cynosure

Zax was a little boy who wanted a baby chick for Christmas.

Zax wanted it because he just wanted to take care of something else, to know that he wasn’t just a useless little boy who wanted a silly wish to be granted for the holidays. to know he was worth something and could help something else in the world grow up under loving care and devotion. to give something that he never got.

so he wished and he wrote letters to Santa and hinted to God through his prayers, and he told his parents, and his parents chuckled and were amused and said, sure, of course, if he wants a chicken, why not? that was easy enough to get, what with the number of farms around. no problem, they thought.

so the 25th of the last month came, and at the crack of dawn, Zax woke up to a startling smell wafting under his nose. his parents beamed down at him, holding a dish of chicken cordon bleu in front of his face, forcing it under his nostrils.
Zax suddenly felt nauseous as his parents smiled.

“Merry Christmas, son.”

2006

Isn’t it ironic that I left my journal of five years and began again in this one to find how to write again, to start something spectacular… yet oftentimes I stare at the everlong sky of unwritten white and I find I just don’t know how to say it?

Sometimes my heart just feels blocked. Right now, I feel too bothered by my own issues. Help yourself before you help anyone else.

That’s probably why I don’t think to confide in most people about my own problems; if I feel my purpose is to bring joy and love to others, what good would it be if I revealed my own grief?

Well, then people would know I’m human, too, even though I try not to let it show (heh).

Still, sometimes it hits me: I don’t have to be strong all the time? It’s hard to accept, when certain people (the stars of the following drama, actually) keep on telling me I’m useless if I’m weak… but this is it. This is me, trying.

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