The epiphanies of torrential experiences. The emotions evoked on jovial or miserable circumstances. It's all about my opinion, it's all about my thoughts. But more importantly, it's about putting my ideas & emotions on display & at the mercy of people who either disagree or agree. I leave the judgement to you.
Before I start, I would like to tell everyone that this one isn’t going to be like my typical posts. This one’s going to be a bit more personal and a lot more direct. I could’ve taken the time to do some extensive research to further drive my point, but that isn’t really my goal here. Today, I just want to air some thoughts out before I forget about them. So, here I go.
I love everything about writing. I’m a sucker for a well-written piece of literature, blog post, or content. Although it’s true that I would gravitate towards the topics I’m interested in, I can appreciate a nicely penned reading material regardless of what the writer is talking about. With that in mind, my heart weighs heavy when I say that many forms of writing (especially online writing) are now being ruined at a rapid rate. Let me tell you why.
It’s All About Numbers Nowadays—Quantity Over Quality
I’ve been working as a content writer for 5 or 6 years now (started in 2015). I always make it a point to deliver great articles, blogs, or other contents for the numerous clients and companies I’ve worked for. My job is mentally exhausting, but I do feel a sense fulfilment with every output I create.
But nowadays, most companies and clients would often play the “Numbers Game” too much. You see, when you’re constantly rushing to finish a written content, you’ll most likely end up with subpar outputs. Don’t believe me? Just try visiting those shady websites that occasionally pop-up in your phones or computer screens as ads and try reading whatever is written. It is complete and utter horseshit that you can barely understand.
Hell, you’d have a better chance of deciphering Chewbacca’s Wookie ramblings after he has downed 5 bottles of Vodka, compared to those horrendously written homepages.
Auto-Generated Paraphrasing Tools Ran by Artificial Intelligence
Finding a prolific writer who can generate high-quality outputs is certainly difficult. I’m not that prolific myself. I understand the need for other writers and companies to keep up with their competitors, which is why they’ve opted to seek the help of some powerful AI (Artificial Intelligence) paraphrasing tools. These types of software are very self-explanatory, but the gist of it is that an AI runs a series of checks and comparisons from its database to try and paraphrase the word or sentence you put in it.
Now, these tools aren’t entirely bad, but since many corporations and clients are highly-reliant on them, the pressure to generate more of these subpar contents rise. It’s like they believe that as long as they’re churning out lots of written content, they’ll be the ones ahead. While this is indeed the case for SEO (Search Engine Optimization) writing, the quality of the output is greatly diminished because these AIs are nowhere near perfect.
If you use one yourself, you’ll find that you still have to put in a decent amount of effort to check the grammar, spelling, and the overall context of what it has written. In my opinion, the creation of these tools has only made quotas and stress to increase exponentially.
The Saddest Reality Writers are Facing
Although the things I’ve mentioned are indeed concerning, nothing quite compares to the pain of being a writer who is dissatisfied with what he/she has written. A writer who ultimately has to concede to reaching those quotas and using those tools just so you can deliver. It truly is a different kind of hell.
Despite the fact that it’s pretty degrading to watch yourself become a part these sweatshop writing corporations you’ve avoided for so long, I still am thankful. Not because I get to regurgitate contents that are on the same level of a canine’s faecal matter, but because I have a job. I’m thankful because I get to work from home. And I’m thankful to still have an income, especially with COVID-19’s presence still lingering among us.
Thomas “Tommy” Shelby said it best during one of his talks with Grace, “We’re all whores, Grace. We just sell different parts of ourselves.” I’ve simply decided to whore myself and my writing skills to generate mediocre results.
Well, that’s about it and I believe I’ve said whatever it is I want to say. I’ll see all of you in the next post!
P.S. I don’t hate my job, I don’t hate the company I’m working for, and I don’t hate AI-generated paraphrasing tools (I’m actually using them myself so I can keep up with my quotas). What I hate is how the current state of content writing, copywriting, or whatever form of writing you’re doing, is now more focused on quantity rather than quality. I hate how everything is all about quotas, and it’s not about writing stuff that people would find pleasant to read. I hate that the soul of writing is slowly fading. I guess this is why I have a blog. It’s because I can write things I want and thing that I believe people would read.
The world can be viewed in many different ways. You can put on your rose-coloured sunglasses and view the world in an extravagant light where everyone is happy. You can also take those sunglasses off and see the world in a darker shade where everyone is miserable. You can even view the world by mixing light and darkness—seeing the “grey” in everything, instead of focusing on the “black and white”.
How a person chooses to view the world is completely up to them. Every one of us have the God-given right to make our own decisions, after all. However, it’s important to keep in mind that a person’s outlook in life, along with how they view the world, can affect their decisions and way of living. Today, I will try to show everyone (in my own words and opinions, of course) the harmful effects of viewing the world through a parochial (or narrow-minded) lens.
“I’m Right, You’re Wrong—I’m Smart, You’re Dumb”
The word parochial means “having a limited or narrow outlook or scope,” according to Google’s Oxford Languages. Now, it can also be used to reference (or relate to) the church, but that’s not the meaning we’ll be talking about today. With that being said, perhaps one of the greatest dangers of having a parochial view in life is that a person tends to think that they’re always the ones who are right.
Aside from being constantly right, they also tend to develop a form of narcissistic view of themselves. While it’s not always the case, some people with a parochial outlook tend to think that they’re better than most people. They delude themselves into thinking that everyone else is so much dumber than them, and that they’re the ones who truly know how things work.
Unfortunately, what happens in most cases is that they’re proven to be wrong, and when this happens, people with a parochial view tend to develop a resentment to the world and everyone else who dares to question them.
Looking at Life Through a Tissue Roll’s Cylindrical Paperboard
If there is one thing that’s commendable about people with parochial view, it’s their ability to have interminable focus. The most apt metaphor would be that of a horse with blinders. Jockeys often put blinders on their horses during a race, so that they wouldn’t be distracted or startled by the other horses and the cheering crowd. This lets the horses focus on the finish line with laser-point accuracy.
Sadly, focus can easily turn into something that blinds those with parochial view from other people’s opinions, other people’s circumstances, and other people’s stories. Those with a parochial outlook in life often only think about their opinions, their circumstances, and their stories. No one else matters to them, and so that focus can quickly be distorted and transformed into tunnel vision.
Like looking through a tissue roll’s cylindrical paperboard, those with parochial view have a very narrow panorama of life. They’re essentially blinded and unable to see the bigger picture.
Gullible and Quick to Fanaticize
While those with parochial view tend to focus solely on themselves, that doesn’t mean they’re unable to learn from mentors or ideologies. However, they can be very picky with who and what lessons they want to take. But once they do find a teacher or idea that resonates with them, they quickly latch on to whoever or whatever it is and build their identity around those.
This makes individuals with a parochial outlook very gullible to any form of philosophy, idea, mentor, trend, etc. Eventually, their adoration can turn into fanaticism and they end up consciously ignoring/avoiding anything that goes against their newfound belief. It’s also common for people with a parochial view to base their beliefs and decisions around a person or idea.
Blinded by an abnormal amount of adoration, their capabilities of deciding and thinking for themselves are greatly hampered. They unconsciously become reliant to whatever their mentor or the ideas they’re subscribed to. What makes this extremely harmful is the fact that anyone (or anything) who would pose a contrasting opinion will end up being attacked, as those with a parochial view fiercely defend the subject of their adorations, just like what we’ve seen in many real-world examples.
Let’s Choose a Better Outlook
In the end, it is up to the individual to decide what outlook or perspective they wish to view the world in—that includes the parochial view. But if we want to truly understand and peacefully co-exist with one another, there’s a need to shift the paradigms of our minds and elevate our conscious to one that is kind, thoughtful, and truth-seeking.
We must not allow ourselves to be chained by a singular belief, idea, or philosophy. We should instead be open to other people’s opinions and belief. We should respect them and learn from them, instead of feeling that we are being personally attacked and that everyone else who have a different outlook is an enemy.
As Mahatma Gandhi once said, “Unity, to be real, must stand the severest strain without breaking,” and our sense of unity will surely break easily if we are quick to anger, quick to be offended, and if we keep a parochial view of life.
Hello everyone! I apologize for going off the grid again. I was just so caught up with my work that I’ve somewhat lost the energy to go ahead and write a blog. But now that I’ve acclimated to the new company I’m working for and the new tasks/challenges it presents, I’m feeling a little bit better.
With that being said, I honestly find my new work a bit absurd and exhausting. Now, this might come off as a form of complaining (which you can definitely view it that way if you want to), but I just want all of you to know that’s not my intention. I only intend to share my personal struggles with my new writing job.
I just want all of you to know the struggles of being a content writer.
Quantity Over Quality
In my 4 -5 years of experience in the field of content writing, every single company I’ve worked for has always pushed for quantity over quality. I understand that they want to push for more content so they can keep their websites relevant, increase traffic, or simply for SEO (Search Engine Optimization) purposes. But there’s a thin line between making quality content and a rushed piece of article that no one would want to read.
I understand that companies are clearly more focused on numbers, but I believe they should re-evaluate their marketing plans and focus on quality instead. The problem with quantity is that out of 100 outputs, you’d most likely get 1 or 5 excellent outputs that will be buried under sub-par writeups. With quality content, they can increase reader interaction, improve traffic, and be a more enjoyable experience for anyone who is reading them.
Quotas, Quotas, and more Quotas
Having a goal is certainly important. I have goals of my own, and I’m sure you have yours too. Whenever I achieve my goal (most of the time), a feeling of accomplishment and fulfilment washes over me. This is one of the few reasons why I play video games because they provide that same sense of accomplishment, albeit in a very abrupt and short manner.
But when the goal is simply too much, you end up with more people having burnouts, which would drastically decrease their level of performance and might even make them quit. To cite an example, I’ll use a common quota in the content writing industry.
You’ll often hear the term “3,000 words per day” if you’re a content writer. 3,000 words is already a lot of work with all the research, writing, and editing you’ll have to do. But with the company I’m working for right now, the quota is at an all-time high—with 4,000 words as the daily goal. What ends up happening is that you have your writers simply rephrasing previously written articles, cut corners during writing and editing, and a horrendously painful-to-read output as a result, just to reach the quota.
No One Really Listens to Us
I’m sure that it wouldn’t come as a surprise when I say that writers are a very opinionated bunch. We like to talk, we like to write, and we like to talk some more. Now, that doesn’t always mean that all of the opinions we share will be helpful in every circumstance, but when we do share them (along with a couple of suggestions), it’s always for good intentions.
Unfortunately, most companies would either pretend to listen that they’re listening to us or outright ignore us. This can be really frustrating for writers because most of us simply want what’s best for ourselves and the company. Take the quotas for example. Instead of setting an extremely steep goal, why not have a meeting with all the content writers and ask them for a reasonable quota.
Being a content writer is truly a struggle. But if writing is your passion and you want to turn it into a profession, then content writing is certainly worth it. I personally don’t see myself working any other job than content writing, and that’s despite of the things I’ve mentioned here.
Writing isn’t just a hobby for me, after all. It’s a lifestyle and content writing help me live that lifestyle.
I remember that I started writing back when I was 6-years-old. The process wasn’t easy (I lived in a somewhat authoritarian household where violence and beatings were a daily occurrence), but when I finally learned how to write and spell, it felt very satisfying. I was taught to write my name first, then my older sister taught me how to read, spell, and create sentences.
The remainder of my writing practice came from elementary school. Grade 1 was the usual stuff. I learned how to read and write the different letters in the English and Filipino alphabets, and then learned how to combine those letters to make words. I remember that the first time I wrote something just for the pleasure of it was back in 6th grade, where I wrote my own theories and understanding about what I had read at the time (it was a Reader’s Digest about dinosaurs).
I guess you could say that that’s where my whole writing career started. Fast forward to today where I’ve been working as content writer in the digital marketing field for about 4 -5 years now (with different companies and some resignations). What’s even cooler about it is that I’ve decided to focus on writing some personal blogs again. Now, there were some times when I couldn’t write because of many different reasons, but I always got back at writing.
Before, writing was simply hobby. I had no ways to make a living out of it and if I did had a way to monetize it, I’d be too mentally drained to even write a blog or a poem when I got home. The many beers and liquors that I used to excessively binge on when I was still living alone didn’t helped as well, and it really took a toll on my focus and drive. The lack of a personal laptop or computer was another hindrance as well because renting a PC on some computer shop simply wasn’t ideal.
Fortunately, I now have my own laptop. I don’t drink as much as I used too (I only drink occasionally now, instead of everyday). And I try my best to follow a lax schedule of posting at least 1 blog per week during the weekends. I’m now working on a different digital marketing company, and despite it having a much higher quota than the previous company I used to work for, I’ve successfully acclimated myself to quota.
Now, you may be asking yourself “Okay, you’ve given us a bit of a backstory here. But how does your backstory relate to your title?” Well, if you hadn’t notice, my backstory was all over the place—the same way that my life used to be. I would write poems or blogs diligently when I was in the mood, and I would stop writing anything (sometimes for days and sometimes for years). However, if there was one thing that was consistent about my life, it’s the fact that I always found my way back to writing.
You see, for others, writing might simply be a hobby, a passion, or a something they do to past the time with. For me, however, writing is essentially my life. I work as a content writer. I write poems. I write short stories. I write blogs. I write for both work and leisure. My life basically revolves around writing! For me, writing is a lifestyle that I have consciously and subconsciously given myself to. It’s literally what I eat, breathe, and sleep on.
And I guess the reason why I chose this kind of life is the simple fact that writing is more than just a hobby for me. It’s more than just a passion. It’s more than just something I do to past the time with. I write not because I want to, but because I need to. Writing is my life, and if I was ever sundered from it for whatever reason, I would eventually find my way back to it. See, I’ve tried many times to quit writing because I was told to give up on my dreams of being a writer.
Luckily for me, Fate is a stubborn mistress and she had already decided that I would be a writer for the rest of my life. whenever I gave up on my dreams, she would find a way to lead me back to them. Whether it’s for a writing competition, a writing job, or meeting people with similar interests, writing would always come swinging back my way like a boomerang.
When I decided to truly embrace my destiny and chose to look for jobs where I could write, the doors and experiences that made me the writer that I am today started revealing themselves. I’ve never been happier with the decisions I’ve made that got me closer to becoming a writer. Now, I may not be a renowned writer, but I don’t really have to be. Fame and prestige come with their own sets of challenges, and perhaps I am not ready for it. Perhaps it is not for me.
However, I still find myself very lucky because how many people can claim that they’re doing the work they love the most? How many people can claim that everyday, they get to be in their dream jobs? I’m pretty sure that there’s not a lot of us and I’m so darn lucky to be who I am today, and to be able to do what I love to do.
Dreams do come true. You just have to make a lifestyle out of them first.
After dying 208 times and spending 124 hours to beat the brutal game, I can proudly say that I was able to overcome almost (because I still haven’t gotten the other endings at the time of writing this) every challenge that the game has to throw at me. It was certainly what other people would call a “hellish experience,” but as difficult as the game was, I genuinely enjoyed every minute of it.
Of course, there were a lot of frustrations and notions of wanting to give up, but I never really raged and screamed my lungs out like other players. In a way, the game actually revealed to me how much I’ve grown and how much I’m in control of my emotions (especially anger) now. If the younger and more turbulent version of me was playing it, he’d probably throw the laptop out of the window during the first boss.
However, I am in no way perfect and I still think of myself as somebody who is disturbed and turbulent, but also someone who is learning how to live life in a kinder and better way. With that being said, here are three (but most likely four) things I’ve learned throughout my Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice gameplay!
Before you start playing the game, you should know that patience is 100% needed in Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. The game has some very steep learning curves regarding its combat system, and the A.I. (Artificial Intelligence) of the mini-bosses and true bosses can be pretty unforgiving. You should expect that you will most likely die for numerous amounts of time, before you are able to memorize or familiarize yourself with the enemy’s attack patterns and capitalize on it.
Aside from the learning curve that their A.I. and combat system have, some levels are also designed in a puzzle-like manner, which can take a bit of time to solve. Whatever the case may be, Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice is a video game that is exceptional at testing every player’s patience, and in a twisted way, develop it as well. After all, if you’re not patient with the game (and in real life), you won’t be getting anywhere.
Sidenote: The game also teaches you to be patient with yourself. It teaches you to try your very best to not get too frustrated or greedy. Frustration and greed often make an individual lose their composure, which can mean certain death.
Just like what Martha Graham (American modern dancer and choreographer) once said, “We learn by practice. Whether it means to learn to dance by practicing dancing or to learn to live by practicing living, the principles are the same,” and the very same principles apply in Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. In fact, these principles apply in everyday life too, whether you’re practicing how to play a guitar, how to write novels or poems, how to cook, etc. The only way to really learn and excel in any field of endeavor is to practice.
In Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, practicing is almost as important as patience (but I decided to put patience as the number one characteristic or virtue that the game has taught me because without it, everything else wouldn’t make sense) and it is something that any player must do, if they want to “git gud” with the game. The game’s combat system is extremely fast-paced and requires a lot of deflections (or parries) to defeat all sorts of enemies.
Practicing the rhythm and flow of the game’s combat also makes the gameplay a whole lot easier, and conclusively turn anyone into a better player.
I’ll be honest: the game can sometimes feel like a ridiculously steep mountain—one that feels like an impossible climb. There were moments in my playthrough where I felt like I could never defeat this boss or that I could never get past a certain level. But if there’s one thing that the game assures you, it’s that every single adversary that you face in the game can be bested. You just have to persevere and never give up.
Giving up means that you will never have a chance to finish the game, and the same can be said for a lot of things in real life too. If you give up on your dreams to become a professional singer, for example, then you’d have robbed yourself the opportunity to turn that dream into a reality. Persevering often helped me get through some very tough levels of the game, along with the patience and practice that I get to immerse myself with, every time I decided not to give up.
Now, Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice is certainly not a horror game. It’s an action-adventure game at its very core, with some RPG elements sprinkled unto it. But believe me when I tell you that if you ever decide to play this game, dreading to face a certain boss, or bosses, happens too. There were plenty of moments when I didn’t want to take a couple of steps forward, in fear of encountering yet another boss (which happens a lot in the game), or when I would intentionally procrastinate and say to myself, “I still need to farm some EXP and gold,” because I didn’t want to battle the boss that was right in front of me.
However, I realized that if I want to finish the game, I would have to eventually face my fears and literally slash, slice, and stab them to death. Fortunately, my desire of finishing the game was ultimately stronger than my fears, and so I pushed myself to sprint towards the terrors that had crippled me, facing them head-on and eventually powering through as a better player. It wasn’t easy and it took a lot of tries, but I did end up conquering my fears and literally getting past them.
Unlike other games, Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice also encourages players to play in a smart and offensive manner, instead of the usual defensive-offensive—dodge and attack—pattern that most of us are accustomed to. The game’s main play is to stop retreating and learn how to parry, learn when to strike and dodge, and to never run away, so you could keep up with the offense. I got “oof’d” by bosses a lot of times because I would instinctively escape the fight.
Like what I’ve said in the beginning, Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice is a brutal game that can be likened to having a “hellish experience.” However, going through this particular hell has taught me a lot of things that can help me become a better person in real life. The satisfaction of reaching the end (regardless of what ending you got) and overcoming all of those challenges makes everything worth it.
At the end of the day, I believe what makes Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice a phenomenal game is the fact that it teaches us to be patient, to practice, to persevere, and to be courageous—so we could live a better and more fulfilling life.
“Hesitation is defeat,” after all; and the more you hesitate in life, the more you stop living it.
It has been 4 years now since my father, younger brother, and older brother passed away consecutively. My father got hit by a reckless motorcycle driver in 2017, my younger brother (our youngest) died from TB (Tuberculosis) in 2018, and my older brother (the 5th in rank in our long line of 7 siblings) committed suicide by drinking muriatic acid in 2019.
After all these years, I thought the adiposity of their passing would somehow alleviate as time went on. However, their deaths still weigh heavy on me, especially for my two brothers, whom I personally had to bury, so to speak. I handled both of their wakes and searched for a decent funeral home, I made sure they would be buried in a modest cemetery because it was all I could afford to do, and I had to find ways to contact priests and novena prayer leaders for them.
If life was the game Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice, then those 3 consecutive years of deaths would have to be 3 of the most difficult bosses I’ve ever encountered in my life, or at least the ones that are to up to date. Losing all of them has profoundly changed my perspective. They remind me how fragile our lives truly are and how painful the entire experience is for those who are left behind to mourn.
Truth be told, my eyes are getting teary and my nose have begun to feel stuffed, as I type in this very sentence. No words can ever express how much I miss them and how much guilt I carry with me daily. I know that what happened was beyond my control and that there was nothing I could’ve done to ultimately alter the outcome.
But the never-ending notion of “There must’ve been something I could’ve done to prevent what befell them,” is almost as crippling and heart-wrenching as the very pain of losing them. There are nights when thoughts of them keep me up; tossing and turning—unable to find rest in the pitch-black void of my room. Sleeping beside my wife helps to quell the ruminations of guilt and “what ifs”, but even that kind of mercy isn’t perpetual.
My self-inflicted guilt still makes me dream of them sometimes. Dreams that repeat the same pattern of helplessness and misery when I first saw my father at the morgue.
The same pattern of grief and hopelessness when I saw my younger brother’s health slowly deteriorate and being told by the doctor that he couldn’t be saved; along with the first time I saw him convulse at the hospital due to sepsis.
The same pattern of depression and forlorn when I took care of my older brother in the hospital after he drank muriatic acid and he started excreting black fecal matters in the form of diarrhea, up until the time when he passed away in the hospital (which I wasn’t even there because I had just finished watching him over at the hospital the night before and my reliever had already arrived, so I needed to go home and rest) days later.
Now, I’m no doctor or psychologist, but I believe that I can safely say that I developed some type of PTSD after what I just went through. Wristwatches (specifically military-grade watches) remind me of my father and what he was wearing at the morgue. Knorr’s Pork Congee Mix that 7/11 stores sell reminds me of my younger brother and his brief stay in the isolation ward. Adult diapers remind me of my older brother and his black diarrhea that reeked of blood, medicine, and the acid’s noxiousness.
Losing 3 people whom I deeply loved and respected, even though I wasn’t always on good terms with them, has made me more reclusive, introverted, and pessimistic. Their deaths broke my heart in a way that no previous lover or sweetheart crush has ever done before. Their deaths have traumatized me so much that my dreams relive the moments of helplessness and misery, in the ways that I mentioned earlier.
However, I do not wish to forget them. While it’s true that some people want to move on and forget the tragedy of death, but they can’t because you can never get over the death of a loved one, I, on the other hand, do not wish to get over their deaths.
I only wish to keep some parts of them alive—their memories, their smiles, their laughs, their cries, their jokes, their voices, their anger, their passion—no matter how painful it may be. I only wish to remember them wholeheartedly, their life, and their journey, including their deaths.
It has been 4 years now since my father, younger brother, and older brother passed away consecutively. And in those 4 years, I realized something that I find both sad and cathartic:
The reason why you can never get over the death of a loved one is because you’re not supposed to.
Death is always looming over us and our loved ones, and it will always be agonizing.
But it is important that we honor and remember them, for as long as we have to, even if we feel our hearts cracking in every instance.
***DISCLAIMER: THIS SHORT STORY IS A WORK OF FICTION AND WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY. THE CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS SHORT STORY ARE ALL FICTITIOUS. ANY SIMILARITY TO ACTUAL PERSONS, LIVING OR DEAD, IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.***
All copyright regarding the story goes to Kregian Vareare Miral, writer of this short story.
Hi. My name is Mateo and if you’re reading this, then it means you’ve probably got time to spare.
You’re probably looking for a story or at least something to pass the time. Perhaps you’re in your home watching some television, or maybe you’re in your office during a break. Chances are you’re possibly commuting right now too, just like me.
But before we start, I’d like to set one rule: read this with your head down, got it?
Now that we’re all comfortable and settled, let’s go ahead and start.
*****
“Don’t forget to bring some water with you, okay? And bring some snacks too. The ferry boat has some meals you can buy, but the bus doesn’t, so you best stock up on some snacks while you’re still in the terminal,” my mom said, her voice travelling through the speakers and into my ears.
“Okay mom, I got it. See you soon, alright?” I replied.
As you can see, my mom and I have a good relationship with each other. Though we weren’t always the closest, we’ve grown stronger as a family throughout the years. But I guess it’s only understandable though. Dad did cheat on her and left us for a younger woman, so it’s only normal that we would have to get our shit together and help one another.
Honestly, I used to hate both of them back when I was still a pipsqueak. I used to blame them for everything. I figured they were the reason why I grew up with a broken family. Now that I’m older and “living life”, I realize that all that I had back then was arrogance and anger. I’m glad that mom and I had a talk to fix the gap that separated us.
“Alright. You take care now, Mateo. I’ll see you home soon. It’s been a while since you’ve been home because of COVID-19 and all, but it will certainly be nice to have you back,” my mom remarked, her eagerness to see me again can be heard all the way here in Cebu.
“See you soon Ma. I’m looking forward to some homemade cooking hahaha,” I answered, and we both laughed a brief, yet hearty laugh, before hanging up.
It’s been 6 months since I was last home in Masbate. I miss the beach, I miss my friends, and I miss my town. Don’t get me wrong, I like being here in Cebu City. I like the grind and the busyness, but people got to unwind sometimes too, you know?
I sat down on a metal bench and placed my backpack beside me, right where the “Don’t Sit Here” sign was plastered. You know? Social distancing.
I took my wireless earphones out, connected it to my smartphone via Bluetooth, opened Spotify, and started listening to some Fall Out Boy songs.
As I was vibing to one of my favorite bands, I started getting kind of hungry. The trip from Cebu City to Masbate is a long one. In total, it’s a 14 to 16-hour trip via ferry boat, with the bus ride from North Terminal to Bogo taking up at least 4 or 5 hours.
“Gotta get something to eat first,” I said to myself. I looked around the North Terminal and found some pretty good options. There were waffle stands, barbecue stands, carenderias,siopao stalls, and a bunch of other food vendors.
Since I had already filled my backpack with some chips and chicharons, I decided to grab two siopaos and eat them while I wait for the bus to arrive.
“Good evening miss. I’d like two siopaos please,” I requested from the vendor.
“That’ll be 100 Pesos, sir,” she answered, as she handed me the plastic bag carrying my order.
I took my wallet out and paid the exact amount. After giving my thanks, I walked back to the metal bench and sat down. Before eating the siopaos, I decided to take my wallet out again and longingly stare at my girlfriend’s picture.
Seeing her face made my mind leave Cebu City and venture home. There, my mind reminisced on all of the good times. Sitting on the sofa and watching movies together, running or walking around the sandy shores, taking a swim and kissing each other beneath the waves; all were fond memories I yearn to experience again.
But before I could fully indulge in my daydream, a bus attendant’s voice dragged my mind back to reality as he started barking “To Masbate! To Masbate! Here’s a bus to Masbate!”
I hurriedly picked my backpack up and jumped to my feet. I then rushed towards the growing line of passengers wearing face masks and face shields. In my haste, I almost tripped over a random motorcycle tire that someone must’ve left near the bench.
It was already 7pm, which means that it’s my priority to get on this bus because it’s the last trip.
While the line slowly moved forward, the bus attendant started doing a head count. He’s probably making sure that there are no excess passengers, due to the limited seating capacity they now have, in accordance to social distancing protocols imposed by the government.
Confident that I was going to be fortunate enough to be a passenger, I also began counting the individuals who are going in, including the ones who are already inside the bus. With every tap of my foot, I tallied a total of 32 people (including me), which was slightly above half of the 61+1 (bus attendant) seating capacity the bus used to have.
After the old man ahead of me gingerly walked into the bus, the bus attendant proceeded to usher me in. Then, he informed the crowd that the bus had reached its capacity. A surge of clamor rose up, but no one really made a fuss.
People understood why the bus had to cut down its capacity and their little ruckus was mostly born out of frustration, rather than actual inconvenience. The driver then pressed a button to close the bus door, which made a familiar hiss whenever it clamped down its rubber teeth.
Inside the bus, I found myself a cozy little spot at the furthest seat in the back and near the window. When I was finally seated comfortably, my stomach started growling again. I took the siopaos out of the plastic bag, slowly peeled the parchment paper beneath it, and ate them in a relaxed pace.
Despite my attempts of trying to satiate its hunger, my belly still gurgled and demanded for more.
“You’re gonna have to wait for a little longer there fella. Why don’t we watch some Netflix for a bit to pass the time, yeah?” I whispered to myself.
I took my smartphone out, woke it up, and closed Spotify. I tapped on the Netflix icon, picked a random movie I haven’t seen yet, and pressed play. For a while, the movie was enough to distract me and my stomach.
30 minutes later, I got bored and stopped watching whatever film was on. I stretched and rolled my neck for a bit to ease the strain of looking down. See, I have this habit of leaning in and looking down on my phone when I hyperfocus on a movie or a videogame.
It causes a huge amount of strain on my neck, especially if I hold the position for long periods at a time. To avoid getting headaches and neck pains, I stop for a minute and lift up my head, close my eyes, roll my neck for a few seconds, and go back to focusing on my phone again.
Considering that I got bored from the movie I was watching, I decided to just give my neck a little extra rest. I snugly positioned my head on the seat’s headrest and watched the outside world through the window.
I enjoyed watching the lamp posts stretch and blur as we drove past them. However, it would seem that the amusement would only last momentarily.
My stimulus addicted brain deemed that watching time pass by simply isn’t enough. So I opened up Facebook and checked what my friends we’re sharing on social media. As usual, I saw photos, walls of texts, memes, news, and a bunch of other stuff.
Unfortunately, scrolling up and down can get a little bit repetitive. The feeling of boredom was slowly creeping up again, but as I was about to close the app and open a new one, I stumbled upon something. It was a post that I can only describe as morbidly beautiful.
There was a series of images (looked like a “No Dialogue Comic” with each illustration serving as a separate panel) drawn in a semi-realistic manner, with a black and white color scheme. Looking like a weird mix between pencil drawing and oil painting, the overall aesthetic of the photos is beyond amazing, and it added a more terrifying vibe to its grotesque and macabre depictions.
In the images, I saw a group of 5 men who looked like lumberjacks. They appear to be pulling up one of their members to keep him from falling into a pit. A pit that I assume formed after the ground inexplicable collapsed on itself.
After saving their fellow lumberjack, the next image shows all of them looking at a huge black coffin found in the center of the pit. 4 of them proceeded to go down and are even more astonished by its size up-close.
It was as tall as 2 and-a-half men and looked more like a minimalistic sarcophagus—no symbols, no hieroglyphs, and no intricate designs sculpted unto it; just a plain, smooth-surfaced, black, and square sarcophagus.
The group found some slits on the edges of the sarcophagus’ presumed lid. They open it up, expecting to see something interesting inside. However, they discovered that a man of unnatural proportions and wearing a black suit (I call him “The Suit”), complemented by a black round hat, was buried in it. As they’re trying to figure out who, or what, the hell they’re seeing, “The Suit” suddenly opened his eyes.
Out of nowhere, two deers jumped out of the forest’s thick foliage and began to convulse.
The lumberjacks watched in horror as the animals writhed and twisted, morphing into a monstrous abomination. Their antlers grew out more spikes and developed sharper tips. Their flat teeth and molars were replaced with sharp and pointy cuspids. They even grew taller, bigger, and beefier.
They also witnessed a rabbit painfully morphing into the same monster as the deers. Growing exponentially in size, skin can be seen tearing away, muscles getting ripped, blood gushing out, guts dangling in the cold air, and bones exposed in every direction.
Finally, the rabbit dies and is reanimated as an undead beast throughout the gruesome process.
Snapping out of their shock, the lumberjacks decide to bolt it. Running as fast as they could, one of them was still intercepted and gored—the deer’s antlers piercing a lumberjack’s stomach and chest. Witnessing one of their coworkers die, the other lumberjacks got into a frenzy, their instincts kicking in from “flight” to “fight”.
One of them successfully slaughtered a deer by splitting its throat open with a chainsaw, while the others tried fighting the remaining monsters off using their axes. Unfortunately, one of the fiends was able to kill another lumberjack, punching a hole through his chest with its bare fist.
Seeing another colleague perish, one of the lumberjacks hopped on the monster’s back, violently stabbing its neck, nape, and ribs. It took a couple of thrusts to finish it off, but it eventually went down.
Only 3 lumberjacks remained and with the monsters finally slain, they thought safety was on their side now. But then, one of the lumberjacks started shouting and pointed behind the lumberjack who just stabbed a monster to death.
It was “The Suit”, standing unnaturally tall and creeping up behind him.
“The Suit” probably stood at around 8 or 9 feet, towering over the poor lumberjack. Then, the massive brute grabbed the lumberjack’s head from behind and ripped it off in one clean motion.
The two remaining lumberjacks were left aghast, as “The Suit” gripped the crown of their colleague’s head in his left hand as if it was some kind of ball. Blood profusely dripping from the severed neck.
The last page ended with a zoomed up shot of the “The Suit” staring directly at me, his pupils glowing, white-hot and accentuated by the black sclera of his eyes, with more forest monsters rallying behind him.
When I realized that his mouth was also wearing a maniacal grin, dread washed over me and I immediately got gooseflesh. My body also started quaking from fear.
Unable to handle the amount of anxiety that “The Suit” is causing me, I decided to close Facebook and press my smartphone’s power button to put it to sleep. I took my earphones off, lifted my head up, and closed my eyes, listening to the steady hum of the bus’ engine.
I had little hope that the monotonous and droning tone would help bury “The Suit”, and his face into obscurity, but to my surprise it actually worked. Feeling a bit better, I began to motion my head down until I was facing forward.
I opened my eyes and discovered that the bus’ bright center lights were now turned off. Since drivers usually do that during these long trips, I thought nothing of it and just looked out the window.
It was pitch black outside.
The bamboo and banana trees swallowed whatever miniscule light the new moon offered.
The only sources of light in this long stretch of road are the cars and buses zooming by.
While I was enjoying the dark view, I caught a glimpse of something peculiar. It was hard to see, but I believe I caught a glimpse of a huge man wearing a hat, standing in the middle of a clearing.
Now, seeing a huge man standing in the middle of a clearing at the dead of night would truly be ridiculous, but that wasn’t exactly what bothered me. What made the entire thing strange and creepy is I could swear that I saw the man’s white-hot eyes staring at me.
“Wait a minute… white… hot… clearly that morbid comic is still in my head,” I thought to myself.
Thinking that I was just being paranoid, I decided to move away from the window and sit in the middle, where I had a clear view of everyone in the bus.
In hindsight, I realize how bad of a decision this was and I should’ve just kept my eyes closed.
When I saw that every single passenger was staring at me—their glowing, white-hot pupils accentuated by the black sclera of their eyes— gooseflesh erupted all over my skin. When I saw that their mouths wore the same maniacal grin, dread immediately washed over me and my body started quaking from fear.
Now, as my shaky fingers struggle to type every letter in this story, I can still feel their stare piercing through the seat where I’m hiding behind. I can feel them sitting motionless—their eyes and head locked into my position, waiting for me to come out.
All of a sudden, I heard the bus tire screech and felt the vehicle abruptly stop. I hear the door hiss and two thunderous footsteps come in, tilting the bus forward.
If you’re reading this, I’m sorry. Please don’t make the same mistake I did.
If you’re reading this, keep your head down and don’t ever look up or face forward.
You’re better off not seeing the glint in his eyes.
You might have heard the phrase “We suffer not from the events in our lives, but from our judgement about them,” during a conversation, in a book, or a video.
It’s a wonderful maxim that was coined by Epictetus, a Greek Stoic philosopher known for his works like the Enchiridion handbook and his Discourses.
Now, to some, Epictetus’ ramblings may not make a lot of sense. But for those who appreciate the philosophy of Stoicism, it’s the most honest and logical explanation for suffering.
However, in a dynamic world that’s constantly changing, is Stoicism what the world really needs?
Silence and acceptance is an important attitude in Stoicism. It helps one’s mind remain still and delay brash reactions, giving way for logic and reason to flourish. But when it comes to exploitation and abuse, silence and acceptance that’s rooted in compliance is neither stoic nor mature.
It simply becomes the byproduct of fear and indifference—fear of confrontation and indifference in the eyes of injustice.
After all, it’s much easier to bend over and lick the boots of injustice than to stand up and fight against them. It is easier to bow your head and silently accept what befalls you, without even doing something about it.
However, this is clearly not the Stoics’ way of life because Stoicism does not encourage passivitiy. Being silent and blindly accepting what befalls you might even make you an enabler as well, which is worse because you just end up sharing a meal with the Devil and watch the world burn, even if you didn’t mean to.
Nowadays, we often use the word “stoic” to describe someone who remains calm under pressure, while avoiding emotional extremes.
Though it’s true that these are commendable attitudes in Stoicism, it’s important not to confuse it as the real basis of what a stoic or Stoicism means. Keep in mind that anyone can act like they’re calm and collected for various reasons, and those reasons might not be in line with Stoicism.
Furthermore, it’s now easier to dismiss harrowing circumstances due to the many distractions we have today, and due to how selfish most of us have become.
Always remember that Stoicism is not a self-centered philosophy and that it doesn’t encourage selfishness. We can use Seneca (one of Rome’s famous stoic) as an example. He courageously called for the humane treatments of slaves in a time when Roman laws saw slaves as property.
In times of doubt, it’s best to honestly reevaluate yourself and ask: is my silence and acceptance rooted in selfishness or fear? If so, then that is sadly not what being a stoic or stoicism is, my friend.
We’re often quick to judge that those who “complain a lot” are non-stoics. After all, aren’t stoics calm, silent, and don’t complain much? However, we seem to have been so fixated on embodying the “right” attitude, we’ve forgotten a key question: What is actually considered as “complaining”?
What if they’re actually raising awareness, exposing injustices, giving voice to the voiceless, and fighting for other people’s rights? But for most folks, since they just seem to be making pointless noise and are simply “complaining”, should we just cover our ears with our hands and mute their clamors? Should we just tell them to stop?
Also, don’t we all complain about the things that don’t go our way, regardless of how minor they are?
Should we just abandon all forms of complaints, in an attempt to truly embrace our misconstrued views of Stoicism?
If that’s the case, then aren’t we all non-stoics? I mean, it’s easier to pretend that you’re a stoic if a particular issue doesn’t affect you in the first place, right?
My Two Cents On Stoicism and Why We Should Change Our Views About “Complaining”
I’m a big fan of stoicism. It has personally helped me during times of extreme distress (I used to starve because I didn’t have money to buy food), poverty (finding a job can be extremely difficult and I know it all too well), and losing loved ones (my father, younger brother, and one of my older brothers died consecutively—2017, 2018, and 2019).
However, I don’t think it’s the best school of thought or philosophy out there. One thing about Stoicism that I disagree with is how it sees complaining as a negative thing. I understand that too much complaining can be annoying, but I’ve personally never seen it as something that’s inherently bad.
To me, complaining is a form of catharsis. It is something that let’s us express how angry, how sad, or how dissastified we are, without succumbing to extreme emotions. It’s a way for us to telegraph what we feel using words, instead of letting our fists do the talking.
One thing that most people don’t know about me is that I’m a very angry person. I’m undiagnosed, but I’m 100% sure I have some type of anger issue. Most folks would see me as snobbish and strict, but is capable of handling things in a calm manner. What they don’t see is how my hands shake and how my heart pounds as rage slowly fills my veins in most situations.
In Stoicism, anger is regarded as the most negative emotion that humans must avoid. Marcus Aerilus, one of Rome’s Five Good Emperors, puts emphasis on quelling and not indulging in it by saying “How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it.”
Now, I don’t know about you, but going berserk is what I would call an “extreme emotion”, compared to simply ranting or venting about how much of a douchebag a coworker is, for example. Complaining allows me to channel my anger and disperse them in a non-violent way.
Stoicism also tends to focus too much on micromanaging our actions and thoughts. Constantly monitoring, filtering, and judging which thoughts are good or bad can be exhausting, especially in the modern world where too much is happening at any given time.
We now also know that not everyone can control their actions and thoughts due to mental disorders like depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, autism, etc.
Overall, Stoicism alone might prove to be the wrong philosophy in our day and age. Yogesh Malik, a blog writer for Medium, mentions in his article, titled The Problem with Stoicism, that “Principally, Stoicism, if taken exclusively without considering other philosophies, is for slaves and prisoners.”
“But what if you’ve done everything in your power and the outcome is still bleak? What do you do then? Wouldn’t it be easier and more efficient to just silently accept things, and continue to work harder?”
Yes, it’s easier to just silently accept things, but I doubt it is efficient.
According to Albert Einstein “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, while expecting a different result.”
In that sense, why would you continue to work harder just so you can prove yourself to be valuable, despite the fact that you’ve done that so many times already, and yet the ones you’re trying to impress still see you as worthless?
“So what do you suggest then? Should we just silently accept things and follow the cynical route? Should we just curl up in a ball and cry ourselves to sleep, knowing that there’s nothing we can do about it?”
Although cynicism has its purpose, I am not suggesting that being cynical is the way to go. Curling up in a ball and crying ourselves to sleep would just be as inefficient as the delusion of working harder to get a different result.
Instead, I suggest that we work smarter and aim to become virtuous. I suggest that we fight for our rights and for what is right. I suggest that we try to analyze and understand the reason behind such bleak results. I suggest that we dare to ask the questions that none of our peers would. I suggest that we ask for transparency in everyone and have them lay everything out to us, so we would gain a better insight of what could be going on behind the scenes.
If life responds well to our queries, then good. Perhaps we can renegotiate and come to a better compromise.
If not, then we do what Zeno of Citium (the founder of Stoicism) did when he got shipwrecked in Athens and lost all of his money and possession in the process—weather through hardship by practicing the 4 Cardinal Virtues of Stoicism: Wisdom, Temperance, Justice, and Courage.
Despite it being far from perfect, I still like Stoicism very much. After all, it has helped me gain a better understanding of myself and it has also helped me toughen up in times when I really needed to.
I’m even going as far as to say that it’s one of the philosophies that we should all practice in real life because of its 4 Cardinal Virtues alone.
But, I also see just how narrow its vision can be and how easily anyone can misunderstand or abuse it, just so they would come off as cool or calm—depending on how they’d want to use it to serve their pretentions.
At the end of the day, what I want any form of philosophy to do for me is to help me live a more conscious and self-aware life.
A life where I’m continually improving and becoming a better person everyday, so I could be of service to my family, friends, and to those I encounter along the way.
At first glance, I’d assume that I look nothing but a simple individual. But, as simple as I’d like myself to be, I actually have three things going against me right now: anxiety, some physical head issues, and sleep. Now, you might be quick to point your stubby fingers at me and say “Everyone experiences those things sometimes! Get over it!”
In response, I’d like to say that’s very quick of you to judge. You don’t even know me personally, and yet you deliver your snarky remarks and tell me to just get over it, without even knowing full well what kind of hell I’m in? Well, if you’re going to judge me, I might as well tell you the truth.
The truth on how these three things: anxiety, some physical head issues, and sleep, have abused me.
Back in 2018, I was contracted TB (Tuberculosis) and was really frightened about it. I was frightened because I already had it in 2017, but I wasn’t able to finish my 6-month medication. I was worried that the disease might have gotten worse. Fortunately for me, that wasn’t the case.
Unfortunately, I also went through a series of tests at the same time, to try and figure out what was going on in my head—not metaphorically, but physically. I had a CT scan, had my ears checked, got my nostrils inspected too. Why did I get so many tests? Well, it’s because what I thought were just regular headaches had progressed into something much worse.
In just a short amount of time, I had developed tinnitus, vertigo, autophony (an abnormal phenomenon wherein someone hears the sound of their own voice and breathing, sort of like they have a bucket around their heads) due to a disorder called PET (Patulous Eustachian Tube), and an unrelenting pressure in my head and ears (it’s like something is trying to push my eardrums out).
Whenever I was having an autophony (which was every day), my ears would often make popping sounds too, especially when I breathed through my nose. You might think that something like that would just be distracting, but not enough to merit concern. I would’ve agreed with you if it only happened on rare occasions, but it was happening on a daily basis.
To make matters worse, every doctor I visited had no clue what was really wrong with me.
It wasn’t just distracting or uncomfortable for me. It was torture.
Anxiety is a term that people often use to describe someone who is always worried and perhaps a bit cynical.
However, since the term has been carelessly thrown around more times than how much the word itself likes, many folks seem to dismiss it as an “over reaction,” when in fact, it’s not. Anxiety isn’t just something that is in someone’s head.
Though it’s true that anxiety is a perfectly normal response for certain situations (i.e. having an exam, preparing for a job interview, having “stage fright”, etc.), what most of us forget is that everyone is not the same. For some, their worries can be so uncontrollable, it literally affects their daily lives and their quality of living.
I first noticed GAD manifest itself when, for the first time, I was living alone back in 2017. I was kind of forced to live alone because one of my older brother, who lived with me at the time, got arrested for pushing drugs.
Living alone made me more “on edge” and my heart was constantly beating faster than normal throughout the day. I began having vivid nightmares that would often wake me up in the middle of the night. I’ve always been a light sleeper too, which was only amplified by living alone.
I would wake up to the slightest sound, get up, check it, make sure the doors and windows are locked, and try to go back to sleep. Needless to say, the experience ramped my paranoia up to the 11th, worsening my already bad anxiety.
By 2018, my anxiety had reached a whole new level. I remember a time when I was at the office and I had to go to the comfort room. I was washing my hands when I noticed that my left eye was bigger that my right one, which is kind of normal.
However, I recall being so bothered by it (my skewed view of reality at the time made me think that my eyeball was sort of bulging out), the urge gouge my eyeball out violently rushed inside me. What’s even worse is that I kept going back to the comfort room because I felt that something was wrong with my eye, so I REALLY have to gouge it out and check it.
I would also spend most of my nights frozen in bed, with my heart pounding on my sternum, my left arm going numb, my legs feeling tingly, and my nape stiffening , making me feel like I was seriously going to die because I was having a heart attack.
I also remember being in denial. I remember that I’d convince myself that I didn’t have anxiety. I remember telling myself that I didn’t need help and that I had been through a lot already. I remember uttering the words “I’m so much more stronger than this!”
Luckily for me, my Project Manager at the time (PM Jay, if you’re reading this, thank you) helped me accept that I had GAD. I remember that we were chatting or texting on our phones in the late afternoon because I didn’t go to work that day. I told him my symptoms, to which he calmly explained that the symptoms was a clear indication that I had a shit ton of anxiety.
I asked “How do you know this?” and he simply replied “I know because I was diagnosed with it too.”
I remember crying tears of utter defeat. But at the same time, I felt a wave of relief wash over me because I knew what was wrong and that there’s something I can do about it. Later that evening, I went to a clinic, which was open almost 24/7, with a woman who I was dating at that time (whom I am now married to) and was finally diagnosed with it.
The doctor explained that my “heart attacks” were actually panic attacks, and that although they weren’t as deadly, it was still debilitating. I was prescribed some anti-anxiety medications that really helped and since then, I’ve been able to work my way around anxiety pretty well.
I had a rather momentous 2019 (I got married) and a not-so-happy 2020 (we all know why).
But one of the remarkable things about those past years is that I essentially was free from anxiety attacks and sleepless nights—until now.
For roughly 2 weeks now, I’ve been unable to sleep properly and I’ve been having mini “panic attacks” again, which also just happened last night. It peaked last week and now I’m noticing a pattern of being able to sleep one day, and then being unable to sleep on the next. It’s a truly messed up situation where I feel like my own body is toying with me, instead of giving us a much needed rest.
My anxiety isn’t helping too. I’ve reached a point where I’ve literally become paranoid about sleeping. The thought of being incapable of sleeping properly is enough to scare that it piles up to one of the reasons for my insomnia. The anxious thoughts in my mind make me wrestle the pillows and sheets in bed, hoping that my eyes would finally let me slumber.
But wait, there’s more! Every physical symptom that I’ve been experiencing in my head (pressure, vertigo, tinnitus, PET, etc.) has been amplified once more! It’s truly like 2017 and 2018 all over again.
Before I end, I would like to apologize to anyone reading this because of how lengthy it is. However, I’d like to thank you for taking the time to read this as well—despite knowing that I’ve written this mostly for myself.
I would also like to make a confession (this is the reason why I wrote this).
I admit that right now, I’m very afraid, anxious, and paranoid. My biggest fear is having SFI (Sporadic Fatal Insomnia), which I know is very rare, but it’s certainly lingering in the back of my mind. I will be going to a clinic during the weekend for a check up.
But just in case I truly am going to suffer an inevitable death due to sleep depravity, I would like to enjoy my remaining days, not full of fear, but full of love, happiness, and kindness.
It’d be an honor to embody what Johnny Blaze, a.k.a. the Ghost Rider, said: “You can’t live in fear.”
Every day, a hummingbird would visit me and say “You know the grass is always greener on the other side,” and every day, I would find myself looking through the diamond-shaped gaps on my side of the fence.
Every day, I muttered “The blades are thicker, the colors are richer, drops of dew make the lawn look sweeter,” beneath my breath, as I compared them to the grass I had, thinking “They’re of the same blades, they’re of the same colors, they have the same drops of dew, but theirs somehow look better.”
Every day, a hummingbird would visit me and say “You know the grass is always greener on the other side,” over and over, ’til i couldn’t take it no longer. I grip the diamond-shaped gaps on my side of the fence screaming “But the grass isn’t mine!” Only to be drowned by the droning words it keeps on repeating like a busted phonograph stuck on the same song line
The next day, the hummingbird didn’t visit me, but it no longer had to. By now, my eyes could only focus on the glistening grass and my nose could only smell the pungent soil mixed with manure tantalizing me.
The next thing I knew, I was cutting a hole through the fence. One that I could crawl through to get to the other side. When I got there, I began to dig the earth with my hands, chewing on leaves of grass and spongy mud with much vigor. I shouted “mine! mine! mine!” and flailed my hands, revelling in the achievement of getting what I wanted, albeit, by defiling the grass.
My neighbor watched in horror and disgust, as she called the police to arrest a depraved and greedy criminal. I told them “It’s not my fault, officer. The grass allured me! And there was the hummingbird too!” But they didn’t listen. Instead, they sent me here, where the grass is green, no fences are put up, and every dirt I could step on I can call mine.
One could say that this might be a paradise, but every so often, my thoughts would drift to the grass that was just beyond my side of the fence, and how it tasted like honey when I finally got to squeeze my hands around those thin and crisp blades of grass—and how I regret it.
The hummingbird stopped visiting me since I got here and I guess I could say I’ve been thinking a bit clearer now. However, I do have a new visitor—a shadow of a man— who talks to me everyday through a square glass in my bathroom.
We usually talk about random stuff, but today, he caught me thinking about the grass just beyond my fence again. He was silent for a while, staring into what seemed to be an blank space in the wall, before asking me “You want to know why the grass is always greener on the other side?”
I shook my head and said no, asking “Why is the grass greener on the other side?” He paused for a bit, he looked like he was brushing his chin, before answering “Because we always want to grab what isn’t ours and claim it as ‘mine.’” His words were like sharp daggers that plunged into my chest.
He got up and left the room after that, leaving me and my tear-stained cheeks alone.
Sit down, relax, & read 