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The Fuel

On the way to....

There are roads in our minds, and some of the roads we take aren't the way the world plays out. We ruminate about the most logical paths, but rational or not, it may not be. The runway to truth is a slim path that only few can take, but here I am taking my way on my mind and heart with the thoughts and outcome of a legendary icon in my mind. He made it, but he also never made it but some like him did, and I saw their mistakes and sins, because they left this world without satisfaction of fulfillment in their heart.

 

I'm taking a different path. I'm learning, I'm on my way to....whatever it will be. I surrender, to God who is before me. I'm working and breathing in and exhaling labor, working my truth, and if anyone gets in the way, they better not touch me, I'm biting their gut where they had nourishment and I'll suck it all up.

 

There are miracles in me, and if there are those who want me to die, I will show them the miracles in me. I'm the fortunate, the one who lived through it, and one of the ones who made it through the tunnel. The fear is to never be, to never come to fulfillment or find the complete wholesomeness that was meant to be; but to that I say...time is on my side, if God's willing.

 

The belief is there, and it will take a while and will take miracles to achieve the strong surrendering truth that is before me. Creating the outcome and making the facts into truth, the nonsense into love and the heartbreaks into a message, a testimony, a love for others to soak up and learn from.

 

I am an abstract anomaly and my talks and shizzles are sometimes confusion to others, but who would want to understand everything instead of the big picture of the complete truth. I'm not here to explain, I'm here to share and to voice out my heart, and who cares to the ones who wants me to feel a hole inside my soul and to not feel a complete love that God ordained me to have. I'm the heavenly angel who came to this Earth, and if no one cares or realize it, it would be to their detriment, not mine. I know who I am. I'm loving me, I'm on my way to...whatever it will be. I surrender, to God who is before me.

 

Just like that, I breathe in love and I am forever going to be strong and loving.

 

Still in the game, even after all this time. I'm on my way to, .... amen.

 

#JustWrite

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Thank you

Thank you to the man in the ambulance who squeezed my hand when I was covered with blankets to be transported to the asylum. I didn't know anyone who would help me, and my family had given up. The trauma was so damaging and it hurt me that I couldn't function. There were suspects inside my mind and the report was ignored and they were free to roam and hurt other woman, and all I wanted was to end my life.

 

Thank you to my Paris Compadre, who told me that I risked it all when I asked dream man to elope with me. I won't forget his blue eyes and strong jaw, and how much I loved him but he was only okay with me. You told me I was brave although I was so hurt, because I was a survivor. I wished I was never hurt by it, and everything had worked out, but all was harmed and I was too dysfunctional to realize my own doing. All I heard was laughter from the pretty guys and girls and married women, and even his supporters. I would never be loved by his community. I wished it was easy to get over but the loss was so great I could hardly bear it, but our talks helped me. 

 

Thank you to the woman who hugged me at Santa Monica Third Street Promenade when I was working retail, selling Middle Eastern Bags, sobbing and falling apart from the assaults. Your Native American spirit soaked my tears and I was covered by your embrace.

 

Thank you to the nameless man who drove me in mid-July to my rental apartment before my move to Colorado, after my titanic mistake. You took $5, but gave me a kind blessing, forever.

 

Thank you to the Domestic Violence advocates who helped me. I would not have made graduation for my Master Degree without you. You deserved a lot more things in life than just this work, because your heart helped so many people. 

 

Thank you to those whose hearts lean to help survivors. We are invisible sometimes, and only recognizable by symptoms, but our hearts are pumping love just the same.

 

Thank you.

 

#JustWrite

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The Gift

~Inspired by Gloria Hemingway from the family memoir Strange Tribe by John Hemingway~

 

No matter what the world labels me,

I will prevail.

However much people hate me,

I will prevail.

You see, I have a gift.

I can turn sorrows into similes,

I can transform madness into metaphors.

If she is a wench, I turn her into a warrior.

 

No matter how much I cry,

I will keep going.

However much I want to die,

I will keep going.

To keep living, bears my womb with joy.

I find small moments of love,

In the inconspicuous places.

If triggers of trauma comes, I smile and wave them goodbye.

 

I have this gift to change the sadness inside of me,

into sweet revelry.

The once chaotic turmoil full of black tar,

into a peaceful moment of mercy.

I have this gift inside of me,

To turn the midnight oil of terrors and anxiety,

into a masterpiece.

I have this gift to change the bad into whole.

 

Perhaps it is an easy task for some people,

but people I know find it hard to believe,

how a small moment of hope

can be found in the midst of darkness.

How life can be hopeful in faith,

despite the mourning and injustice.

I have this gift you see, and I know I'm not alone.

I am gifted in the many ways the world cannot see.

 

I am the gift.

 

and the gift is in me.

 

 

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Star Angel and Mercy's Pen

If I was a divine celestial angel, would I have met my true companion? It was told that angels were neither capable to marry nor given in marriage by God, but what was to be of me? Was I an angel or was I born human? My heart told of how mercy wanted me to work for him, with a pen, writing life of unfinished and unrequited love, but what was to be of me, the writer with such a predicament? Was I mercy's story or the author? Should I write stories of star-crossed lovers or was I one myself? Should I write what I knew?

 

But what was to be of him? He was not star crossed, he found his true love and won't be another. He was and always will be with her, and won't ever value me. I knew I was nowhere to be in this destiny with a companion. I won't give up on my own life, there might be one for me, another soul whose wings were bent hell on loving, but broken from heart wrenching life. I wish I was not damaged from the struggles in life as an angel in disguise, but I was and the process of which I wanted to savor with the man I wanted to marry became destroyed and damaged, just like my soul was. 

 

I promised myself that I won't die and won't live to die for another woman who hurt me, but there were trying times and I wished I was not too weakened by trauma. I wished my mind was a black stallion pacing with me in steady state and running and working and writing, but I found myself instead, ruminating. I often ruminate, dissecting, analyzing, and wishing, while he was living and his life was the epitome of happy. I was not his dream, and until I meet another of my heart's dream, should I waste my life on these ruminations? Should I give up on marriage? Should I give up on love? I hope and pray for myself to live another day.

 

No! I shall keep on going, and keep on with my mercy's pen upon forgiving myself and my undoing and doing, and my post-traumatic-mistakes. I wished I was not, but I was and will be, a woman who has to live with these conditions, but was it my fault that demons pursued my life, the angel with broken wings? This was why I made myself a writer, to propose to the world, to have me, and to love me, and to hell with the rest.

 

I pray, as I write with Mercy's pen, that God will write with divination, hope, faith and unconditional love, as was in Psalms 139, and won't give up on me. That God, himself, will finish my story with truth and such a brilliant love that no one will compare, not even my own thoughts could imagine. That I will be...His Mercy Testimony.

 

#JustWrite

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O How I wish You Could Hear Me, Dear Gloria.

O how I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria. Thy search for wholeness were through dungeons that you travailed much and was tired until vice came to devour. Vanity, extravaganza of sex and lust came to lure you away from your truth. Your heart searched for wholeness that was simply inside the womb of your Mother and Father, who were both dumbfounded by your beauty and need for grace and affection. I wish you could hear me, Dear, and knew how much we all loved you.

 

O how I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria. You were the world to this universe and your heart was worthy and enough. You needed not search nowhere, anywhere, always, for the worth and wholesome soul you searched for. Perhaps money was the answer, but we all knew it fleeted you like a bastard without a cause. If you were here, you would have brought dead souls to life. You were a legend and your death on the floor in Miami brought no justice to us, the fans. We wanted more of you.

 

O how I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria. Your sense of wonder was so vast that the galaxy bursts within you. In explosion, you were the andromeda and the supernova. You were you, and no one else could be. You, Gloria or Gregory, were excelsis searching for deo, and you were in the game before you ended in paralysis from awe of your magnanimous thirst for adventure. You, were you, and no one else could be.

 

O how I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria. It was okay. You will be found. You were true to yourself and we needed to hear you, but your shouts were uncontained that we heard rumbling of the mountains of your desires, not the grounded sanity you truly should sought for. I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria, I wish you could hear how I loved you, Greg or Gloria or Magnificent Creature. You were the unicorn of your dreams, and you wanted so much that all couldn't have been at one place at one time.

 

O how I wish you could hear me, Dear Gloria. I loved you. Never would die. You were and will still be valued, and you will be remembered.

 

#JustWrite

 

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With no consolation, I step forward

There were some payoff to the writing, but no consolation for the worries.  Submittable offered no pep talks, no receipt with an uplifting email or letter. I kept going as if nothing happened and told no one because it was so shameful to have been rejected multiple times for reasons I didn't know. I wish I had the money for expedited responses, and constructive feedback on each short story, but there was no money and I was not about to go on more debt. I relented, surrendered and hoped for the best. I cried afterwards, knowing there was a 50% chance of acceptance, but upon writing my story, it felt a hundred. I was hopeful, at least for a short time.

 

I didn't compare myself, because it was tasteless to my conscience. It would hurt me for the most part and I didn't want to criticize other writers when I was not born a Stephen King, or an Amy Tan, or a J.K. Rowling. I was just one writer, trying with all I got and praying upon each entry for a place for publication, to be given the acceptance to be a part of their world, and to be a contributor, not a desperado.

 

Maybe, I am over thinking it, but when I submit, it just felt fearful and I couldn't help but worry. The PTSD spiraled sometimes and I close my eyes and raise my arms to God, Love me, bless me, make me a greatest work of art.

 

Keep writing. Just write.

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With fears and trembling

Professing doubt was not the problem, it was the moving through that took me more than I was ready to digest. I sinned the greatest of all writer's sins, the doubting of the craft and the fears of skills unpracticed. I stopped writing for a week.

 

Every day should at least possess inside itself (at least) 500 words of prose that spun unnoticed in my own mind. Without trying, it should be there, whether I liked it or not. I was the sinner for enjoying the separation of my ode to God to write, and took a break from using my craft and talents for worship. Writing was life, and I had to get on with it to keep breathing.

 

What was conceived inside me was supposed to be greater, but yesterday and for a week, it was dark sin that rotted into death. The consummation of evil need not be great, it could be a simple laziness, or just a smidge of pride. It then turned greater as it spun its web into the crevices of our being, as it ate my esteem, and became a wounded and spiraled ebb of death becoming. It took a week and it almost cost me the tenderness of my creative heart.

 

It started to harden with crystalized protein of dark materials that was caustic, because as the days went on, I became separated from my craft, the talent gifted in me by my maker in Heaven. I took myself to meditation, and had to chisel off the crystalized materials that was attacking my heart with verses mantra, as the veins of my blood vessels were clotted and blocked, ready to heart attack itself, to cause me to stop beating, stop writing, and I would die...instantly. 

 

Not so fast, came these words of Neil Gaiman, "finish thy failures, and it is a greater learning experience, greater than a finished masterpiece," as he said reworded, while I listened and he changed the word, 'failures' into "practice with fear and trembling" towards the finish line. I took myself to this blog, as I was compelled to write my fears and doubts because I didn't know why I felt it. It was there and I trembled, shivered, worried, cried, pained and struggled to get the words out. It crept into me and often I wouldn't understand why. I was so afraid of failure that I ceased to practice because of the never could happen, never would be possible, the odds of against me became the devil inside my gut and that was conceived into death. My head was down and I was defeated.....but not yet, O satan!

 

Get thee behind me, Lucifer, you were never worthy of my life. Never did God say I failed, he told me to get on, move on, move through, cycle through, keep it on! I won't listen to the laziness and the thoughts of how I was not good enough according to the world's standard. Who made it? I was good to write, and I kept on, and won't stop.

 

Just write.

 

 

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I finished a failure

September 29, 2022 - 9:07 pm.

 

For several days, I waited for emails from magazines only to find some rejection letters for my short story. I recorded a mini-therapy-video on Instagram, only to delete it later on in the evening out of sheer embarrassment and fear about haters laughing at me (again). The shame was overwhelming because of the Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder and Depression; but I am okay now, that I am writing this journal entry late in the evening.

 

Neil Gaiman told his students, "You learn more from finishing a failure, than starting something great and stopping it." I understood what that meant, but this evening, I felt what that meant. I felt the sense of accomplishment of finishing a failure and realizing that "I can start again," and this time, it might be the next greatest thing! (or it might not, but the point was...finish it. Honor myself). It might not be Van Gogh, and it might still be Blake, 7, drawing Batman, but to someone out there, it will be an artistic work of creative art.

 

The truth was, I was being a shitty narcissist by applying for a position to be a contributor to all these magazines, when deep down, I knew it wasn't my best work. I was confident with my novel and it was rejected, and I was confident with my short stories, and it was rejected. I wanted to boast and show off my skills, and I was rejected. I had the wrong motive. I needed to focus on my voice, the message and the truth. I also needed more practice. I needed more development of my craft, as I held on to my incontinence (being 47 and feeling late and old), and holding on to all the -ence, that came with biology. I needed to toughen up and practice, until I have rejection emails as my shell that nothing but Hurricane Ian would compete.

 

Probably, all writers were born crazy, but I loved this bold crazy and I started to love my own guts and failures. It wasn't a failure at killing an animal or a man, instead, it was a failure on a long prose of fiction. It was a nice beginning, and I needed to continue the crazies to get on. Not crazy in reality, but go crazy in a literary term. Do show, not show off. Do start a magnificent story, but don't get upset if it's a failure. I realized I needed to keep going and to never cease writing, and to stop being lazy when I came home from work and hungry. I needed to stop drinking coffee too late, because I needed to wake up early and start the engine to the turbine that was my creative neurosis. I needed the wake up call and I needed to start now.

 

May I have thicker skin, tougher soul, brilliant mind, and peaceful spirit. I finished a failure, and the rejection made me realize something. This was just the beginning and I MUST KEEP GOING.

 

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To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live

May 10, 2010

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

I wished no one would judge me. Ever since I was little since my Mom left me, I felt like the whole world has been judging me. It felt that way because I think no one cared about my behavior, and I had to be the good girl to help raise my Dad. He was just a kid too, I think.

 

My Dad looked lost most of the time and I felt lost all the time with him. We talked about rent, making ends meet since I was young. We weren't always at the house. We moved several times from one apartment to another. We've never really owned any townhome or a house. We just called every place our "house." We liked to pretend we owned it, although I saw my Dad sold his guitar, his leather jacket, his watch, his radio and his bicycle to pay the bills. Ever since I saw my Dad did that, I didn't want to feel like his ball and chain, or his debt to God. I wanted to pull my own weight, so I worked as soon as I could.

 

Seth, the judging thing....I wondered why I felt this way. Joey said he didn't care if people judged him for his weight. He said, "Judgements are comfort for the judge, not the victim. We have to stop caring." I'm not made like him. I cared too much about what other people think because I've been so self conscious since I'm not made normal, with a normal house, normal family, normal upbringing, normal mental health. I felt like judgements fueled me to keep working, and when I spoke with Joy, she said, "So you always wanted to impress everyone to feel like one of the 'normal' people or the accepted person?"

Seth, you know what my answer was. If you were in my shoes, what would you do, Sethy? Even in writing, I wanted to impress you, even when you're not even here. That's how bad it got.

 

Joy told me that we were going to start on Crisis Intake Plan, and to walk down my goal plans, and my journeys, my hopes, my fears, my therapies and my desires to heal. I never thought that far. I just always wanted to please Jack, or actually, whoever paid attention to me at the time.

 

The rest of the time with Joy, during therapy, she told me a story.

 

The story was about a man with an old couch. Joy said this man always stopped by 7-11 and bought himself a soda with his dollars, and he'd put his change insde his pockets. He never took care of himself and just kept drinking sodas, eating junk from 7-11. He'd pass out on his couch while watching television every night, and often his coins would fall out, but he didn't care. He left all of his coins that fell out of his pockets inside the couch. 

 

One day, a kid next door came by wanting to sell some chocolates for his middle school fundraiser. The man said, "Sorry, kid. I need the money for myself." And the kid almost cried because it was his middle school fundraiser and he wanted to win a prize.

 

"Please, sir. Have you checked your couch. Maybe you have some loose change somewhere in the couch?"  The man had on a dirty shirt, untucked, with soda stains and Cheetos in his hair. He replied to the kid, "Sure, I'll go search for some change. Be right back," and so he searched for change, and of course, he found A LOT of change. 

 

He found Quarters, Silver Dollars, Dimes, Nickels, that some parts of the couch were hard because the coins were many and the couch was old. He said, "Oh my Lord, I'm actually rich!" 

 

The kid smiled, and said, "You are, you're just putting your money in the wrong places." The man looked to the kid, and said, "You know what, kid. I'm going to change, no pun intended, but I'm gonna."

 

"But, I hope you haven't forgotten about the chocolates that I'm selling," said the kid. 

 

"No, I won't forget because you made me look for change, that I realized I've wasted all of my monies and time on this couch when I could have saved up, cleaned up, changed up, shape up, and become rich," said the man. He gave the kid, $10 dollars but didn't take any chocolates, instead, he closed the door, showered, changed his clothes, and tried to find a job. 

 

Joy said that the point of the story was, that the man realized his potential, although he lost all those coins inside his own couch, it could have been worse, he could've lost his life from heart attacks, or getting shot at 7-11 when he was getting some Coca-Cola. But, because of the eye of the innocent, he saw the truth, and he was rich. Rich with potential, rich with the future, and rich with his possibilities. He had what a lot of people didn't have. 

 

I supposed, I was that way too. I supposed, even with the abortion, the assault, the low income, and the bipolar depression, I had something of worth inside of me that I didn't see before. 

 

I'm going to find out,

WishesOoohWishes.

 

May 12, 2010.

 

To the Forever Gorgeous Seth Meyers of Saturday Night Live,

 

Yesterday, Joy and I took a walk with Joey and Jenna. Jenna was raped when she was little. Seth, is 17 considered young to be a rape victim? How old can a rape victim be, Sethy? How young is young to be raped, and how old is old to be raped? 

 

Jenna was 10. I thought that was pretty young, don't you think? She said her Dad sold her to his friends to get some drugs. She used to live with him, but she was always spending nights at other men's homes to pay for her Dad's debt. She told me that one time she had her period and a man still had sex with her, until she was pregnant, and later on, she had an abortion. 

 

I realized that some lives are worth saving, like Jenna's. Although she was hurt so bad, but like we talked about before, her potential was great, because she kept on living, and I gave her credit for that. I think that was the point that Joy, Joey and Jenna wanted me to understand, that I needed to keep going. 

 

If there was a time when I felt small, it was this time with Jenna. It's not that she made me feel worthless, but she made me realize that I was one form of assault victim, but a power of one amongst many to survive the trauma. I mean, there are so many victims that we're not alone, but because of that, I was suppposed to be powerful to survive the trauma with them. Do you get what I mean, Seth? It's truly not as complicated as Drunk Uncle. Sometimes, I don't understand him.

 

"What made you think that you've had the worst life, so far, Mary?" asked Jenna.

 

"I feel like I've killed a baby," I said.

 

"Was it your decision?" asked Jenna.

 

"Yes, it was to save myself," I said. I felt like the selfish loser, and an idiot who won't ever deserve to be a Mother again.

 

"I did the same," said Jenna.

 

I was flummoxed and my mouth gaped open. 

 

"You didn't think I was barren while I was being trafficked, did you?" said Jenna. "Do you know how many women get abortions each year?"

 

I was silent. If I had a choice, it was to NEVER have an abortion. If I had a choice, I NEVER wanted to be raped. 

 

Joy finally broke the silence, "It is always a case by case situation, Mary," she said. I didn't understand Joy. "I thought it was pro-life or pro-choice. I felt pro-wrong," I said.

 

Joey pointed to the building we were passing by, "Look at the windows in this building, they are so huge," he said. "Do you think rich people get abortions? What made them do it? And do they live in this building?"

 

Joy looked up, and said, "I don't judge a woman on abortion. Whether she choses to keep or abort the baby. I choose to love her, especially if it's a case of abuse or biological anomalies."

 

"I wished I didn't do it," I said. 

 

"It was the thing that saved me," said Jenna. 

 

"I choose to not blame the woman for it, so I choose to not blame you, Mary, for saving yourself," said Joey. "If there was a place who could save your baby, such as adoption, I would have brought that up to you too."

 

"I didn't want to make another orphan in this world," I said. "I didn't want a reminder of Jack's rape in my life."

 

"I choose to love you,, Mary," said Joy. "I would never blame a woman on that. I've never been pregnant and I've never been in your shoes."

 

"It was the thing that saved me," said Jenna, her eyes in tears. "I couldn't survive knowing I bore a child from the human trafficking."

 

"I still felt wrong," I said.

 

"One day, you will right the wrong," said Joey. "It's not penance, but transformation. Perhaps you will adopt or have your own child. And even if you don't, you can help women in these tough situations."

 

"It was the thing that saved me," said Jenna. "I wanted to end my life, although I was bearing a human life from the assault."

 

"If I was a teen pregnancy case, I might choose differently," I said. "Or, if I was rich, I might choose differently."

 

"If you were a teen pregnancy case, I choose to love you as a teen Mom, and if you decide to abort, I would love you as a woman," said Joy. "Some people say that it is a right or wrong choice, but that's too extreme. It has to be a case by case basis. If a woman can still have the child, she would realize her world will change drastically and will physically need to work on it. If a woman decides to abort, she has to realize her mental health and spirit will be changed drastically and she will have to heal from it. It's a matter of which of the two you're capable of, and it is a case by case basis."

 

"It was the thing that saved me," said Jenna, and by this time, her sobs needed tissues, and she added, "It was at the point of when the baby lives, I will die, and there was no one to take care of either of us."

 

 

Joey's eyes were in tears, as he said, "I've never realized the suffering all women carried in life, even as little girls, teens and later on, as women. And here I am, just sad because I'm fat and homeless."

 

"We can't always blame everything on Eve. Like rape for instance," said Jenna.

 

"I just wished more men were responsible and kind," I said. "So women didn't have to bear all of the suffering of childbirth. The world needs more compassionate men."

 

Joey wiped his tears, and said, "I'm gonna need some chocolate cake later. And then I'll send a prayer request to Sister McGeady for true love for everyone." 

 

Joy and I laughed, and Jenna hugged Joey around his stomach. We walked nearly six miles just talking about righting the wrongs we've done, and if we would ever get into heaven. But, I just knew that I won't make a good Jesus.

 

I wonder if God forgives me, Seth,

WishesOoohWishes.

 

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Thoughts with tiny bubbles

My head submerged underwater and my lungs breathed out the condense air as tiny bubbles floated over my face. The evening news showed deaths of Asian women in Atlanta a few days ago, but I refused to listen to the thought and immersed myself in the bath water relaxing my mind. 

Two days ago, an active shooter murdered 10 innocent people at the King Soopers Grocery Store, in Boulder, Colorado, nearby a cafe I frequently spent time in to write. There was a clearing force injecting my heart, to clean nonsense and only give space to those who loved me and no one else.

 

The rest of the world no longer mattered, and I felt forced to shelter in the comfort of stable friendships, critical people only, because those were my community. I didn't want to speak or process my grief to anyone around me. I wanted to close the door to the friends I have yet to meet or develop relationships with, and focus only on the current and immediate close circle of families and friends.

 

Those violence almost closed the door to a future filled with harmony, new friendships with beautiful lives and souls, and almost impeded my growth as a human being.

 

My drive and purpose in life came knocking on the gates of my brain, and asked it to open and relent compassion for my well being; through trauma processing and making connections with my fellow coworkers and customers I met on a daily basis.

 

I realized, my purpose was to send out beautiful energy and to help others in words, action, and love, more than I received. It was my calling to fulfill as a fateful destiny, for which I never chose but it chose me and happened accordingly. 

After witnessing those tragedies via social media and television, I almost lost my sparks. It stunted my creativity for a couple of days, from fearful thoughts that I might pose as a threat for a senseless and irrational human being. People who committed mass shooting, racism, rapes, violence, terrorisms at all levels, including stalking and gang banging, have no purpose in life, their souls full of egos. They felt the existence of good prevents them from their freedom to release the erratic behavior to oppress those who pose as revolutionary. They felt threatened in their subconscious by good lives, opportunities, diversity, tolerance, harmony, and peace. The crazies almost had their statements fulfilled, but that would only suppress growth of our future and ridicule our youth. 

Came back my thoughts to the knocking of my own heart beats pumping my subconscious. It asked me to write out my thoughts and gave me a newfound freedom of expression. It was my right to be Asian because I was born with it, and my right to want gun safety, and my right to grieve for my beloved Father, who died a month ago.

 

I had the right to process it, to not fear it, to be angered by it, but not to be negatively moved or provoked by it. I was the strong tower who had the right to sunshine, and it was an ordained future. Those vile acts and the death shan't lead me to captivity. I was free to express my emotion, because it was sane and creative, not vehemence of ghore. 

Submerged underwater, my brain cooled down, the door to my mind and heart opened for a life of adventurous journey, running with beating pulse pacing my life to enjoy it once again. The tiny bubbles kept floating over my face and I rose up exposing my shoulders over the bath water.

 

This was a thought processed, after a few dismal days.

 

Just write.

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