I saw him from afar and my heart started to send a familiar signal to my brain that led it to producing words that only I could hear if I paid close attention to myself and the butterflies in my tummy. He had that decent look on his fair skin. I had noticed his high level of confidence that never got too high that the perfect amount of confidence in his walk became the symbol of arrogance and cockiness. His abilities consisted of finding judgmental stares and whispers from ear to ear extremely tolerable because it was an easy job for him to distract any poor girls out there and be the center of attraction with that rare confidence as well as his charming look that managed to catch even my attention. His short straight undercut black hair that never went out of place was another work of art. I figured it was one of his best hair days that he always had for his years of being attractive and extremely decent. As he continued to be present in my sight, I noticed no flaws but bushy yet perfectly edged set of eyebrows that showed how masculine he was and his killing brown round eyes that were clearly visible across the room. His lips were unlike any others', they were moist and pink. Overall, they complemented his light skin.
The voices that came from people I barely knew introduced me to him and he had a very good reputation to maintain although I knew it was not necessary for him to do so as his strong desires to be humble, generous and strong at the same made him quite famous among the crowd. I looked at him and instantly felt relieved as though I was sitting on a wooden bench in a forest on my own while witnessing the beauty of the waterfall that simultaneously produces cold breeze and loud noise of tans of water falling from above and into the flowing river. My eyes were drawn to him and I just had to know who that man was.
I asked around, knowing he was famous and therefore my shameful task to figure out his real identity would be a piece of cake. For aught I knew, people had nothing bad to say about him because he came from a nice family and he found comfort in spending quality time with each and every one of his family members. All of them would at least go out four times a week and that would be when he was staying for the week at his parents' house instead of his apartment when he had classes to attend to. They were greatly attached and knowing that gave me a new feeling. Envy. He was a family man and it was important for him to always check up on his mother by calling her every night and letting her know that he would always be around eventhough he was not there physically.
Still, it was not a bad thing to feel envious of a man with a great profile, respectable personality and great look to top if off.
I forgot how long I had stared at him mainly because I was too caught up in figuring him out. Poor man, he did not know whom he could trust and he was bothered by the thought of him being surrounded by a bunch of people that only wanted to stick around because of his status and appearance. It was a nightmare for him to continue facing the two-faced money sucking bunch of dependents on a daily basis WITHOUT lashing out on them and giving them a piece of his mind. He only had one fear and that was the disability to kick some sense into them in order to let them know that they were only making a fool out of themselves by putting on an obvious act to be with him for the fame and easy life.
I guess he was a man who would stand his ground and be assertive. I knew because that recognizable confidence in his walk showed how dangerous he was and nobody should mistake his appropriate profile for pitiful weakness. He was driven by his maturity as the man everybody knew to slowly and carefully reveal mask after mask of the people who never truly deserved his kindness and time. The satisfaction to make them realise on their own just how pathetic they had become to such extent also contributed as a motivation for him to continue putting on such act and tolerating his fear.
He was an interesting book that I would not mind to read again and see where life would take him. His perfections had outnumbered his flaws and I could not wait to hear those voices from unfamiliar faces again to know more than what his eyes and walk would then show me.
Saturday 11 April 2015
The Third Reflection
The last class I had with Mrs.Fa was another eye-opening class that made me wonder and reevaluate my capabilities as a future writer. She wanted us to be as colourful, imaginative and creative as possible in hope to improve our weak ability to describe a particular character thoroughly and specifically. Or mine, at least.
I had always been the person who only knew that writing was a perfect art if and only if the writer could bring his or her readers into their world that had been perfectly produced into a book. The only way good writers could do that is by giving readers clear images of situations, characters and places through well organized descriptions of them.
In spite of my slow improvement, I am starting to get the hang of it and the clear idea of describing something to turn into an image instead of a plain sentence that only goes through one's head after reading it. I learned that with Mrs.Fa and I will try my hardest to be what I have always dreamed to be and that is an influential writer.
I had always been the person who only knew that writing was a perfect art if and only if the writer could bring his or her readers into their world that had been perfectly produced into a book. The only way good writers could do that is by giving readers clear images of situations, characters and places through well organized descriptions of them.
In spite of my slow improvement, I am starting to get the hang of it and the clear idea of describing something to turn into an image instead of a plain sentence that only goes through one's head after reading it. I learned that with Mrs.Fa and I will try my hardest to be what I have always dreamed to be and that is an influential writer.
Sunday 5 April 2015
The Man Who Writes
He dedicated his whole life after his retirement to his family but his ambitious wife, ignorant and self-centred yet hot-headed children that inherited their stubborness from their father took his kindness of a family man for granted. He spent more than half of his day during the weekdays in his room while the other members of his family were having a productive one outside. He had no friends, no cars or motorcycles that he could take out for a drive once he finished his 'chores' such as washing dishes and doing laundry.
He was a mute man at home. There were no other choices for him but to guard the house when everbody was away and even so, he was not given enough credit for being the perfect husband and father. When he felt trapped in his own home that he had lived in for 30 years and desperation to feel needed sincerely by his family, he turned to writing. He wrote his mind out in the thick book he received back when he still had a place to go, his office. The book was not that fancy, it had his company logo on the cover and it was everything he had.
He would write about the walls having new cracks and they reminded him of his heart. Everyday was the same even when everyone was present. He would write about the sweltering heat he felt in his room and it reminded him of him being trapped in the cold treatment by his family and not being able to say anything to them. He would also write about the trash he had to take out in the morning and it reminded him of how much felt unwanted and unappreciated in the house. He would write about anything that shared similarities to whatever he was feeling then and weep after that. On every page of the book, there would be his tears that had dried and on every page too, he would write "i will take care of my family until the day their tears fall next to mine on these pages".
The moments his family lost interest in having a conversation with him, and to his every question, they only responded with a nod or a shook and sometimes nothing at all, led him to becoming a mute man who only spoke through his writing.
He was a mute man at home. There were no other choices for him but to guard the house when everbody was away and even so, he was not given enough credit for being the perfect husband and father. When he felt trapped in his own home that he had lived in for 30 years and desperation to feel needed sincerely by his family, he turned to writing. He wrote his mind out in the thick book he received back when he still had a place to go, his office. The book was not that fancy, it had his company logo on the cover and it was everything he had.
He would write about the walls having new cracks and they reminded him of his heart. Everyday was the same even when everyone was present. He would write about the sweltering heat he felt in his room and it reminded him of him being trapped in the cold treatment by his family and not being able to say anything to them. He would also write about the trash he had to take out in the morning and it reminded him of how much felt unwanted and unappreciated in the house. He would write about anything that shared similarities to whatever he was feeling then and weep after that. On every page of the book, there would be his tears that had dried and on every page too, he would write "i will take care of my family until the day their tears fall next to mine on these pages".
The moments his family lost interest in having a conversation with him, and to his every question, they only responded with a nod or a shook and sometimes nothing at all, led him to becoming a mute man who only spoke through his writing.
The Trip.
It was the loud noise that startled me... Metal against metal... Honkings from cars nearby....And also the man's sudden appearance. My mind was in a state of shock to the extent of not being able to produce any words that could make my friend, who was driving my silver hench-back 6 year old car (that had quite a number of scratches from the previous hits) turn his face to the direction where the motorcyclist seemed unprepared to clench his brake and had zero unwillingness to predict his possible injuries or whether or not he would make it out the hit alive.
Up to this day, the man's reaction when he fell off his motorcycle after his unstoppable motorcycle hit my car still remains unforgettable. His hands were raised in the air, his eyes were static as they looked up to the sky, his body was pulled down by the gravity and so was his hope to avoid the collision. He went missing from my sight and i began to worry about my car's damage. The hit was not that severe but i knew my friend would be severely attacked by the injured motorcyclist or so i thought and i would receive severing lectures from my parents.
As my friend got out of the car, i noticed his disoriented moves and wild eyes. My fear then, was him getting kicked, punched and hit by the motorcyclist himself and also by the taxi drivers that got out of their cabs in anger while yelling at my friend for not being aware of the incoming motorcycle. I sat in the car and my head was filled with curiousities. After awhile, the motoryclist was assisted by a few people to get him back up on his feet and then everybody started to disappear.. I assume it is because they blocked the road by stopping their cars and trying to get involved.
My friend got back into the car after gently tapping the motoryclist's shoulder and pointing his finger to the sidewalk to indicate that he was asking the motoryclist to wait for him there while he searched for a space to park the car. Not far from where the accident happened, both of us made our ways to the motorcylist and i could only feel the heat on my face that signaled my fear and worry. As my friend confronted the man and carefully asked him what he wanted so that we would not cause him anger and illogical requests as the 'victim', i stood next to him and started analyzing the motorcyclist that appeared quiet and calm when he was not naturally supposed to. My friend picked up a newspaper off the road and asked for my pen, it took awhile for me to realize that the man we hit was actually mute but not deaf. My friend was having a nonverbal communication with the mute motorcyclist by writing in between blank spaces on the newspaper and the man responded the same way. We asked him if he was okay and if he wanted a ride to the nearest clinic, he shook his head while frowning and wrote "i am late for work". It was a very calm 'conversation' until he demanded for RM50. I was broke at the time and my friend, on the other hand found it ridiculous for somebody who did not even suffer from cuts or bruises let alone serious injuries to be asking for such amount. He then nonverbally told him that it was also his fault for not stopping his motorcycle when all the other cars did to give us a way to make a right turn and the fact that he was on the right lane topped it off, also the damage of our car was much more severe compared to his motorcycle as the car's front bumper has incompletely detached. We offered him RM20 instead but he refused to take the money and got on his motorcycle with empty hands. My friend stopped him and patted his shoulder. He offered him RM30 instead and the demanding motorcyclist accepted the RM50 note while putting on a struggling act to give us back the RM20 change. The three of us parted ways as soon as my friend reached out his hand to perform a handshake and the motorcyclist smiled at my friend after he told him to take care of himself.
We could have had a nasty ending where my friend would have returned home with bruised fists after giving hundreds of punches to anybody who was trying to attack him or he himself would have gotten serious injuries from the fight that typically would happen if you ever hit anyone on the road. Despite the intensity and the pressure to come up with a way to inform my parents about the damage of the car, i refused to let those negativities and stress affect me, my friend and our trip to Kuala Lumpur. Even though i knew i would face a different yet stressful problem at home, the whole hitting a mute motorcyclist experience could have been worst.
Up to this day, the man's reaction when he fell off his motorcycle after his unstoppable motorcycle hit my car still remains unforgettable. His hands were raised in the air, his eyes were static as they looked up to the sky, his body was pulled down by the gravity and so was his hope to avoid the collision. He went missing from my sight and i began to worry about my car's damage. The hit was not that severe but i knew my friend would be severely attacked by the injured motorcyclist or so i thought and i would receive severing lectures from my parents.
As my friend got out of the car, i noticed his disoriented moves and wild eyes. My fear then, was him getting kicked, punched and hit by the motorcyclist himself and also by the taxi drivers that got out of their cabs in anger while yelling at my friend for not being aware of the incoming motorcycle. I sat in the car and my head was filled with curiousities. After awhile, the motoryclist was assisted by a few people to get him back up on his feet and then everybody started to disappear.. I assume it is because they blocked the road by stopping their cars and trying to get involved.
My friend got back into the car after gently tapping the motoryclist's shoulder and pointing his finger to the sidewalk to indicate that he was asking the motoryclist to wait for him there while he searched for a space to park the car. Not far from where the accident happened, both of us made our ways to the motorcylist and i could only feel the heat on my face that signaled my fear and worry. As my friend confronted the man and carefully asked him what he wanted so that we would not cause him anger and illogical requests as the 'victim', i stood next to him and started analyzing the motorcyclist that appeared quiet and calm when he was not naturally supposed to. My friend picked up a newspaper off the road and asked for my pen, it took awhile for me to realize that the man we hit was actually mute but not deaf. My friend was having a nonverbal communication with the mute motorcyclist by writing in between blank spaces on the newspaper and the man responded the same way. We asked him if he was okay and if he wanted a ride to the nearest clinic, he shook his head while frowning and wrote "i am late for work". It was a very calm 'conversation' until he demanded for RM50. I was broke at the time and my friend, on the other hand found it ridiculous for somebody who did not even suffer from cuts or bruises let alone serious injuries to be asking for such amount. He then nonverbally told him that it was also his fault for not stopping his motorcycle when all the other cars did to give us a way to make a right turn and the fact that he was on the right lane topped it off, also the damage of our car was much more severe compared to his motorcycle as the car's front bumper has incompletely detached. We offered him RM20 instead but he refused to take the money and got on his motorcycle with empty hands. My friend stopped him and patted his shoulder. He offered him RM30 instead and the demanding motorcyclist accepted the RM50 note while putting on a struggling act to give us back the RM20 change. The three of us parted ways as soon as my friend reached out his hand to perform a handshake and the motorcyclist smiled at my friend after he told him to take care of himself.
We could have had a nasty ending where my friend would have returned home with bruised fists after giving hundreds of punches to anybody who was trying to attack him or he himself would have gotten serious injuries from the fight that typically would happen if you ever hit anyone on the road. Despite the intensity and the pressure to come up with a way to inform my parents about the damage of the car, i refused to let those negativities and stress affect me, my friend and our trip to Kuala Lumpur. Even though i knew i would face a different yet stressful problem at home, the whole hitting a mute motorcyclist experience could have been worst.
The second reflection
Mrs.Fa asked us to write our own short stories that were based on our own personal experience. Some of them used both experience and imagination, some depended on their imaginaton alone and some used their experience to write on paper. I failed to come up with any fascinating true story because i didn't think i had any interesting experience to write about... Until i thought about this one experience that seriously got me into trouble.
It was a difficult task to start putting words on paper but after awhile, i got the hang of it. Once i was done with my draft, i showed it to Mrs.Fa and she told me that she found my story interesting. Honestly speaking, it never occurred to me that i would get such straightforward compliment from any lecturer because of my lack of effort in producing something, but after having my work being acknowledged, i started to feel the need to do more and better. It also reminded me how much i used to love writing and the ability to say something about yourself, people in general, your stories from your own point of view and your own feelings in a different medium where your thoughts are always accepted.
The First Reflection
I've always had a passion in writing because i never had any other hobbies that i wanted to spend more time on. I started writing when i was 13 and I found it extremely intriguing because you could just write anything your heart desired. My sister was the person who first influenced me to write. I adored her style of writing and her words usage that i had no idea what they meant until i searched for them on the internet.
The first class i had with Mrs.Fa, i never thought i would had an enjoyable time. It has been so long since i gave much thought to my surroundings and the events that happened that could be useful when i had the tendency to write something. I also felt relaxed because Mrs.Fa stayed cool throughout the three hour of class. There was a moment where i began to think that i would do well in this subject because i already felt passionate when Mrs.Fa was explaining about creative writing and i knew i would be in good hands.
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