Spring Break

Here is an excerpt from my memoir, The Complex Mind Of A Good Kid In A Cruel World”

Who’s Up For A Road Trip!

In Spring 2007, I went on a road trip to Miami with four of my friends. I was totally anxious when we agreed to go on this Spring Break trip. I am not the type of person who likes to go out of his comfort zone. I had barely gotten used to my Houston surroundings and now I was agreeing to go on a road trip with four other people to Miami, Florida.

But it was at this time when I felt like I was slowly coming out of my shell. My social life outside of going to class and attending the social group was basically non-existent. Going on a road trip to Miami felt like a perfect opportunity to expose myself and take risks. Get out of my comfort zone and see what else exists in this place called America.

And so it was agreed that we would rent a car, budget for fuel and motels, and set off on Sunday before the Spring Break week started. Our itinerary would include stops in New Orleans, Orlando, Miami, and on the way back, a brief stop in Alabama.

What’s the worst that could happen?

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Creatives Are Full Of Themselves

Creatives are full of themselves
Thinking that the art that they birth into the world
can solve the suffering and pain of their fellow man
Thinking that they’re all that and a bag of chips
Not knowing we can see when their egos swell
When the applause goes up and stage lights bloom
But they’re just empty like the rest
Surrounding themselves with others like themselves
Talking creative ideas and creative things
Using their powers to make creative pieces
But outside of their creative bubble
They can’t see what they are
Individuals who think they’re woke
Because they read books and make words dance at will
Thinking they relate to the world and its pain
Trying to use technology to spread messages of love
But they can’t even save themselves
They look at you like an outsider
Someone who doesn’t speak their language in their presence
I see these cliques gather and pay no mind to their surroundings
Comforting themselves as they lay in their own depression
Trying to positive think their way out of the reality
That they constructed themselves
So I say they can go f*ck themselves and their tribe
Because I too have painted my own blood on canvases
Painting living nightmares that haunt my spirit
I too fought demons of depression and loneliness
Taking pills which took away my ability to write
Dreaming of making love to death, and dancing off into eternity
I too am alone, awake at night as the world sleeps like the dead in the grave
But I know the world is cruel as doesn’t deserve my love
Creative are full of themselves
But the world needs more of them
To keep writing pages and letters of love
Creatives maybe be full of themselves
But in them, I can see the glimmer of hope
The spark that is needed for the next generation

I Can’t Write Anymore (Draft)

I can’t write anymore.

It’s not a personal decision I made. It’s just the way I feel. The volume rocker in my head appears to have been turned up to 11 and now the all the voices in my head are louder than ever.

I tried to go for a prescription refill for my medication but I realized I didn’t have the money for it. I’m supposed to be getting my cheque in a week. Until then, I have to deal with this nuisance.

But that’s just a small reason why I don’t have the motivation to write. Two days ago my dog died. It was heartbreaking. I had him for six months. When I brought “Merlin” from the dog shelter back to my apartment, he was so excited.

Now he’s dead. Killed by a dumbass driver in the street. I buried Merlin so afterwards and now my apartment is empty. No life. All shallow. His doggy bowl is the corner with half eaten food which I keep forgetting to throw way.

I keep thinking it’s all going to end well but it never seems to go that way. My motivation meter keeps dwindling.

When I open my computer, I just stare at the blinking cursor, hoping that words appear by themselves…..

 

The Couch (A Short Story)

The apartment looked really clean. He patted himself on the back for doing a great job of cleaning up the apartment by himself. The couch which had been in the living room had been moved outside. All his clothes were packed in the suitcase. His books and other items were in boxes, ready to be moved out. The carpet was surprisingly clean. It was probably because no one was hardly in the living room area.

Everything was great except for the weather. The sun wasn’t playing fair. It was disgustingly humid. You couldn’t walk outside for two minutes without your body breaking out in a sweat. It was summertime. There were times he wished he lived somewhere where the weather was a little more forgiving. Sometimes he contemplated moving to a cooler climate. For now, he only needed to worry about moving to another apartment instead of a whole different continent.

He had asked his (ex) girlfriend if she could help him move his stuff to the new apartment. He hated calling her his “ex-girlfriend”. It wasn’t too long ago since they had ended their relationship.  An “ex” also seemed to be a negative thing. But he and his now ex-girlfriend seemed more like good friends. After all, their break up had been mutual.

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Chasing Perfection: An Autobiography

I think I want to write a book.

Well I kind of already did (The Complex Mind Of A Good Kid In A Cruel World). It was a first attempt. Short story collection I did in my spare time. Minor mistakes here and there but overall I’m happy I put it out.

So now I want to write a bigger book.

Don’t know if this minor project might succeed. Might quit in the middle and focus on something else.

So, we’ll see if I can get anything started.

Hopefully it works out.

 

 

Writing

No inspiration.

Just a blinking cursor in a white page. I hate that feeling. Trying to express thoughts into words but it feels like there is a dead connection. Like the power going out or internet service getting disrupted.

Days upon days of having thoughts bounce sporadically around my head. Trying to contain them. When I think I have a hold of one, the rest squatter and become lost. It’s like to trying to catch fish in water. Once you get one, the rest run away for fear of having the same fate.

I think I’m losing it sometimes. Low confidence. Lack of motivation. No passion.

What am I doing.

Looking for purpose. Maybe it’s a meaningless search because I may have already found it.

But it doesn’t feel like I’m at the point I want to be.

The journey continues