Memoir

The interview was a nightmare.  It took a certain amount of courage to sit in front of the board and sum great amount to summon enough knowledge to speak.  She was somehow having fifty percent of confidence to get it accomplish, yet another fifty percent fluctuant in deciding to being bold and arrogant, or humble and timid.  Any signs of giggling would identify herself as being weak and incompetent.



She was indecisive, as usual, and she hated herself for being so cautious of the little details that would hurt the consequences.

She pulled off the first interview with much humility and honesty.  The question opener generously directed the conversation into a more carefree and casual mode.  She felt comfortable, and was able to share as much of her knowledge and experience.

Despite of having experience the first interview, a year after she experienced the same anxiety.  However this time, she was alone.  She was about fifty percent relaxed from the experience of the past interview, another fifty percent increased in anxiety by the preparation done by the other candidates.  They were reading and memorizing notes as thick as a dictionary whilst her hands were holding scraps and pieces of papers.

The four square room, she remembered, sound-proof, and for all the things that could happen in there would be a secret between the two.  She was a lady, who greeted her with the only smile as she walked into the room.  Three seconds, and it faded into serious business.  She gave her the easiest question, yet expecting the wrong answer.  She was displeased when the answer was spelled out.  

She was a smart lady.  Theories somehow collided with current issues.  Whoever's good in theories are generally poor at current issues.  Whoever's good at current issues are generally poor at theories.  Likewise bookworms never updated themselves on facebook.  She was a very smart lady, indeed.  The questions took a different turn.  

Questions pointed were intimidating the other, showing her how little she knew.  She was obviously shrinking like a shrimp on the chair.  In another less than ten minutes, the interview ended.  The other spelt victorious, while leaving the poor soul on her knees defeated and ashamed.  Her last words were clear as yesterday's, "You will never be a good teacher."  The words plagued her like a curse.

Or was it true: I am a bad teacher.  

Books and Characters

Countless sleepless nights buried in books descended from the forefathers - the fathers of sciences and maths unfathomed by times and ages.  The contents never ceased but continued to astound men of varied generations.  

She remembered reading to herself, reasoning and convincing facts to stick up as much as she could in that tiny brain of hers.  Someone once quoted, "My brother's a genius.  I wish I could fold him up and put him in my pockets."  She laughed remembering that brainiac.  Just as much as she wanted to, he said "Study Hard".  She remembered each words said to the end of their meanings however simple and stupid they sound.

Study's not about learning mad-scientists ideas, cramming theories and formulae of disorganized patterns.  Instead, patterns were carefully observed and studied, which somehow were organized in manners which left men in wonders for centuries.  

Hypotheses were written with immense curiousity, experimented with enthusiastic energy, observed with delicate eyes, refined by knowledge and experience and shared generously among generations.  

Dear students, inertness, thus a character, forbid you of exciting chain reactions.  Explode and be a star.

The Plague

She sat on the barren land wondering how things had come to pass.  Her feet exhausted from all the wanderings, her brain clogged with dilemmas, issues she wanted to erase.  The flaws were resurfacing.  When morning came, distastefulness no longer lurked in shadows.  However ugly things were, they would be revealed. 

Her hair turned grey.

She recalled of things that she failed to accomplish.  Tomorrow crept on like forever.  Words of empty promises were far less convincing.  Vulgarity remained vain and meaningless.

She heard voices in her head.  Voices with words too many to understand.  Instructions were easier to follow than to scrutinized the rationale of ideas delivered.  The voices of angels and demons were no longer significant.  Who's who?

She had made bad choices.  Years of education had fed her enough intelligence to distinct the right from wrong.  In spite of that, the slightest of mistakes were seemingly acceptable.  The comfort of making mistakes were slowly fitting her appetite.

God remained quiet.  Her cries echoed in the loneliest of night.  The night responded with nothing but silence.  The stars hang up above the sky shining ever so brightly in their innocence.  Or perhaps maybe, after a hangover, they spoke nothing of hope, faith and love. 

Thus, this series of unfortunate events would follow like a passing river, never ending, never ceasing.  Its tagline was plagued with curses.  

Chasing Clouds

It had been a week now, and the anger had not subsided.  The people spoke their minds boldly and generous.  The voices were radioactively red.  People were hurling insults at each other.  There were so much hatred in conversations, which almost always ended with heated debates.  

She felt secluded.  Maybe she had been away from the society for far too long, the dilemma was too far-stretched for her understanding.  She wondered if she had made the right choice for the choices had been too confusing to be precisely correct.  What's fair and what's right?  Even the powerhouse which she had always turned to was preaching words against her beliefs.  What are they preaching? What have they heard?  The thoughts confused her.

Nation fought against nation.  Even without weapons of mass destruction, demolition was done through horrible quotes of the mouths.  The beautiful languages of the forefathers were monopolized and abused.   The voices represented who we are, yet it was foul and deprived of intelligence.  The society was broke. 

Where's trust and unity?  Where's faith and hope?  

A Few Good Men

The men pulled their way to the seats at the table while grinning away wittingly.  She was surprised of their behaviours and stared into the moment with eyes wide.  Neither of the men were surprised at all.  They carefully seated themselves, and along came another, and another, and finally... she studied the last behaviour to digest correctly.  She was all confused, even when the old ones started to converse.  

The conversation was ungenuine and awkward.  She didn't like the lie that was about to unfold before her.  It didn't made her feel comfortable at all.  The woman who betrayed her avoided eye contact.  She knew exactly what was happening.  She had no second thought, but was attempting to dart anytime.  

As rude as she could be, she responded poorly.  The lie betrayed her and she hated it.  Does it matter how I feel?  She couldn't make the sense out from the person in whom she trusted the most.  I trusted you and that I was looking forward for a day well-spent but you took me in like your toy.  She was both angry and disappointed.  She didn't know how she should respond.

Dear parents, there were very few wonderful men.  Your son was one of them.  Do not feel obliged for i am not the one you'd feel most welcomed at your home.  Your son is capable of making the right choice.  Let him choose from among the ones he loves. 

Dear Life

I remember the day I cursed you with my own lips,
It leaves me always wondering if it's just too much,
When words spill out, I just can't control,
It goes on and on, and sting like bees.

Their eyes are wide, they let me know,
I am bemused when i fool you in,
Even when words arranged are contextually wrong,
I know you'd be merciful to turn me in.

The days went on guiltless and innocent,
I am so bored, tired, and restless,
Until you hit me and my world went dark,
I became dumb, wordless, and grieved for grace.

Dear Life,
I couldn't bear to see you standing next to my dead body,
You grip me closely that i have a chance to breathe,
I'd run a thousand miles, trembling in fear, and scared,
Death takes me away with no goodbyes.

Hands Write Stories

Sixteen entries in a month, beyond her expectation - the task, not easy.  She was cracking brains, and squeezing words, but as the lines pursued, they flow like a river.  She was happy she made time to pen down experiences of each heartaches.  The grumblings were heartbreaking but healing came as she pondered upon each situation carefully.  

From the time she was so sad and angry she wanted to scream but didn't, she could still feel her throat trembled in pain.  And the time when she wanted to throw everything up but resisted, her hands shivered feebly.  She were always the weaker ones, but things could go so wrong, if, she fought back.  It wasn't right, and it shouldn't be that way.  

She didn't always make the right decision, maybe never, that was how she had been told.  She sometimes reflected upon the things she did and wondered how things had gotten so wrong.  Why did it happen when it shouldn't happen in the first place?  These were all stories.  Stories she had to unravel as she encrypted the tattoos imprinted on her.