Creative Writing: Banished Girl

(Ok, some backstory. This story follows the little fanfic idea way back I had about this OC similar to the Doctor who travels through fictional and non-fictional worlds to protect the heroes of that story. You just need to know that “Sora” was banished from her homeworld because she used forbidden time travel magic to save her homeworld and it made it so that she could no longer step onto her home world unless she wanted to get send to an early grave and her sacrifices to be for nothing. So, she decided to be like the Doctor and travel worlds. Menji is her friend from her homeworld who for some reason is able to travel with her occasionally. Anyway, more shall be revealed! Just enjoy this snippet.)

“I’ve decided!” with a cheery smile, the brunette twirl in step and turned to her companion. “We are going to help them in this world!”

However, by contrast it was clear her companion was not as celebratory. “Are we?”

“Yup!” She beamed.

“….Are you certain you’re not just playing with them, Sora?” Menji asked, stopping in step and watched carefully as the cheerful expression dropped from her friend’s face replaced by one with no emotion whatsoever. The sudden shift from joy to a chilling neutral was alarming to say the least, and if she hadn’t known Sora so long, Menji would admit to being completely whiplashed by the change.

“And what,” a glint appeared in Sora’s piercing blue eyes which Menji did not see as her voice grew cold. Since the time traveler did not face her friend, choosing instead to look ahead at the sky. “Do you mean by that?”

Menji refused to let Sora’s warning tones bother her. Even as a chill began to crawl up her spine. “You know exactly what I mean Sora, what made you decide to help this version of Merlin BBC? What makes this universe so special compare to the last one where you let events play out as is?” Where you let them die?

“They were expendable.”

“Expendable?!” Menji gaped. “They were people too Sora, and you know it!” The writer reached out before hesitating. Letting her hand stay in the air she asked with a whisper, dreading the answer. “Answer me this: How long have you been traveling without me, or anyone?”

Sora turned around and Menji flinched at the hollow gaze that locked onto hers. “Too long, long enough to hate. Long enough to despise. Long enough to watch the blood of friends and family alike drip between my fingers without remorse. Without realizing I should be FEELING.” She stopped, then smiled.

Menji felt like choking, that smile. It’s wasn’t one that anyone could put on, it was a smile that reflected the depths of agony and despair. The reflection of someone who had become apathetic to everything in order to survive.

Someone who no longer cared.

“Tell me, Menji-chan…” Sora continued wearing that terrible smile. “Do you think I’m a monster? Since I am, you know. And you might want to be careful, as a monster. I can’t promise I won’t kill you.”

Menji swallowed at the threat, as polite as it was given, it was still that. A threat. But… “You’ll regret it.”

The time traveler’s expression froze for a split second then she looked away. “I hate that you know me so well.”

“Do I?” the writer also looked away, unable to keep her face blank from the emotions swirling inside her. “I don’t think I do. Even after all these years there’s a lot I don’t know about you. I’m pretty hopeless, all I can do is watch you and be there. That’s all I really can do. Writing down your story, till the end.”

Sora blinked hard and maybe it was Menji’s imagination but she swear she could see tears at the edge of the dimensional traveler’s blue eyes before it returned to a stoic expression.

“Think what you will,” she flicked her hand and a portal opened up. A gaping maw that greedy swallowed anyone who was foolish enough or desperate enough to enter its endless abyss. Sora turned to gaze back with a hard expression, unapologetic. “Are you coming?”

Menji nodded. “Of course.”

The traveler faced the portal, “Then let’s go.”

To be continued… 

Monologue: Do. Not. Lecture. Her.

Do. Not. Lecture. Her. 

She is the queen of lectures, speeches, monologues, and rants in general. She’s face the flames of hatred and battle the demons of anger. She understands the guilt that festers and burns into one’s soul because she has felt things far worst than that before. She knows the answers and sometimes wishes she doesn’t. That the world is made of right verses right and wrong verses wrong. That things aren’t always black and white but grey. She wishes she didn’t know, but she does. And it’s her greatest strength, but also her greatest weakness. 

What happens when kindness becomes its counterpart, ruthless? What happens when love becomes anger and anger into hatred? What does one do when your world falls under you and you’re more miserable than you have been in a long, long time? What do you do then? 

She knows this one moment in her history is probably just one more major climax she has to face. The protagonist of any story has enemies, hers just happen to be herself. But isn’t it like that with everyone? The greatest enemy one can have is themselves. She has met her match too many times. And she wonders when will she finally understand it’s ok to break? And when will her time to shine appear? 

She knows the answers. Things will get better, sooner or later. They always do. There are never “no chances” in life, one only has to open their eyes and look for it. But when failures have stack on top of one another again and again she wonders if she was being too optimistic. That she was too late, and now she has lost all her options. 

She has never met a person who wasn’t amazing and beautiful in their own way. Her friends, family, and others that she meets whether by accident or chance are good examples. But if she can’t accept her own beauty and worth does that make her a hypocrite? Or merely someone who doesn’t have much self-esteem. She knows she often looks for attention…At least she think she does when she rants and asks worriedly if she is being a bother. But really, she just wants to love and be loved. She wants to find understanding, her greatest wish is to understand others. But maybe, she needs to find herself before finding others. But is she being too selfish for doing so? 

She’s sorry, so so so sorry. Sorry that she can’t measure up to the worth and brilliance she knows is expected of her. She apologizes and hopes they can forgive her. But maybe, the person she needs to forgive is herself. Since she knows she doesn’t give herself much credit. But that’s hard when all she can see is her flaws and none of her values. 

Writing was and is her comforter. It’s all she can hold onto, it’s the only thing she can hold onto. At moments of abandonment and hurt, the moments she cries herself to sleep or silently wept out of mind and out of sight. She writes. The words floating, dancing, and twirling onto her blank canvas on which she tells a story. A little girl who breaks, a little boy who cries, and trying to find the truth within her own lines…lies. 

Writing is her security blanket, the out pouring of emotions that bleed and darken the pages tell her story. Her life. The things she couldn’t say in real life. The things she is unable to understand. 

Poem: Mirror, Mirror, My Fractured Gaze

When I was a little girl,

My mother called me her little angel,

In her eyes, I was a glorious gift given to her by the heavens.

 

When I was a little girl,

My father told me he had wanted a son.

But when I was born,

He said he would love me like no other one.

 

But when I was a little girl,

I remember looking into the cracking mirror glass.

An array of imperfections arranged as constellations between my blinded eyes,

Held by the frames of an icy plexiglass, a man-made design.

Around this weighted figure of squishy cheeks, marred skin, and lumpy sacks of fat,

Oh able-bodied, able soul, but not quite matching perfection as societies’ bells toll, 

A haunting reminder that I’ll never see clearly,

Beyond the fragile lines of my inherited class…task.

 

Mother, lovely mother

You told me I was your little angel.

Could you tell me then…why did you teach me “silence” instead of “freedom in speech”?

Why did you tell me, feverishly “keep your feelings locked and bottled in your heart”?

And throw away the ivory key, let it drown with misery!

Listen, don’t speak. Silence.

 

Father, dearest father,

Why do you say I’m not strong?

That I’m physically incapable of flying beyond, what you label as, my wrongs?

Why do you constantly, repeatedly, oh even almost feverishly, point out my physical imperfections and parade my mental scars?

When you said I was your…little girl.

Hide hide behind the chanting cry, “I want you to be happy, healthy, and live a normal life”.

News flash, I’m not normal.

 

Oh who broke you?

I’m picking up the shattered glass reflections within my grasp,

wondering who fractured the rosy tint that all children have.

What made a little girl give up on love and believe she lacked the courage to be strong?

When she’s proven herself, knees on the ground, housework-homework-work, work

What cursed a little boy from living his whispered dreams and live through others he so deemed worthy?

Burden by love, burden by birth, burden by lack of love, of worth

Calculating, fracturing, shattering, losing pride because who needs something so basic when you’re providing for a life? 

 

Saying merely “society” does not satisfy the burning hunger in my twisted tissue of a heart,

Of the somber injustice within my drowning soul,

For how can I strive when I know how you’ve cry, not so long ago?

 

As the shattered mirror continues to crack in front of my washed out expression, 

I wonder, will I ever piece together my imperfections?

Be able to walk away from the ‘me’ of society’s diction, or my parent’s personal reflection.

Really, THAT is the question. 

And as the gates of yesterday’s truths draw to a close, the question continues to haunt me to this moment. 

Thoughts: Writer

So, this is a little different than most of my posts. 

When I was younger, I always knew that I wanted to be a writer. To be exact, I desperately wanted to become a writer or songwriter. I loved music and I love writing. But I came to accept realistically I needed something to support me while writing and so I chose accounting because it sounded interesting. 

Except, my grades disagreed with me. Or maybe it’s my own inital laziness. I really don’t know. These days, I’ve been surrounded by nothing but fear and anger. Constantly wondering and second guessing every choice I make and just scared….

But if there is one thing I’m certain about, it’s that I’m not happy. In fact, I had a bit of a mental breakdown about it. Literally cried on a sofa clutching a pillow after a misunderstanding during a texting conversation. Something that is, rather uncharacteristic of me. 

I don’t know when it’ll change, I hope it does. Since I don’t want to be always unhappy. I know there is something I can and will do someday. I just haven’t found it. 

But I know I love music, and I love writing so much. Gosh I could monologue and senerade the very topic if I wanted too. I have actually. Hehe, but ah for now I’m in a bit of a rough patch. 

So, I hope if God is really watching over me now. Please, help me figure out what I want to do? Since I really don’t know. 

From a hopeful writer who dreams,

Sora Hono 

Monologue: To be a Hero

Yes, to be a hero sounds really easy at first. 

You have the power and are in a position to help that person. But in order to help, you actually have to want to help that person, and not just because it’s the “right thing to do” or “who else will if I won’t”. 

People are inherently selfish and if you’re going to be selfish enough to take responsibility to save someone’s life then own it. 

It might be the right thing to do. But just because it’s the right thing to do, doesn’t mean it’s the right thing for you. 

It doesn’t mean you have the determination and resolution to accomplish goals that would make the bravest people coward in fear. It doesn’t mean you’ll always win. It doesn’t mean you’ll always been seen as the hero. 

Sometimes, you might even become the villain in order to be the hero. 

To be a hero, it means accepting help when you may or may not want it. It’s respecting those that fight next to you. It’s knowing you’re scared to death and thinking a mile a minute wondering if your choices are the right ones because even if they aren’t you have to LIVE with those choices. That the nightmares and “what ifs” may haunt you everyday until your last breath. 

People will try and see you as a flawless person when you’re really just a mess of contradictions and mistakes. It’s being a role model when you’re still making blunders and wondering how the hell did you get to this point in life. It’s knowing people will put you on a freaking pedestal and maybe even cheer when you fall since who doesn’t like a falling hero? 

It’s gradually knowing all of this and still finding a way to say “I’m going to save them even if you try and stop me.” 

That’s what a hero is.

Monologue: Hope In This World

So, this was a text message speech to a friend of mine and I thought I’ll share it with you all. 

Yeah, and there are people who basically say screw the world. But my mindset is, if we’re born on this earth for a reason then what is that reason? 

Everything has a reason. Even if that simple reason is that there is no reason. Or it’s such a simple reason that it’s hard to understand. Or a complex problem. Regardless there is always a reason and I refuse to believe that reason is for nothing. 

I’ve seen people crawling on the ground, bleeding sweat, tears, and blood for people they care about. 

I’ve seen a hopeless situation become full of hope. 

I’ve seen broken people help equally or more broken people become miracles. 

I look at this world and I see the beauty in it. The wind, the water, and nature in general. 

If people can get back up and fight and live and survive then there must be a hope of some sort. I refuse to believe there isn’t.

Monologue: Pen, Part Two!

Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t so sensitive. 
People say:

“It’ll get better” 

“Oh don’t worry so much.”

“Don’t listen to them they don’t matter.”

And worst of all: “You’ll get used to it, grow a thicker skin.”  

Gosh, I HATE THAT COMMENT SO MUCH. Since I don’t. I always hurt from comments that tear and rip into my mind like nails on a chalkboard. I’m so sensitive and not to everything but enough that even if I don’t say anything it still hurts…And I HATE it so much. 

Sometimes, I wish I could cut out the parts of me that are so SENSITIVE and NAIVE and KIND and CARE. That I could tear them to shreds and burn them with oil or watch them explode in a burning star. I wish I didn’t care so much. That for once in my life I could be selfish and take and not give a care about it. 

Since caring hurts, because the people you love or care for might not understand or cannot understand that you love them and will bleed or die or trade lives with them in order to take on their suffering so they don’t feel as terrible. That you wish they stopped trying so hard for you, or maybe you wish they would care a little more for the times you worry to death for them, and they understand you just get so messed up in the head because you CARE. Gosh, I sometimes I didn’t care FOR ONCE. So I can stop hurting so much. So I won’t stop turning my mind in circles wondering what I did wrong, if I can help, and so on. 

(Are they ok? Can they forgive my imperfections? Why am I so useless when all I do is be there? Why am I not as talented so I can help? Why can’t they understand why I care so much? It hurts they don’t understand but I understand why they don’t understand so why am I still so hurt? Why am I so silly? Why? Why? Why?!) 

But I can’t. Or I won’t. 

Since no one deserves not to be cared for, no one deserves to not feel like they’re worth loving or hoping, or being there. Since why be unhappy when you can have cake? 

Well, jokes aside…I told myself a long time ago I’ll do my best to be there for others, to care and love, be kind and hope, and not take for granted the amazing people in my life. The ones I’ve meet, will meet, and may never met because I’ve NEVER met a person who didn’t deserve to exist. 

So even if I, in my double standard nature, think I don’t really deserved to be loved. I want others to know they are. If someone feels like they don’t deserve love or to be forgiven for some unforgivable thing or cared or understood. Well, this is the unforeseeable, I forgive you. 

Since the world has enough hate, even in the midst of my turmoil I hope that everyone will be able to find a little peace. Maybe…maybe someday I will too. Maybe comments of the hurtful kind, intentionally or not, won’t hurt someday. But even if it doesn’t, even if I feel like someone took a knife to my heart and poured salt over the wound or cut my eyes out. I’ll still do my best to hope for others, to be there. I’m not being naive, not with what I’ve seen. 

Since as the Doctor said once, you take the hurt you see the world, hold it close to your hearts and swear to never let it happen again. Even if you can’t save the world, if you can save one person or even yourself. Maybe brighten one person’s day or give a person a compliment. Maybe, believe in yourself for once. Or take tiny rebellious stands in life or be daring once in awhile. You can and should accept that you’re not perfect and that’s ok because you were born and are alive today because you are STRONG enough for it. 

Don’t give up. It’s ok to give up once and awhile though, the power to admit weakness means you’re honest and strong enough to work on said possible flaw. (and it might not even be a flaw! Maybe it’s a secret gift in disguise!) Don’t give up in the long run though, since I promise you. A Sora Hono Promise, that life goes on. So to all my fellow sensitive people and dreamers, writers and mathematics, scientists and future business scary people….I wish you a good night, and happy dreams. 

Monologue: Pen, Part One

It’s interesting hating something you love. I know exactly what Kuroko meant when he asked Kagami if he ever hated basketball. Since I’ve hated poetry and writing. Loathed it in fact. And it took too long for me to get it back, that love for how words twist and turn and blend. I hated every word that flowed from my pen, every sentence and term and possible outcome.

But nothing strikes me more than when I hate music. I hate it with the passion of a thousand suns, every line of music, every note. Every freaking lyric. The black and white print burns my eyes like someone poured acid mixed with cement into them and told me to blink. Most of all I hate the music or songs that came from my voice. I HATE my voice. The way it sounds, the words that escape it, the fashion of its high pitched tones sounded like knives being sharpened, or glass smashing against the hardwood floor. It brings the worst chills down my spine and equal hatred that made my blood boil and bubble. It’s ugly and disgusting and I hate it so much. I’m surprised I’ve never decided to not speak again. But I guess, deciding never to sing again isn’t any better.

And….it breaks me. Since….

If you know me, you’ll know that music is my life. I almost love music as much as I love poetry. The beat of the rhythm, how the world stands still, and fills with color. When people come together in music, it’s like the world decide that for this one moment of peace, of hope, of anger, of anguish, of love, and so much more….Just this one moment, please, let it be peaceful. Let there be honesty, since music is the most amazing form of honesty out there.

You can be honest in a way that might escape a person’s notice. A way to say what you want to say so much or act in a way that is absolutely daring compare to how you usually act. Music is a beautiful thing. There’s seriously no other way to say it. I loved music, it was my home. My home away from the hurt and destruction of the world. A place where I could be whatever I wanted to be, whoever I wanted to be. I bleed music, I sang daily to the point my mother tends to be exasperated by my singing and my father just smiles knowingly. Not to mention, I would talk about it constantly, and sing even without realizing the words had left my lips. I sung with the need of someone with no food or water, the passion of a hero, the love of a innocent hope, the anger of a villain, the tears of the worn and weary, and the hope of a friendship.

If music is in my blood, then the notes were in my soul, the beats in my mind, the emotions flooded my heart, and the structure of the song in my bones. The individual instruments of a song would form my organs, the audience my flesh, and the lights beyond would be what opened my eyes to the impossible probabilities.

Music is a form of expression that very little can compare too. No matter what form. What’s so nice about it is that it’s so subjective. What one person thinks of a song could be the complete opposite for another and neither are wrong. It’s not a case of right vs. wrong, rather a case of wrong vs. wrong and right vs. right as the Greeks would say it. But I lov-loved. Music.

But not anymore.

My choice, to never sing. Again. It’s stupid. And silly. You’ll think someone who normally has an optimistic view of the world would be able to think herself out of this mess but I can’t. Or maybe I won’t. I never let myself have a happy ending, why would I deserve one? So many amazing and important people out there. I’ve never met a person who didn’t matter, who wasn’t amazing or a miracle in their own beautiful way. Like stars in the sky.

But me?

Honestly, I’m so pathetic. I-don’t deserve much of anything you know? So, why…why am I still here? It’s really pathetic of me, you know? I let the words of those around me ruin life for me.

It’s sad, isn’t it?

First blog post: Poetry Comes from the Soul

Hiya! The name is Sora and I am a poet. Or an amateur one at least.

Now what to talk about, I could give you some advice about life and how stressful it can be. But that it’s all worth it in the end (or should it be the beginning of new beginnings)? Actually, I just got an idea. Allow me, to tell you, my fellow wonderful and insane writers, poets, and other literal arts talented people as well as not, about how I view poetry.

Poetry isn’t a strange mixture of words that are bunched together to rhyme. Well, it can be but that’s besides the point. Poetry also isn’t something that can be understood quickly. Perhaps the surface explanation or view could be understood that quickly but there is so much more underneath. It isn’t merely whether the words sound nice or whether it expresses a cause. Poetry cannot and will not be constrained to a few measly lines and thoughts. To do so would limit unlimited potential. No, poetry is more than any of this.

What is poetry then? Simple.

Poetry is life.

Is that cheesy? Yes, quite so.

Poetry is life. Poetry is the music that flows through you and you find yourself dancing to the beat like you’re a part of the piece. It’s when you’re watching a performance of some literal art and thinking that you’ve stepped into something otherworldly. A spellbinding event that never leaves your soul. It’s when you are the performer, while being the audience, and feeling as if you’re a mixture of all sorts of emotions you can’t describe.

Poetry is the heartbreak of that first true love or the first breakdown you have because life isn’t going your way. It’s love at first sight or hatred at first sight. All the relationships between you and another person put on display and either you’re ashamed by it or don’t give a care what others think. It’s when you’re shouting for joy while skipping in the rain or racing through the streets while watching the scenery fly by.

Poetry is like taking a picture. It speaks a thousand words and then some. It’s capturing that one moment to frame forever because it’s so simple yet not. So beautiful but heartbreaking and soul shattering. That feeling when the illusions you hid behind, fracture and break, under the pressure of reality. It’s silence but pandemonium, fearful but anger, courageous but weakness, and hurt but loved. It’s when you crumble under the weight of life and scream for release. It’s begging for another way out from oppression and suppression. When you fight tooth and nail to find another way, ANY way to survive and live. Not just survive but LIVE. Its the voice of the joyful, broken, loved, hated, humble, cursed, healed, damned, and more. It’s everything and anything you possibly imagine if you set your mind to it.

It’s flying and drowning at the same time. When you feel the walls closing in and when you feel like it’s too open. As if you’re exposed to the world and not. It’s you and this paper-thin surface that you’re writing on with a look of glee, passion, exhaustion, and understanding. When the world seems so clear yet cloudy. It’s like how glass is similar to happiness, when you look at it from different angles some new beauty is shown.

Poetry is a contradiction of itself. Healing and hurting, loving and hating, believing and condemning, and much more. A story, a scene, a mini movie played out, a t.v. show, and etc. It’s people, and the lives they try to love. Their dreams, hopes, and goals. It’s the hero, wanderer, and prisoner. It’s humans at their best and worse, nature at its best and worse, and beings in general at their best and worse.

When people lose hope or when they forget what it means to be human or to understand morals. It’s the gentle comfort or harsh slap from reality that reminds us of the truth. At it’s worse it can be the drive pursuing our blindness instead of aiding in it’s cure. Poetry asks all those difficult questions you want the answer to and don’t want because you know how earth shattering it will be. But, you know deep down that you need this wake up call.

It’s feeling everlasting loneliness and wondering if you’ll ever stop wandering and actually find the road you’re suppose to travel. It’s running and not running from the lies and the truth. It’s promoting a cause and waving that banner high so that people will care and open their eyes from the blindness of every day life. Its a record of history, the future, past, and now. It’s a message that resonates in our souls, minds, and hearts.

It’s you and it’s me. It’s us on this bumpy road wondering where we’re going and never stopping. Either crawling or hopping, running or walking, swimming or drowning, and leaving the other person in the pit of fire or grabbing for that hand reaching out to aid or for aid. It’s us twirling and flying with the stars and moon while bursting with the same fiery as the sun.

Most of all it’s redemption, and being forgiven for our transgressions. Or the flip side of the coin where we are hated and cursed. Yet in the end, poetry at its core is our humanity and legacy set to fly free. Leaving a mark on history that’ll soon fade and may never be remembered because we’re all ghosts according to time. Yet, maybe what matters isn’t whether our legacies last but that they HAPPENED and inspired others when they were remembered. Since everything happens for a reason, whether for good or bad. They determine who we are, who we become, and why we became so.

For poetry in some simplest words is when you’re gazing at the skies and realizing there is someone else out there watching the same skies. That most importantly you’re all connected and never, ever, alone.

~Sora

Written originally on Jan 12, 2015

Monologue: Think You’re Right

(written as if the protagonist is facing their archenemy or rival who questions or taunts them about whether they really understand that there is no point to anything when all we do is dance to the tune of time and fate. This is their answer) 

You know, you’re right. Sometimes I do wonder what is the point in everything. 

When the bad memories and the doubts fill my mind, I wonder why am I even here. What’s the point? Even if I win I have to go back to my normal life and then when the world needs us – my friends and I – again, it can be selfish and take us. We don’t get a choice in the matter. Sometimes it feels like we’re just tools! 

But then I remember, the good, the bad, and the memories that are in-between and I realize that…they’re a part of my precious memory. Yes, it’s true that I have to face each day either as someone else or in a mask in order to be me. But if it’s to protect everyone? I’ll do it, since it isn’t “if no one does it then who will” or “because I can” but that I have the power and I want to save them! I’ll do my best and if I fail I know there will be someone who will be supported by what I’ve done today. Even if I can’t see it.

So stop telling me to give up! I’ll show you, that this is my resolve. 

– Sora