Today marks the second day of March. 2017 really is flying by like a breeze – but we say that almost every year. Anyway congratulations for surviving this long and if you’re still committed to your New Years resolutions, I applaud you.
My unspoken resolution this year was to create more. So far I think I’ve done a subpar job at keeping my YouTube alive, mostly because of the nitpicking but one thing is, thankfully, remaining constant; writing. I’ve been writing a great deal, whether it be scripts, ideas, or just random word vomits like this, I’ve just been writing consistently.
But one thing I realised was that the art of writing, especially online, is pretty much dying.
Why is blogging a dying art?
I was having a conversation about this a few weeks ago. It’s disheartening to realise most of my favourite bloggers have stopped a few years back. It’s a sad feat we have to come to terms with sooner or later, what with the presence of online videos where everything can be condensed into visually appealing 5-minute shorts. Why read when you can watch, am I right?
I know a lot of people who used to write. Used to. And I know people who still do, still keep blogs and still update once in a while.
My message to you is; please keep on writing. Please publish your words and make them known because you should never settle for fragments of your happiest memories trying to recall them. Write about them because words make you feel, words are powerful things, even more than pictures. It’s fluid and abstract but can be rigid and specific. Words mould the shape of our thoughts into what it wants to be.
Keep writing, and people will keep reading. I will keep reading. Share me your thoughts, your hopes and fears, everything.
How do we sift through the noise that plague our senses each waking moment
It’s about 7 minutes in on my 22nd birthday, this warrants a victory speech.
Let me tell you what 21 felt like.
It was frightening and confusing.
Being 21 meant experimenting with many different things for me. I was dipping my feet into a whole new territory that I wasn’t equipped to handle. Like a fish out of water writhing desperately to return to the sea, I wanted to go back to my comfort zone. In some ways I still have one foot out and dry, but not so much that it leaves me unsatisfied.
But there were many lessons that came with the fear and confusion.
I learnt to be more open-minded, to recognise my weak points and make an effort to overcome them. I learnt that making changes to yourself is difficult a.f, and failing merely indicates growth. Despite all the self-deprecating, and the intention of talking about my trials and errors in a negative way, I’m going to pat myself on the back and deservingly admit that I turned out pretty damn well.
It’s been a vomit-inducing roller coaster ride but I managed to stick through them all and I’m proud of myself.
I’m sure everyone has their fair share of uncertainties in life and it seems to increase as you grow older but take birthdays as milestones to reflect what you have accomplished in that year.
Self doubt will always be my biggest hurdle but I made an accomplishment by identifying what it was that made me unhappy and that is good enough for me, even if it took one whole year of figuring it out.
So I leave this post with many prayers that 22 will be a good year. For the first time, my vision of the future is blurred completely. I have no idea what’s in-store for me next year. Am I afraid? Hell yeah, but that’s a concern I’m willing to face for the betterment of myself.
Enough self-reflection. Bed time.
Sprinkles of dew tickle my face.
Pleasant petrichor wafts through feathery palm leaves, and I breathe. Deep.
A gentle breeze brings about tiny whispers, sweet flowers kiss my skin.
Sunlight peeks through a curtain of misty weather,
a promise of never-ending summery sights
and I tremble with unquestionable excitement.
Hello, mornings. How I’ve missed you.
Play on, Mr. Piper,
play the songs of your calling,
the tempting lure, ensnaring from the most wicked
to the innocent.
Casualties mean nothing to the Piper,
when his music buries the unfortunate,
leaves them to rot, swimming with the earth dwellers that have long been abandoned,
as he prances with his instrument to a wider audience.
He dances, with enough grace and masculinity
to mask the deceit, he reeks of it.
His feet move to the hymns of solid promises, and trails of sugar sprinkle his steps.
Our knees buckle as we lick, tasting the sweetness he so graciously bestows upon,
in hopes of not being forgotten.
His horse neighs from the high heavens, where his throne sits.
As the sky above us remain murky, bearing pregnant clouds
with hot, humid rain escaping to singe our skin every sunrise to sunset.
But where he sits, lightning never strikes.
Or so he thinks.
His contentment leaves us unruffled,
despite the stacks of paper thin ego littering him.
“Let him play on”, Mother says.
For if he stops, the rain will follow,
And flowers will wither.
Nothing will grow.
So play on, Mr. Piper.
There was a potion in Harry Potter called Amortentia. A love potion, whose scent responds differently according to what attracts an individual the most.
I’ve always wondered what it would smell like to me.
Perhaps it would be petrichor in the morning, mixed with a steady breeze wafting scented greens in the air. Nostalgia. I am reminded of my childhood.
Or the smell of a bookstore; a heady, sweet, woody scent that hits your nose immediately upon entering. It always motivates me to write or draw for some reason, like a trigger to crank my creativity shaft.
Or maybe the strong scent of my favourite perfume; the sharp sting of basil mixed together with fresh patchouli and sweet ylang-ylang, it reminds me of my mother, how her admirable strength and nurturing soul has shaped me into becoming who I am today.
I would give a thousand galleons to be able to understand why certain smells evoke certain emotions. The correlation is fascinating and one should savour them, when they come.
Sigh. I love me some good smells.
“You’re saying that by setting an arbitrary time limit for yourself, you feel better about the choices you’re making now?”
How do I answer this?
More than anything, I hate that word.
Arbitrary. Based on random choice or personal whim.
I’d like to believe every principle I have – or have set for myself can be justified with a solid reason. It is not based on personal whim. It is not a ditzy thought I conjured up one day to excuse whatever action I did during the time. I would like to believe that. However it’s sad to admit I’ve fallen victim to hasty decisions and brittle self-promises, all constructed in an ~arbitrary~ fashion.
There goes that word again.
I should step back and analyse myself, understand what it is I am capable of and should be committed in before I chain another promise to my ankle. But if in the actual context, to answer that initial question; yes. But I have grown to accept this promise and live with this decision. I am taking this as a learning experience.
PS: Najwa Mahiaddin‘s rendition of Seri Mersing is hauntingly beautiful. I get chills listening to it.