Dan Brown wrote fiction. A lot of writers do. It should be taken as fiction, and not offensive. In several notable movies, books, and videogames, America has put some heat on Russia, as well as other countries. You don’t see the other countries complain. They do something about it, or at least be the “bigger man” and not retaliate towards a senseless notion. Think about that, Philippine Government.Complaining is a sign of immaturity, it shows that the person (who complains) is lazy, and simply wants things changed to suit his/her preferences. Doing something about what a person dislikes is more mature, simply because that person becomes the change he/she wants to see. I have learned that the hard way myself. Think about that, Mr. MMDA Chairman.
If the Philippines does not want an image of negativity to be portrayed, ever, then MMDA better start cleaning up the rest of the country, because I’m sure that a lot of other novels (several of them, I have in my collection of books) have mentioned the Philippines as a rather shabby place. Again, do not complain. Do something about it. Think about that, Filipino populace.
We can’t all be good guys forever; someone has to be the bad guy for the greater good. I hope Dan Brown is laughing at the Philippine people who are hurt over his novel. I hope he laughs heartily, because I know that I am a Filipino and I will be laughing heartily with him. For this, I write a limerick:
I write this so they’d understand,
I curse to not make this so bland,
You get what you give, and they gave him no rib.
So there’s nothing for them to demand.
A book is a true work of fiction,
But for people with quite little diction,
They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
Cause’ they feel that they’re being picked on.
The truth is that they are such assholes,
Who complain about being called assholes,
They’d rally and fuss, and sometimes they cuss,
‘Cause they do what’s expected of assholes.
I write this because I’m afraid,
For a country that’s been so depraved.
With leaders like shit, and a faith that sucks dick,
We’re the prostitute that never gets paid.
I know that my limerick sucks,
For many who do give a fuck.
Wait till you see, there’s nothing wrong with me.
Even you’ll be afraid to cluck.
A good man had written a rhyme,
It hurts your pride, even mine.
I come from a place, that even I can disgrace,
The proud country that’s dragging behind.
A good man had written a book,
The Filipino people it shook,
I hope that with me, he is smiling with glee.
For the offenses that everyone took.
* ALL COMMENTS ARE NOT MEANT TO INSULT, THEY ARE JUST COMMENTS.
He was surprised when she accepted his offer. Out of so many candidates he’d extended the offer to, including some of his closest friends, she was the only one who accepted. A distant acquaintance, not even a friend, would devote herself to his work. Grateful for it, he would take care of her; feed her, clothe her, and let her live around the lab for quite some time, until the birthing. A courtesy, at least, or so he would say. Just until the birthing, then she’d be gone. It started simply, the two of them consistently working around the laboratory; she helping him with whatever she could. She wasn’t a genius, but he didn’t need one. He just needed a surrogate. She’d often times cook for him as he furiously masturbated, collecting samples of himself for testing and improving. When he wasn’t masturbating, himself, he would have her do it in front of him, as to achieve the perfect combination of sperm and egg. She was religious with regards to her tasks. Then came the time and throughout the insemination, he held her hand. Soon enough, the months flew by, and he took care of her. Every nitty-gritty need and want, he provided. Before she’d die, it was only decent for him to at least make her life a little more happy. A courtesy, at least, or so he would say.
Just before he drew and exhaled his last breath. The Figure spoke, a small set of sentences. Five to be exact. Just long enough for him to hear and understand It’s perspective on all of this. Just long enough for a quick lamentation before his departure.
“My dear Father, you have forgotten to see, that your supposed lack of love was merely life’s trickery. You failed to see, Father, that the love my Mother had for you was tremendous, such that, she would have given birth to you, yourself, sacrificing her life, if only, to please you. I know, dear Father, that this is a mistake that I will not make for you have born me well. I am your spawn, Father, I am you. Thank you.”
He closed his eyes, exhaling for the last and first time. The Figure stood up, soaked with the red life that his Father had neglected to appreciate. Looking around, It saw the predicament, and though It knew that there was someone out there to love It, It couldn’t help but cry for the loss of the man who loved himself too much, such that It was spawned out of hatred and contempt for this world; this reality. It lost the only man it would ever love. That was the It’s reality, and slowly, It began to slit It’s own throat. The blood once more filled It’s chest, It’s small piece of undergarment clothing, It’s legs, then the floor. It would all be over soon. It needn’t wait for too long. Not for long.
It has come to my attention that the TV show called “Budoy” on a local channel here in the Philippines called ABS-CBN (no correlation to CBN whatsoever, as of my knowledge), has garnered a great deal of popularity. From regular conversations, to watching the show every night it is available, to even vandalizing the tables of my University’s (University of the Philippines Los Baños) classrooms (I didn’t take the photo yet) with the astoundingly simple-yet-pleasing logo of the show (as seen in the opening photo for this article). Most talk that floats around where I study and in my circles of friends regarding this, are commonly reduced to mimicking the lead character, by the name of Budoy, when it comes to his linguistic wordplay. Now, I believe that there is a fine line between comedy or satire, and the actual thing that the satiric role suggests to criticize. The way I see it, people have been dancing around this as if it were a ballet performance. (Think Giselle, or any other ballet play, where they jump across the floorboards, tiptoeing as if it were actually beneficial to them to subject their toes to such harsh conditions.) This is why I have summed up 3 reasons as to why the show is rather counterproductive, in terms of the sarcastic scenario stated above. You can see the ABS-CBN Website’s page for Budoy, here.
Now before you go on telling me to watch it first, I already have (two or three times), and I still think that my reasons are legitimate. Take a read!
Reason 1: Television is a Medium for Knowledge
I personally don’t watch the show as often as I should, and almost despise the innate lack of grammar with the words he speaks. (No offense to the mentally challenged) It’s just that these things become infectious, and they are generally highly attractive to most commonplace people, thus allowing their minds to be manipulated in such a way that their grammar, instead of getting better through a very useful medium of communication, gets worse.
Television is a medium, and what do mediums do; they give off information, that’s what. If you knew how much horseshit mass media is feeding us, I doubt you’d want to shit your pants for a week. Maybe even ever again. Trying to find a needle in a haystack, substituted for truth in the lies respectively doesn’t do it justice. Trying to find that needle, in a mountain of shit; that sounds more apropos.
If the television shows provided more educationally correct shows, then we would have less of a problem with our country’s innate lack of education for the children (which will hopefully solve our “corruption problem”). Since the children “are the future”, why not give them something to work with, rather than just grabbing the money and running, resulting in the catastrophe Peter Parker achieved in Spider Man 1?
Of course with the exception of the masses “pwning” the TV stations. Unless those bastards have hooked up DOTA to their database. That would be a totally different story.
Reason 2: Media Rules The World
It is the Age of Information, and more or less, everyone’s buying in on it. Ironically, this gave birth to one of the most idiotic generations humanity has ever seen, wherein people can’t even go outside to do a little exercise coz they’re reaching a new level on Skyrim. Either that or they’re waiting for their favourite TV soap opera to arrive. Or maybe some are just furiously masturbating to Next Top Model with Tyra Banks.
The least those TV companies could do, would be to provide something educational. If they’re worried about ratings, then have all the channels carry the same intellectual background so that there will be no choice as to what stupidity the masses would prefer. They’d be forced to learn something new every time. Just think of it as Discovery Channel on every channel in your 100 station cable/satellite subscription; except with the option as to what you will learn.
It’s almost a monopoly, anyway, so why not have the TV stations come to a decision that will help the future generations learn how to speak and communicate properly so that they may not have to go through the chaos that was The Tower of Babel in the Bible. (Just a reference, I am not religious, however I do enjoy reading the scriptures of various religions.) I’m just saying we need to grow the heck up as a race, stop thinking about ourselves, and save the generation that you claim are “the future” or the “brighter tomorrow”.
Reason 3: People Are Gullible
Going back to Budoy, it is said to be a wonderfully inspirational story. Although that may be true, people should be aware that this show is not meant to be re-enacted in everyday life. They should differentiate comedy or art altogether from reality. If they cannot find a way to let the viewers know this, then it is better off that they cancel the show altogether.
If you want people to behave properly, then put proper TV shows on for everyone. Define what makes it artistic and what makes it comical, from the cold hard reality of life. People can hope and aspire to achieve a better life, but that doesn’t mean they have to do those bullshit things that happen in the movies/TV soap operas. That’s the whole reason why those poor folks keep living the way they do. They expect some “Prince Charming” or some “Wonderfully Placed Stroke of Sheer Luck” to arrive. What happens to them when it doesn’t? Nothing, and the TV stations make away with all that money.
I know it’s going to be very difficult to proceed with the aforementioned plan, but I mean, come on, at least Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men provided us with a sane interpretation of what would really happen to someone as odd as Budoy, or in the case of the book; Lenny, in the real world. (For those of you who don’t know, Lenny is shot in the head by his best friend as a form of mercy killing, since half the fucking town was out to kill the poor bastard.) If Steinbeck could do it, so can a big group of media-makers and talented people. Heck, even Forrest Gump contributed to a little bite of that reality sandwich.
Although in spite of all of this, Budoy seems to be a heart-warming show, that, even though it causes such effects on children and the future generations, one can still appreciate the art involved with the simplistic love felt by the mentally challenged. Good day!
* This post shares only my thoughts and opinions on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
** This post is meant for satiric purposes and not for offense to the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
*** This does not portray/represent the thoughts of all other critics on the show or any other mentioned form of TV/Movie media here.
**** This does not intend to badmouth the propagators and/or viewers of the shows mentioned.
***** Images are courtesy of Google Image Search.
****** This is just for fun, so just enjoy. Thanks!
(c) Anachronic Works 2011
I can’t say that this world, and this letter, would mean something, something more than love, but inevitably, my mind had conjured up such disturbed thoughts I think I need to share with you, and only you. I’d felt heartbreak, my dear, for quite some time; many times. Each time was different, although it was inevitably the same. As I wandered through my playlist, knowing that the words of my everyday music could not soothe me the same way, I looked up some of my favourite piano instrumentals. You knew the type. The one’s that I had indeed professed my heart to. I had no soul, was the term, quite apropos to the thought, more of memory. Befitting… I had none I believed, but I was sure I had a heart, kept somewhere within the depths of my mind’s perception. Of course those beats that plunged my chest into the physical realm are not what I had meant. I intended for something ineffably more. It was somewhere in my mind, and I knew my brain had something to do with these, these, pieces of shit that couldn’t have brought about more trouble than a generation of criminals. I’d changed my playlist, anyway, since then, and listening once more to those songs. It brings me back to the visage of elysian fields. It just brought about the trouble that is this letter. Fuck, my dear. Just, fuck.
My brain did its job and so rose the heart; emerging from the depths of my mind, like a snake to an Indian flute. It popped up, peeking. Peering if there was anything that sought to cause it harm, and when someone played my flute, it would always respond in the same way. The same fearless and trusting way, as if only the true piper could play that song. I knew how to play it, of course; I own the snake, the flute, the basket, and the tune, heck even the field that was my body. I still do. I could play it well, and bring about my heart to slither into my fingers, releasing the venom in the form of ink. Every time however, when another person played, my snake would be hacked at, not by the pied piper, but by the onlooker who saw my snake as a worldwide liability. The venom was the source of the illness, and most never understood that the venom itself was also the cure. Fucking idiots… It wasn’t that hard anyway, to think of. It wasn’t hard to imagine. That was, of course, in theory, but my statement was what I’d only wanted to believe. Every time, of course, it was not… No. It was never the onlooker but it was the piper who sliced. The piper did slice away at my venomous love snake, and each time, the piper was told to do so by an outward force. It was as if god himself, if ever he even existed, had commanded this horde of flute-players to my mental basket, and each time, the order was to trick it out and hack away. It was a demeaning thought, but as I’d said, my dear, I’d felt this heartbreak a million times, and a million times I shall feel it over, until that one piper defies god and takes pity on my battered snake. I can’t say god damn, I can only say, damn god.
Going back to the music, dear, those fragile pieces and tid-bits of music so inspiring and difficult, yet so lightly played by those who had composed it. Fucking esoteric bastards, they were. I recall those times, happier times, when such songs I could treat as water, simply changing figure with each new container. Each new instrument held the music as if water in a glass so translucent. It was guaranteed that it was trouble, but, again, a common misconception. It was not the music that was troubled, it was the listener. It was the listener, so affected by the sound, that it rallied emotions to its apparent worthy cause, thereby giving the physical body a little more than enough to work with. The body indefinitely gave consent. How couldn’t it? IT WAS the brain, after all, who assumed the transparency of the fluid from that translucent glass. I just couldn’t see that yet, dear. I was content with the joy I found in portraying the music in the way that pleased me. Words… Never-the-fucking-less, it was a happier time during the course of my life. It was all too pleasing, and shit, I’ll be damned if you, of all people, do not understand this. Meh. Those composers knew not what they were capable of, or they simply didn’t show they knew. Either way, their actions could have been summed up in one word; apathy. Selfish in their ways, they compose to their heart’s delight. They had venom, too, and they used it to their advantage. Only theirs, and theirs to own; those audible drugs were medicine for their souls. Those drugs were just street drugs to others, pleasingly poisonous. The paradox that is their venom existed for themselves, but shared with others wore a different effect. Would they care about those who heard the music? Would they care about the bums in the street? Would they care about the rich, living splendidly in lavish homes? Would they care about you? Me? US?!
That’s the point, isn’t it; us? You, me, and nothing else, my dear, would have mattered if not for the music. Oh, and forgive my streetwise grammar. I’m a dumb fuck who writes to you from a vacant space, lost without thought of time or purpose. Remember that time when we had gone to the docks and you dared me to jump into the waters because I described it so poetically? I fell into the waters not for you, but for me. Like a snake, and any other godforsaken animal on this planet, I need to feed. Forgive me for my latent confession, but I had fed off you. I’d fed off your life, being, purpose, soul (if you, or even all of us, had one), your eyes, lips, tongue, body, your joys, sorrows, horrors, and basically, your existence. It had given me my venom, protecting me from my own snakebite, embedded as a scar on my scales. I’m no zoologist, so whatever. I’m no swimmer, either, so you had to drag me out to shore. Me being the strong one, and you being, you, should have switched places, and like a comical movie from the 1930’s, we never switched places. I was mad, for a while, but how could I bite the hand that fed me? You played for me as I lay on your couch that night, wrapped in one of your towels. Your fingers, ever so wonderful, depressed themselves on the air holes, changing the note with such fervour, echoing your voice with each breath. It was the music. Nothing else would have fucking mattered if not for the damned music.
You played your song, and it called more than one snake. He came to the charm, like a spell-induced, drug abused, animal. Ravenous, poisoned, bewitched, he was slender yet firm. He had the fresh venom, but he was a python, more common worldwide, and I was, like those fucking composers, a bullshit king cobra. He was taller when he rose, but I could have easily outreached him if you had learned the right notes to my song. Almost undoubtedly the same with mine, your song was wonderful, and I’d rose, knowing that there was something familiar about the song, but it was not exact. It was not precise enough to bring about my whole. It was just that there was nothing perfect, especially if there was no god. If there was, your song would be his, resonating within each snake you meet, moreover with one as young and naive as he who had responded to your song’s call of duty. Just more commonly uncommon, though. Motherfucking-fuck, these-these, goddamned oxymorons. I’m intensely sorry, my dear. The music precedes my sense of decency and I didn’t intend to force you to turn an eye awry (though I can be sure you didn’t knowing you’d spent many a night with me like this).
Well, that’s what this damned letter is about, no? I’m sorry. My dear, I truly am. I’m just a snake, and well, there’s nothing else I can do about it. You did do something, however. You changed me more than you really do know, and I’m sorry that it was hard. I’m sorry that I took so long to contact you. I’m sorry that it took all these years. I’m sorry it felt like an eternity, waiting for something like the music, to force me to let you know that I am still alive. I’m sorry I made you suffer through the agony of the wait. I read the newspaper of our old place every day. I had a copy sent over to where I now stay, that I may read about the weddings, obituaries, and whatever information I could find on you. I called our shared friend every month, still do, actually. Tells me you’ve stopped playing the flute, and I ponder on asking why, hoping for a reply that might never come, even if I’d wanted it to. I won’t say who the friend is, because I know that with just a tiny piece of information, you will know my whereabouts (and that you might kill him/her in the process of finding out). I’m actually writing this from the view of my desolate hotel room somewhere in Asia. I figured it was a perfect place, time, setting, and song for me to write to you. And I’ll be damned, because this is too fucking coincidental to discredit some supernatural force out there. You’ll never know where I really live, or at least I won’t let you. To the best of my ability, I won’t. I wish you the best in life and in love. I wish that you’d play the flute again, at least for some special people in your life, be they your children, parents, husband, or whatnot. With much pain, sorrow, emptiness, and a world of regret, I’m sorry. Take good care, now, you hear, my dear? Take care of those two; Jane and James. I know you named one after me. Thanks for that, but they’ll probably never know where you got the name anyway. I know you won’t say. They deserve that song of yours, though. They deserve it more than I do. I just have one more thing to say, though, before I leave. Forgive me, but it goes a little like this:
He came knocking at your door that night, and who was I to know what you’d done, much less, why?
I will always have you in my heart,
I’d first listened to Gotye back in High-School when my friend found out about them through the internet. I was reluctant at first to try the new music, since I fell in love with rap music during my High-School days. Gotye is an indie multi-instrumentalist that makes electronic music. I’m not sure if the relevance of my info is correct, but there appears to be more than one person making the music, however the singer is one person alone. Wouter “Wally” De Backer, the main and if I’m not mistaken, only guy behind the composition of the songs, was born in Belgium, however, had moved to Australia during the early days of his childhood. An avid fan of Depeche Mode, one could easily see with the music he does, where much of his inspiration comes from.
The first song I’d listened to from Gotye, was the song “Heart’s a Mess”, the third track, and my personal favourite from his second album “Like Drawing Blood” (the first being “Boardface”). From the odd music video to the simple tune and beat of the song, “Heart’s a Mess” could easily be claimed as one of the most brilliant works of music ever produced. With the rest having a rather jolly or considerably trippy feel to the music; this one song had touched my heart more than most songs out there in my over three-thousand song collection. An example of the more “trippy” style of his electronic beat and instrument juggling would be his song “Learnalilgivinanlovin”; the sixth track on that same album. With a catchy beat, and a rather odd set of treble-high sounds, the song had gained a lot of popularity, especially through the movie “Going The Distance”, where it featured.
Going back to “Heart’s a Mess”, it had garnered my favour considerably with the amount of power in the simplistic lyrics that could be clearly understood by the first time one would listen to it. Thought provoking lines such as “Let me occupy your mind, as you do mine” attract me severely up to the point of inspiration. It would, however be negligible to buy an entire album for the sake of a single song, but in this case, it would make a very powerful exception. Unlike most regular artists of late, Gotye features lyrics that carry a sort of profound essence, whilst maintaining a relatively playful beat. Especially with the higher tones, the most emotion-provoking songs from Gotye have almost a jolly atmosphere with the ominous backdrop of a rather malevolent nature. All of these, encompassed, produce the distinctly loveable sound that defines Gotye.
With the release of his latest album “Making Mirrors”, Gotye comes back to life with the same style, except increasing the amount of songs relative to the theme of “Heart’s a Mess”. With the seemingly normal music video of his song “Somebody That I Used To Know” (from “Making Mirrors”) featuring the, also indie, artist Kimbra, Gotye dominates the style of music he produces. Again, the lyrics are well crafted, as well as the playful connotation with the beat, reviving the essence of “Heart’s a Mess”, the song “Somebody That I Used To Know” may very well be the aftermath of the aforementioned song. Listening to them in sequence, one could see the two as each a half of a constellation. The only thing left for the listener to do would be to connect the dots. The next on the list would be the song “Eyes Wide Open” from the same album as “Somebody That I Used To Know”. Changing his style a little bit, from the two songs mentioned above, “Eyes Wide Open” features a catchy tune, obviously electronically generated, and comparable lyrics to that of “Somebody That I Used To Know”. Not the best, however still one of my favourites, garnering the third place on my list from Gotye. Truth be told, the two songs (“Somebody That I Used To Know” and Heart’s a Mess”) mentioned in this article may have been the mother of two or three of my short stories and poems.
I expect more great music from this artist in the months and years to come, currently leaving me with a good 4.95 out of 5 stars (rather precisely). There’s no overuse of much dramatic effects, just plain good music to help one think, or, more appropriately, feel the emotions that, although are relative with regards to each person, we all go through. I would, however, recommend the purchase of the album “Making Mirrors” to support this great artist. If not, you can check the links below for the music videos of “Heart’s a Mess” and “Somebody That I Used To Know”. I’d give you a standing ovation any day, Gotye. I hope you continue the music.
(c) Anachronic Works 2011
Imagine her, the girl of your dreams, your future bride, your Virgil to your Dante, your Anabel to your Poe.
She’d just left you after seeing you for 2 and a half months, saying she didn’t want a relationship.
She didn’t even mention that she wanted to be friends.
She merely said it, “We can still be best friends.” without so much as a hint of sincerity.
You loved her, so you believe her, in the slight hope that friendship may once again bring back the relationship.
Bring back the love.
Bring back the days you’d spent laughing with her.
The ineffable kisses you both shared.
The misanthropy you provided for yourself in exchange for her attention.
It was all you required.
She was your self knitted hat.
She was your gasoline and drive.
She was the guitar you learned to play until you had calloused fingers.
So you let it be.
A few weeks later, you do not speak.
A few months later, you see her and smile, but she loses all trace of you in the back of her mind.
There’s another man, who now catches her eye.
A new flavor of wine that she’d love to try.
A new drug to help ease the sickness of life.
A new path on the map of life.
He is there, holding her hand.
He is there, playing as she cheers from the bleachers.
He is there, reading her to sleep.
It was the novel you wrote for her, it was hers to keep.
All trace of you has been erased.
A formatted hard drive, and it’s an emotionless face.
Then you see her again, and this time she cries.
You talk to her, and comfort her this time.
You walk and talk for a stretch of miles; visiting the past, remembering the smiles.
She feels better, and gives you a hug.
That’s all you’re gonna get, so you leave with a shrug.
You see them together, again, as if they’d never fought.
All the pain dashed away, as if it were a passing thought.
And again, you see her in the middle of the night.
Tears in her eyes, as she struggles to fight.
There he is, walking away, and she’s kneeling on the sidewalk, meters away.
He needs help, and so does she.
So you approach the guy, and you’ll help them see.
You sum up the courage to talk him through.
With a single line, you know what you have to do.
You love her too much to let it go too.
“Don’t hurt her, bro. She loves you.”
* This was written for the Facebook Page “Don’t Hurt Her Bro, She Loves You.”
** Why I wrote this for a Facebook Page was because I was BORED. BORED. So I decided to pour out a little bit of my heart into the page.
*** Here’s the link: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dont-hurt-her-bro-She-loves-you/155903644455335
**** You can find this post on the Discussion Board. As of the time I post this, nobody has deigned to reply to me yet.
(c) Anachronic Works 2011
Back when I was a kid, during my days in Canada, I watched the Titanic for the first time, with my cousins Michelle and Steffi, my sister, my Mom, and my Auntie Roenna. It was pretty dreary and the concept was not easily grasped by my mind although I thought I’d already had. With this, I would always wonder to myself why girls in general would cry at movies, especially the romantic ones which were, in my opinion utterly dreary and quite the un-moving and unattractive type, as compared with movies about war and brotherly love combined. Those, and several other insanely awesome sci-fi movies, that I still enjoy and love to this day, to me were worth more than most drama films. With utter nonchalance I dared not disturb them other than to laugh or become annoyed at such a disturbingly silly display of affection towards a simplistic concept that rarely even varied.
I was a regular guy, who was more into fighting, action, sports films and what-nots. I’d never really felt anything for anyone during those early days. With the exception of my first love, Sarah, from my life I would have been the most utterly passive towards drama movies. Luckily, my life did have her, and by the time she had to move away to another country, my expectations and shunning of drama movies had stooped to a negative low. I was beguiled by drama, music, art, culture, dance, paintings, drawings, books, comics, movies, videos, plays. I had joined the glee club back in school (No relation to the Glee Series whatsoever). The moment that I saw her last, reminded me of a movie scene, somewhere in my vast memory of all the movies I’ve watched, in which case I do not recall the title. I was astounded as how real the movies could become if one were to portray it in their everyday lives. If one were to simply walk, talk, and view like the movies, then one would be living a movie everyday without paying a single penny/centavo. It is worth it, if you think about it. You may be caste-d out as weird or odd, but it will make life a bit more vibrant. Some of you would say that this is impossible and that movies are a fictitious shadow of real life, a reflection as some may say, where left is right and right is left. I say however, there is an extent to the fragmented truth that exists within movies, and it is rather large, and more or less appealing to many people, from shallow to deep thinkers alike.
Going back to the movie, I just re-watched it not an hour ago, and I am completely honest about this when I say I cried. A lot, and it always reminded me of a spark which I had carried all throughout my life. When I’d met Sarah, I was an average guy, very strong about things and very numb towards feelings, only capable of expressing it at home or through the pen, unless it was of physical pain with which I would cry at some point of intensity. There were of course, some emotional pains that made me cry to be honest, and my skin is kinda thick. But when we were together, every movie made sense. I had gotten involved with the movies each time I’d watched them, taking the scenes seriously, whether or not they were action or drama. I’d taken things to a whole new level, learning more about life and more about art than I’d ever did. All thanks to her, I’d become creative with my speech, my voice, my music, my mind. I would often times be inspired to create fictional worlds of entertainment and story lines for my action figures when I would play with them, and I would often times act out along with them, running around in my shorts with whatever toys I had at hand. Other times I would simply walk around in a circle, thinking and practically obsessing with story concepts, validations of life, and other godforsaken agendas that older people do not wish to re-live or at some times do not wish to fully comprehend. All because of her, and her ways. I loved her, and I’d cried for months after she’d left. It was a simple case of moving to another country, where I would not see her again, and yet it felt so complex and it dampened my mind long enough to stain my works with thoughts of despair all throughout my high-shool life and up to now. Indeed I’d thought of the many times and the many things I’d done, even those I find foolish and those I regret doing. Well, I realized a lot, thanks to her. I owe her my artistry.
For those of you who are wondering, no, I am not in touch with Sarah, and why is because we had agreed not to, and even though I want to break all form of rank and file in life, and all sorts of agreements we’d made, I still can’t find her on Facebook, nor on Tumblr, nor on various websites. I guess it’s just like Jack and Rose, with the minimal time we’d spent together, it had one of the most maximized effects on my life and how I lived it from then until today. I am drowning in sorrow, bliss, and love, all together and I hope you can bear with me for one last short paragraph.
As I realize it now, I laugh at myself, from years ago, for not pondering enough on this issue and chose to rather let go of it and forget. This turning point in my life signified something great, and I simply wish to raise a glass to the Titanic, and to my dear Ex-Lover, who is out there somewhere. Let’s all raise a glass. A toast! To my dear Sarah, and to the Titanic; may our love never falter, like that of Jack and Rose, and always know, you will always be in my heart and in my works. Indeed I love the both of you dearly, and to you, my dear Sarah, I owe my works.