Onwards

What is going on in my life?

Where am I headed?

Where do I want to end up in, anyway?

It's sad that these three questions are the ones that always, always had me stumped. I just don't know what my answer is. I imagine myself just drifting by. While everybody else seem decided about the road they're taking, I am just running around in circles, going past obstacle after obstacle only to realize I've gone in a loop. The same path, the same troubles. Shallow ones in fact. I'm lost and I'm aimless.

What's fueling me? The fear of disappointing my parents, of taking risks, of failure, or of the unknown? Hubris? Schadenfreude? I keep walking on my path without being aware of where it leads. I don't tire, maybe because the obstacles are shallow -- I have yet to know true hardship. I therefore have yet to know the sense of accomplishment one feels after overcoming it. Only relief, and that's barely enough.

I'm not walking on a road with shattered glass scattered on it. I'm not walking on a path where there are camouflaged pits. I'm not walking on a road less traveled.

I'm merely walking in circles.

I don't wish my feet to be covered in wounds. I don't wish to have my bones broken. I just want to feel whatever it is when wounds turn to scars and those scars turn into lessons. To feel whatever it is when your bones heal and then the casts are removed and you can continue on your way, stronger. Better. More experienced.

I want what others encounter when they move forward.

I want certainty. About my life. My goals. The road I'm supposed to take.

I want to move onwards and answer those three questions.

It's AH-TREH-YAH

If I had resources to change my name, I'm really thinking if I should. I mean, how hard is it to say Atreja with the 'J' as a 'Y'? At-re-ya. Yeesh.

I suppose, I could just have it changed to a straight-up Atreya -- since Atreyu is acceptable. Why not, right? Or even Atria. It sounds pretty much the same. And it's kinda cool to be named after a star. I'm not really sure if I like "alpha of triangulum australe" as the meaning to my probably-would-be name, but hey. Cool is cool.

I'm not really hating on my name, though. In fact, I quite like it and am very much attached to it. It makes me unique. How many people have a name like mine, right? I just really, really don't appreciate people mispronouncing AND misspelling it time and again. This one time, when I got the certificate for being part of the Dean's List, my name was spelled as ALTREJA.

ALTREJA! And people expect it to be pronounced as AL-TREH-HA. WHAT KIND OF A NAME IS ALTREJA?

And then another time, when in my grandfather's wake, my own relatives misspelled my name. Atrajaja indeed. I've never lived it down. In fact, my sister affectionately calls me Atra now. (I'm pretty sure that's also my name in her contacts.) I've grown used to it, but gorramit if it wasn't annoying the first time.

And, you know, I think it would be nice to not have red underlines on my name for once. Just saying. Things could be shiny.

I don't like to be bothered.

I came off as rude..TWICE this week.

One time, it was because a friend of mine kept inviting me to go to the mall.
I turned him down once.
He insisted I go.
I turned him down a second time.
He insisted I go.
I told him (via text), "Stop bothering me!"

Can't he take a hint? I already declined twice. He says he wants me to relax since I'm so busy. Bah. He only wants me to go with him cuz he's bored by himself. Jerk. I'm busy AND in class. Yet he goes around texting me and insisting WHEN I CLEARLY DECLINED. Insensitive jerk.


The other time was with my mom.
She kept bugging me about my hair.
I don't want to be bugged by my hair.
She kept bugging me about my hair.
I only gave her halfhearted answers because no, I DON'T want to cut my hair yet. I'm getting sick of it.
She kept bugging me about my hair.
I kept mumbling halfhearted answers and "huh?"

Then she got mad and told me I'm rude, and I'm only polite when I need something from her.

I tuned her out.

She's always like that. I've had enough. I wish there was a mute button for her mouth. Or maybe a bleach for her judgmental brain. Maybe even a drill for her narrow-mindedness. We need to pave a way for new ideas, yeah?

I don't like to be bothered.

Practice Writing: How to Overthrow a Tyrant

Piece01: A Hero is Born

The orphanage head was crazy, Timothy decided.

The whole point of an orphanage was to take care of children who had nowhere else to go. Not to secretly train them to overthrow that bastard of a tyrant Raul Myrriel. (Of course, the reason they were orphans was because of that damn Myrriel, and most trainees volunteered, if not begged the orphanage staff to train them. But that's beside the point, Timothy again decided.)

The orphanage would teach them in the morning. Academics, of course. They'd teach them their Maths, Language, History, and whatever the hell they consider as academics. By mid-afternoon, the orphans would be given their free time until dinner (not so much as free time since that's the time they're asked to do chores), and afterwards they're free to do what they want until they're told to go to bed. At that time the trainees would be trained some soldier stuff. Timothy could only guess what.

***

Why anyone would want to be a soldier is beyond him.

His annoying roommate asked him once, "Why don't you join us? That Myrriel bastard deserves to be overthrown!"

"They're training you to be soldiers, idiot. That's why."

His reasoning might not make sense to others, but it makes sense to him. He doesn't want to be some soldier brat. Raul Myrriel may have given the orders to destroy their village, but it was soldiers who carried those orders out.

***

He once voiced to the orphanage head that she and her staff were crazy. She just laughed it off and said it was for the sake of Nueva Terra.

"How?" he asked. "By stripping these orphans of their childhood and training them and turning them into your personal military? Ma'am, I know you're also the victim of the Veritan Empire. I know your husband was killed when they invaded, but..!"

"They're not my personal army, Thie. They're the Rieven Kingdom's military."

"Rieven Kingdom's funding the training program?" Timothy gaped. The Rieven Kingdom was the only resisting force left against the Veritan Empire. While the Obfus Orphanage was near their borders, they are part of a different set of sovereignty entirely.

"The entire orphanage, actually." Madam Obfus corrected.

Well. Rieven Kingdom's as crazy as the orphanage head, Timothy thought.

***

He wasn't the only one who didn't join the program. There were others who preferred to pretend they didn't know anything about the military brats, and would try to improve their manners and personality in the hopes of being adopted into a new family.

Not that Timothy had horrible manners to begin with. His parents had raised him well, he thinks to himself. His father was a carpenter, his mother a seamstress. His cousin lived with him, since his uncle passed away due to an illness. Treifant Town, where they used to live, was quiet. Not many people lived there, so when the invasion happened, they had no forces to fight back.

He wondered what may have happened had the town surrendered and not resisted.

Either way, he isn't the only survivor from Treifant. Three others were there with him, two of whom are trainees.

"Hey, Marriette, whose turn is it to cook dinner?"

"Not sure. All I know's it ain't me." Marriette replied. Marriette was a girl from his town who he never really talked to. It's not because they hated each other's guts, but they had other people to play with before. Now, they still wouldn't consider themselves as friends, but being in such a situation where everything and everyone's foreign, they'd attach themselves to each other for the sake of familiarity.

***

There came a day when Marriette and several children had finally been adopted. The non-trainees were happy to have been chosen by this Dirkiev fellow. He says he wanted many children because he and his wife grew up in a big family, but are unable to have any kids at all.

Timothy would have been a welcome addition to Dirkiev's "children", but before he was even in the man's line of sight, he fled the room and hid.

He can't help it. He'd rather be a twelve-year old orphan, than a twelve-year old child of someone who looks like a pedophile.

***

It was three years later that he and the orphanage learned that Dirkiev was a con-man and a slave trader.

Timothy, despite being raised properly by his parents, was relieved he judged a book by his cover. He regrets not saying anything to Madam Obfus about his suspicions of the damn con-man.

He wondered, Are there more people like that Dick-iev? If I get adopted, especially at my age, is labor all I'm good for? Will I end up a slave too?

He didn't want that. He knew trainees can't be adopted, since essentially, they're Rieven Kingdom's children.

So when Timothy finally joined the training program for that rather shallow reason, nobody knew it marked of the birth of a new hero.

Practice Writing: Out

“Tang-ina, baliw na ata ‘to eh”

“In labs nga daw, eh. Natural.”

“Yak! In love si Kuya?”

“Hoy, ikaw, ‘wag kang sumabat. Usapan ng matatanda ‘to.”

“Five years lang kaya ang agwat natin.”

“…”

“Pero baliw na nga ata talaga siya…”

“Ay naku. Noon pa po.”

“Hindi, mas baliw siya ngayon.”

“Ang kulit! Sabi ngang in labs kasi eh!"

"Yak! In love ba talaga siya?"

"Tingnan mo nga, sumasayaw-sayaw ng ballroom wala namang kapartner!"

"...e noon pa naman niya ginagawa yun eh."

"Ah. So di siya in love?"

"In labs nga!"

"Yak talaga! Kanino?"

"Kanino pa? E di sa kanya."

"Ulol!"

"Totoo naman ah!"

"...Kelan pa nag-out si Kuya...?"

"Hahaha. Gets. Joke lang yun di ba?"

"Gago. Seryoso ko."

"Oy fak."

"..Nag-out na talaga si Kuya?"

"Ewan."

"Shit ka! Anong ewan?"

"E lasing nung nagladlad eh! Counted ba yun?"

"..yata."

"Hoy, kayong tatlo, rinig ko kayo, 'no!"

"Oy fak."

Practice Writing: The Door

He never went to see therapists. If he bothered to then he’ll be having more problems, he thinks. He’ll pay them, and then they’ll help him, and then he’d have no more cash in his wallet, and then he’ll have to get some from his ATM, and then he’ll have no more money in his bank account, and then he’ll end up poor, and then he’ll probably end up dying of starvation.

And he can’t have that, now, can he?

***

It started when he saw the door. That door. That

majestic, pristine white door. Heavy-looking; he may not be able to open it. But in time he’ll be able to, and he’ll see what’s on the other side, and find everything he was looking for and more. And then he'll prove everybody wrong.

plain wooden door of the simple house located at the end of the street. It was like the house where the door leads. He so wanted to buy that house; it was cozy, and he’ll be able to get some peace and quiet

because it’s not like he has any friends to entertain. Nobody wants to talk to him. They don’t find the door interesting. But it is interesting, he insisted to his sister once. Look at the patterns, so elaborate and befitting that huge door. And his sister had never looked so confused. What door?

because not many people live there. Not many cars pass by. He’d be able to do the work he hasn’t finished at the office here in the house. He'd live on the first floor while his sister lives upstairs. The house, small, minimalist, comfortable... it was perfect.

***

He's an artist. A good one. At least that's what he thinks. Thought.

If he was such a good artist then why

doesn't he have a wider and more active imagination? Why is it that when he turns his head in one direction he sees that magnificent door? Never anything more, just that door. Not where it leads to, not even where it's connected. It's just standing there, begging to be opened.

did he just get fired? Keep in mind he's a freelancer, so why...?

***

His sister has a job. A business, actually. Some of his works are displayed at her store.

They were practically a decade apart, and by the time he was in high school, she was already working, living in her own apartment, and making occasional visits to their household. They live together now, since

mommy decided she can't have daddy always smiling at and texting and calling other girls, and have him say their names in his sleep. And daddy can't have mommy playing cards with their neighbors, drinking alcohol and smoking something that is probably not tobacco. And so they stuggled. Struggled in the kitchen.

The knife fell down beside a rather intricate door he's only ever noticed now.

it's more practical that way. Besides, they're family. They're supposed to live together.

***

He never went to see therapists. He knows he probably should, since right now he has no job, his sister is worried about him, nobody wants to talk to him,

and that door still won't open. Why won't it open? He tried to go around it, see if he can open it from the other side. But there is no other side! There won't be until it's opened. So open already! Open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open open mommy daddy who stabbed who open open open open sister will you save me open open open open boss my work is done is it sub-par open open open

and he thinks he never got over what happened in the kitchen. Maybe. His sister seems okay. She's sort of over it. He probably is, too.

So there's no need for therapists, then.

***

He stopped.

He stopped looking for work. Stopped talking to his sister about what-have-you. Stopped talking at all it's not like anyone listens. The people who are going to listen are probably beyond that door Stopped leaving the house for fresh air. Stopped leaving his room.

***

He lies.

Lies to his sister about being okay because he's not. The door still won't open and his arms ache from pulling at it and his fingers are actually bleeding. Lies to himself about being able to find a job.

He lies on the bed, spending all his time plotting on how to open that damn door.

He's stopped eating, and stopped going out of his room by the way.

***

His sister begs him to eat. Begs him to open his bedroom door. Begs him to get rid of whatever was barricading his room.

He doesn't listen. All he can hear are his own knocks on that white door.

***

It's inside him, he realizes. The key. It's inside him.

He can't open the door unless he opens himself.

So he will.

He remembers that his parents were open on the kitchen floor. Maybe they saw the door after all.

***

He can't open himself that way, he realized. It's painful and messy, apparently.

***

He stopped again.

He stopped knocking on the door. Stopped ignoring his sister.

And he started. Started to talk, talk about their old kitchen, talk about the knife, talk about his old job. Talk about the majestic door.

***

creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak creeeeeeaaak creeeeeeaaaaaak creeeeeeaaaaak

No matter how beautiful a door looks, they always make the same creaking sounds when opened, don't they?

He finds it annoying.

SLAM!

Colin Morgan

I love this guy! As in really, really, love to the extent that I am reminded of my grade school self obsessing with other actors and stuff... only maybe a bit, er, worse this time around. Why?

Because! Look at his cheekbones! And his smile! And his eyes! And his ears!

Also: playing as Merlin in the TV series of the same name, he wears a neckerchief, which is similar to a scarf. He also apparently has dark humor. And his smile makes you go 'awww" and stuff.

HE'S LIKE THE PERSONIFICATION OF IVAN BRAGINSKI!
...who happens to be the personification of Russia XD