“When you go through hardships and decide not to surrender, that is strength.”~ Arnold Schwarzenegger

Water droplet in a pool of water Right now

I just. Hate. Writing.

I barely made it half way. The words sound like shit even in my head. I feel like I'm vomiting every step into this novel because I write down everything that pops into my head. I don't ferment the words in my head. Words that do not ferment will fail miserably at seducing and altering minds.

The same goes with my blog. I skipped posting dates. I haven't written anything in weeks. I don't know if you've noticed. I don't know if you actually felt relieved. Have you? Do you actually read?

Do these articles mean anything to anybody out there? Does it matter whether or not I write?

Frustration piled that at some point last week my head froze. The dialog halted at mid-sentence. I went into a verbal paralysis, and said "Khalas. Fuck you nano, yuck fou Hning. I'm done."


A month ago, I was in Ubud. For lunch, I sat with a girl named Mary. That’s basically all that I know about her because it was the only time I met her. She could have been a fairy, for all I knew was that we were just a couple of tired volunteers; irrelevant and unfamiliar with each other.

Insulting the silence, I said, "Wouldn't it be nice if rocks could talk back?"

And Mary said, "What if you know that it is nice, and you know that it is the right thing to do, but you can't do it because you're not familiar with it?"

Is it reasonable, Mary, to expect fluency at unfamiliarity?

"You mean you can't suddenly be good at something, no matter how much your heart wants it?"

Then I said something to Mary that – to my alarm - made her cry with abandon. With nothing else exchanged between us, not even an explanation; she poured quietly, shamelessly, messily.

As if failures were forgiven. Hopes renewed. Or burdens relieved.

Before, Before

Few months ago, Aysha K wrote a blog article that I don't remember what it was about. The title, though, stuck. The title was the phrase – the wonderful idea – that made Mary in Ubud cry.

The phrase reminds me why I still write in this silent blog. With very little feedback. With very little resources or guidance on where I'm going from here.

The phrase, the title that Aysha K. used in that post, assures me that it doesn't matter if only one phrase is caught. It doesn't matter if it's only one article that sticks. Or if any of this is really doing anybody any good.

Because some day it will. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far it travels, some of these words will do some good. Some day, these words will ripple - like how Aysha's title traveled to Ubud - reaching the right people - like Mary - and ease some burdens and pardon some mistakes and renew some hopes.

Even a little. Ever so brief. These words will do (have done) their job.

All I have to do is write them down.

"Faith is a muscle."

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