Realizing The Beauty of Cold

Hello once again, to the final installment of this set of memoirs, and setting off for a week full of new content for myself and possibly for here. Again, not much to say, other than I’m already working on something, so maybe prepare for that, but for now, enjoy. Here you go, “Realizing The Beauty of Cold”.

It was dark out, egregiously, but I didn’t care. As I came out of that bus, and looked to my sides to see darkness pervade around me, I smiled.  The bus behind me went on, with its headlights guiding it through the darkness. And the sounds of cars zipping by me filled my ears, but I soon closed it out. I walked forward, towards an open fence, into a dark pathway surrounded by trees. The branches of them hung low and nearly scathed my face, but I tried my best to avoid it. The gravel path beneath me was bumpy, rough, and barely holding together with rotten crabapples in my way. It had probably been about five years since I walked down this path, but everything about it had already been engrained in my mind. That thought made me smile.

As I walked down this path, I realized just how imprudent I was. I had lived in the area for all of my life, yet after I left the school which presided the path, I stopped using it. It was still useable, still intact, but yet I had forgotten about it. I remembered walking down that path every day when I was still in elementary school. However, that faded, and I soon had no need for it. I never realized it until I came home late one day for school, with the darkness around me.

I walked through the path until I reached the end, where the trees that engulfed me spit me out in a wide open space. A small ball court was to my left, and when I peered further, I could see another small park. Directly behind me was an apartment building, and forward to my right was another building, and a dwindling path towards the nearby plaza.  I walked forward, slowly, taking in everything. The cold of winter brushed across my face, and as I breathed out, I could see the white of my breath escape my mouth. I checked the time, and decided that there was no harm in it, and so I walked towards the park.

There was a fleeting sense of disappointment when I reached the park. It was everything that I had remembered it, a sand box, frozen over, a swing, slides, and a park bench. It was everything that I thought of when I was smaller, yet to me now, it was depressingly small. There was no flare in it. And perhaps the reason why I gravitated towards it, was because it mirrored something in me.

I dispelled such thoughts, and then walked forward back towards my home. The cold around me was gripping me tightly, and I had no business staying any longer within its property. Yet, for some reason, I couldn’t leave the path. I was drawn in by its nostalgic allure, and it was ever so difficult to leave. I stood there, along the path towards my home, just staring into space, with the cold of winter closing in on me. I didn’t care for anything in the world, but when I looked up into the night sky with the stars shining, I smiled again. This was perhaps the first time in my entire life that I ever bothered to look up into the night sky and gaze at stars.  At that moment, I thought that perhaps this was the only time where I could ever do it, and appreciate it. I was wrong, but at that moment, everything seemed so quaintly contained. It was the first time in my entire life that I had ever come to appreciate the stars, and the small light they brought to me. It was the first time in my life that I truly came to appreciate nature around me, and even with the cold swirling around me, I came to love it. I walked home that day smiling.



The Time Where I Felt Most Intelligent

Hello once again, with, yeah, another memoir. And you know what? I gave these really bad titles, like, really bad titles, but whatever, whenever I get to doing more of these, I’ll promise myself to actually come up with cool titles. That’ll be cool. Anyways, here you go, “The Time Where I Felt Most Intelligent”.



I peered onto my screen with great sincerity, awaiting my compatriots for their response. When I saw that there was none, I turned back towards the sheet of paper in front of me  and studied it carefully. Then, without warning,  as quickly as I had lost attention, I saw words appear on my screen. They were red-colored words, asking for a question to be answered. I smiled, and brought my hand to my keyboard, and gave my answer. I waited, and a response came, and I answered back. This exchange lasted until I had fully answered their question, and ended with  words of thanks. I smiled at that too, and went back to the sheet of paper in front of me. Perhaps I was enamored with my own self indulgence in doing this, or perhaps I just simply wanted to help the good of my fellow peers, but either way, I felt like I was someone of worth, someone above all. I felt, smart.

During the time when I still took courses that involved the sciences, I was quite adamant at trying my hardest at doing my best. I had no particular interest in pursuing a career in any area pertaining to subjects like chemistry, but I  wanted to try my best anyway. Chemistry was surprisingly fun, though, and although not a saint of science, I did enjoy it as a hobby. Thus, when time came for dreadful examination, I put it in my power to try my best at studying, no matter how futile that may become.

I had a few friends who wanted help studying for chemistry, and we all converged among a single chat room. However, I found it quite difficult to actually get any work done since answering many of their questions required visuals, and a simple chat room would not suffice for any visual representation. Thus, in a feat of brilliance, I sought out to create a singular shared document where each person would have a color tag and could leave questions in the style of an open forum. Thus, anyone, since this document was shared, could answer and also ask questions. It was something I never thought would make much fire, but when it happened, I realized how big of a spark it actually was.

My hours of studying slowly turned into hours of grandeur as I sat in my computer chair sifting on the highs of teaching. I never once fancied myself as an instructor, but as I read the questions pouring onto my screen and as I answered each one with the ease of a few buttons, I felt like I was as big as a mountain. Nothing could stop me as the sounds of everything in my room slowly faded, and even the music in my ears to help me study slowly drowned in my own self indulgence. I had become a teacher only for a short period of time, but that period of time had made me feel like I was the top of the class.

Soon enough, my time was over, and the exam was closing in. I shut down my shared document, and with a smile on my face, I slept that night going into that exam feeling like nothing could faze me. I had become the lifeline of many, teaching so fervently to my friends who needed it, and I couldn’t help but feel bloated on those feelings.  No test mark or class mark I had ever received prior to this had even come close to how I felt when I began my one shot teaching career, and those feelings are the only feelings that could ever reflect my apparent knowledge of chemistry.

I wouldn’t say that I was the smartest, and I would never tell anyone that I was smart. I didn’t believe in intelligence, nor did I believe that any one person was smarter than another. It was all relative. We each had knowledge relative to what we have been taught and how we’ve been taught. Some of us have more relative information than others, and that was fine. I realized after this ordeal, that the amount of relative information I had was not enough to indicate any superior intellect, rather, I just perceived myself as such because I knew how to use it to my advantage. All humans are smart, and all humans can reach the same potential given enough time. I had reached mine within a single week, and that feeling will always linger on me as a feeling of pride and stick to me like a savory desert. I will never forget those feelings and I will never come to hate those feelings either. They will become great precedent.

Many had thanked me, but perhaps the greatest reward for me was simply the feeling of great elation in the simple task of teaching. I wouldn’t say I was the best teacher in the world, nor would I even call myself a decent teacher. I was simply a teacher, but through that whole situation, the person who I taught the most was indeed myself. I learned about arrogance, ignorance, and  prideful lust. They were all adjectives that stuck to me during the situation. I had a bit of all on the tip of my tongue, and it didn’t disgust me as much as it should have. In fact, it didn’t disgust me at all. It tasted like sweet honey. It became precedent in ways I never thought could happen, and I quickly realized how pretentious that precedent was, and I hated it. I hated everything that embodied that precedent yet I myself had embodied it in a short while. That sweet honey had turned into poison, yet now, I can identify what truly is sweet, and what truly isn’t. Knowing that has me feeling eons more smarter than simply knowing chemistry.






My Greatest Achievement

Hello once again, with another memoir, this time, of something that happened quite recently, with NaNoWriMo, November Writing Month. This one’s quite different from the previous two, I think, so It’s a nice change of pace. Anyway, again, not much to say here, but, here you go, “My Greatest Achievement”.

I sat on my computer chair, hands in tow, fingers dancing across the plastic surface  as the sounds of clicking resounded within my room, almost making me mad.  For thirty days now, I had been reliving the same day over and over, on the same seat, on the same adrenaline, and my ears had been run dry. I had always thought that the sound of my keyboard had become commonplace to me, but never has it become this enticing.

I came home every day with one single goal in mind. At the start of November, till the start of December, I would become a pseudo erudite, to the point where one would perceive me as apoplectic. I had nothing else I wanted to do, and I had only one thing I needed to do. It was almost as if I was lost in a trance, but I would never admit to it. Rather, I was following a new routine. For the next thirty days, I would become lost in my work, and I would be tired.  The gist of it was quite simple, I had one goal, to write something akin to a novel, or novella. The challenge then became the time constraints. All across the world, writers and aspiring, came together for thirty days to create something. It became transiently beautiful, something like a million minds coming together to create a million worlds. It was a great time to be alive for me, and a great time to really push myself.

I fancied myself as a hermit. Never before had I been able to follow a set schedule or routine. That was the infidelity of life, you never really have a plan until time hit you. Things don’t just come preordained, it is what one makes of it that becomes reality. I lived for that. My life was never innately boring because I never could predict what I would do next. However, this all changed once I endowed myself in a marathon spanning thirty days, where the next day would be ever so predictable. Sit down, write, sleep. That was my afterschool clause. Nothing more, nothing less. I had ideas I needed to sift through, and ideas I needed to place down. It was now or never, and I had to prove myself. Not to prove that I was some ingenious child of literature, but that I was serious and that I would pour myself into the world of writing.

Thirty straight days of crunching down on a word document, and thirty straight days of being worn out from my shoulders had all come to fruition on that very last day. It was like any other, on my computer, in my room with the lights above me and the curtains closed tight beside me. The sounds of the happenings of my kitchen were rowdy as my father began preparing his daily routine, and I myself had been completely entranced in the light emanating from my screen. Black-colored words appeared and disappeared at  my whim as my fingers traced my keyboard and as the sounds of each meticulous movement filled me. My body tensed, and my eyes raced to fight the clock. My mind was swirling in a vortex of plot holes and characters, and It was up to me to piece together all of which fit into a puzzle. Finally, as my hands slowed, and as my strained eyes could finally be put to rest, I pressed the final key to the final word to the final chapter of what I had created. It was a novella, above the fifty thousand regulation, and well above my own expectations. Nothing I had ever done before could ever come close to what I had just completed. I poured my entire being into this one project, and I had come out on top. It was the highlight of my day, and even perhaps my entire seventeen years proceeding to that day. I had written a novella.

Nothing more could faze me from that moment. I had started a marathon and I had finished it. I had no right to complain about anything else in the world. I had proved to myself and to the world that I could do it, that with my own power and with my own volition that I could stand among those on the top.  I felt like I could do anything, that there was nothing that could stop me. I had been given momentum, and from that moment on, I sought out to never lose that momentum, to push and strive for something even greater. I knew that finishing one wasn’t the end of my journey, that there were many to come, that the many works I had already finished would be my history, and that I could only ever learn from my history. They say that the victors write history, and that saying has some truth to it. Only I can write my own history, and I’ve already won.


Realizing Friendship

Hello once again, again with another memoir, this time, with the topic of friendship. I don’t have much to say other than that I’m excited for the upcoming break where I’ll be given a break, but until then, a bit more backlog, so, bear with me. Here you go, “Realizing Friendship.”


I’m an introvert. I don’t talk to many people, and when I do, I try my best to do my best at it. It’s my own little perfectionism seeping in. I can’t have people knowing that I don’t have many friends. Quite frankly, I do have many friends. Not as many as someone who is an extrovert, but I’m proud of the friends I do have. Although, that’s a very weak statement.

It all happened when I came out late afterschool. I went up to the guidance department to do some troubleshooting, and that had taken me quite some time to accomplish. It was understandable, people had problems, and I was part of those people. The only issue, was that I don’t have a phone, and thus the friends whom I gravitate towards going home with, had already left me. To go against my norm, my perfunctory, was something I wasn’t prepared to do. However, I wasn’t fond of loneliness either, and so I saw my friends, the ones whom I don’t usually go home with, and decided not to be lonely.

If you ever had a dedicated group of friends, you begin allocating roles. There was the leader, who was the heart of the group. The clown, who told the jokes. The watchdog, who was the first to spot oncoming traffic as their group of friends ignorantly stood in the middle of the street. These are a few of the many roles in a group of friends. I had joined in as a taboo member, a scavenger.  It was more than awkward, but I had known all of them, and that precedent alone was enough for me to squeeze in.  I didn’t participate in talking, I didn’t laugh at the jokes, nor did I think they were funny, but I stood by them. We were waiting at a rather lengthy bus stop, and to me, time seemed to slow. The words flew right by me, and for a moment, it felt as if I was a puppet on strings, a marionette. Wherever I felt that I needed to laugh, I did so. Wherever I felt that I needed to participate in the “discussion”, I did so. None of the words I said, nor none of the words they said had been of quality. We were all filled with the our own disgusting profanity, and it was at that moment that I realized how much I hated some of my friends. I had simply been strung along on their play, a show piece for their group, and I hated it.

I soon walked away, crossed the street, and didn’t bother saying a single thing. They would never have cared, neither did I. I walked to the next bus stop, and decided to take a longer route home. I didn’t have qualms about the journey, the time was roughly the same, the only difference was that my ears were clean. I wondered to myself, as I stood there looking to my right among a cloud of strangers, why I had even bothered to join them. It was a question that permeated me as I looked at the time for the next bus, and moved back to make room for more potential passengers. Even the cold of the day, the white of my breath, the red of my hands, and the snow soaking into my shoes could not break me from my trance. Luckily enough, I had a solution for it when the bus came, and it placed a small smile on my face. I realized then and there that the friends I made were not friends I made for the purpose of having a decent symbiotic relationship. No, I had made a parasitic relationship with them, and it was interchangeable. I fed off them when I needed to, and they fed off me when they needed to.  When I stepped on the bus, I narrowed down exactly how many of these parasitic friendships I had, and then the amount of  “real” friends I had. That notion made me happy. Friendship was a fickle matter, but at least I had some. Some without strings.

Proceeding that bus ride home, I vowed to never let myself slip into the strings of those parasitic relationships. I had in my mind all the people whom I truly enjoyed hanging out with, and all of those that I didn’t. It became a fun game of fifty-two pick up. Except, the only thing I was picking up, was all of the diamonds in my pile of coal. I gained a new sense of appreciation towards the friends I picked up, and those friends from that day on, would become even more close to me. I wanted to cherish what real friends I had, and make sure that I never fall into the temptations of those that only seem so. Even if I were to never be able to engage in instant on-the-go messaging with them, I’m sure that my enduring feelings of friendship will reach them. And if they don’t, then I would only ever work towards the point where I can do so, and then some.




Happiest Moment of My Life

Hello once again, this time not a short story, although I do have quite a few backlog pieces that I need to push forward. Thankfully, with the upcoming week, I’ll have a plethora of time at my disposable, and with that, means more time to write new pieces, for either here or contests. That’ll be that, but right now, we have a memoir. I don’t usually do things like memoirs, or narrative essays, but I had the chance to this past week. To be honest, although out of my comfortable zone, it was pretty fun to write these. Probably something I’ll do more in the future, a pseudo little diary, if you will. And plus, writing about myself in this fashion is…. quite quaint, in it’s own regards. Anyway, this one will be exactly what the title says. The happiest moment of my life. Bear with me as I post these, because these are again, memoirs, non-fiction, but, yeah, here you go, “Happiest Moment of My Life.”

If there was one thing I was ever shy about in my entire life proceeding up to this point, it would have to be public speaking. However, I came over that, it was something that at one point I felt was no longer necessary to fret over. It was systematic to me, and thus, it no longer bothered me as much.  That was the least of my problems, though, and something I found even more complicated, was telling my parents how I wanted to be a writer.

I found it quite quaint that I could get over my innate shyness around my classmates and teachers, yet still feel so inapposite when talking to my parents. I never really could tell them how I felt, and thus, I had always kept to myself about what I wanted to do. I had always been surrounded by a generation of insidious beliefs that made me feel  like a needle in a haystack.  It was hard to have a voice, only because my voice was drowned by the happenings of the world, and the world for me then was something that rejected my being. I went by my days avoiding the same dreadful question about where I wanted to go in hopes that one day I could avoid it all together, but that day never came. I told them, eventually, at a nice dinner with just the three of us.  The atmosphere was not good, nor did I want to be there, but from eating, and from my mother’s  innate droning, I had to answer.

My house was a calm place.  It was surprisingly calm for a world bustling with news and information. The reason why it never bothered me was because I myself was a person of calm. I lived by the mantra that to expel more energy than oneself needs, is simply a waste. That bled into the way I spoke, which was fast and very efficient, I wanted to say my piece as quickly as possible and not have to ramble on. Except, when I sat there with my parents, my mother on my left, and my father on my right, with a large steaming pot in the middle, my tongue had seemingly thawed over. I couldn’t move, my head was sweating from something other than the steam brushing against my face, and my hands tensed. I could barely breathe in the room, and the sound of the radio faintly behind me gave me a small sense of serenity. I fidgeted in my spot, and I knew that I had no way of escaping. There was no ignorance to feign, nor were there any places to run or hide to. I was a wolf in the middle of a pack of sheep, and one wrong move had me six feet into the ground.  However, those were all thoughts that played into vexing me. They were not something I should have dwelled on, and so I didn’t. I answered. Uncaringly, unknowingly, unabashedly, I had answered.  I wanted to be a writer, and there was no way they could stop me.

It was at that moment, that I felt something: liberation, freedom, sanctum. There was no greater feeling than it. At that moment, I thought that perhaps I had felt what those who fell from the sky felt. It was unreal. Most of all, my parents response a few months later, pertaining to the same question was even more fictitious. They told me that they would support me, that, “all we want is for you to be happy”, that the only thing they could do was to accept what I wanted to be. They aren’t doctors, businessmen, or lawyers. They were my parents. The only thing they could do was to know that they would support me. They told me this during dinner, with a hot pot in the middle of the table, the steam rising to my face, with the radio faintly behind me. They told me this, and this time, I felt as if I was at the top of the world. If ever a time I felt truly elated, then my parents had just blown me through the roof.

I once thought that my parents were annoying, good for nothing, and were always at my nose, always seemingly up in my personal business. I once thought to exclude them from my life, to push them away and bring about my future using my own prowess. I was wrong, and I had never been so wrong yet feel so happy to be wrong in my entire life. They were there for me, they’ve always been there for me and the only thing they wanted was to be here for me. That’s the one thing in their lives that will complete mine, and it’s a feeling that I can’t discard. Without realizing it, and with those simple words, they gave me more than just shelter, food, and money. They gave me hope for the future, and they gave me everything I could ever want. They gave me assurance, that no matter what, that they were here to support me. My parents may not be the most educated, but they’ve taught me the most important lesson I would ever learn, never doubt family. It only took me eighteen years to learn that lesson, but that lesson, will always be with me, always reminding me of the time I told them, and always giving me a small glimmer of hope, when all else is shrouded in darkness.