Tag Archives: frustration

Engineers

I was talking with a friend who is studying to be an engineer. He’s good with numbers and figures. Systematic in nature, and technical in skill. He asks me about my writing? In which I said, I hate it.

***

To hell with writing.

I can’t find the words to express my frustration, but life is being a thorough bitch lately. Pardon my rudeness. It’s just that there is no word fit enough to convey the weight of frustration I feel.

Notice I said that it’s life that’s the problem, but really it’s my goddam writing. Because Life and writing, they’re both the same. At this point in my life, it’s starting to mean almost synonymously. Because this is want I want to do, this is what I want to do..

But is it really about what we want to do, or how good we do something?

Because, I’m tired of all these arrow-like critiques raining down on my morale. It’s exhausting. And I’m exhausted. The process is cruel. No pity for the young and inexperience.They say you learn from your mistakes, but no. You learn that it’s a mistake. The solution though, doesn’t come readily with learning the mistake. You work on it. You take a guess..

And then another mistake.

Literature is a godforsaken blessing at the same note, a goddam curse. Deciphering the meaning in between the lines is like, groping in the dark. Reading cover to cover is a pill that knocks you out. These literary art forms require good eyes, and sharp minds. But damn, I might as well close my eyes and shut my cranium down. Literature is a waste of time.

But this is where I want to be, in the middle of words.

Damn it.

***

Why can’t I be an engineer?

I’m starting to think that numbers make more sense than words.

SONGOFTHEMOMENT: —

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Frustration

Zone out.

Eat a hefty meal.

Take a nap.

Take a shower.

Take your time.

Shake off the frustration.

Now. You’re ready to work.

SONGOFTHEMOMENT: Take It Easy by Beautiful Eulogy

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Weak Finish

It’s not about how you started, it’s how you finish.

Story of my life.

I remember walking in my first English class at the collegiate with one goal in mind: To make the best out of this class. Coming of from missing a shot at earning The Top Of The World Award for English Language, I had nothing in mind but to give my utmost effort. And I did.

I did it for the first half.

I worked my bottoms off to hatch an egg and it was well worth it. But after seeing how good things were. I took my foot off the pedal; leaned back and got comfortable. I lost sight of my goal. I still am in a fairly good spot though, in fact a better spot compared to my classmates.  But that’s not the issue. The point is, it’s about doing my best. And writing the exam today was definitely not the right connotation of the word.

I didn’t fail. But didn’t prepare to succeed either.

I’m not going to lie. The whole idea of the ‘home stretch’ really didn’t help me. Because instead of closing strong, I couldn’t wait to get things done and over with. Although, I miss home and miss it terribly or I feel heavy with unsorted burdens. I’m not going to take those as a viable excuse.

NO.

Goddam it.

I want to do my best.

BEST.

And nothing short of it.

SONGOFTHEMOMENT: Swim Good by Frank Ocean

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I Plead Guilty..

If there’s a term that can be coined in reference to one’s efforts being considered as complete vain. Then, whatever so called name it presents itself with should not happen to meet me in the dim streets of Portage. Or good heavens, blood will be spilled on the cotton grounds which rests the snow.

But suppose the long arm of the law finds it’s way up my buttocks. I shall confess to Frustration as my leading accomplice. I would testify that its anger inducing influence had lead me to a bloody act of murder concerning the aforementioned victim. Innocent and ill-fated.

I would nonetheless count on my English teacher to serve as a witness for the helpless victim. Upon experiencing an abrupt behavior in class  in cahoots with the aforesaid confederate, Frustration. She will make it a case to attest that her criticism of my 4 paged long essay written in sheer blood-clot and mental sweat have triggered a lack of interest in what she was reciting as to be the exact reason for my written work’s flaws. Then a mentioning of my sharp facial expression depicting serious distemper would be stated; that in my exit, the cold atmosphere effected steam as my subtle ire flares up.

This would conclude the jury to come to a final decision that the suspect, yours truly, is clearly liable for the crime of frustrated homicide. While his associate to the crime at hand transpires to be but a mere figment of imagination; one that came into being upon the denial of efforts made. I would then be sentenced to a reconstruction of the written work from the scraps of identifiable content that remains in the noted essay for a long 5 days and 5 nights, including the weekend. In short, death penalty.

😐

FartML

SONGOFTHEMOMENT: Sky Might Fall by Kid Cudi

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