The one with the schmuck "good" writer.

I have never met a good writer who said he/she is a good writer. I think the real good ones leave it to their writing and not with their mouth to proselytize their passion for literature. 

The story behind this post stems from a eavesdropping incident that I can't help but write about. First, the person who is subjecting himself with self-praise is seated behind me, not to mention, airing his fantastical view of himself in-front of two bored females with a solid proud voice projected towards the whole crowd of hungry people eating dinner at McDonald's.

I was there, tormented and obviously disturbed by this man's unabashed, shameless broadcast of how good of a writer he is. Picking bits and pieces from his story-telling session, I assume that he is a blogger who gives advice to young lovelorn individuals online. He said he started giving advice and get ready for this, massive praises for his status messages which he used as the overrated catalyst and a major motivation to start his blogging career.

This is the part that intrigued me the most, this guy spoke with intense confidence, overflowing, overwhelming confidence, whew! That I almost choked when I heard him utter a statement so wrongly put together, so messed up with too much adverbs and complicated phrases that I almost stood up, walk towards him and hand him a paper with the words written: " Dude, you may be a good writer, yeah, keep it to yourself please and heed this when you write and maybe when you talk " eschew obfuscation, espouse elucidation", do spare us from your self-absorbed, overly self-righteous statements and just keep on writing good advice to your followers. Just write"

But then again, I did not do this although it was well-rehearsed and well-played in my mind. I did not do this because I think, an honest to goodness fan of the written word will just pen this story down instead.

May humility be bestowed upon that arrogant schmuck.

You belong in my eye sockets.

Be grossed out, cringe and gnash your teeth, but sometimes all you have is your creativity and words to think of ways on how to escape exhaustion.

Like the state my eyes are in--they are their own unique and separate beings, if only I can gently pluck them out my socket, like a leaf floating in a pond, awaiting redemption from the surge of an incoming rain, I would. I will give these eyes a rest, in a bowl of shaved ice, diamond sprinkles, clear and crisp, soft and inviting. I will then cover them with a wool blanket, away from the sun, away from an emergence and urgency of mortality brought by the delirious whiff of dead air- humidity.

Tucked and hidden, I will allow them an undisturbed respite for 8 hours. 8 hours, an infinity in my world, and in the morning, I will carefully lift them up again, like a feather caught in mid air, yet this time, in melted ice turned cold water, wipe them sweet with love and affection, place them back into my sockets where they belong and co-exist with my body, like the missing puzzle piece you sought and found, you both carry on, you greet the morning and see the world again like it was the first time.