Children's Choices

Melancholy. I was still learning English when I heard this word. Read, rather. I'm 23. Writing in this blog few times a year - maybe even less. Should I even make a longer introduction?

To be honest I wanted to be a hit. I wanted to be popular, to be recognized, to be adored. Not for who I am personally, but for my works. For thoughts and my principles. For my hobbies, skills and potential. Who doesn't want their work to be recognized? Maybe that's where I'm lost.

One-hit-wonder. 

Fame-whoring. 

Pretentious philosophy. 

Above average.

All these delusions, I hid myself. It's my blog okay, but why does it sound so uninteresting? Well, the grammar, the quick-change-of-subject phases and the trying-hard dad jokes. I add up a little GIF and photos from my camera to make it legitimate and eye pleasing. *vomits*. Well in the beginning I wanted this to be my diary, my personal journal. Something I could observe when I grow old how my intellect changes, and how my words never develop that much. I like to read and I like to read to myself.

Anyways I've been expecting a lot to myself, I taught myself a lot of things that I thought I can be very good at. Like what I wrote on "Common Man" (I don't really know the title, too lazy to check), It's been hard to find passion - and at my age, it's very frustrating to see your fellow colleagues, fellow friend and classmates seeing develop on the things that you've witnessed when they were just starting.

At the age of 5 or so, my dad bought a small organ, the music thing not the one you find in the black market. So my mom tried to teach me, but me being basically me at a young age, I suck. I'm on a different path of Asians.
Following years, my dad brought different kinds of building blocks. 

Plastic - Lego bricks;

Wood - the one you basically connects the pre-cut joints; and

Metal - the one you screw around and stuff. (even comes with remote control so you can make it move)

By this time, I was pressured to answer questions of "what do you want to be when you grow up?"
Dude, I hate that question. So I said "Engineer" so you can build stuff. I tell you there are only four choices anyway. Doctor, engineer, teacher or policeman.
By the end of my elementary, I was exposed to rock and metal (I used to be mainstream hiphop, don't ask, I like to rap), with some Millennial rebel action movies. So I wanted to fight and become a soldier. Then tried to work out with my pre-pubescent body. Well it didn't worked out well so I said, "screw it, back to engineering"

Well math is hard so screw engineering too. Plus I'm not creative. I tried to pass an oil painting with a theme of sanity, sanitation? - and I worked on it so hard and then I lost. The worst part is the winner who came from our class, cheated. He asked her older sister who happens to be a beautiful artist make his entry. Cheeky bastard. 

By this point I realized something. I believe in a lot of things and soon-after these beliefs slapped me in the forehead with the words "Things doesn't go exactly the way you liked, sweetie." 

Not because you worked hard on something, it's worthy. Not because you sweat blood, it will be appreciated. If it's shit to someone, it's shit. 

So I try to find a different pursuit. Music - where it all began. Acoustic guitar - I studied from a book and I'm okay I guess. Then bass - another false pretense. I suck and can't even read a chord. Then I move on to drums. It became my life. Why? I think I was just born to bang something on something else - like my toe on the corner of the furniture. My agonizing screams of pain during that hard labor of kicking the foot at the side table over my broken pinky toe nails is almost equally the same as hitting that China thrash cymbals.

Then I quit.

Over.

and over.

and over.

and over.

Again.

May 21st, 2017.
May 21st. 2018.
Exactly a year ago I tried to write all of this.

In just over a month,
I'll get married.

The world just stopped as it stared back at me. Knowing myself - will this work out?
As the blinking bar waits for a mere second on what letter I'll type next, I can't help to become frustrated.
I'm about to enter in another chapter that could not be erased. My mind and heart should be prepared about the new levels of anxieties it will face. I could not, no, I should not let these immature uncertainties control my life - but it's also who I am.

I'm still lost.
I'm sorry.

(c)neilbogart

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Post-Mortem Anxiety

A week ago, a normal once-in-a-week evening of stress releasing after work, (day off on the following day), me and my girlfriend had dinner on a small Japanese Buffet. We entered famished, escaped satisfied. Gastronomically delighted, we decided to take a little walk to home. December is finally coming. Our place is getting colder as people strapped in with their jackets and scarves. Socially inclined, going out in restaurants, literally. During the summer time, you can't afford to eat outside of the air-conditioned spaces we call a place of retreat. We stopped by to have a nice talk outside this area.

A small carnival style in the middle of the streets

In my case, it is unusually satisfying to watch people walk and socialize or anti-socialize. You name it, seeing them as groups peacefully enjoying the company of each other or someone who drowns at their phone trying to conceal the outburst of their emotion when they see something hilarious in their Facebook feed. Whether it's someone who eats their lunch with a companion up to someone who casually smokes while walking to the cigarette bin. It's all satisfying.

Then in a middle of our conversation, a group of Christian Baptists arrives. From the moment this group of three (one middle-aged man and a middle-aged woman together with a guy in his mid-20's), I knew they are Christians. Raised from a Christian family, you'd differentiate a Christian missionary to a prospector of some kind of Multi-Level Marketing scheme. Almost the same but you'd sense the difference through their smile and handshake. As I look at my girlfriend's eyes, her glare insisted "please talk us out of here". Full of regret, my smile told her otherwise. I wanted to talk to a bunch of strangers and wanted to see them react to the knowledge of my openness as a non-believer of some sort.

So then the fun starts. They begin with the usual - "do you have 5 minutes?", followed by everything similar of first questions on blind dates. Name, work, life status everything that you'd eventually forget from talking to a stranger. I politely broke the clichèd ice-breakers by stating "Are you guys Christians?" and the young guy started opening up how he deliberately converted from Catholic to Muslim to being a Christian. I had asked how he's able to leave Islam. I mean he even told me he was even promoted as Imam.(Imam is an Islamic leadership position. It is most commonly in the context of a worship leader of a mosque and Muslim community by Sunni Muslims.-Wikipedia). He seems focused on the scripts of his statements and as for my perception, he looked like an apprentice of the older man. Trying to see if he's prepared on sharing or "saving souls" alone.

While he is trying to pursue and read me, the lady took the time of having a conversation with my girlfriend; and probably my girlfriend gave one question, one answer routine - I overheard that they ended up with a prayer in a few minutes of conversation.

Then the older man saved the conversation and pointed out the usual. Salvation, God's omnipotence, God's just, kind and loving personality, and God's punishment (the end times).
I don't want to be rude, yet he gave me same objections, same arguments from other Christian speakers as well. So I replied with my perception of God's self-contradictions - pre-destiny and free will; Loving Gift (heaven) and Eternal Torment (hell) and many others. They seemed tedious as the conversation got longer thinking it's pointless to convince. They even repetitively inserting the terms like "we are not trying to convince, persuade or convert in any way" or "we are not talking about religion here" yet they statements prove otherwise. Nonetheless, noticing my girlfriend's sigh - I started to elevate the conversation a little closer on it's ending.

I begin my last statements as the arguments of "Truth being subjective" as the difference in culture, environment, and upbringing affects human nature and the view of what is considered as righteous or abomination in a specific group. I uttered "sir I do understand you and I appreciate your efforts by trying to save my soul. But in the end, I do not believe in Heaven as I do not believe in the concept of afterlife along with its punishments and rewards. I like to live life simply with a golden rule, do good to people. I don't need rewards for that, as the happiness or the help it brings to other people is already rewarding for me.."

Believe me, dear reader, as I could have gone longer but as I suggested in my last words with them is that neither of us would give up on our beliefs, yet I appreciate their efforts to communicate, connect rather, in a random stranger.

As we depart, the young guy told me. "You remind me of my mentor, though he does not absorb all the knowledge. He filters it. He throws away the information he does not need and keeps the necessary one. Like how you filter your Facebook feed of fake news site vs. real news sites",
I would really like to tell him that time that I do. Although, like Facebook feed filters, I need to remember those bad information as well, like those cruel old testament rules in Leviticus.

Still, I don't want the conversation to be longer as it took already 30 mins of our time instead of 5. But I enjoyed speaking with these strangers at that moment. I really wish I have brought my camera that time to take a photo of them and tell their story to the world.

We ended up shaking hands, then I bro-hug both of them. They told me, they will keep on praying for me. If heaven and hell are true, then probably they are worried sick for my soul already in line for hell, and God being omnipotent, he already decided my soul going to hell from the day I was born. So much for his amazing love.

My final words are "hope someday we'll see each other in outreach programs, as I dream of having an organization helping those in need." They smiled and we turned in different directions. My girlfriend sighed in relief and we moved on - Then I suddenly told her, 

"Probably I'm not able to worry when I'm dead already, so why should I waste my whole life worrying about something I'm not even sure of exists for me after I die?"

Who knows. Life is already hard enough to prove your worth. 

Light awaits.. outside our apartment in a sunny day. 

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Overlooked Disorder

Constantly looking at my watch, waiting for the exact time before moving and taking action. Reminding myself the recent things I said to someone. Reviewing my words, my actions and other people's reactions towards me. What did I do wrong?

When I was a young boy. Lego was my favorite toy. Building in symmetrical sizes and colors satisfies me. I buy small chocolates for the spare changes my mom gives to me. Chocolates with roughly the size of a quarter, I divide them into fours, plate them nicely and well arrange, and devour them from time to time. Balance and order satisfy me as a young boy in the age of probably 6 or so. I live in the illusion that I might be a builder, engineer or architect. But I wasn't. It was just the early signs of this overlooked disorder of having orders.

At the age of 9 or 10, I was introduced with a game called Command & Conquer: Red Alert. I was never addicted to any game but this one was a personal favorite. The game is simple. You build a base, find a source of money to provide the necessary finance for the army you need to build in order beat down enemies that will do the same. It was a strategy game, the faster you beat an opponent, the better. I was never fast. I take my time. I build the perfect infrastructures in the best locations. I was anxious on how my base would look like, how my defense system was perfectly aligned. That is how I played the game - I made sure that my base was impenetrable.

At this age onwards, I find the need of placing myself on a group. Something that defines me - a talent that could describe me. Singing was off the list. Dancing was shit too - though I tried to but really I can not (I even tried from hip-hop to ballroom). I was never a sports enthusiast, I tried badminton, I tried basketball, tried the marathon, Nothing worked or probably my passion was not enough. I tried playing guitars. Finally, something I can be good at, but never good enough. I played bass guitar also - I don't even remember the basics now. I need something else so I tried to take a seat in a band. I played drums. I was pretty OK in it. I'm obsessed on beating on perfect time. Playing imaginary drumsets keeps me calm and relaxed - so I finally labeled myself as a drummer (a mediocre one).

"Writing" was just new to me. I tried writing songs before but I never finish it. I tried submitting a story when I was young - it was a fantasy as I recall. Involves trees and shit. I tried drawing. I tried comic style but it was very unsatisfying. I can't replicate the images in my mind through my drawings so as usual, I threw it down the drain.

I tried editing. Photoshop and Video Editing. Photoshoots and Video Directing. I can say I love video editing and directing. I like creating stories, short sketches, and plays. I just love adding personal humor and extending my thoughts through this art for everyone to see. Unfortunately, only a few people appreciate it. Maybe it wasn't good enough to captivate other people, huh. Or I'm just really really bad at marketing. 

I tried lots of hobbies, simultaneously. My parents, my close friends even my partner thinks I wanted to try everything. I wanna be a jack-of-all-trades. I wanted to be something everyone can understand, everyone can notice. I thought the same. I thought that I wanted to be able to relate to everyone or just in the process finding myself.

Ever since I can remember, I have a lot of thoughts before going to bed. Some nightmarish stuff that changes as I mature. Usually, it was a boogeyman under my bed or waking up with a fluffy white horrifying ghost lady breathing straight in my face or even insects crawling from my feet up to my orifices. Now, it was what if's. It's never ending. Recalling past situations and the alternate timelines if I changed my statement or decision.

I checked up the clues. Searched the web with the people having the same situation I'm facing. I have it. Before, I'm just kidding that I considered my over-organized mood was a part of my OCD. 

Like other people and myself, we misunderstood and overlooked the situation. It was not just being organized. The constantly arranging things, constantly washing or cleaning my hands, the anxieties before bed and the never-ending what if's every day, the thoughts of locked doors, the mise-en-place cooking rituals and now, I'm smoking. Everything is connected to assurance. I always needed assurance.

People will never understand the person without knowing the definition of their disorder. Until that, we will always be misunderstood as try-hards with bad and unusual habits.

While we find a cure, we find self-help treatment and seek therapy - People already gave up on us and tried to find fault within us. The pain is not the disorder itself. The pain is knowing somehow, we find hope in isolation. We travel alone inside a bubble that most people we thought would understand was standing outside, judging us.

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