It is a waste to ignore the musings of the mind.
|Writing is the communication of the writer's hopes and dreams. To write is to express the laughter, the tears, the joys of the heart. It is the writer's desire to communicate all his feelings and desires in her/her heart to a reader.|
|It is rather sad to listen to The Cure, to her/his interpretation of a love song. She/he looked awfully sad; terribly no life at all; and almost to the brink of tears. However, I guess that was rather how they do interpret their love song, what?
Now, if I was in love, I would shout it out so the world would know that now my life has become a partnership, a life of sharing and having fun. Love is something that must make one happy, full of hope and a future of a life with someone. There is hope when one finds love because now the one becomes a partner to another, a new outlook, a new beginning for two people who have come together, to love, to honor, to make plans for a brighter future.
Yes, love should mean happiness.
|Hurrah!!! Hurrah!!! Maybe now that vaccinations are going on, we may begin to breathe properly again (without masks); we may again be able to rejoin our family and friends in celebrating the eradication of such an infectious disease; and perhaps our world will again LIVE to its fullest !!!
I understand that perhaps it is a bit too early to get out and celebrate; however, there is that tiny hope that our world will again become fully active in all senses of the word; and one day soon, our world will shine again, live again without the fear of getting ill or dying.
I fell like I want to fly and feel the freshness of the world around me!!!
Are you with me????
|And so the path to a new world, free of Covid-19 and all similar diseases, is now at hand, with vaccinations going on as pandemically as our world turns around. There is a hope of a life that is not restricted to distancing and masking one's face or washing one's hand diligently.
Vaccinations are here, and there is a hope that EVERY ONE will commit to have the first as well as the second vaccine. It is only right, not only for one's health but also for the good of the community of people that makes up our good earth. Let us not distant ourselves from this vaccine that may become the cure to not only our illnesses but also to the sickness of the mind of many of our communities. In the long run, it is OUR WORLD, OUR COMMUNITY, OUR LIFE. Let us not DISTANT OURSELVES FROM EACH OTHER.
|Someday soon, we shall see the bright new day that will banish from us all the worries, illnesses, and infectious diseases that brought our world into chaos. Look up, look beyond that horizon, and see the tiny ebbs of light that will bring us again the many goodness of life, living life, that is.
Welcome to my world NEW WORLD, the world of living!!!
|In a world of coronavirus, we are seemingly imprisoned within the confines of our homes. Some of us may rebel against this confinement; although some of us are quite agreeable to it. We continue to read about the surge of this disease. We are angry; we resist to follow the rules of confinement; we carry on as if there is really no virus that is making people terribly ill and dying. We are what we are, a people of conviction; a people without conscience.
Why do we rebel? Why do we insist on breaking rules of good conduct? Why????
When this Covid-19 finally leave our world, we shall still continue to behave as we are: people who are prepared to justify what we always want to do; and that is, to insist on our own freedom; to think, to behave, to live.
Is it worth it????
|Isolation in the midst of a floating, harmful disease!!! So, we are all in this pandemic together - isolated yet together in our thinking, in the middle of sickness and death, in the rush to find a vaccine. What comes next? A cure? A new vaccine? What is there to hope for? More viruses? More pain and death?
To probably many of us this year's global sickness that came in the middle of our enjoyment of life, of togetherness with family and friends, of living a good life; and now we are distant away from each other. But now there is fear in our hearts; a virus that would not go away; a sickness that has come to stay. How long are we to isolate ourselves? How long are we to suffer this kind of illness? When is a cure to be announced by experts? Is there hope of a cure?
The arrival of coronavirus in our midst has completely taken us in a whirl. We are just rolling along, going from here to there, yet getting no release from the fear of an illness that is debilitating? We question those who know what kind of life comes after all the rush of testing and testing. Is this virus going to be with us all our life? We hear of many things from experts, and yet none of those things are even close to giving us respite from the fear of the virus. Are we forever trapped in this era, the year of 2020, that is so devastatingly filled with pain and death?
And so the world continues to live, to experience the hopelessness of a virus-free world, to hope for tomorrow's world to be free from coronavirus. And so we wait. We hope. We live, isolated from each other; away from the warmth of love and joy that we have with our families and friends; fears and forboding in our midst. Take care. Pray.
|Listening and digesting.
Why should one listen? There are times when we find ourselves totally out of touch with what is going on around us. We are deaf to ideas that are being floated around. We are stuck with what we want to write, we miss to listen to other's ideas. We begin to think ours is much, much better; and what others are saying are nothing but rot.
Listening does not mean we agree to what we are hearing. It means we must open our minds to what is being said, understand what those ideas are, and then analyse those ideas; are they positive? negative? adjustable? There are things we do not understand, and listening is a good way to make our writing go the better way.
Digesting comes after we understand what ideas we have listened to and about. We turn those ideas around; we review the meaning of those ideas; we do a complete read about those ideas; then we take what is good and best from those ideas, and turn them into a first rate fiction/nonfiction.
|A Story of Life
At 78 she thought she was ready to go home. Home, where Mom and Pop were. She also thought she was tired. Tired of counting her pennies. Tired of her aches and pains. Tired of her sisters.
She sniffed. Tears welled in her eyes. Remembering, how her two younger sisters treated her with disrespect. She was much older than them, about five years. They screamed at her when she could not remember things, like making her bed, like turning off the light in the bathroom, like calling them. She resisted calling them. She knew she was going to be scolded. Therefore, it was no problem to her not to call them.
When her beloved husband passed, she knew she had to call them. They did come to his funeral, even donated a sum of money to help with the expenses. To her dismay, before they left, they assumed she was going to sell the house. They expected to be informed of the sale and the amount she was to get. They wanted her to help fund the schooling of her nieces, three of them.
She did not want to tell them she had debts, debts so large, the money out of the sale of the house hardly covered the debts. She was devastated when they got furious. Their anger reached the point of hatred, in their eyes, words that stung from their mouths, disgust at her for not heeding their request.
She sat on her bed that morning, crying to herself. She wanted to die right there and then. She got off the bed. The dizzy spells that had been a bother to her during the last few weeks suddenly got hold of her. She could not focus, she felt sick to her stomach, and then there was nothing.
She did not know how long she had been on the floor. She heard knocking on her door. She could not speak. Her throat was dry, awfully dry, it felt like her whole mouth was about ready to be ripped into pieces. The knocking continued. She tried to get off the floor, twice she fell back. And then the knocking stopped. In the silence, in her apartment she laid still, crying softly.
Three days later, she awoke in a hospital bed. The people around her were faces of strangers. She looked for her sisters among the strangers. She turned to her side, convinced her sisters were not among them. She knew then, she must forgive them.
|The memory keeps coming back:
The barrio was small. There were but 100 or so residents, most of whom were related to each other.
The war, the 2nd World War, came tumbling into the barrio. The platoon of Japanese soldiers shouted their commands. They want all young men assemble in the village hall.
The leader, a Corporal got hold of an old villager. He demanded an interpreter, one who speaks English. Fear made the old villager run to Rosa.
That was me. I was visiting the barrio that time. There was fear in the barrio. Men, women, children stayed in their homes. Word spread very quickly: these Japanese are cruel. They hurt people. They shoot people. The usual gathering at the hall did not materialize. The young men did not appear. There were none in the barrio at that time. Only old men presented themselves to the Japanese Corporal.
The Corporal screamed in anger. Where are the young men, he asked me. I told him there were no young men in the barrio. They were all away - on a job or searching for jobs outside of the barrio.
The Corporal looked at the four old men who presented themselves. There was fear in their eyes. They had to present themselves to save the women and children. The Corporal was an angry man, he was almost spewing saliva.
He ordered his men to round up buckets and fill them with water. He ordered planks of wood to be brought to him. He was giving orders upon orders, getting madder each time he screamed.
Then he started his tortures. He ordered his men to torture the old men. The four, old villagers, all aged somewhere between 70-80 were made to lay on the ground. The Japanese soldiers poured water into their mouths. Then they stepped on the villagers' tummies. Then, they were whipped with planks of wood, on their backs, on their sides, on all sides of their bodies.
I sat on the side of the hall, shivering with fear. I could not protest. I could not do anything to help the old villagers. My heart bled with tears.
The 2nd World War came to our barrio that day.
|I saw him and I wanted to cry. He was just a young boy, not over 18 years old, sitting at a corner of the road I travel so often, not actually begging; just sitting there, all alone, his eyes were unseeing; his face was a conglomeration of fear, worry, discomfort; his arms were draped over his knees, as if to say, this is me, this my body, I have preserved it; his hair, which looked like it was dark black before, and was now clipped close to his skull; he was alone.
I sat in my car and watched him, tears streamed down my face, a memory of something gone from me bubbled through my mind. What was it? I rooted out the hard, darkness that hid a part of me that was too painful to recall; and still I could not fathom what it was that made me cry, to see a young boy by the side of the road.
When I looked at him again, he was gone! I fired the engine, in such a hurry, I banged my head against the window. I must find him. Where did he go? I drove on to the road and looked at my left, at my right, but he was nowhere. I wondered if I shall see him again?