Articles, essays, poems, short stories and tips on writing

  COFFEE SHOP “A cappuccino and a slice of chocolate cheesecake, please” – Just another day, although this time he simply decided to go out since he felt like relaxing in a café and dedicate some time to his writing. The place wasn’t bustling with customers and the atmosphere offered a much-needed peace and quiet… just a little out of the ordinary place for writing since mostly he’d do it at home. The place felt warm and cozy, with dimmed lights and a comfortable, green-velveted chair and a nice sturdy table to sit at. A sip of warm coffee with a touch of cinnamon felt great in his palate as he proceeded to take out his laptop. “What should I write about?” – What does it take to write if not a simple word or a sentence and see it how it flourishes like a flower in spring. The magic is there, and it doesn’t matter the topic because our minds are so creative by nature that one would just start with a word and take it from there. He pondered his own experiences, bad and good… he tho

  Love’s Love - story - reading   Never mind about love and its lies, Mind about its kiss in a cold night, For its kiss is disguised in cowardice, Mind about its sword, For love doesn’t carry it for defense, But for betrayal enveloped in words.   Never mind about love’s gifts, Mind about the intentions behind it, For like a poem with honey-like words they enchant, Yet soon love itself will bring cold tears upon your eyes, For love is blinded, selfish and thoughtless, For it loves killing what it loves, With words, With indifference, With swords.   Never mind about love’s love, Mind about the fragility surrounding it, The instability that seeded and bloomed from its core, Mind about its beliefs, For they are weak, And the tides of change shake them, And once corrupted, it will never be as it used to be.   Never mind about love’s enchantment, For it is built upon a mirage, and its music plays along with decadence, sprinkling te

  FREEDOM There comes the time again. With its tight grip around the neck reminding you that the clock is ticking, and that monotony is wearing you away. Everyday seems endless and ultimately: aimless. Getting up everyday almost at the same usual time, have your regular breakfast and almost robotically, you carry on with the rest of your day just to repeat it over an dover again, day after day. What seems to be ordinary, slowly wastes you away, gets you away from your essence, the nature of your true self. As he was getting things ready for breakfast, these and many more thoughts cascaded in his mind, powerfully and in torrents, to the point that he began to feel helpless and rather annoyed. While looking away thoughtfully at the view from his kitchen window, the frying pan with a couple of eggs in it, let him know that if he didn’t remove them from the pan, they would get awfully burnt. And it was in that moment, like a flash of thoughts, that he sprang up from the chair, put th

  MORNING    The rain was tapping softly at the window of her room, as if it was gently waiting for her to wake up from her slumber. Slowly the piano music coming from her digital alarm clock started playing, softly and soothingly. It was as if the music was playing its tune to accompany the gentle rain outside. So peaceful. So ideal perhaps. She slowly started opening her eyes to the soft sounds around her and she noticed that feeling of waking up in peace, in such an ideally atmospheric moment. She stretched out while gazing at the window, at the world outside. The white curtains pulled to the sides would let her see the crystal of her window, with trickles of water running down, resembling little rivers of peace. The pine trees outside being showered and refreshed by the water, were slowly swaying rhythmically to the sides. They looked as if they were greeting her that morning. She smirked at this thought, at the marvelous simplicity and beauty of the rain, of those trees outsid

  THAT DAY a blurry memory Where can you start when all seems so confusing… like a blurry photo taken in the 70s? It all seemed so extraordinarily huge and yet small. It is like experiencing a side reality in which everyone is overpowered by a painful passing, whereas you, you are just experiencing a ball of emotions ranging from inexplicable pain to surreal calmness. That day I had finished taking a shower while some rock band song played in the background, blasting with fury my ears. Perhaps it was a way to soothe the pain, perhaps it was a way for materializing my grief. Up to this day I still do not have the answer. I still do not have the answer to many questions. I just only know I am here, in front of my laptop screen while listening to a relaxing piano tune with the sound of rain in the background, which I have discovered calms me down incredibly. I can’t seem to recollect the clothes I wore on that day, or how my short walk from my uncle’s home to my grandma’s was. I jus

  How long does it take to forget? I wish I knew the answer to this one, I wish I had more than just a handful of broken answers that most of the time I must put together to make sense and yet, I end up with more questions than before. I wish it was easier to forget names and places so that even a fleeting remembrance won’t hurt so much, but to no avail I try and try, just to find myself where I started. Should I have to stick to the saying: “time cures everything”? I am not sure that’d work, for the memory is still there. It’s like being tied up and not being able to escape. I am not talking about an unpleasant memory, but just some, which are painful to remember because the one I should be sharing those memories with is no longer by my side and it is hard to come to terms with that idea, to make a logical sense of it. Doesn’t mater how much I try. They always come back: a lovely smile, waiting for the bus to go back home, or just simply a good night kiss before going to bed. It

CAPPUCCINO “A cappuccino and a slice of chocolate cheesecake, please” – Just another day, although this time he simply decided to go out since he felt like relaxing in a café and dedicate some time to his writing. The place wasn’t bustling with customers and the atmosphere offered a much-needed peace and quiet for his writing and perhaps a little out of the ordinary place for writing since mostly he’d do it at home. The place felt warm and cozy, with dimmed lights and a comfortable, green-velveted chair and a nice sturdy table to sit at. A sip of warm coffee with a touch of cinnamon felt great in his palate as he proceeded to take out his laptop in order to write. “What should I write about?” – A simple question yet charged up with uncertainty. But what does it take to write if not a simple word or a sentence and see it how it flourishes like a flower in spring. The magic is there, and it doesn’t matter the topic because our minds are so creative by nature that one would just start

Have you ever felt that inner peace while being in the eye of the storm? It's kinda weird, isn't it?  I mean, sometimes I wonder why I feel so calm even though I am up to the neck with tons of things going on in my life and yet still I couldn't figure out the answer. But I guess it has to do with something stronger than me, than my inner will. Of course, I am not consciously ruling out my own will power, although I feel there's something more than just that. I'd never been a traditional believer, but I've always known that God somehow, someway, has been a part of my life ever since I can remember. I guess it basically comes down to the influence of my relatives and close friends. I even remember, just as I am typing these lines, a time when my dearest aunt woke me up really early on Christmas Day or so, in order to attend mass at the local church which was just a couple of blocks away from my grandmother's home. I remember there was some singing and the that

  NO MORE I have forgotten so many things, Just a bunch of broken memories is all I have as I try hard to collect them, And they run through my fingers like water, as if escaping. Recue me, I implored, though the noose gets tighter and tighter without a hope. I look at my reflection in a broken mirror, And that reflection waves goodbye while my bloodshot eyes cry, Pushing me down into despair. From the past I try to collect my old self, this one being already broken by pain, And I stare at the stars though I cannot reach them, So I tighten the noose around, I failed to belong, and my home is long gone. Watch me as I slowly fall with broken wings, I cannot fly anymore, The castle crumbles down alongside with all I had, The steps adorned with flowers and glasses of wine are no more. Watch me as I cease, as I come to an existence halt and all around fades away.

  I – memory I saw myself wandering aimlessly through the streets of my mind, to the point where I got lost within myself. Being aware of such a situation is overwhelming and exhausting, just that I do not feel it in my body but rather in my soul which helplessly decays and squirms in pain. I still seem to be unable to fathom the existence of this cagey feeling of loss which envelops everything around, like an ivy trying to extend its reach to everything it can touch, perhaps with the aim of smothering anything around. I extend my arm as if trying to reach you, to sense you or even feel the touch of your silky skin, yet all I can find is emptiness, as if I have been taken away into the void. So, I return to my mind and once again I get lost. Perhaps that reality is much more merciful and forgiving than being broken into pieces just by not knowing where you are. I am barely able to remember the last time my eyes contemplated your extraordinary self with that rainy auburn hair of y

  HOPE AND I Swallow the memories I have as I gaze at the stars and hope, Destroy what is left behind and let me move on in this empty world, Let me be the shell of my old self as I trudge my way to solitude, And when my hour comes whisper in my ear the words I have never heard, Those words that no lips have uttered, except for the one who is not here anymore. Swallow me up from within til nothing is left, No trace, no light or shadow, just void and inexistence, For I tell you that being shackled up in this earthly bound prison is morbid, Is draining and uttermost painful. It is heavy in the heart and dark in the thoughts. Swallow me up and leave nothing, For indeed I have searched you yet so elusive you have been, And my heart is heavy, my body is heavy, and my eyes are dry, Can you not see? Eat my heart and leave nothing of it. I cannot dream anymore, for they have become ashes I cannot smile anymore for my mask is broken, I cannot be myself anymore

  "Ohhh... the sun is already out... I wonder if I have any new messages.... Nope... of course not... Okay, I have to get up and take a quick shower before heading to the gym." That was Brian, just a simple next-door type of man in his mid-thirties, who happened to be living another day of his systematic life. Nothing was accidental, nothing was by chance, nothing was surprising. Everything was insanely and uninterestingly routine without falling into the pit of perfectionism. In fact, he was far from that notion. He was more systematic than anything else. He would do his job as usual, eat the same food mostly, and go to the same places repeatedly, even though he would at times say to himself, "Hmm, this weekend there will be nice weather... I should go somewhere nice and new." But you and I know he would not do so. As he ate a banana right after his shower, he glanced through the window to check if the gym in front, where he went, was already open. "Alright, I

  DESPIERTA - Despierta del umbral del sueño amada mía, ya haz visto la lluvia caer y mojar tus ropas sin enjugar tus lágrimas, mientras tus pies descalzos se pasean sobre la balustrada de piedra, y sigues en tu andar sin rumbo fijo.   Tus ojos entreabiertos, rehusan el despertar y prefieren sumergirse en la tranquilidad, ya haz visto las figuras de porcelana resquebrajdas y bañadas en lluvia, y las rosas que tan hermosas son bañadas en tus lágrimas, hasta ellas lamentan tu tristeza.   A que se asemeja tu sueño con tu vida preciosa mia? ya haz visto a los gemelos con sus ropas finas y su buen hablar, mas no disciernes la fantasía de la realidad, en un sueño del que al parecer no quieres despertar.   Había copas de vino en los marcos de la ventanas me decías, había alegría vestida en música, en cantos, en esperanza, ya haz visto y aun así no disciernes, ya haz visto y no quieres despertar para hacerlo realidad.   Despierta amada mía de tu profun