My Purple Pen in My Neverland

“Take risk. Conquer your fear,” I told myself. But I couldn’t because most of the time, reality isn’t the best place to be.

» via gelalalove

Writing, painting and all other forms of art are our eyes to things, our feet to places, our heart to love, and our mind towards the impossible. But one thing I figured, they also get to show us how bad life can get.

Imagination

I am like a walking corpse in this mundane world, for everyday, I wake up, eat, drink, work, play, and sleep. But in my mind and in my heart, I live in a world where I can make everything happen – a world where I would want to stay forever.

 

Language of Love

Looking at the awe in their faces as they watched the vibrant fishes swam around the aquarium made Blair wonder whether these kids even remembered her dad. It had been just a little more than a week, but there weren’t any traces of the pain, fear, anger, or longing that she was carrying on their features.

Dad. She thought. How could you be so selfish? Did you ever think about me? Did you ever considered how I would feel?

Thinking about it, she always knew how her father would have responded to that. He would say, “I love you, honey. I always do just like I love these kids.”

No matter how much she did not want to admit, Blair knew she was the one who was selfish but could she blame herself? She was his daughter yet she had to share his love to hundreds of children that he barely even knew and probably did not even remember him.

Again, she knew what he would say but she never wanted to hear that again. She never understood what he meant and it infuriated her.

Nevertheless, she could accept that. Her father could miss her recital to take care of a sick kid or he could cancel their movie time and bring her to spend time with them at the park instead or he could miss dinner and come home late because he needed to tutor them – just not this. This is too much.

A little – almost inaudible – voice interrupted her thoughts. “Tweacher Wob! Fowish! Tweacher Wob! Fowish!” he said, clapping and jumping in glee. She was able to grasp what the kid meant quickly: Teacher Rob! Fish!

Then another kid beside turned to Abby, the substitute teacher, and asked, “Whee Teachel Lob? Wawnt Teachel Lob!”

It was then that her tears burst out. She cried, gasping roughly in each interval. Somehow, it melted her anger, it strengthened her hope; most of all, it answered her question.

Robert Tanner was a teacher in an institution that catered to children with difficulties in mental development. Most of them, hardly talk. Some could not even recognize people. At times, they just sat in the corner and stared at an object or in the space for too long or they would suddenly throw tantrums or cry or throw objects. It was hard taking care of them. Blair witnessed half of it and her dad used to fill her with details that she did not bother to care.

Now, these kids were talking and they were even looking for her dad. In that simple thought, she knew she was wrong. These kids loved her father and his absence made that more obvious.

Starting her way back to see her dad was even harder. On her hand was a piece of paper that Abby handed a while ago. Her tears could not help flow down her cheeks under the hospital mask she was wearing. Blair took a deep breath and opened the door. There lay his father with light purple bruises on his left cheek, scrapes on his arms and a broken leg. The beeping of the monitor was the only sound. She could hear her own breath in the silence.

It had been more than a week now since Robert saved the little boy, who wrote the note she was holding, from a screeching car. The doctor said he might not make it, for his head was hit badly.

Blair pulled the chair and held his father’s hand. “Dad, you’ve got a letter from Andy. I’ll read it for you, okay?”

The note almost looked like a random scribble at first glance but when you took time to figure it out. It says, “I love you, Teacher Rob. Please be okay.”

Blair finally understood what her dad meant when he told her, “You know, Blair, these kids are special beyond inabilities. They might not understand us completely but they could understand the most special language more than any one of us could. It is sad that most people do not see that.”

“You’re right, dad,” she whispered. “Those kids are special. They knew how to love purely; they communicate through that special language. And you were the one who taught them that, dad. If you are listening, please wake up. They need you. I need you. I need you to teach me what you taught them. Please?”

When you are a kid, dreams reach the stars, Santa Claus is real, smiles are priceless, love is pure, life is love.

So dream, smile, live, and love like them. Then maybe the world can be a better place to live in.

Question (Asked by kebe): Hi purplepen! First of all, I would like to know your name :p
Anyway, I'm starting this little project called We Come of Age (you can check it out at http://wecomeofage.tumblr.com) and Gelai (gelalalove) told me I should invite you too! Now you bet I am! I would love to have you in the ~club.~ I'm reading your works right now and omigod I can't wait for your submissions :)

- KB

Do What You Love Whenever You Can

wecomeofage:

by xingxing10.tumblr.com

What would you want to be when you grow up?

As this question was raised to me a hundred of times by teachers, uncles, aunts, friends, friends of friends, or even strangers, I answered them with a frown, “What do I want when I grow up?” I do not know. It was easy to say that I want to be a teacher or an architect or whatever but it just felt something was wrong. For years, I wondered how it felt like to want something and to do all your best to get it. I envied those who share how happy they were in the career they were building. I did not have that. I did not know what I want. I just knew I needed to attend my class, to pass my quizzes, to submit my assignments, to graduate and that was it – dull and meaningless. What for? I need to.

Then, just as I was about to finish college, something ticked in the back of my brain. Like a bright illuminating candle, the thought radiated my heart. There I knew what I was missing all these years. I did not have a passion in life. I did not have that strong urge to wake up in the morning and knowing that I would be taking one more step closer towards a dream. Everything just fell into place. It was as if I was a flapping fish on the shore that finally managed to jump back into the ocean. Or like a little lost bird that searched the whole vast sky and finally located my nest. Or like a little drowning puppy in the deep surge of water and had finally gasped for air. I felt whole. I felt happy. I felt contented. I did not need anything or anybody for that. For the first time, I made myself happy all by myself.

But things are always never easy. I know that. Life is a journey filled with heartbreaks and struggles and suffering towards an unknown, extraordinary sense of happiness. Yet, as much as we look forward to that rainbow at the end of the terrible rain, it was hard to maintain that burning hope.

I could not pursue my dream because of a hundred different reasons and sometimes, I felt it was worst than the search itself. I asked myself, what if I figured things out earlier, would I have the guts to pursue it? If I did not have the responsibilities, would I jump into the plane and go for it? I would. But that was not the case. As I’d said before, my dream is the fire and reality is the water that extinguishes it.

For twenty years, I searched for the meaning, for the passion, for my purpose, but now that I had found it, all I could do was to hope that one day I could do what I love, I could write all I want. It’s funny how I still think that way when I was supposed to be over the confused stage of my life in search for a career path to traverse. I was late in meeting with it and now I just could not go for it. So can you blame me if every day, I wished I were in a different place living a different life? The life where the moment I set foot outside the door of my little apartment, I knew I belonged.

» via wecomeofage

Coffee Shop

I sat outside the coffee shop with a latte that had gradually cooled down as I wait impatiently for Gina to arrive. Where could she be? I took a glimpse at my watch for the nth time, tapping my fingers on the round table, staring at the plants above the black railings that separated the café from the street, or glancing at random people walking past me.

They barely noticed me or even the old man, reading a newspaper, in the table adjacent to mine. In almost half an hour that I was here, I could count using the fingers of my one hand the number of those who would move their gaze around other than the straight road ahead of them. Perhaps, snob was the word in the narrow street of this lovely city. Or should I say they were just too busy? I preferred the latter.

I continued to watch them. This time, I observed carefully, hardly noticing the ticking of the clock. There was a beautiful, tall lady whom I bet was an executive in one of the multi-national companies on the other side of the next street. There was a group of high school girls in a red, checkered uniform chatting and giggling as they ambled away. There was an old lady pushing a light pink stroller that carried a cute, little angel. There was a mailman who pedaled his bicycle through the moving crowd. Then there was this kind looking guy, who suddenly turned his head, gave a brief nod and smiled at me.

He smiled. He did. I was left dazed for a couple of seconds before I considered whether I had met him from somewhere before. As much as I believed he had this face that you would not remember meeting, I was certain I did not know him. Yet, flashing his brief, adorable, sparkling white teeth to me amid the monotonous movement of the crowd somehow made my day.

My eyes followed him unconsciously as he went inside coffee shop. He looked around and spotted a leaner, blonde guy in the table near the window. They shook their hands. From my vantage point, I could clearly see both of them. Surprisingly, I felt a little glad about that.

The smiling stranger, I noticed, had a camera hung around his neck. He removed and rested it on the table as they both sat down the velvety couch. A photographer, I noted. I could not figure just yet whether the two of them knew each other or they met just now for some business or whatever. But he was definitely a local. His casual movement said so as well as the white, long sleeve folded up to his elbow and the linen trouser he was wearing. He was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. No, late twenties, I decided. His flawless face did not seem to be more than two to three years older than me.

The guy was handsome if you take time look at him. Tall. Russet-skinned. Black-haired. He had a pointed nose and perfectly shaped lips that looked very manly. His jaw was a little pronounced in his round face and his shoulders were broad and muscular, but not too much, just enough.

Not long after, he fished out a brown envelope from his brown messenger bag and handed it to the other guy. Pictures, I assumed. The other guy took time to scan each of them. Basing from his expression, I think he was pleased about them. But why was the smile of the smiling stranger’s face gone?

Continuing to watch them as their conversation had gone serious, I was startled when Gina emerged. “Hey, Dianne! I’m so sorry. I was caught in the meeting. Did you wait long?”

“Not really.” I lied, preoccupied the change of mood of my smiling stranger.

“Just give me a second to breath and we can head out.”

“Sure, take your time.”

They talked for a few more minutes before the other guy left. Under the pale, yellow light of the café, the smile on my smiling stranger’s feature had faded completely. My heart could not help sank at the sight. I watched him, wondering what the other guy had told him.

“Let’s go?” Gina asked.

Wait! Just one more minute, please? I wanted to tell her but I did not. Instead, I took one more glance at the stranger, who was still on the same position – arm rested on the table and eyes locked on something very distant – he had since the last five minutes. Then I sighed, stood up, grabbed my shoulder bag, and dragged myself after Gina.

I glued my gaze on the floor, fighting the urge to take another peek before finally leaving. When we reached the opening going toward the street, to my surprise, the smiling stranger was in front of me. We almost bumped into each other.

“Oh, sorry.” He uttered in the most melodic voice I had ever heard and gestured me to go first. The adorable, earthy smile on his face was back.

As startled as I was, I returned a brief smile.

My heart was pounding hard and my breath was locked up inside my lungs. I felt like a kettle with boiling water that was about to explode if the cover would still be left unopened for another minute. This stranger just made my day twice, and surprisingly, I was looking forward as to when I would be able see him again.

Not a pencil mark on a piece of paper

One of the great things I love about writing is that you can write whatever you want and scrap it later on when it gets so messed up. You don’t get a chance to use trial and error in real life. Once you screw up, you screw up. Either it did good or bad, you will always carry it with you. So no matter how tempting it is to move away from being responsible of your well-organized life, it is scary to lose your way. Because finding your path is not as easy as erasing a pencil mark on a piece of paper.