I write this with shame and pride

Even though I am fighting against the heat, alongside the heavy hours of my day job, yearning for a day off that I haven’t seen for four weeks now, I feel like this post was meant to be written. The other day, while contemplating what should I write for this weeks “Process of writing” I stumble on a peculiar notification from my WordPress. “Congrats on the two year anniversary of the Word Den!” . I was shocked a bit, not really knowing the precise date when it all started and surely not being aware it’s been already two years. Time is for certain the silent killer, one that slips through even our mind’s grasp, but seeing that notification made me happy, prideful and yet it filled my heart with such sorrow I couldn’t even imagine.

The confession of a writer



It’s been two years since the Word Den was created. And it’s been two more since I started this whole journey, creating my first book “The Lonesome Road” which came out few months ago. So four, if not more, years passed and looking back at my achievements I couldn’t but feel shame. What have I accomplished? What did I do? Do I feel happy looking back on all these years as a writer? I thought by now I will do more, that by now I will be more. But now, even after all the misery experienced, my life remains the same. Every year I make big promises, saying I am going abroad, trying my hand in something else, that next year I won’t do a shitty job like I do now. And every year I fail, staying at the same place, working the same job, fighting with the thoughts that I am not worthy of my life. And today, while sitting at my break at work, a thought came to my mind. Perhaps I am really not worthy of this life, perhaps I merely withheld a potential, as maybe if someone esle had an opportunity to live it, they would do a better job. Dark thoughts I know, as lately all I am having are dark thoughts. Truth be told even this year I thought I would fail, not even making the promises of progress that I make to myself and others and just stay in place. But life throws unforseen paths, so now I will have to risk it all, and as time approaches for me to move somewhere else, I am scared. Few days ago I saw an old friend I rarely see now. He asked am I going abroad and I said yea next year, to which he answered you tell me that every year. Hearing those words broke my already cracked heart. Am I really that to my friends, a lost soul that seeks something he can never truly grasp? And now, seeing that it is the two year anniversary of the Den, I dropped deeper in the rabbit hole of thought and despair. I know I don’t do as much as I should for this to become my career. Even after writing three books I am not sure I still have what it takes to do this. As writers we are taught by our fellow colleagues that whatever you write, write for yourself as in that case it ensures quality, a book, a story you would want to read would get recognised. But yet, we the ones who pull our soul into the written letter, we strive for validation. After all I’ve done, I still do not know is it good, is it bad, without a solid critique I feel like I am merely drifting into obscurity just to be eaten away by the darkens of the void my mind creates. Even knowing how stupid that sounds, doubt is the current currency in which my mind deals. I know, time will only show, I need to be patient and trust my skills and instinct and yet all my life I felt like a man without time. As if all my achievements should have occurred earlier and now I am lacking, in life, in personality, in soul. Is it because of the society that told me my time is wasting away that I feel so soulless, empty? Or is it perhaps my own dumb quest of putting myself out there in a different place that keeps me from reaching the sorely missed potential? Five years or so have passed since I started writing. Do I have anything to show for it? A blog that has thousands of views, three books that even after I pulled a piece of my soul in each I still feel lacking to call myself a writer. After this prolonged thought, a question remains… What is a writer? How is a writer’s creed and quality measured? Is it the recognition we so foolishly seek, wanting nothing more then pedestals to be put on, that our name is sung and praised for eternity as it is sung of many greats that came before? Or is it perhaps a smile? An intrigue raised in the eyes of the beholder, making the one that holds the written pages, grasping them ever so tightly, wanting more? Is it perhaps that our purpose is to inspire, to motivate, to bring the satisfaction of mind that not all can provide nor obtain?

For what is worth, the attempt counts



I realise this was a bit out of the blue. I go missing for weeks, perhaps now when more then ever I should be here present with all of you, my book practically came out and yet I went away. To be honest, I do possess a good excuse, working everyday for 10 hours without a day off, but frankly I am sick and tired of excuses. I know I can and I am “willing” to write, put out content weekly, other then me pouring out my soul like this to you guys once a week. Ever since I became a writer, hell even before that, I encountered the infamous imposter syndrome. But now is different, I can’t explain it, as if the syndrome consumed my daily life and feelings, spilling itself from my writing counterpart. I doubt not just my writing, but my existence as a whole. I made so many mistakes in life, took so many turns that resulted in too many “Tomorrow I will change” that just vanished away. As always I am perhaps too harsh on myself, as always I need to realise this is a grind and I should keep my head up and get back to the trenches. Even a start of a thing is admirable. And I feel like I did more then just start, I feel like I did more then just wish for a better tomorrow and stood in one place. But it breaks a man, those many attempts that resulted in nothingness, how many times can one rise until he decides enough is enough, what’s the point? With all my troubles, with all my scars and the heavy burden I carry, I wonder, does this all count as a mere attempt, just another shot of mine at something or is it my true redemption, my true calling, proving to myself I am something more then what people saw me for?

I am not quitting



Sometimes it feels like I am. As obligations get the better of me, as the bills need to be paid and relationships need to be mended, I set aside this endeavour of mine for quite some time. But it calls, it beckons, like a sweet tune of a song, it never goes away from my mind. Am I really good enough to do it? Perhaps. Is my life destined for something far less then the greatness of the written word? Maybe. But I won’t quit. I can’t. Because if I do I am betraying all I fought for, every redemption I worked for, as this is much more then writing. This is a chance to prove to myself, to all, that I am not worthless, that my life means something, that I have something to offer to the world. A written word of my suffering that might come as comfort to some, guidance to others and resolution to many. Perhaps I won’t ever get my shot, but if I do, I know, my mind has to rest easy. As this is my path of life, the path of self worth, the path of my own glory. Perhaps I drift into the obscurity of the void, only remembered by my failed attempts, known only as the one who never truly tried or was able to make it, a man made of mere wishes, never out of actions or decisions. Whatever fate has in store for me, wherever this path may take me, I know I must feel the pride of my ways, after taking so many wrongs ones, I need to trust this is the right one. Perhaps I am just a man without time, a lost soul who has wronged his life beyond repair that any attempt of salvation is futile. But does that mean I should not try? Even if I do not know will my effort be worth it, I know this. When it comes to not doing anything, staying in the hole of misery with your own thoughts or attempting to do anything, no matter how slight or insignificant it may be, I will always chose to move forward. I have seen what staying in one place, wallowing in my own self pity brings and it scares me. Because of that fear I shall always move on, go forward and do something, anything, knowing well what doing nothing and giving up brings. As even if the void swallows me whole, let it be known, I too have tried, I too made an effort, I too kept walking forward. Be it a leap, a single step or even crawling, please do know I too tried to move forward.

Process of Writing- Losing the will, finding the way

I have disappeared for a few weeks, trying so hard to find my way back and to get at least this post to you. I am aware that every post, every poem is valuable and shouldn’t be rushed, yet still I am left with this feeling of inadequacy, the sorrowful hand of not being worthy. Writing is my passion, my dream, my desire and yet I am fighting with the outside forces to keep going. I take it seriously, or at least I tend to, making it my responsibility. Being as it is, I do have a responsibility not just to myself to keep on writing, but the responsibility to improve myself, promote my book and so on. But I find myself carrying a heavy boulder of time that drains me. Right now, as any summer, I lost my days off, working around 70 hours a week and I feel drained. Not exhausted, no, but drained of will power, but not inspiration. As I am moving next year I need every coin I can muster up, so I don’t have the ability to complain much, yet I feel my dream suffers, as guilt takes me whole, feeling I sacrificed a part of me at least for now for the sake of the future. But, with the never ending depression, combined by stress and exhaustion, I became a time bomb.

To walk a Path

We all have dreams, aspirations, hopes, right? But the question is not do we have them, but rather can we abide to them, hold and never let go of our dreams. To dream is to yearn, and to yearn is to live. So it does not come as a surprise that we are afraid to lose the dream we cultivated for so much, as it would feel close to death. What is a man without a dream, without hope? Just an empty husk, a mere tear of rain going down a leaf, without purpose, without intent, pointlessly falling down. But there is something that we fear more then losing that precious dream of ours. The fear of false pretense. What if we worked for a dream that we were never able to achieve? Yes, yes to love and lose the love is better then to never love at all, I get it. But is it the same in this case? Is it really better to fight for something even if in the end it was never yours to fight for in the first place? Perhaps it is better to live with the fire in your heart then lie with the stiffness of the soul. But it makes me wonder, it makes me afraid… What if we are inadequate to live up to our dreams, what if it was merely a fools hope? For most of my life, I can not shake the feeling of dread that I might not be capable of doing what I love, but considering the darkness of the alternative, is giving up even an option?

The flow of time, the string of heart

Time tells all tales. Stories that came before and those that will happen. Only time will tell will our efforts be fruitful. We can only do our best. I use this site as my personal shrink, to open up my thoughts that probably only few will read. But to you, the mighty few I present this question, do we want to know? Do we want to know if the dream of our hope and future is ours to make a reality? Is it better to know the truth or live in hope as even then maybe we prove our worth and even make the impossible possible, with great effort and sacrifice even the unworthy can make their dream a reality. I stand before you, as someone who spent his life shrouded in the darkness of his own mistakes and heart, broken and misunderstood I stand the tallest of my capabilities, knowing well what stands behind, I am going to continue to walk forward. The shadows our mind casts will always be tall and heavy, but they, same as the heavy burden of our hope, are our own creations. We, the mighty few, who create the burden, are capable to carry it.

Live and learn

I admit, I don’t know much. I have still plenty to learn. But I am willing. I do not know if my tales, the stories I pull from my heart and put on pages will be read, will they be loved or hated, only time will tell. For me, all that remains is to do my best, knowing well I can not go back to the darkness that awaits behind. Doubt and despair hold me down, with everything in my life I don’t know will I ever feel worthy of being worthy. But I know this. Even in this brief post, just thinking about the hope that resides in me for the future, I know it is worth it. We the few, us the many, must stand taller then the shadows of our mind, shine brighter then the darkness of our heart, as the dark is everlasting, eternal and immortal. It is up to us, to be the shining beacon of hope for the future that is still wished for.

To my few, to all the many, stand prideful and tall,

Harry.

Forgotten image of love

Fearing that the night might end,
I close my eyes tight,
Hands over head,
I beg to see the last light.

As the dark crosses my mind,
The one last curtain that remains,
I freeze my sight,
To the only thing that obeys.

The image of the warm fire,
One I felt so long ago,
The eternal love of desire,
That made my life feel like a whole.

But now only the dark remains,
Hidden secret of the untruthful mist,
In ones desire,
I yearn for the lost kiss.

Foolish meaning of light

Through pain our life we give meaning,
With love we take the cause,
In silence we wait for the hope unbound,
That some will bring us home.

Wonder long on the path of the righteous,
I wonder what will you find,
Is our higher sense of purpose,
Waiting beyond those dark clouds?

For it to awaken,
Our hearts and minds need to be alike,
Searching for a meaning,
In the thick dust where the love resides.

I am no expert,
And no sage that will bluff,
What I gathered so far,
Is close your eyes and hope the ground below
Is not bound to scar.


The eyes of fate

I feared what my life would be,
I dreamt in all the vast possibilities.
In others is saw my death,
In some I witnessed my endless breath.
In one I smiled like none other,
To most I was just a bother.

No more do I look inside,
The endless hole of my demise,
Throught the dreams I once leapt
All I saw was my regret.

Even now wide awake,
I hope my life is mine to take,
To lady fate I bow down without contempt,
But my luck is my own to make.

Fear of the future (P.O.W.)

It’s been a while and I have to apologise. I have been absent even though I know I need to keep the blog alive and promote my book. But with the start of the summer, so did my curse start called the day job where I lose my days off and work 60+ hours a week. Yea I know, unbelievable to a point. But I am trying to balance things behind the curtains, working on projects, just not with the pace I am comfortable with. I finished my third book Equinox and now I am in a process of creating the synopsis so I can get back to the query trenches with all of you, to which I am not really looking forward, having the fond memories of rejection. So even if I had slacked when it comes to the Word Den, today I want to talk about something all creators aspire to do, what we fear and what we wish and that is to take that leap of faith and write full time. Today I want to share the fear of the future.



Mind divided, heart decided


When you think about it, on a statistical scale, it’s stupid, right? How many of us are there? How many of us really make it? When I started this journey few years back (geez I can’t believe that I’ve been doing this for couple of years now) a good friend / mentor who is an experienced writer shared few gems of advice and he told me something that stuck in my head till this day. There are so many not good, but great books that remain hidden under the radar of the masses, works with great stories and even greater characters and yet they don’t get the appreciation they deserve. Imagine how many of those writers remain unseen and yet with that scary notion in mind, do you really need to stop writing? No, never. Write for yourself, write the story you want to read and eventually the people will follow. This is not a race this is a journey. I met a lot of people who advised and supported me, as an introvert I am grateful, as without the many voices of experience and wisdom that shared their words with me, I wouldn’t be here right now. I’ve been through a lot. By this point in my life few years ago, I thought I would be dead. But this, writing, saved my life and reminded me I still have something to offer in return. Am I good enough thought? Imposter syndrome is a daily occurance for us, but I get back to the words of my friend. Write the stories you would want to read and the people will follow. But then am I good enough to do this? Yes. And no. This is a journey. In this we learn constantly, daily, we improve and we grow. To say we are good enough can’t cut it as we will always improve. So am I good enough? Well, I am better then I was yesterday.


One for the future


So there is this desire and I dare to speak for all writers and creators here. We all love what we do and offer us to do this daily, for a living and I guarantee you there is no one who would even hesitate to accept that offer in a heartbeat. So how easy is it, I keep asking myself every day. What does it take to accept the calling we feel, to stay strong in these hard times and try? Fear is the constant reminder we are human and it prevents us to take part in things that make us happy. Is it just plain old fear or perhaps rationality? I do not know. But after all I’ve been through, I feel like my life will change after the end of this year. I feel like it is time for me to try, no matter how much I fear, to accept the calling that saved me and give my all. Perhaps we all feel like we have what it takes, but to someone who thought he will never amount to anything, to feel I was born to do this, it is a strange sensation. I had this thing I said way before all of this. Depression took a deep hold and I told once while talking to my uncle that I won’t live past 30. To this day he jokingly reminds me how many years I have left, just now as a reminder how stupid I was. But back then I really thought so as I lived my life as I never mattered, as I will die any second. And I claimed whatever I do till I am 30 will be it as I won’t see past it. I have less then 2 years till I cross that milestone. And after standing under my dark cloud for so long, I say now I will live past it. But these are uncertain times. Is it really smart to take that leap of faith and indulge in our dreams when the tomorrow is not guaranteed? But is tomorrow ever guaranteed? I don’t know much, but I know this. For more then ten years (yea that long) I have worked jobs that demeaned and belittled me, broke me spirituality, mentally and physically. So what’s wrong with that at some point we break our mind and find that hidden strength and just take that leap of faith? If tomorrow is never guaranteed, why not try and make the dawn that will come a bit less gloomy?


The rightful circumstances



Perhaps I am wrong, perhaps those words are thought by a lot of you or perhaps that leap of faith will pay off, who knows? Life is full of uncertainty, you can not control it. All I know I lived most of mine in sorrow and despair so perhaps doing something that makes me happy and fully committing to it will only make me content. All of us have our own stories about this, all of us have opinions on it, so let me know yours, I am always happy for a new insight. Like I said, right now my schedule is hectic, I feel so broken but I will try my best to continue to write. Right now the synopsis of my new book is a priority, I feel like it’s taking longer then the actual book. But I am here, still fighting, still believing, still going forward. Perhaps there won’t ever be a right time to fully commit to the craft or perhaps we ourselves have to make the time right. All I know my heart, my soul are screaming to take that leap of faith and who knows, perhaps on the other side happiness awaits…

Harry

Bad hand of destiny

In front of the mirror,
The image stares at my eyes,
The look I don’t recognise,
Baring a stranger’s note.

What did he do,
To deserve such scars,
Where did our paths divide,
Where did our destiny go,
That after a night long,
He cries in my arms,
The beating heart of sorrow.

Fate, such a strange thing,
A deck of cards unknown,
Shuffled by a strange hand,
Are we delt what we deserve?

As I hold my own bleeding heart,
I comfort the pain well known,
After all this time,
No matter the thorn of the Road,
I whisper the hope of a better tomorrow.

The Lonesome Road (Trailer #2)

The Lonesome Road is out! Here is trailer number two for it! If you want to find out more about the book or order a copy click on the link below!

https://www.5310publishing.com/book/thelonesomeroad

The world is barren and lost. Only the buildings that cast tall shadows remain as the street stand silent, ridden of all human life. But one man still walks, with no knowledge to what happened to the world, the people in it or him. To find the answers he is searching for, the Wanderer must walk a Path that will determine his own fate. One night, while seeking shelter in an abandoned house, the last man on Earth gets a knock on his door.

Is evil just evil? Is good merely good? Or are those sides just a matter of perspective? All people have an agenda, all people search for hope, but only the few have the strength to live it!

The Path exacts a heavy toll, be careful as the price of walking it may be your soul.

Born with the eyes of sorrow

Born with the feeling of dread,
Fear is the color of my eyes,
Denied the sweet embrace of love,
I only felt content and despise.

The lonesome thought,
Grasped my mind,
That happiness is a gift,
Not all men can oblige.

Sorrow was my day,
Dawn that never forgave,
The mistakes made,
Wretched steps of the past.

But now, I listen to the night,
It’s sweet whisper that it carries,
I might have been wrong,
As hope still resides.

Will I embrace the new dawn,
Or will my soul kneel,
I do not know,
But one thing is real.
A flame the sun brings,
One I once had,
A fire that the new day,
Might consume my wretched dark.

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