why i write what i write


i googled, ‘writing on paper’

when the heart can’t quite keep up with the mind,
what do the limbs reach out to find?

is the writer’s person a direct reflection of what he/she writes?

i hope not.

if you have a history of writing, at some point in your life, you have probably looked at the things you wrote in the past and thought, ‘gosh, what was i thinking? how could i possibly have written that? what was wrong with me!? GAH!!’ we didn’t think much of it back then (we probably even thought we were SO COOL!), but sometimes we look back and find ourselves spirited away to Cringe-Land.

as people, we are, for the most part, constantly changing – struggling, growing, and maturing day on day.

” 98% of the time, we feel ‘alright’, “

the writer’s person is the culmination of every experience they have had; the takeaways from the people they have met, the weight of the things that they have done or left undone, the highs and the lows that they have gone through.

in contrast, what a writer writes is often a snapshot of a moment in time.

i seldom write about that 98% that is probably a more accurate portrayal of who i am (okay, maybe the percentages are not so extreme…). instead, it is in the 2% in which i am not ‘alright’ that most often find my heartstrings tugged, that i feel compelled to chronicle my sentiments.

 what did the writer feel on that one day, that one moment? like a photo, each writing captures merely a single point in the writer’s imagination, especially if they were written in short spans of time. but as we put down the pen (or as is often the case these days, the keyboard), we gradually revert to being just ‘alright’. as the moment bids us goodbye, yesterday’s despair may begin to seem irrational today, and who’s to say if today’s euphoria won’t be seen tomorrow as intoxication?


my archives testify that i tend to be more moved to write by negative rather than positive emotions, but that doesn’t mean i, as a person, am always gloomy! every person has their own way of facing their lows; some people play video games, other people play music, i just happen to write. people say ‘time flies when you are having fun,’ and to some degree, that applies here as well: i’m not as mindful of the times when i’m happy and engaged – i just keep going; on the other hand, sorrow slows me down and sometimes forces me to stop, invading my thoughts at every opportunity. writing has become a way for me to think through and resolve my inner conflicts, for my mind to convince my heart. which is probably why http://www.flounderinglion.wordpress.com is usually not a very happy place, haha!  😦


in the end, i have to confess that i am, more often than not, a selfish writer – i write to vent, to channel my emotional energy elsewhere; to reprimand, encourage, or warn myself; to journal progression, to track my thoughts, to make memorials of certain incidents, and sometimes just because i think it would make a good story. if anyone likes what i write or feels benefited by it, that’s great, and i’d be happy to talk with them about it! but half the time (and probably more), i write knowing the target audience is me.

perhaps i should not speak for all writers, but at least, this is why i write what i write in the manner which i write.

i’m mostly alright.  🙂



what do you want?


i googled: ‘mirror’.


it’s overdue – i have to ask you this,
and soon enough, so you will not regret.
what do you want?

you tell others this:
you like the philosophy of law;
the ideas behind it all:
how its very concept was birthed,
and what purpose it served;
how our forefathers saw it a necessity,
and what it has become in our society.

you ask if law should be subservient to man,
or doth it have a greater purpose to serve?
shall it be clay to pottery in our hands,
and shaped according to need across the lands?
or shall it be a bulwark against our own deviance,
as we slowly descend into decadence?

your answer is laid bare.
but you walk on, laissez faire.

‘what can i do?’
you asked.
so, too, a thousand other kindred spirits.

i will not give answers to you,
but i will continue to probe you:
to have you in earnest thought,
to not walk out of a fight unfought.

what do you want?

an empty mirror, viewed directly, leaves a palpable sense of unease.
it’s probably because that is an impossible sight,
but perhaps, it is also because the thought of losing sight of ourselves scares us.




i googled: ‘eye art’


i’ve been sleeping for so long now, and still i desire to sleep.
please do not wake me! do not wake me; i’ll weep!
how does one go from slumber so deep
to a reality nowhere near as sweet;
a reality from which there is no escape –
a reality that we must keep?

these could be great years
or they could grate your ears.
(years later, just as you feared.)
you do your best to keep on wondering,
but closer and closer it creeps.
so maybe it’s time you put a little more ‘heart’
into your incessant pondering,
and ask yourself without cringing:
how much longer can you sleep?

once dear

there are only so many times you can say
i am busy.
before it becomes synonymous with
i’d rather be doing something else.

it’s okay if you do not care anymore,
but you cannot simultaneously not care,
and yet claim still to care.
your choices are completely reasonable,
and they deserve respect,
but please own them.

to have less


i googled ’embracing the rain’.

the mid-day naps which invariably end abruptly with headache and listless sitting on the bed, accompanied with thoughts along the lines of:
‘what am i doing with my life?’

the immediate and uncontrolled urge to plug the holes in conversation known as ‘silence’ and speak things which have not received adequate thought in sobriety, culminating in the mind, as is always the case, a few moments later than it should have, as regretful sentiments of:
‘why did i say that?’

the need for security and avoidance of blame; as if by being uncertain and ignorant, the liabilities that far too often stem from a lusty desire to sound erudite can be absolved by prefacing with:
‘i don’t know, but i think…’

the brooding thoughts of enmity, the breeding ground of contempt; pride that wants us to stand tall indignantly when we should stoop down with humility and seek forgiveness and reconciliation; pride that gently whispers in our ears:
‘i deserve better than that.’

the moments of distrust in the things that have been revealed; the thoughts and senses which are still haunted by the spectres of old known as skepticism and cynicism, making them dull; causing the eyes to see but not perceive, the ears listen but not hear, and the mind to know but yet still struggle to believe, inadvertently disparaging His work with doubts of:
‘how can i possibly know?’


all these, i confess.

all these, i pray to have less.

Ihre Krone

if life is long, then i be glad;
if short, then why should i be sad?

would i, too, one day be able to utter those words with complete conviction?

what does it say about me
if i enjoy the mundane,
if i find joy in the little things
and if i am a little afraid of pain?

what would it say about me
if i sometimes find the frivolous intriguing,
if i’m not completely fearless about dying
and cannot quite yet count death as gain?

it is hard to do good; harder still to do right.
yet ‘my yoke is easy, and my burden is light’;
so why do i find it difficult and heavy to bear
as i continue to struggle day on day?

the frog and the bird

Hey buddy, do you mind?!
Why are you jumping up and

down non-stop anyway?

I met a really beautiful Cardinal recently,
she’s a Painted Bunting.

And what does that have to do
with you jumping around?

Birds live in the sky.

… And we frogs live in the pond?
What’s your point, buddy?

We don’t in the same habitat.
I asked her if she would meet
me on land, but she refused.

She said she was uncomfortable
leaving her habitat of the sky.

So I was thinking…

‘Maybe one day I will be able to jump as high as she flies.’

Note: in reality, only the male Painted Buntings are considered beautiful; sexual dimorphism is prevalent in birds, and the males are usually more colourful and vibrant than their female counterparts.