Blissfully Unconcerned with the Future

All of us wonder what their place in the world is, what we need to become to be considered a member of society. I never had those thoughts, at least not until very late in my life. I lived a blissful life where I studied for interest, not towards a goal of becoming… somebody. I was already somebody, I was me. But then I realised that I had to become a version of me that was accepted by society.

I lived this blissful life until my last year in my master’s studies. And when the inevitable realisation came, that I had to prepare for my future, I panicked. What am I good at? what could I possibly do for a living while pursuing my passion? Do I even have a passion?

I went many sleepless night thinking about these questions , and at the time, I never really found an answer. What I should have realised back then was that my future was already decided in the off set. I enjoy solitude, I am weird, I come up with ideas, I day dream; yet becoming a writer never even crossed my mind, not as a serious profession at least.

It wasn’t until the very last semester, when me and my classmates were finishing up our thesis that it hit me. I love being creative, I love starting a projects, to have 100% creative freedom, and the satisfaction in finishing said project. And that was it really.

I should have probably consider my future a lot earlier, then I might have been a better writer by now. But then again, I wouldn’t have had this blissful past to reminisce on, I already had my fun, now is the time to get serious, and create.

What it comes down to, I think, is to always challenge yourself. Don’t be satisfied with the status quo and always try to learn new things, eventually you will find what you are good at.

A Writer’s Doubt – Writer’s Journal

I’ve read that once in awhile a writer comes across a piece of work that is so good that it completely devalues his/her own work to the degree that that they wonder why they are even trying.

I never thought this would happen to myself, and definitely not so shortly after I commended myself for a particular passage of my story that I was proud of; but alas, it happened.

When I find myself in self doubt, or in any other problem, I turn myself to the one true therapist, google. Here is what I found.

It is an article that explains that when you find your goals to be far away, or seem unattainable, the solution is to focus on the skills that you already have, to take everything step by step. There is no point in worrying about the steps that you cannot think of, that you cannot reach right now.

Basically, “you can only act with the resources that you already have.”

Writer’s block – Writer’s Journal

In these past few days, I have been in a rut, which may or may not be obvious from my previous post. I haven’t been able to write very well and I felt like I wrote nothing but garbage, it really was total garbage! In short I lost my muse.

But then I came up with an idea that really helped me and I want to share this so that it may help others as well.

While I was reading the lord of the rings, for the second time, I was in awe of how well Tolkien was able to write. I thought to myself, if I was able to write like him, my story would be incredible! Then it hit me, when I had trouble learning something in school, I copied the text, word for word, until I knew the answers by heart.

Perhaps if I copied a page from Tolkien I could learn how to write better too, basically ride the flow from one of the greats!

And guess what? it worked! not only was I able to get my flow back, I also received a ton of inspiration and wrote more than I planned on that day.

Hopefully, this will aid you when you get a writer’s block.

In the words of Ernest Hemingway, we truly are “(…) all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”


When do we become Good? – Writer’s Journal

The frustration runs deep in his mind, everything he touches turns into trash. “Just keep trying and everything will be alright” 

I would imagine that most writers asks why they write. Yes, why do we write when you are not good at it? What compels you to write when you make garbage after garbage?

It is a marathon. Running is tough, it is exhausting, but when you hit the finish line and win, that all goes away. But during the race you cannot stop running. You have to keep going, and so must writers keep writing; so that we may one day pass the finish line, and win. Become good.


Do we Write Characters or Real People? – Writer’s Journal

I read once that all characters that are written, have some small aspect of the writer in them.

Whether that may be the case or not, my characters certainly has some aspect of, or at least my idea of myself, in them. But I have also found that as the story progress, those personalities change, they grow, and so they grow away from my idea of myself.

Hemingway once said that; “when writing a novel a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature.”

I don’t know, I’d like to believe that the people that I create grows on their own, as I create a scenario or a world for them to live in, they make their own choices based on the options that I give them. It is not I who choose who they become in the end, but I choose how their story begin.


What is a Man? – Poem

“What is man? but a miserable pile of secrets?”

Truer words could not have come from anyone but Dracula himself.

Secrets is what binds us together,

And sometimes drives us apart.

We all have them,

And sometimes, we let them out because they burn through our being,

Rather than binds it.

Nobody knows this better than Dracula as desire is what drives him.

Whether it is for power or for lust,

It is the very being of a vampire.

This is equally true for man, for the same desires drives him into secrecy.

That which makes us miserable.



Book of Legacy: Prologue

I just want to say thank you so much for the followers that I have, and to everyone that have either liked or simply viewed one of my post. They all count, and provide some validity to what I do.

The original purpose of this blog was to showcase the progress that I have made with my book, but as it turns out, it is not easy to post something that you feel you can do better, especially on something that you really care about and have spend a lot of time making.

And despite my reservations, I want to post the prologue of my story so that you may get an idea of what the book will be about. I appreciate any comments that you may have, whether it is about the story, or just my general writing style.

The wind chills through her cotton cloths as she traverse the road on the hill. The stone plates that was laid out hundreds of years ago has crumbled and parts of the road has disappeared. As the path becomes more narrow, parts of the plate breaks under her weight and her body leans over the edge. She reaches desperately for something to hold when a man grabs her by the wrist and pulls her back into the fold. Terrified, and breathing intensely, she looks at her saviour. She smiles, thankful for his intervention, but her smile soon disappears when she sees the emptiness of his eyes, eyes of a man that has travled too far and seen too much. Feelings that she is all too familiar with.

As they continue to ascend, loud noise start to erupt that echoes through the hill. She breaks from the crowed and looks nervously to the front of the caravan a few hundred meters above. A crack of smile forms along her face as she sees people weaving. They have reach the top safely. It will take many hours before she will arrive, and many days before the rest is, she thinks as she watches the snake like line created by hundreds of thousands of refugees.

Ominously, the horizon is covered in a strong orange light, with a thick blackness from the smoke the fire creates. The destruction is unimaginable and it’s getting closer. Images of her town, her whole world burning away floods her mind as a tear falls from her eye.

Even in the cold northern climate she can still feel a faint warmth in the air from the westward wind. Her lips tremble. Realising that she is torturing herself she swallows her emotions deep inside and looks away; letting them out now would break her and this is neither the time nor the place to show weakness, she thinks as her people watch her when they pass by. 

The tall grass touches her bare ankles and she cannot resist to stroke the soft green weed as this will be the last patch of green that they, and anyone else will ever see again. She shivers at the though of what would have become of them, hadn’t her brother stepped up as he did.

At the top of the hill the leaders of the different clans gather, discussing the next course of action. Only a decade ago she would not have imagined her people united as they are now. But disaster has a way of putting things into perspective and erode old grievances.

At the cliff below she watches as shattered families prepare their meals and rest for the journey ahead. She raises an eyebrow seeing a blue eyed woman together with a man of red eyed descent, a union that was blasphemous not that long ago. Even though the old society is all but broken, she doesn’t fail to notice such contradiction.

To her left she hears a small child asking his father. “How much longer will we be walking?”

“As long as we need to son.”

“But where are we going?”

The father pauses for a few seconds and then says. “Do you remember back home when we were going to grandmother’s, but we were delayed because of the wind?”


“…and then the ship had mechanical problems and we had to land in a different city but the day turned out well anyway?”

The child nods. 

“Well this is kind of like that, something unexpected happened and now we have to make the best of things.”

Another man grunts a few meters away from the family and says. “Except there is no turning back.” Taken by the intensity of the man’s yellow eyes, she cannot but stare as it reminds her of the fiery destruction happening in the background. Realising that she finds beauty in something so awful she looks away.

She sighs heavily and looks towards her brother who is sitting alone at the top of the hill. Even the clan leaders avoids him. The feats he accomplished seemed god like, and fear rests in things people don’t understand. Shameful to admit it, she can feel it as well.

They say it is a gift only one in a million of their people are granted, though her brother sees it as anything but a gift. The clan leaders looks at her and nods in her brother’s direction. She swallows her fears and walks towards him, knowing that he alone holds the burden of their entire existence. Such responsibility would drive lesser men into madness. He glances at her as she approaches. “You don’t have to come up here,” he says, clenching his hands around his knees, as if in pain.

She doesn’t say anything and kneels down next to him, putting her hand on his shoulder. He grunts loudly as she touches him and his eyes starts to glow red, almost burning. She takes a tight grip around his body, holding his arms together with all her might. She knows his pain is internal because she feels the same way, but somehow his anger, sadness and anxiety is manifested. His body is tense but he doesn’t try to break free. Slowly he relaxes. As she feels tears fall on her head she releases her embrace and looks at him as the glow slowly fades. She’d like to believe that what she does helps, but she also knows that her brother is strong.  

She puts her hands on his face and presses her forehead against his. “We will get through this, brother. Together we will survive, and create a new future for our people.” He nods and stares into the distance with newly found determination. On the far side of the hill a purple glow illuminates the horizon, a presage for the toxic world that awaits them. She whispers to herself. “…Avos help us.”

Who’s the Bad Guy? – Very Short Story 

Another short story written from the depths of my subconscious. Enjoy!

Light flashed between the tall buildings from the morning sun, blinding him until he knelt down by the cover of a car; his bones began to ache immediately and he grunted uncomfortably.

“Searge!” a man shouted from a distance. He ignore the man and just stared at what was lying down in front of him. As a crime investigator he sees these kind sights on a daily basis, yet, this particular one made his heart skipp a beat, and he didn’t know why.

Feeling dizzy from standing up he leans on the grill of the car next to him. The young man that was shouting at him from before stood respectfully, yet impatiently at a few meter away. A part of him found enjoyment in keeping rookies like him on their toes, especially good looking ones such as him.

Beautiful people always has it easier, yet it doesn’t prevent them from dying, he thinks as he glances at a body to his left. Being the bad guy also provide the rookies with a common enemy, helps them to cooperate. A role that he is happy to provide.

“What is it James?” He finally said.

James hurried across the evidence site and skipped between the dead bodies and weapons laying around. Despite the morbid scene he cracked a smile. As James arrived in front of him he said. “From Isabelle sir, she says it’s urgent,” while handing him a note.

He opened it nonchalantly while looking at James disturbed face. “This is quite the scene, isn’t it? your first crime scene if I remember correctly?”

James’s eyes flickered between him and the note before he finally noded in response. He raised an eyebrow and as he readed the note the cigarette in his mouth dropped to the ground. However, James is quick to grab it, as if he was prepared to. With an open Jaw he stared at the note. The dizziness returned but he forced himself not to lean against anything, instead he kicked a body on the ground and wobbled out into an alley on the opposite side. He breathe heavily while leaning against a brick wall.

After some respite an evil smile soon formed along his face. While crumpling the note he said. “Things just got interesting.”



Foreign Love – Poem

This is a poem that I randomly wrote, the goal was to make it rhyme and I think I accomplished that. It is a bit of a personal story about a time when I lived in Cambodia and this Cambodian girl showed an interest in me but I didn’t feel the same way. I wasn’t as blunt as in the poem but I think you will get the idea.

In a different world she took me in

her home, her sanctuary she let me in

But her past loomed dark behind her smile  

In a new world she wanted to begin

She saw me as a ticket out 

Yet I was blinded to her plight

Her heart which was extended to me, I rejected with a loud plea 

Her kindness, rooted in fear 

I denied her with a heart full of cheer

Down that path I didn’t want to go

To the path of family and stuck at home 

Land of Dreams – Very Short Story 

Yet another short story has been spawned from the depths of my subconscious. I hope that you will enjoy.

From the cauldron the beast kept rising, like a dragon spawning from the underworld. With all his strength he held tightly around its neck, trying to prevent its continued rise. As the gap of the cauldron began to expand, releasing even more of the beasts giant body, he realised the futility in his struggle and released the creature from his grip. With a dash he ran into what started as a void, but then arose into a land that he did not recognise. 

There were great forests and mountains, castles and lakes. As he stared into the unknown, the beast’s long neck crawled under his legs and its face rose in front of him. The beast opened its large jaws and presented the teeth inside. In a quick and terrified motion he tried to push the beast away. But with the simple push, he lost his gripping and instead fell into the ever expanding gap of the cauldron.

His voice echoed in the darkness as he fell, forever it seemed. With a loud thump he landed on his back and, to his surprise, a blanked wrapped around his body, and a bed next to him. Despite this realisation, fear still dwelled in his heart and it refused to settle down. Through the window the moon illuminated parts of the room. He stared at the light source, the only one available, until his breathing finally slowed; he drew a sigh of relief. 

He returns to his bed, however still skeptical that he is safe, he glances at the darkness in the corner of his room, that the moon fail to illuminate. But as exhaustion overcame him he is send back, into the land which he was expelled from, to the land of dreams.

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