Tag / personal

by MNK

Close to Closure

It took two frustrated attempts to ignite the lighter, his hands shaking. The ocean air was too damn cold: he remembered it once as a peaceful sensation but now it just made him apprehensive, almost bitterly so. The flame caught the tip of his cigarette pinched halfheartedly between his lips, and died against the wind a moment later.

How long ago was it he started smoking? He asked himself the question without wanting the answer. He knew. He didn’t want to remember.

I wish you didn’t smoke those.

He turned his head and coughed violently, spitting the cigarette into the sand. His lungs were screaming in rebellion as they did every year, every time he came to this spot and inhaled that stupid, masochistic poison, and every time he hated himself just a little bit more because he didn’t want to remember.

And because he did.

Shifting footsteps and a red sunset and the feeling of butterflies and the sunkenness of a lost anchor, anxious hope and worthlessness. A thousand peaceful sounds time-locked in an overplayed memory. A picturesque romance typecast the enemy. A mistake.

The cigarette had gone cold but its job was finished. It was the smell and singular taste of sincerity. It was a sacrificial ritual in progress for decades.

He hated these fragmented thoughts.

What do you think you’re doing? Do you really think so little of me you’d make some stupid assumption like that?

I was just worried about you.

That’s a lie. You don’t get to barge into my life whenever you feel like playing lifeguard.

It was a punch in the gut, a lifelong fear. It had to be saved…

No, hey, I just want you to be happy. You know how I feel, you know I would never… never smother you.

Stop. You don’t get to do this. An exasperated sigh. He could smell that scent on her breath. You can’t just be a hero. You always assume the worst in people, like the world is a big black hole and you’re the only one that hasn’t been sucked in. It’s not a reality for us: it’s a reflection of you, because you just couldn’t stand living on without having someone to rescue. You need a damsel in distress. You don’t want me to be happy. You just need someone pitiful enough to save you from yourself.

One final exhale. A cigarette dropped in the sand and its scent hung in the air. It’s all that was left. All that could be known again.

The coughing stopped but his eyes were watering and the cold saltwater air didn’t help. He stood on stiff joints and brittle bones, muttering to himself. The stars were bright in the sky but he hadn’t the strength to care anymore.

I wish you didn’t smoke those.

He imagined it was her saying those words but he shut his eyes at the thought. He didn’t deserve them. He didn’t deserve any one of them.

 

by MNK

In Limbo #2

I have refrained from social media for almost a year now. I have no Twitter, no Facebook, no Instagram. And the platforms I do have, such as this site, I have no presence.

It’s an uncomfortably awkward situation, to have no presence yet wish to speak to the void regardless. Not many people are aware I have this page, and even fewer are interested in my hobbies. Perhaps no one is anymore. Those that were are gone now.

So where is this now? It’s incredible to look at my work on Supaku and realize it’s been over two years since I started the damn thing, and even longer since Senseless was updated. My interest in these universes hasn’t changed, but my voice faltered for a long time. I don’t feel embarrassed to say that, because it’s a reflection of my change as a human being, and a reflection of the flaws that I recognize in myself. Creation is a critical facet of growth, and to me it’s an astonishingly satisfying aspect of social interaction. I deeply enjoy the thoughtful reactions to my stories, but I think that’s a problem when it comes to proper motivation because, well…

If no one cares about reading it, what’s the point.

“Why would you say that, of course there’s a purpose! You write for yourself!”

Well, yes, in a sense. I create stories because they’re fun, but they’re also a lot of work. Most of my ideas are dreams and daydreams, suspended and muddied somewhere in my head, and whenever I’d like I can visit those thoughts and just soar through them as I please. Why would I spend my time working for someone else who doesn’t exist if I could just drift pleasantly through these dreams? There are obvious arguments against this mode of thought, but it remains.

“That’s disappointing.”

Yes, it is. To be completely honest, the situation is far more complex than this timid example, but much of the rest are more-or-less private matters unfit for public display. I keep away from social media for many reasons, and one of them is my dedication not to air my dirty laundry for a few pitiful likes. While I publish this update for my future self, I hope if there’s anyone reading this they can respect my reflections as partial glimpses into a situation that could never be explained in a single post.

White, Black, and Everything in Between. Neon Lights and a Testarossa. The Acquired Taste of a Bad Cigarette. These are the titles of stories I left half-finished this year. Maybe they’ll see light someday, and maybe they won’t. Perhaps the most important thing is that they were ideas that saw some form of immortality on paper. Perhaps the most important thing is that they existed at all: it’s proof that I’m not dead quite yet.

I’d like to finish this somewhat dreary and confusing post by saying if you’re reading this, thank you. I needed to write a bit about my frustration and I want to emphasize I’m not done. My method of writing has always been haphazard but recently I began outlining the structure of my Supaku novel and I’ve had so many exciting ideas I can’t wait to grow into something I can be proud of. In the future, I’d like to make more posts like this because, as you can likely tell, I’m rusty as hell and I need practice. Apart from my fiction, I’m confident I can write about general life, motivation, and social things. I don’t expect them to be popular or relevant, but they would be a fantastic archive of my thoughts and growth. What would this site be if it were just years-old stories and depressing Limbo posts?

Answer: exactly what it is right now. And that’s just unacceptable!

by MNK

Desiderata

“What are we doing?”

The same thing over and over. The candles in the corner flicker; they don’t last very long. The sun will rise long after the wax is gone and the wick burned black. The air is stale and warm. In the hall is the sound of a slowly dripping faucet, the faint heartbeat of a placid house.

“What—”

“We’re learning.”

It’s true: it’s the closest thing to truth, at least. What else is there to say? Too much in too little time.

There’s reason in that truth: fear. It permeates and settles easily in those subtle places. Human nature seizes a piece of that bond between two people, a piece scattered and buried and made nondescript. It becomes a fear of the well-trodden path.

It becomes depression and monotony, the infinite sense of worthlessness. Her eyes are cast downward against the sun. The bedsheets are twisted and unkempt. Her smiles are reserved for strangers and stranger friends. There’s a slight and cold breeze in the air and the gas tank is close to empty.

It becomes anxiety and paranoia. Her lips are parting and closing with a whisper and the breeze seems to deaden at the sound. Someone jogs by on the sidewalk without looking up. She can’t remember if she left the front door open, she can’t remember if he was supposed to visit, she can’t remember—

Why would anyone care about you?

She can’t remember.

“We’re learning.”

They huddle close together. The bedsheets are folded back and the rising sun is soft and warm through the window, a pleasant prickling on the skin. A lengthy silence follows, a natural and gentle stillness. One of them shifts away.

“I hope so.”

by MNK

Desolate Concern

“Why do you care?”

The question is grating. It’s saturated with a horror and a hopelessness akin to perhaps an evolution, yet where can they say it’s grown?

It didn’t used to be this way. They didn’t used to vilify these things. It was always a little cold outside, and the sidewalk a little dirty but that was okay. The beachfront was always busy, always with surfers and swimmers, always with playful dogs that leapt through the saltwater foam and kicked sand all around, always with silent joggers and their bouncing ponytails or ballcaps or earbuds, always with happy children and always with older folk content to walk at a tranquil pace. Holding hands. Always.

It’s not there anymore. It’s in memory, somewhere, inaccessible because of the question. It is a roadblock and it is hideous.

Can they call it growth if it is backwards? The sidewalk is clean now, and unbearably hot. There is no ocean, only sand and asphalt, metal and concrete. Can they say this is growth? Time has passed, but not even that is linear. Maybe if they stepped to the side they could see. Perspective is reality. Maybe if they tried to look at it another way… maybe it’s worse than they imagined.

But it is not a collective problem. Perhaps “they” is inappropriate.

“Why do you care, Jack?”

Because her eyes agree with him. Yes, that is the cautious enigma, how typical and naïve, how confusingly predictable, how dull and uninteresting! There is an ardent longing for something so long ago lost yet so close to heart. There is no need for regrets upon the deathbed: pain can be a learned lesson, like waves on the beachfront, that thing that never escapes from memory. Pain can be a reminder of something beyond its face value, of something greater.

Pain can become closure, if you allow it.

He wanted to answer the question. The words were stuck in his throat.

She wasn’t there. The room was quiet, the curtains closed and a small ray of light shone onto the bed. An unused ashtray sat on the dresser. Someone outside laughed.

He looked back at the mirror.

by MNK

An Ardent Longing for Something Lost

It’s raining. Of course it’s raining. And the leaves on the trees are whipping around wildly, a discouraging sight from the bedroom window. Because the rain is a melancholic reminder, unsure if whether revising the memory is even a decent idea or not but definitely out of the question if the wind is strong enough to sting and jolt and leech the warmth and happiness from the skin.

Rain is a romantic backdrop, and most importantly a terribly cliche yet worthwhile foreground. And tied to an open wound of a memory only serves to make it depressingly peaceful.

“It’s nice,” she says. She likes the rain, too. Standing in it together with neither coat nor umbrella just served to strengthen that endearing moment. There are so many of those moments tied inexplicably together, where every breath, blink, and heartbeat is unabashedly wonderful, a shameless smile. A bond. To be with a woman that never ceases to amaze is a truly remarkable life.

The rain. The idea deserves a conclusion but it will never achieve one. The rain is an ache now. The story, a counterpart in its opposite, longs for a sequel but it was retired far too long ago. The wind is biting and the rain is a whisper, an intimation. Going out would be an unpleasantness, and now–today and tomorrow–perhaps it would be better to stay inside and close the blinds.

by MNK

In Limbo #1

No one wants to be at this point, here in writing limbo. School has picked up again, a certainly interesting affair that prevents me from doing the things I wish I were doing. I would like to continue to churn out the lives of Sapphira, Ryo, and with the most recent short story slowing down, the trauma-stricken Katherine. It’s been far too long since I’ve made a post, but I must persist in the promise that I will make something new soon, along with a post from some of my older materials.

I am somewhat hesitant on discussing the further details of life as I find them personally unbearable from a stranger’s mouth. I do, however, think it is important to recognize and allow others to recognize the problematic points that really affect myself and very likely countless others.

I am not special. I’m a human amidst humans. I am not special. The work I can do is special, is unique, and runs of the risk of becoming something horrifyingly extraordinary. I go to school, I clock in at work, I greet people with smiles but that does not make me stand out. The things I can create have a footprint. They are digitized and in readable ASCII and hopefully will be on readable paper, the kind that eventually emits a pleasant smell to the reader. You can’t smell a computer screen.

The point here is being so focused on the trivial things, the things that no one will remember, least of all yourself. Creation is the greatest gift to others. Practiced creation is the greatest gift to yourself. It begets both failure and accomplishment of the most memorable degree, and without the former there will never truly exist the latter, because true success is a learned tool. The trivial things can wash away this principle in a mudslide of melancholic misery, as it has for myself. I find the memory of most days erased by the next sunrise. I find the thought of celebrating every New Year’s Eve wondering just what the hell I did for the last 365 days absolutely appalling; if it can be boiled down to a handful of rudimentary habits and routines then why am I still here?

There needs to be a purpose.

I would like to go further into the subject at a later point, and I do sincerely apologize for the stream-of-consciousness style writing. For now, I’d like to leave it as-is, and perhaps think about committing some effort to writing a pseudo-philosophical piece on the subject in the future. In the meantime, farewell!