kept them safe from everyone, but they eventually broke out, and I think he, among many, regret ever keeping them in mind.

     Faith, too, was a big theme in the book. It, mixed with tradition and culture, resulted in a death sentence, that is in no way merciful or just. It was particularly cruel, as it was passed unto a child, a mere boy of about nine-year-old. Young Salvatore saw his faith crumble in front of his eyes, while blame ate him up from the inside. To him, Saint Sebastian was just a myth; a story told to children, and the people condemned him for it. Faith is not only about love and care. It is not mere peace, for it also is ruthless in the eyes of its believers.
     Frankly, it makes me wonder, are we to have faith, even when faith takes everything away from us?

     How Fires End doesn't necessarily provide us with answers, but it certainly helps us sort out our inner conflicts, showing us that we are not alone.

Dealings with Life

As it appears that there's only one more month left for 2019 to end, I felt like it was time for a proper reminder of this year's events...
     For a start, I no longer am unemployed, and I can't express how content I am with the fact that my workplace isn't the worst in this country. Plus, I'm thankful for the company that I'm offered in there -- good people, and good thoughts. To continue writing, even at work, was my main goal, and it's achieved; to write and edit in my own way is like a treat in this line of work. However, I still am determined to pursue further education abroad -- that thought had never left me -- and I will conquer it eventually. All I need now is time, and a dash of luck.

     Speaking of time and luck, they are extremely necessary for the coming month, as I have set a mental deadline upon myself: Silence shall near its end. I have high hopes about it, and I hope to deliver it as promised. I'm prepared to cut down on my reading and sleeping hours for it. I need this first draft to be complete, to reassure me. After all, one can't really edit a blank page.
     Writing aside, reading's been getting better as of late. Since I started working, my reading schedule had seen all kinds of horrors, but I think I'm managing it well once again. It will be made sure of during the month of December. So far, the things I've read were a real pleasure -- an eye-opener -- and I'm glad to have read the works of many great minds.

     Still, not everything is well and going. For instance, During the previous four or so months, I've come to experience something worse than depression: I've called it detachment. In a way, it really affects the mind, dragging you down with loneliness, but that's not all. Its strength resides in its capability to play on a person's existence. One begins to experience an existential crisis with it, and it cannot be any worse. Unlike my depressive episodes, detachment breaks me slowly, forcing me to see the cracks in myself through the eyes of others. In depression, I become dead weight. In detachment, I become non-existent, and it terrifies me. As a way of combat, I've resumed writing a journal, but I can't really say it helps. At least, I know it keeps me sorted.

     Anyway, I think I haven't changed much, but again, it's all in the details, right? I still question the sanity of this life, and I still dig for God's negligence. This life, after all, continues heading downward, and it makes me sick. Human beings no longer seem to understand Humanity, and the lands are suffering because of it. And the few remaining good people, well, what can they do? Why were we brought down to this!?

Be Damned

Be damned, you who turned a blind eye;

Allowing Man to continue his disgrace,

Following the chaotic desire to hurt and kill.

Look at us, what have we become?

What is this wretched evolution?

A dog beaten down to a pulp,

A cat thrown under the blinding sun,

Even the trees are being murdered,

Help, if not us, then those of no will.

Prove yourself! Set this land ablaze,

Show us your goodness; your power,

Save the weak -- protect your creation.

Defend us, O' grand Creator,

Or why else were we created?

Are we meant to be part of this show?

To play along and entertain?

To simply amuse you on your throne?

If so, let this cruel life be damned!

New Year's Realization

So, here I am, back again from the insanity of this ongoing world -- seems like I've survived another year. Let's hope 2019 actually continues as good as it is, reading-wise and all, because I'm starting to feel like January's productivity is nothing but a fluke. After my birthday last year until this day, I've been occupied with reading, and I must say, I'm pretty happy with what I accomplished. Still, I'm a bit disappointed with the story I've been working on, Silence, for it seems I've reached a dead-end for now. It's a shame that I promised people that it would be ready for them to read soon. I should've known better -- you can never control a story; it does what it wants.

     That being said, I've realized something the last time I went to visit dad. I think it was the graveyard's effect, for it looked and felt so different -- so vibrant -- it left a kind of mark. A realization. For many years, even when I decided to be a writer, death never frightened me. Twice now, I have seen it pass by me with only a threat, and that shook me quite well, but not because of fear, but because it came to me when I least expected it. If anything, I wished for death many times throughout my life, and only when I saw the graveyard that day that I realized how absurd it was, wishing for something as natural as death to fast-forward its arrival. Sitting by my dad's grave, immersing myself in that beauty that surrounded me, and feeling the peace of death, I saw that it is not what I wanted. Those wildflowers that bloomed on that barren land, and the butterflies, the bees, and the flight of the usual flock of pigeons, it all seemed so beautiful to miss out on. That moment of birth in the midst of death seemed almost magical, and I saw how foolish I was, wanting to give it all up. Then it hit me, I really don't desire death as much as I desire to continue my studies and get my M.A. nor do I desire death as wholeheartedly as I desire to finish writing a book and getting it published. In fact, I believe now I'm going to work against death's arrival, at least until a book or two are done.

We only have this one life after all, so we better achieve all that we have ever dreamed of.