Written Traces

Hey, sorry about last time. I was having a mental breakdown, and, as you probably know, it is better to rant on paper than aloud.  Of late, I'm losing track of time as well as of days and dates.  These days, it is not about what day it is but more like what it feels like to be.  Today, for instance, feels like a Saturday.  This is because today I feel like writing. Most of my writing is done on Saturdays. Why?  I don't know for sure, but it's been a long-standing coincidence. Or maybe because the mind quickly develops rituals of its own.  Anyway, coming back to writing.  As I was saying, most of my thoughts are penned on Saturdays. Be it in the form of a journal entry, a piece of prose, or a poem.  This made me think about something I learned while pursuing my master's in English Literature.  Literature has always been referred to as the artistic and creative expression in established forms of writing such as prose, poetry, novels, plays, and...

Life is not easy.  Life is difficult. Life is challenging. Life is relentless. Life is a battlefield, and you are the crippled warrior.  You don't stand a chance.  The only thing you can do is either fight with your dignity intact or surrender, smothering your own self-respect. My bad luck is that I chose the former.  People are fake in brief encounters.  People are selfish in the long run.  Tonight, I struggle to find anything worthwhile in the people I have encountered throughout my life. I'm writing this in a moment of profound frustration. Perhaps time will soften these words, but tonight, this is what the world feels like. For years, I have been instrumental in the success and upliftment of those I considered my own. My assistance is genuine, without any expectation of personal gain, only because I believe that when my time of need arrives, they will remember me. Instead they remind me, in ways subtle and obvious, that I am not worthy of their kindness...