Writeia

I met her today. She is more than anything, and I think I have imposter syndrome. What if being with me actually hurts her? I try to understand the things she says—I try my best—but who could tell her what I’m going through? I speak a lot; everyone knows that. But what is it that I say? I cannot tell. She’s been in my life for a month now. It feels as if I want to know her forever. So many facets, so many stories—who could imagine? Not me. Part of me wishes I could bring her here with me now, but all I can do is write. And this is our story. I got to know her a month ago. It wasn’t much, but her name got me thinking. That’s how it started. I searched for her on Facebook, and if you’ve used Facebook, you know—no one’s ever alone. I found her and sent her a request. She accepted it. Then began what is now being written. Our first meeting—a secret. Well, it was one until I decided to write about it. We had some coffee. By the end of it, I knew she was the one. I found every reason to meet...

“In general, people are often too focused on their own problems to care about how you're solving yours.”  This is from Cal Newport's Slow Productivity . And I get it—I’m just as wrapped up in my own problems as the next person. Right now, I’m trying to solve a few monetary issues by building a second source of income. Ah, the hustle culture. I do need the money, mainly to pay off some debt. I am trying to be productive but not so much that I stress myself out and do nothing about it.  My idea for that second income? This blog. It’s starting to gain some traction, thanks to the thousand or so readers who visit it monthly. And now, I want to take that momentum and shift it in a more personal direction. I’m the eldest child in my family, with a younger brother who’s nine years younger than me. I’m approaching 30, still searching for my “purpose” in life. That’s probably one reason why I haven’t been able to hold down a job for more than a year—or maintain a strong relationship,...

Slow Mornings, Fast Days What pleasures I derive from a slow morning, Drive me through the rest of the day. Though I cannot help but Stress the tough work that is not of art— Matters of economy always guilt the heart. Can I leave it behind? Will you give the okay? Your okay? Is that even possible anyway? I chained myself, so you could save the day. Tell me, oh fellow sinners of mine, What do you do that is so divine? Can I summon God, or will the devil appear instead? They chatter all day long—or is it just in my head? What keeps them at bay? What stirs up there? Is it hope I dream of—or merely live in fear? Ah, the life of a working human! You must be down for anything—there’s always a plan. In constant action, forever and always, And yet you wonder Where your life went— Dying, you worry and ponder. Alas, know now: Childlike is the way to be. Regretfully, with the dying of the light, You truly start to see.

I recognize the ghost that’s been haunting me. It’s been a few years—almost a decade, honestly—that I’ve lived by the mantra: "Do it fast, do it now." The fast and the now are what have been slowly burning me out. Right now, I’m reading Cal Newport’s new book, Slow Productivity , and a lot of it resonates with me. Living by that "do it fast, do it now" mindset, I’ve ended up making quick decisions without really thinking about where my priorities should lie. What Cal calls "pseudo-productivity" is exactly what I’ve been doing. And it's taking a toll. The result? Low-value output that I keep churning out. This blog is a good example too — I wanted to blog daily to gather views, but now I realize this is just as much about me needing a place to let out my feelings and emotions as it is about making new connections with people around the world. That old mantra has summoned an unfortunate guest — a phantom that lives at the back of my mind, pushing m...

  A Day to Live What would I do with a day to live? Would I make amends, or give away dying confessions? Would I drown in booze, before I forever snooze? With a day to live, what would I even choose — the loving embrace of friends and family, or a day spent lamenting this tragedy? Would I dull out my consciousness, or be consumed with all seriousness? With a day to live, what new lines would I write? What new play would I cast? What words would be my last? Drowning in memories of the past, would there be tears of sorrow? Would I even care with no tomorrow? If I had a day to live, maybe I'd search for a day to borrow.

  Senses of pleasure keep me awake; Friends, happiness, sleep — all are at stake. What shall I do, a creature of habit? Is it a flaw that I so inhibit? No! I can say — the only constant is change. But how, then, shall my days arrange? Bit by bit, even pleasure grows estranged. What wealth of riches, bed of kings, Highness without its wings — it brings! Yet I cannot find it in my sedated state. Where in the stars — a billion years ago — Was written my life? A dated fate? Here it stands: now I shall cross this gate. Innocence I cannot presume, for I have grown; The fruits of labor are unborn— they were never sown. Calling away — who hears me: god or man? Falling away — are those dreamlike plan. Cast me off, call the guards, freeze my place. But who are they, if not myself, in this hellish daze? The wheel is in motion, the dice already spun — It all began, innocently enough, to have some fun. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ophelia_%28painting%29

The year begins anew, and I've made changes—maybe just a few. What I must do is listen to the silence, choose spirit over the pleasures of sense. What mirror have I become? True neither to myself, nor to anyone. The dark shadow that this mirror casts bends the light—what use are these masts in shallow waters where most life lies? Or is it in the depths that true life thrives? Come close now, the light is dying. The mirror shifts—no use denying. Too long it’s been—captain your bow! The waters are deep, ahead and below. Take your life—steer clear of the shallow.

Everything I heard,  I internalized. Every story I saw, I internalized. Every sorrow I read, I internalized. Every death I knew, I internalized. Every pain that grew, I internalized. Every lie that I spew, I internalized. Every tie that I called, I internalized. Every day that I stalled, I internalized. Everything that I hid, I internalized. Too soon—or too late—now? My faults, I’ve realized. (Painting : "The Absinthe Drinker" by Pablo Picasso (Blue Period))