Archive for the ‘write me’ Category


A christmas… snippet?.. :.

November 20, 2007

Ice and snowflakes falling everywhere…
Tiny crystals shining in her hair
Mouse in hand, she stood waiting
Heart beating fast, anticipating,
But when she looked he wasn’t even anywhere.


Selfish :.

October 24, 2007

I wanna be selfish, and pick up my life and go..

Not worry about anything, or consequences, live life from breath to breath, moment to moment, heart to heart.

Because life is an adventure waiting to unfold.

I’m not afraid to make mistakes, to get hurt, to stumble on my feet, to start from the bottom and work my way up, as long as I get to live my dream!

To be coddled, cloistered, wrapped in tissue paper.. that’s just as ridiculous as it seems.

Were I selfish, I would run..

Were I selfish, I would be free..

But I’m not… and I’m forced to live a madness, all the while seeking a dream.


December will come :.

September 5, 2007

Her warm damp breath caused the window to fog up, and every so often, she’d wipe away the condensation as it obscured the view of outside world.

Twinkling lights beckoned from afar. And her heart ached.  If she closed her eyes, and wished hard enough, maybe she would be magically transported back to the source of the lights, the source of her heartache. She leaned her forehead against the glass, and the surface pressed against her forehead. She swallowed hard, trying to prevent the tickle of the sob building up in her throat from escaping.

If wishes were horses, she thought dismally.

Releasing herself from the captive spell, she took a final glimpse through the window, and gently caressed it with the touch of longing, even though the touch wasn’t real, a futile gesture, it felt like an appropriate farewell.

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispered, her breath fogging the glass one last time.

She hoisted her backpack on her shoulder, and trying hard not to look back, started walking in the opposite direction of where her heart lived. Gate 56, as was printed on the ticket in her trembling hand. It may have just as well been the Gates of Hell she was walking towards, for all the apprehension she felt.


I think that she knows.. :.

July 8, 2007

The way she looked filled me up with fear
Her love for me just isn’t there
Even if she doesn’t, I really don’t care
I think that she knows,
Think that she knows.. oh, oh..

She’s going to leave me standing here
Can’t live without her, this I swear
Her love don’t matter, just as long as she’s here
I hope that she knows,
Hope that she knows.. oh, oh..


I think that he knows.. :.

July 8, 2007

I’m on a pedestal so unfair..
The feelings he has for me I don’t quite share..
My heart just doesn’t belong anywhere..
I think that he knows,
Think that he knows.. Oh, oh..

And now I want out of here..
He tries hard not to let me disappear
But I’m gone before the burst of tears
I think that he knows,
Think that he knows.. Oh, oh..


Not what you think :.

June 26, 2007

When so many see through you,
They’ve stopped looking at you,
You feel forgotten, lost, alone..
Almost afraid, yet brave..
Fragile, yet strong..
Broken, yet together..
A lone nomad stranded in the desert,
Bowing to the winds that can never be tamed.


These words are my own :.

May 30, 2007

From when I was little, I had grand illusions of becoming a journalist.. well, at least I dreamed about doing whatever it was that Kermit the frog did when he was on ‘Sesame Street News.’

I was told that he was a reporter, and I had to be a good writer to become one.. That wasn’t a problem.. I had been writing little stories since.. I can’t remember.. And because I practically devoured books from cover to cover, the English language wasn’t really a problem.

When I was 12 or 13, my mom bought a new computer, she gave me her old one.. I’ve forgotten what the name of it was.. I just remember it was a text based OS, and I really only had use for the word processing software. The damn thing took ages to boot, and it clicked, whirred and groaned loudly as it came to life.. It served it’s purpose to me well though, to record my early wordsmithery.

I would write late into the night, often ’til two or three in the morning, working on what I thought then was the most amazing space story that would ever be known to man.. I still have copies of the dot matrix printer pages today, but it’s a little painful to read because well, as you get older you realise, that maybe some of the stuff you wrote was just maybe a little OTT. But back then, it was my reason for getting by day to day, I often scribbled plotlines in the margins of my school work and couldn’t wait to get back to write the new chapter, or the next page. I think it may have been at least, 12,000 words.. It was a labour of love that took 3 years, endless sleepless nights, and a child’s wild imaginations and dreams that one day she would walk among the stars. I guess my love for science fiction started early, without me really knowing it.

As I grew older, I started writing more and more.. starting new stories almost on a weekly basis.. Churning out a page here and there, writing a paragraph of a potential plotline of stories that would never be finished.. I possibly now have over a hundred files, mostly Notepad ones, of little bits of plot, dialogue or just a line or two of an idea that flitted through my head and I just had to get it down. I even have some fictional articles that I wrote, practicing my potential craft, so that I may one day win the ‘Pulitzer Prize.’

My love for writing, and my interest in journalism go hand in hand.. I found myself becoming one of the editors of my school newsletter (crawling up from the ranks of reporter) back in high school, and later on worked on the journal at my boarding school.. I studied Journalism at university.. It was just another stepping stone on the way to the ‘big dream.’

Today, I am not a journalist. I’ve become a ‘Teacher’ of sorts.. but I have to admit, it’s such a personally fulfilling thing, touching little peoples’ lives, and hopefully inspiring them to greatness. I don’t regret the changes of direction my life has taken me.. because I get to help people. But there’s some part of me that will always feel the twinge for the chase of the story, the urgency of getting from script to copy, chopping and changing words on a story to get the right feel and tone. There will always be that journalist/editor in me.. That dream has not died.. neither has the possibility.

I just have bigger plans on the horizon.. One day, I will become not just a writer/editor.. but a publisher.. this is just a side journey that’s preparing me for the bigger one.

So life may take you where in wants to.. But never lose sight of what you really want. Just because you get sidetracked, or taken in a different direction, doesn’t necessarily mean that you have to give up the dream.. maybe it’s a different way to the dream.. you never know.

So I tell myself.. But it will never stop me writing, plotting…

The clicks of my keyboard tell me so.