In that moment - part i

Note: This story is a soliloquy, it flies between the minds of two people; it is up to you, dear reader, to interpret them as you think is right.

~“In that moment, I exploded. There was nothing that mattered; there was no sense of reality. I simply didn’t exist.”~

Sometime later from the events that helped clear up the matter which he (John) later published under the name of ‘A Study in Scarlet’, I realised that something was happening to me. Before I knew him, my life felt as complete as it could be whenever I was able to solve some difficult crime. But now, each passing day made me feel less and less satisfied about the way I was leading my life. It almost felt as if my life had suddenly lost its purpose. “What was the purpose of my existence?” became a question I was asking myself more often than I liked. What am I supposed to do for the rest of my life? Am I doing all that I can? Or is there something more to life than everything that I was doing all this time? Is there a greater purpose in life than the ones I’ve already discovered? My heart seemed to jump into sudden panicky-rushes and I suddenly began to fear whether it was trying to pump out all the blood it can while I was still alive. Am I going to die?!? I found myself clutching the desk, the railing, a butter-knife and various other objects as I constantly halted in mid-air, suddenly pushed out of a moving train of thought, falling, cold and breathless into reality, only to panic again; breathless, forgetting how to breathe; helpless, knowing I wasn’t helpless at all; wanting to reach out, yet unable to do so; trying to cling on to something while /knowing/ I was about to lose it… lose what??? Not my sanity?!?

All this time, I knew that nobody was aware of what I was going through. After all, people don’t spend time to observe and think about others around them, not usually. Will someone see me? Will someone save me while there was still a chance? I couldn’t speak. I can’t speak. And that’s when I cried, ‘John’. But he could not hear, for I did not speak. I /could/ not speak. My heart froze. No matter how hard I’ve tried, the treacherous poison has managed to seep through: I was in love with my new roommate, who has become my close acquaintance, my closest companion, my only true friend and ally; and unknowing to him, my new reason for existence. My heart now belonged to him, and he didn’t know. Oh love, how painful art thou…?

Days went on and Sherlock’s life became drearier and drearier. He felt like time has somehow halted and that he was slowly crawling through life, dragging himself onwards until one day, he may feel the embrace of death, where he thought he may be finally allowed some peace. These days, he solved crimes just as someone who was swallowing more and more hot soup, when their mouth was already burned senseless.

But of course, John was looking at him, curious as a child, yet much more observant and understanding that he made it imminent. He /knew/ why Sherlock was going along like a train without brakes. He was only waiting for Sherlock to stop rambling about, and halt so he can finally start to speak. He was anxious for his partner to open up, so that he can come in for help; because John /was/ ready to help. He was ready to offer whatever small comfort he could afford to this beautiful creature. He couldn’t help but see how Sherlock remained a child inside, while he was a grown man in physical being. He appreciated each and every second how Sherlock could see through lies and deceit. He wanted to give Sherlock his undivided attention whenever he yearned for it. He loved to share more about himself with Sherlock, but Sherlock never seemed to want to hear about him. So he wrote it down in a diary, hoping Sherlock might, by some chance, come across it and think to glance at it.

To John, Sherlock was amazing. To John, Sherlock was an angelic creature. To John, Sherlock was pure innocence. If he had to describe purity of body and soul, he’d describe it as ‘Sherlock’. He, John, was the sinner. Instead of asking for clemency from the angel, he had sinned, and had fallen in love with it. His sinful heart has even made the virgin step down from her pedestal, and now she was falling, helpless, not knowing why she was falling; not knowing what to do; not knowing how to call for help. His Sherlock was now almost at the breaking point, reaching the ground like a crashing comet, but still he hasn’t uttered a single cry for help. Oh love, how torturous art thou…?

And he fell. He really /did/ fell, right down to the ground. People who were strolling along Tottenham-Court Road, saw a man wandering aimlessly here and there, before he fell down in a faint. They helped him up and he just angrily brushed them all off, and ran away, nearly crying. He /was/ crying, some people said. Their day was marked quite eventful after that episode. ‘The strange man who fell on the street’ was the topic of the day for them. But Sherlock never heeded the town’s gossip; he didn’t care what people said about him and his weird ways. He just ran, ran and ran; at least, his mind did. One moment, he was in a sunlit street; the next, he was in a dingy ally; and then he was on a pavement. The last he remembered was simply climbing stairs. Up up he went, until he found the door. He let it close behind him and stood there, helpless, like a child. He felt quite thankful that somehow, he had found his way back home. He couldn’t breathe, so he gasped a little. He blinked. John was right in front of him, gazing nonchalantly. Uh oh…

~will be continued.

It's time to make history.

Don't wait until someone else decides to start; start on your own.
Walk on, and see things with your own eyes; not as how others tell you.
Accept things for what they are; don't overestimate them, or underestimate yourself.
Always remember to be polite; it helps you in many places, trust me.
Learn to be patient, but don't become a doormat and let others walk over you.
Be humble, but be wise.
And also be cautious; there is always a 'popular' choice and a 'right' choice. there're times when these two are not the same.
You have the potential to change the world; it has always been like that, and always will be.

Don't accept history; make history.

~Yours Truly.

If there was a backstory (part viii - Love Conquers All)

~continued from last post.

And at last they met. John fainted for the first time in his entire life. When he came round.., well, everything that happened need not be discussed, even here. All the pain, the misfortunes, tears were forgotten. Who cared about some criminal mastermind and his henchmen; the cause of all the past misery? All that mattered was how tight they were going to hold on to each other for the rest of eternity. Love conquers all, indeed.

If there is anything worth mentioning hereafter, it is the magnified depth of understanding between the two of them after their reunion. Until the infamous episode named “The Final Problem” during which they were separated, there was a certain ‘feeling of uncertainty’ about the future. This was due to a lack of communication between them. They were flirting around the edge of a permanent relationship, but never actually got there, because our writer was lost in doubt about the outcome of his masterpiece. He didn’t exactly make it clear about a solid understanding between Holmes and Watson. There was attraction, passion, and definitely tons of romance, but solidarity was not sufficient. However, when you look into the works /after/ ‘The Empty House’, there is a clear distinction about the level of understanding between the two lovers. In later novels, we can feel the deepened affection raise its head even into John’s publicised articles. He seems more open about their life together. There are moments of intimacy that’s given out to the reader than he would’ve done in previous cases. Even when these disclosures are given in subtext, for someone who knows where to look, it becomes apparent that John was feeling a lot more confident than he did before… as for Sherlock, he’s described with more humanity than before, he laughs more often and openly accepts John to be near him. Of course, one can imply that it was only a deepened understanding, through a mere ‘conversation over tea’. But to me, the explanation lies in a more intimate way.

Picture this: there are two people who are instantaneously attracted to one another during their first meeting. They go on to share the same apartment, and live together in it for nearly 6 years. Then, due to some ‘disagreement’ they separate. (Now this part would not have occurred if our narrator kept to his path without straying, but since he did, it has to be explained in some way). So, we’ll /assume/ that Holmes and Watson came to a disagreement because of Sherlock’s drug use. We know he was using cocaine as a method of stimulation in order to solve his difficult cases. John is a doctor. He is more sensitive to health issues. So when his dearest begins to use more and more brain-stimulants, it is inevitable for him to become agitated. Eventually he may have threatened to walk out on their relationship and Sherlock, being the smol introvert he is, would never have dared to stand up against it, even when it killed him inside. His pain would’ve been unbearable, but he would hold it in because of his love for John.

Once he went away, John may have been approached by others and eventually we’d assume he decided to marry a woman, and we have the wife, Mrs Watson. The news of john’s marriage may have been ignored by Sherlock until he couldn’t ignore it any longer. And then he fell into the habit of trying to get John into his life again by asking him out on ‘dates’ to solve cases. This stratagem was probably known by Mrs Watson (otherwise John would mention ‘domestic issues regarding my constant absence due to leaving with Sherlock’, wouldn’t he?).

All we know is that in the end, Sherlock decided to ‘leave’ the situation by getting involved in a ‘war’ with Moriarty. There, Sherlock /knew/ he was poking a sleeping dragon; an enemy who would be too twisted and evil than what his own powers can deal with. But /he/ chose it. He chose death, rather than seeing his Watson happily living with someone else. Isn’t that quite an example of jealousy evoked through love? Sherlock loved John so much that it killed him to see John being happy with someone else. And still, instead of trying to meddle with John’s happiness, Sherlock chose death. It’s a classic trait of a martyr.

When they reunited, there definitely /was/ love. They didn’t wait until Moran was carried off into custody; they expressed their joy very well /before/ leaving John’s apartment in order to catch the colonel.

After that, their life at 221B, Baker Street became their paradise, with both of them learning through their mistakes, and beginning to accept (and even copy!) their significant other… Baker Street was indeed the happiest street on earth.

In later stories, there’re references that John cured his partner’s drug habit completely (‘the adventure of the devil’s foot’). So, we can have faith in our conjured theory for their separation… and by looking more into that statement, it seems our narrator was thinking (and giving himself) the same explanation.

For some time, Sherlock went on with his detective work, with John as his faithful partner in anything (from sharing a country walk to house-breaking). Life was bliss. Slowly, their age caught up with them. Even Sherlock Holmes began to feel that his physical strength was not what it was before. However, John was a little ahead this time; he was investing for a villa in Sussex. (Some say that it may have taken more than ‘gentle persuasion’ to budge our stubborn Sherlock into retirement; John may have had to put his foot down, to be honest. But in the end, he managed it. It is believed that during ‘The adventure of the creeping man’, Sherlock understood that ‘using stimulants to stay young’ would not work out at all…) And Holmes finally decided that he would be more than happy to put down his magnifying lens and turn to bee-keeping (one of his dreams, apparently). It was only a matter of time both of them quietly moved out of London into the peaceful country.

From then on, our two ‘partners’ (they were married, according to Sherlock) were together until the end. Now there is some speculation because in ‘His Last Bow’, which is Holmes’s last adventure, the world war has begun and John was apparently going back to the army. But um…they were in their sixties. Do you think that is an age where people (those who were ‘invalided due to war-injury’) went to war, out of their country? Hmm…. I think it’s safer to say that while John /wrote/ that he went away feeling all bright and peppy with a bunch of soldiers, Sherlock was quietly humming to himself, examining the wing-structure of a worker-bee in their backyard. He was waiting (quite impatiently) to show John how it glittered like a rainbow in sunlight…. If only John would stop scribbling on those absurd ‘adventures of Sherlock Holmes’ articles and come out to where he was… after-all, for such boring things, they always have tomorrow.

~The End. 

If there was a backstory (part vii - Who you want him to be)

~continued from le last post

Alrighty.., now I’m a li’l drunk. What do you expect?! You killed off Sherlock, you have (literarily) killed off John Watson during the process, and you managed to push hundreds of your readers (‘fans’?) off a cliff, you’ve… oh wait; that wasn’t you, that was D-o-y-l-e. That crazy dreamer of an author who decided to write up a ‘one-of-a-kind’, ‘never-attempted-before’, ‘a-love-story-hidden-in-subtext’ sort of detective tale and then decided to wrap himself up in a blanket and hide under his bed…/what/ am I saying?!.... Maybe I should r-r-really stop.

Whoa, hold yer horses!! What ‘appened to that /revolution/ you were yammerin’ abou’?!

What revolution?!??? (Blinks) Oh… That. (Goes off to wash the face and appear a little more sober)

That’s better. Now tell us about this ‘public revolt’.

(Clears throat). Well, as time went by, more and more people were able to lay their hands upon the various adventures of Holmes and Watson. As they began to understand the unique storyline and the intriguing, (as well as quite novel) narrative, our lovers became something like a household item. People actually began to believe that 221B, Baker Street was inhabited by this miscellaneous duo who seemed to just /belong/ to each other; like a hand and glove. The perfect match; yet it can’t be romantic, of /course/, for there cannot be /any/ romantic entanglement between two men, /obviously/. (Cough it’s the /Victorian/-style cough).

 Alright, alright, we get it. They belong together but they don’t /belong/ together, that’s what you’re saying, isn’t it? (What the...?!)

Never-mind. Slowly (it took nearly a decade – if you’re not sure, its ten years!), the number of those who became to love Sherlock and John grew and grew. And as their numbers increased, the outrage at the way their author decided to end the storyline became stronger. ‘Bring Holmes back!’ became a public slogan. Many readers from far and wide flocked together to stand against this unpardonable offence.

It was like the East wind. Steadily it blew across the deserted, bramble-covered mind-palace of our writer until all the spiders of ‘doubt’ were swept off, along with their miserable webs. The passage was unblocked; thoughts were freed from their dungeon; evil has passed. A pen rested steadily upon our writer’s fingers; warm, pressed paper was lying underneath, glancing coyly, awaiting the ink that would flow over them; pouring forth love in cups and buckets.

Sherlock stood, nervous as any estranged-lover can be, disguised as an old book-seller. He was going to see his Watson. He was going to speak to the one, whom he loved above /everything/ else in the world. What will he say? How would he react? Will he even look at him? After-all, it has been two years since he fell off from the…., the (his heart stammered even as he thought about it) falls. John will not be happy. I heard that his wife’s no longer there…oh god.

 ~That /pivotal/ creation of an egotistic Doyle…, but we will forgive him; for that is how we must be. Forgive the man for /being/ a man. Even if we would’ve liked if he stuck to his plan without wavering, that was the man /we/ wanted him to be. It may have also been the man who he wanted to be. But the fact remained; he couldn’t be it. He couldn’t be flawless, perfect. There was no way he could’ve penned down the perfect love-story the way he dreamed of. It was /always/ possible for things to be completely ruined and destroyed: that is exactly what happened. He dreamed of perfection when he knew it was unattainable. That’s /not/ his fault. As much as he wanted Sherlock and John to fall in love, he may have wondered whether John can be happy with a woman and still be Sherlock’s companion.

But there can’t be an equilibrium point between three lovers. For water there may be a triple-point, but in romance, two hearts form the complete unit. Include a third, and everything collapses; there’re no survivors. There can’t be a situation where one refers to a person as ‘the man we both love’… if you ever say that, either you leave, or the other one has to. You can’t both love the same person. How can he ever return the affection? How can he just ‘share’ his heart with two people who claim that they /both/ love him?? He’ll end up feeling extremely uncomfortable and simply be fidgeting for the chance to flee the city. This is what happened to John Watson. He became the unfortunate soul caught between fire and water. No wonder his narrative became cloudy and quite mechanical during the last few years before Sherlock’s death. Sigh….

But now, there were no partners or wives or lovers or anything (maybe an occasional flirting, but nothing else). He has published some more of his early adventures with Sherlock. He was still deeply grieving. ‘The best, the bravest, wisest and the most humane human being I have ever known…’ that’s how he thought of his Sherlock. If that doesn’t scream out ‘love’, I don’t know what will.

There has been a murder quite nearby where he now resided. He wished his Holmes was alive. ‘One more miracle, Sherlock. For me, just for me, just… stop being….dead,’ he whispered.

You’d better be making an honest request, John Watson. Take a deep breath and walk out that door…. Be polite to an old ‘book-keeper’ you’d be meeting near the crime-scene. He…might be a lot more than a book-keeper. For one thing, he’s going to follow you back home…

~to be continued. 

If there was a backstory - (part vi - The Reichenbach Fall)

~continued from last post.

The stage is set. The curtain rises. Sherlock Holmes is facing his arch nemesis, Professor Moriarty. Twists and turns, ally-ways and by-ways /all/ of them reach to the Reichenbach Falls. The flight, the fight…and finally, the Fall. Watson is there, side-lined, left out of act, watching; horror-stricken to see his master, companion, friend, lover who is left to fall over into the dark, watery death. Watson, the Heart, whose past wounds were healed to perfection by his perfect partner was left once more, crippled and broken. Of course! That man has a goddamn wife, doesn’t he?!! The fellow who fell off the waterfall was just his best mate, stuff like that happens people, get on with your lives…! The show’s over folks, thanks for coming! Now skedaddle off to wherever you’ve come from. Doyle Doyle Doyle…. How you have changed.

The pen was set down and the last novel was published. ‘Sherlock Holmes is dead!’ said the newspapers… ‘No more detective stories’; ‘no more adventures for Holmes and Watson’; ‘the curtain is down in Baker Street’….. Maybe I should put on my cape and take the next train to Sussex, for retirement. Maybe Watson /did/ think to leave London once and for all; for what’s the use of staying in a place where you could /never/ escape your memories? His laughter, his gentle manners… how can he run away from the soft heart Sherlock only ever showed to his John, his Boswell, his biographer? Watson could die while drowning in grief. He could only scream at the injustice that has befallen him. How can the creator be so much like the devil? How can anyone ever just /think/ of letting his Holmes die like that?!??

Can you not see the hurt John felt when Doyle did what he did? Can you not see how miserable things become when ego gets in the way? Oh I think you /can/ see. Not just see; I think you are slowly starting to wish that this story didn’t take such a horrendous turn. But then you saw how such things can happen. In our last discussion we saw how fear of being slandered and ridiculed by others can make us stop in our tracks and give up from following our dreams. Our narrator is exactly like us, he too came to this murky pond of despondence, and was lost in narcissistic thoughts about allowing pride and ego clinch the victory. For once in our story, evil had overrun good. The table has turned. 

‘Good’ was let down, thrown over a waterfall. The light was out, darkness has fallen. Pages were torn, and documents burned. Lovers were separated; and hearts that were once tenderly sewn together, stitch by stitch, were ripped, torn apart. For over a decade, things that should never have been forgotten, were lost.

But as always, when things become overrun by darkness, there comes the East wind. Strong and destructive, it wreaks havoc in a land plagued by wrong-doing and evil. So it was for our rather ‘lost’ narrator. He has followed the wrong arrows and had ended up in a deep well that was dug up due to his own choices. So it was up to the East wind to whirl him back up into light and push him towards the right direction. He was /asking/ for a good ass-kicking and such a reaction was coming his way. It was coming his way extremely strong and powerful. It was coming to get him and shake him right down to his bones. The people were rising. One by one, they began to stand around the two people who seemed to /belong/ to each other in a very strange way. They were separated by their ‘creator’ and it was /not/ right. In every way possible, it was /wrong/. Doyle, you’d better bring Holmes back to his Watson…

~will be continued.

If there was a backstory (part v - Trouble in Paradise)

~continued from last post 

Here we are… two people who met during an experiment involving blood and the foundation to a bond that would run far deeper than the scarlet fluid was laid down with the amazing skill of our expert surgeon/writer. Their romance hidden within a crime scene investigation, these two men now inhabited the same few square-feet in the upper floors of 221B Baker Street. Holmes’s observation skills were phenomenal. He was eccentric, narcissistic, suave….  All the adjectives Watson could think of. It seems only a matter of time for the great mind to open his dark secret and ask his companion to accept him for who he really is. In short, everything is about to be as hunky-dory as possible (talk about insane wish-fulfillment!); when out of nowhere, there came a problem. Oh shit.

So where are we? We are currently stuck in limbo between two lovers who seems to be on a quest whose end stands upon the edge of a knife; stray but a little and all would perish into nothingness. How did our author get stuck in this quagmire? Even after years of planning, how can there be a flaw in the plan? What stopped the great confession and prevented the Mind from revealing that the reason it was seeking endorsement and acceptance through a drug, than the moral way was because his heart didn’t see love in the usual places (a.k.a. he’s gay)? There can be several reasons; there /are/ several ‘accepted’ theories about what happened. But I’d like to state here my own thought. The reason Sherlock Holmes couldn’t open out his heart and let John in was because his creator, was afraid. He was scared out of his wits seeing the impact his creation was stirring within the society. People didn’t just accept Holmes; they /loved/ him. They loved him so much that, they began to imagine their own stories and laying down the cornerstone to what would go on to become the Holmesian Universe. He and John Watson were accepted and revered by hundreds of people who were slowly calling out in unison, hungry for more of the detective side of the tale. The romance, his primeval seed, lay unheeded, almost completely overshadowed, like a medieval castle covered in ivy and bramble.

Here’s one thing I’d like to point out; even if my explanation sounds weak and shaky, there’s one piece of evidence that would turn the table and prove it is the most powerful, strongest theory available. The reasoning behind our author’s fear is simply because, he’s human. We humans have a tendency to fear when things begin to move forward according to an idea that we ourselves know to be our own. When we see that others are following on our trail, we begin to doubt ourselves and spend sleepless nights wondering if we’re doing the right thing. (What if we’re wrong?) It is sickening, because even right now, I’m having that /exact/ same nauseating feeling on the pit of my stomach; what if someone is reading this?! What if I’m thinking the wrong way? What would happen if it is proven that I /am/ thinking the wrong way? Would they all just laugh at me? Would they accuse me and call me a queer person who’s prepared to blab to an audience about seeing homosexuality in a revered work of literature? The answer is yes. I do feel scared at pointing this out. 

But then, my conscious gives an answer: of course, you’re scared. You and so /many/ others before you and /many/ more after you, would be scared to think that their ego would be bruised by your different way of thinking. The ego is a part and parcel of being human. When you do something completely out of the ordinary, the ego is left alone to cope on its own. It is the virus in the data. It manages to evoke fear within ourselves and make us doubt and have second thoughts about what we’re doing. Wow… if this simple truth is applicable to me, why cannot it be the same problem with our narrator? Why wasn’t it clear to us that our dear author was stopped in his tracks by the virus in his computer? Isn’t it obvious that he became weary and tired of carrying on with what he initially set out to do, because his mind began to question him whether /he/ was doing the right thing? Ego, you bitch.

So there were marriages, women who came so often to associate themselves with the protagonist lovers. More than often (indeed nearly on /all/ occasions), they approached the more approachable variable; Watson, the heart. Of course it wrecked Sherlock!!! He morphed into a terrifying drug-addict who would drown in a pool of cocaine in order to maintain his famous ‘clever detective’ persona. More and more we’d find him getting closer to drug abuse because his dark blank space of a heart was pushed deeper and deeper into darkness by his own creator. It went on and on and on that in the end, our writer decided to finish everything; the story must come to an end. Sherlock has to die.

A word to the wise if you’re feeling lost by this point: always remember that this is the story about a narrator who was telling his own story. A creation is a creation, no matter how brilliant it is. But the creator, is always as real as it can be. 😉

~to be continued. 

If there was a backstory (part iv) - how it begins

~(continued from the last post)

Alright; so now we’re set to explore what happened next. So far our story went on like this: our hero is an author. One day, he had an idea about a romance involving two people of the same sex. But this was during the Victorian era and therefore, such thoughts were extremely hazardous. No one in their right minds would’ve allowed such fantasies to unfold in real life. However, our author was not someone who’d back off from being… different. He didn’t dispose of his fantasy. Instead, he thought of a way to make his dream, a reality. Ultimately he came up with a plan to mould his work of art; he decided to send forth his lovers on their journey under a disguise. He turned them into detectives; or to be more accurate, he turned one of them into an emotionless puzzle-solver and the other into his…companion. This odd mix was reactive. It was beautiful. The disguise was so effective that it went on undetected for over a century, until some questionable speculations were drawn up about the true purpose of their creation.

After finding out an interested party who would publish to the world his writings, (without any…alterations) our friend decided to set down his plan in action (this was probably somewhere around 1887?). The first part of the story was unfolded to the society. It was about the meeting of the two lovers. The fashion of the narrative was… unusual. One partner was typing an article to be published in a Newspaper. This was the actual text that was given to the reader. And for all we know, he never gave out the complete description about what happened. The story that we read, is what was intended to fool a Victorian critic!!! Oh how biased that sounds. Dr Watson, we are NEVER going to trust you (except when you describe ‘how incredible’ your object of affection was). Either way, back to the first encounter. The brain meets up with the heart, right in the middle of an experiment about (well, guess what?!)… BLOOD! How surprising.  Of course, they begin to coordinate from the first nanosecond. And during the course of the tale, become adapted to sharing one apartment (insert a lot of coughing). By the end, Mr Brain is submissive to an idea by Mr Heart that; ‘someday, the world would know and accept their complete story; the combination of the one he’s going to publish (a.k.a the text you are reading) and the one that’s ‘hidden’ (a.k.a. the subtext about the love story).

Now we come to the moment of truth. Has the world really caught on with this elusive pair of lovebirds? Has the reader (you) been able to see both sides of the coin; or, have they (you) ignored one side of the moon and ignored the other…? Well, it took thousands of years to human race to see the unseen half of the moon, but what about our story? Has the reader  been observant enough to catch up with the other half of a story that has been written down between the lines? Have you read the love-story of Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson? Because if not, you belong to the group of people who act knowing only half about an incident; a most dangerous disposition. Because when you are in the grey area, you can (knowingly or unknowingly) become a tool that’s manipulated by a more powerful hand. You are no longer your own master in thinking. You believe something someone has told you and have accepted it as it is, without a second question. And by being so, you have also closed your mind from different interpretations that lay all around. I have only this to say ‘get out of that box!!’ don’t live in a fishbowl. Walk around with your eyes wide open, and see things as they are, not as how someone else has described it to you. You have to build up your own way of life, isn’t that what you’ve heard time and again from all the sensible religions on earth? This article is not a rant. I’m not here to tell anyone to believe what I’m saying; I’m here to pass a reminder that to see the truth, you have to become your own master. Say no to dogma. Take a book and read it as the author has written it down; not as how some literary-critic has decided to publish it (in a Newspaper!! Sound familiar?!?).

The next post will be about how our author came to a point of… difficulty (although I think, this problem would not have arisen had he decided to come and live in the 21^st century….). Anyway, more of that later.

~to be continued.

if there was a backstory (part iii - a little about criticism)

(Continued from last post)

~last time we left our author feeling all ecstatic and hyper about finally figuring out a way to keep his lovers safe and sound from the audience (or was he actually making a prophetic reference to paparazzi? 0.0). either way, his solution was marvellous. By using crime and thrillers, love was cosily tucked away in a corner.

Now it was time to test the waters. This, he may have done in all possible ways he could think of. Think about it; when you have some ground-breaking theory/idea, do you just blurt it out to the general-public? Where’s the data to answer the audience when they ask their questions? How can you retort back to the pathetic, undiscerning judging critique, who is /always/ ready to point-out flaws and mistakes? Where’s the solid piece of ground you’re going to stand on, when the world begins to tremble due to the change of thought you’re about to bring forth? Therefore, yes, you need time to think about it. You need to stop and think about /how/ you’re going to face all the negativity. Positivity can be dealt with modesty and humble gratitude; but facing negativity requires wisdom and courage on your side. Combine these with the need to find a suitable party who are agreeable to work with your script and publish what you’ve composed, without changing the contents… it’s safe to assume that such necessities were a little hard to be fulfilled within days or weeks as they do in our time.

Again and again, I keep telling you, these things are /not/ done in an instant. Creations such as these don’t get to the common citizen until months and months (maybe even years!) after the original plan has been set down. Time is /essential/. The delicacy of a thought is one of the most fragile subjects I’ve ever known. It is like a porcelain artefact belonging to Ming dynasty. One wrong touch and all the effort is lost. Gone forever. So, if anyone out there thinks that ‘it is stupid and grotesque to procrastinate without giving out a good idea’, I tell you this: if a good idea is let out simply as a good idea, would you ever be able to put it into any use? Would /you/ like to spend time and effort to make an idea feasible? Or would it be more satisfying if I were to give you a feasible instrument that I’ve already invented by putting my good idea into use? Don’t judge people when you don’t have the correct patience; in the big picture, you’re only the spoilt, impertinent (and rather stupid,) kid in the corner.

Look at the world with a broad perspective. You’ll see that each and everything has its own way of doing things. We all have our own different ways of thinking about the same topic. But if you look closely, in the end, all these different methods reach the same end. Even if you take a different pathway, you end up in the same place as all others who began with you (assuming all of you made it to the end). Before shouting out criticism and sneering at another for their ‘snail-pace’, also remind yourself the phrase ‘slow and steady wins the race’. Learn to accept another person’s way of thinking and give that damn inner-critic of yours, a run for its money! (Once that bastard is gone, you’ll have more room for happiness and inner peace).

Now I know I was supposed to explain how our author used subtext; but this dark topic about negative criticism needed to be dealt with, before plunging into such lighter areas… 

~(to be continued)

If there was a backstory... (part ii)

~ continued from last post~

So now, let’s delve straight into the ‘complications’ that were aroused due to a decision to write up a romance where two polar-opposite men came together. Wait, two….men?! What the HELL are you implying?!? Are you out of your mind?? I hear you say… (Or /do/ I?, for i believe we live in a society where such things are being accepted, aren’t we?) Anyway, /we/ were talking about someone who was living in the Victorian era, wa-a-y back in the 1880′s…. oh well. 

~Back to 1880

Our author was pacing his library. /How/ can he do this? How? HOW?! The scribbled parchment, paper crumpled and littered all over the floor; a glance would show you the very many ways he has tried to begin this remarkable tale. But no, ‘the way’ has not dawned yet. Not yet. Maybe tomorrow. Yes…. tomorrow. Perhaps yes. Of course, he could just write up all the (ahem) ‘erotic’ contents and give it out into the public; but /that/ would be um.., (to put it easily), his funeral. He has already thought out about the fundamental form of the two idols; there were some people who he knew in real life… and he had also given names to these two odd protagonists. 

But the main, impossible question still loomed in front of his eyes: how can he simply weave a love story, happening between two people who were deemed ‘unacceptable’ and ‘inappropriate’ by his Victorian audience.? (Why didn’t he invent a time-machine and transport himself to the 21st century..?) By and by a solution came…  a masquerade ball!! Two people, whose identities are ‘hidden’ behind gilded masks, waltzing through literature (Right under the noses of those despicable critiques!!); arm in arm, gliding gracefully, gazing tenderly, like lovers always do…?!!!! (it’s safe to assume that it was several hours before he remembered where he was…, because, /what/ an idea?!)

If only there was someone nearby…, he would’ve gone down in history as a genius; then and there. 

That was it. He had a plan. Now, all he had to do was to find the perfect disguise. What was the ‘cover’ he was going to lay over his masterpiece in order to protect it? This treasure that would go on to become one of the most /solid/ partnerships known to mankind…? The answer was already in plain sight. These ‘partners’ were opposites; so.., why not hide the opposites, /in/ an opposite?! Why not embed love within danger? Just think! A story full of situations involving treachery, crime, death, theft, hatred, jealousy, fear… Would you /ever/ think of finding a loving, thriving relationship? 

of course, you’d want to feel a consolation, to have a happy ending where evil is eventually defeated, but… you’d /never/ expect to see an actual love-story running through, like a long, majestic river; not unless you’d stop and think to dive in a little deep, Into the subtext. Ah yes, we’ve come to that intriguing topic. How did our hero hide his lovers under that convenient cover; ‘subtext’…?  

~to be continued.

if there was a backstory...

Somewhere around 1880, a person who had a passion for writing (or maybe he simply liked to pour his heart out in some format, i don’t really know), thought to write up a romance. Now this man was not the ordinary person who was trapped and bogged down in a little box that said ‘the only way love can exist, is when you have a man and a woman seeing eye to eye in some place in their lives.’ This particular young man (he was 21 years old) was capable of seeing love in other places, he could picture love between two souls that are trapped in the bodies of two men (or maybe even two women, who knows?). Now people can argue, yarn theories and various assumptions, but how can we know what went on inside that funny odd head of his? No one can answer that question because, no one can really ‘read minds’; that’s a parlour trick performed to cheat an audience in order to obtain money, a game played (and loved) by mentalists. So no, nobody can plant a rigid statement and remove different theories and interpretations. 

So yes, he ended up with two people of the most opposing characteristics. They were so opposite, that unless they were merged together as one complete unit, there remains a very short/ no story at all. Indeed, if they were left alone, the story would be~

~Chapter One 

‘There lived an Inhuman Mind that can see far beyond normal situations. This Mind was existing in one part of a town. It was going berserk because even though it (or he?!) deeply craved to touch, feel and love the physical world, no one was there to help him out. His consolation was in experimental procedures that went on from time to time (not to mention that one failed attempt where it tried to ‘humanise’ itself with the help of a particular person whose details were now locked in a file in the basement). What with the constant use of cocaine, the Mind’s life-story was slowly reaching its end.’

~Chapter Two

‘In another part of town (the same one, obviously), there was a wounded Heart. This one was an altogether different case. Sometime before our story begins, The Heart lived in a container, a fragile body. It was in full action, pumping out dollops and dollops of hope, courage and bravery to others surrounding it. It was glorious, being helpful to others, sharing out energy with other things that were alive. ‘Lively’ was the word. Heart was always ready to support and strengthen communication between those things; which our previous ‘Inhuman Mind’ would’ve described as ‘normal’ (and stupid!). Heart was very much…satisfied with the way things were going on. Until, on a very dark day, it’s container was pierced, wounded and dismissed as ‘invalided’. ‘I’m not an invalid!’, it screamed, from the top of its lungs, but, too late, Heart was out of service, dismantled, disgraced and broken. Left out to cope with itself, it made its way into town, where it decided to spend and dwindle to the end.’

~Chapter Three

‘The Mind never met The Heart. Their lives ended separately after sometime.’ 

The End.~

But our inspirational writer decided that one day, they actually /did/ meet. However, this thought brought out so many new complications.

{~to be continued.}