My hands danced happily around the sleek keyboard in a fashionable, coordinated style. It was intuitive and brought my senses to life. The ideas were simply pouring in freshly, not because of epiphanies, but simply direction flow.
The direction I always sought — the one that finally freed me from writer’s block. However, it wasn’t always like this as I always feared the blank page.
When I started writing, the fear of sitting down and churning interesting articles scared me. And that fear isn’t specific; it’s managed to seep into many beginners in writing. …
Whenever I think of “My Perfect Day,” I think of a life devoid of the imperfections and limitations of what makes me human. It is a day when the realities of life merge with the imagination of an alternate reality. To me, it’s a day of joy, bliss, and vitality.
Hence, if I have to create the events of my perfect day in writing, it would go thus:
It would be on a momentous day. The memory of the day before would vanish in its entirety. This particular day would spark difference; it’d reek of a rarity — a rarity of my present world. …
“Don’t be a coward; hit back.” I remembered, quite frankly, how the weight of those words questioned my existence. It wrestled with my validity, a challenge that brought its fair share of doubts. Everything had happened fast. In an instant, I’d been in one of the ugliest scenarios I could ever think or wish to be in, to be bullied.
Throughout history, we’ve all been intimidated somehow, especially by ones in power. In some instances, it contributes to social order maintenance. While at other times, it can be harmful to others’ emotional, physical, and social welfare. …
Atheists are some of the hardest people to convince of a creator. I remembered my first conversation with an atheist. He is a respected professor in his field. He’d challenged my beliefs of a creator.
He started his conversation with many of the things he’s accomplished in his life, bragging that God never helped him achieve it. He made strong points and was convincing enough.
I patiently listened to his tirades, understanding and jotting down his points. He was impressive to watch.
Yes, after he finished speaking, I smiled and looked at him.
“Why don’t you believe in God?” …
You can’t be the best. You can’t be perfect. Perfection is relative. Some care; others simply don’t. The world, however, has plenty of good things to say about you. But you have to die first.
As humans, however, the innate desire to outshine at something is ingrained in us. Painfully, some have flared a wrong craving out of it and sought the fulfillment of unhealthy desires.
But then, there is something, a price to be paid, and it’s suffering the endless nightmare of wanting things to follow certainty and predictability.
The series of hard work, the sleepless nights you devote to your handwork — to your life, just to be the best. Afterward, you struggle with mediocrity; it is a curse bestowed on deficient ones. …
Therein lies the hurdle. . .
Therein lies the complexity of horror — the conflicts of past and future emotions, anxieties and pains, urging and pulling you into an ever-present weight of the burden.
We live in critical times that are hard to be dealt with. Our moods are dictated by the lives of others, the external influence of people’s worlds. We compare scenarios.
But you are saddened, that the world moves on while you are stuck in an empty chasm with no way out. …
Many beautiful, happy memories evoked from childhood. Life was simple, fast, and innocent. I’d remember how my innocence distorted my view of honesty.
There is a practice common with parents in this part of the world. As kids, we’d always loved to follow the trail of our mothers. But then, if our parents prepared for outings, eager as ever, we’d jump to our feet, beaming smiles of joy and ready to tag-along.
They loved us, and wouldn’t want to hurt our feelings. However, they’d want time to be alone, to breathe, and free from the responsibilities of family life occasionally.
They found a subtle way of leading us on. . …
At six o’clock, he would rise from his sleep, saunter into the shower, and prepare for work, his joy. “Another day in paradise," his usual chant. “How anyone loves doing pioneer work is beyond explanation,” I would rasp in bed. “I mean, how!”
Frustrated at the level of enthusiasm and joy he derives from his volunteering job, I confronted him in curiosity: “Hey, dude. How do you keep the drive despite the many challenges and setbacks you experience?”
“It brings me joy, and it brings others likewise. Above all, it’s love,” his words to me. …
What is the first thing you notice about a good piece of writing? Engagement! It connects with the readers.
Professional writers have a remarkable ability to find their reader’s attention, hold it, and effectively engage with it.
It is an excellent skill that has been mastered; and it directly brings them joy.
Whenever I read these books and articles from professional writers, I notice something, the first thing that whispers to my heart, and it is the way the message inspires and educates me.
Every word is carefully orchestrated and fine-tuned to preach a message.
I had long since faced issues of writing articles and stories that capture the hearts of my readers. My writings, as always described, were bland, dry, and vague. My mind and brain were in constant and strong opposition to the best way to pass a message. …
There was a hole in my life I stuck with, and it greatly affected my attitude. Some of the blame landed on my parents, while I redirected the lack of my sympathy and gloominess to my upbringing.
“They were always arguing, continually throwing tantrums, and defending arguments with a raised, nigh-deafening pitch,” I’d rasp. Perhaps life made me this way and carefully curated me to a questioning of my existence.
If it were not my childhood throwing jabs of regret at me, it would be my circumstances. Wild questions would fly in cacophonies snarling in my brain: “Why am I struggling to earn a decent living? If only my father were Jeff Bezos, I’d be hundred-fold happier than I am; or am I somehow related to him? Why aren’t people interested in talking to me? …