POW: The red pill of sight

We all saw the Matrix, right? Neo gets offered two pills, one let’s him stay in this world, sleeping the sweet somber dream of illusion that was installed, never the wiser of what goes above. But take the red pill and all the illusions shall be shattered, the eyes that were deep asleep shall be wide open and he will be granted the sight to see the world for what it truly is. Recently, as I embark on a life changing journey, trying to move countries and jobs, I started to realise and see things. For the longest time I felt worthless, as in my years I achieved almost nothing, the environment always saw me as incapable and clumsy, constantly reminding me that I can’t do the most simplest of tasks. But as I plan and prepare to leave, I am starting to see that environment I was brought up in. In this case that same environment will be my family, especially my old man who always had an advice even when I would do something good, but as soon as I saw something that he did that is not in any sense good, I was chewed up as what do I know. My family made mistakes, whole lot of them, leaving us in financial ruin. I don’t hold that against them, we all make some bad decisions during our life. But what I do hold, is their incapability of change. Even after what was done, no one can move from the past as they put it, they don’t have any regret. So it beggs the question, the nature versus nurture, as I slowly started rolling the film backwards, how much does our environment affect our upbringing or even more so what does it take to rise above the toxicity of constant strain of thought that is pushed on to us that we are just simply worthless?

To rise above the tide



We all at least once get into contact with it. Be it our own family, friends or even a stranger, the walls that are around us can be brought up. If we are told constantly, with every action we take, that we are worthless and insignificant, can we really rise above the words we hear every day? One thing I found was you can simply sit down with yourself and realise that the people who speak such things are not important, their opinions are invalid, but the sad truth of it is hearing it every day makes it harder for us to attach some insignificance to their muffled insults. But as I said, I am more and more thinking about the past, ever so willing to change for the better, I start to realise one big thing. Those people who speak such vile things never accept change, they are adamant to stay in their lane, never truly accepting that they are capable of being wrong or even worse, they are proud of the mistakes made. Slowly you will realise that over the course of their life, they never amounted to anything, making their frustrations that they pull on you seem even more miserable. I am starting to see, the opinions of people who don’t dare to admit that their hearts were at a wrong place should not hold any value when it comes to words, as they are just that, empty words and promises, people who don’t dare to take actions as they see themselves as better. I talked about the human condition a lot, the toxicity of ego and the nature of narcissism, but I grew up with it, making me a keen observer of how it can ruin a man. Words are words, hurtful, shameful and piercing. But without actions to hold them, you start to see their emptiness. More times then I can count I said I am done with this world, as I was constantly sitting in an toxic environment, making me feel that small little circle is all there is to it. But step out and see, you will find eternity awaiting. A whole new world who can be as hurtful as that small circle, but healing and positive as well. So, when you spent so long in the circle, how can you be afraid of that whole new world as it can only be an improvement. It is hard to know your own self worth, as there are so many people who would be more then happy to tell it for yourself, rather then let you find it out. For the longest time I was confused, not knowing was I worthy enough even to live, not knowing what kind of person I was good or bad, as people around me always had an opinion so mine must been invalid. I am starting to see, slowly but surely, that all opinion should be heard and considered, but that counts your own as well. At the end of the day, when you walk in your room, you are left with only your mind and heart. Not the others who constantly had a word in who you are. So sit down and listen, because no one but you can tell you who you really are.

Success is made in attempts of defeat



And it’s true. More they try to break what you build, more it holds value. More they mock, it just means it is worth something. As if you had nothing, made nothing or achieved nothing, you think they would care enough to see it brought down? Our life is our own, our success, our failure, as at the end of the day the sad truth is everyone wants to ravel in your success and everyone wants to mock your failure. Not everyone I know, but you get my point. It is hard to accept we are not the product of who brought us up, we even are not the conclusion of the life we lived. We are our own person, complex, beautiful and faulty. That’s the beauty in humanity, that major imperfection that we stumble, crap every plan we have and make mistakes, but we get up, try numerous times as we find we deserve better and should strive to be better. So who are we to say to anyone who they are, what they can or can not do or how worthy are they? In the simplicity of life the line always goes that there will be failure and faults, but success as well. At the end of the day we walk the path, alone or not, it is our strength and will that makes us go forward. Your worth is determined by how happy you are with yourself. And if you aren’t? So what? The road for self belief and self discovery is a long one, if you look today in the mirror and don’t recognise the person staring back that doesn’t mean tomorrow you won’t. We don’t know life. We don’t know time. The only thing we can hope is that tomorrow will come and that we will do better then yesterday. And for all of us, that should make us enough. We are only human. We are trying. And that is enough. Stagnation is the great life killer, not failure.

The proficient expert of failure



I feel like if I have a degree, that would be it. A worthy title of an unworthy son, who somehow botched success that was never ment for him. It took me a life time to understand that I have my own pace, my own life and my own worth. No one can say it’s wrong or invalid, unworthy, only the individual who walks his own life path can determine that. I failed so many times, more then I can count, that it should probably come as a surprise to myself if I succeed. But after all that was said and done, after all that failure, I feel serenity. And it confuses me. Where after so many wasted attempts I should feel doubt and sorrow, it is all substituted by confidence. Why? Perhaps when you get to know failure so many times, hope is etched deep in your mind, as that is the only thing remaining to be discovered, aspired and yearned for. Success. Perhaps tomorrow will come and I will not make it, but I must try for another day. Not to prove the ill mannered voices wrong, not to break the chains of toxic nature or nurture, not even to ease the suffering heart that beats in my chest. No. I must for the same reason we all have to. Worthiness is not determined by how many attempts it took us to make it, it is determined by how long we stood our ground while life threw bricks at our head. I must to prove, that after all I am still standing and I am still worthy of life.

Cracks of the false facade

I am breaking.
A smile is harder to maintain,
Feeling the cracks of the pressure that prevails,
I find myself in an awkward position,
Where the mask I wear is impossible to maintain.

My heart ripped apart,
As my gut torn outside,
I feel the invisible hand reaching,
Finding nothing to pull out.

Hollow,
My heart beats,
Frozen,
I stand in disbelief,
Calm,
My demeanor seems,
But inside I cry myself to sleep.

To feel less then before,
To shut my feelings of yore,
I shove them back where they came,
I want no part in their game.
Sick of sorrow I stand my ground,
To seek out what I found,
The bitter truth and self relief,
I hide it not,
Put all hope to sleep.
It’s hard to see,
But the end of me.

The Lonesome Road (Trailer #3)

I always have fun making these, so here it is, the third in a row of my attempts to make a decent trailer. I know it ain’t perfect, but hey I am improving.

For more check out my YouTube channel: https://youtu.be/YUAJCYr8LHs

If you want to find out more about the book or to order a copy for yourself, click the link below: https://www.5310publishing.com/book/thelonesomeroad

Life as we know is gone. The once vivid city now stands abandoned. Earth became a wasteland, stripped of all life. Broken, confused, and in a desperate search for answers, one person still roams its desolate remains.


The Wanderer has no memories, no recollection of the events that led to the end of the world. All he sees are deserted buildings and the smoke that covers the sun.


While taking shelter in an abandoned house one night, the last man on Earth gets a knock on his door. He finds an unexpected guide in a woman who feels familiar.


Will he choose to keep traversing these lands, lost as before, or will he take her guidance to find the answers his heart so deeply desires?

P.O.W.- Art of query, the art of feeling

Ah yes it is the season. The heat is dwindling down, the air is becoming more and more breathable as the world somehow seems to plunge itself more and more into an apocalypse, I emerge from the shadows of my day job that kept me clenched for the last few months as I can roam around a bit more freely. Not yet entirely off my chain, as there is still so much to do, but now I can muster enough strength to get up and actually write something. Not just that, as I abandoned my duties, feeling the immense guilt hovering over me, I try to make myself feel good about my so called profession (as it is still hard for me to consider myself a full pledged writer) and I dive deep into the query trenches with my fellow colleagues, ready to get hurt again. But my oh my, have I forgotten the sweet and somber taste of tears as you wake up and see that one mail notification, not really having the strength to open it as you may presume what answer came in so quickly. But then again, they say writing a book is the easiest part of our journey, of our job and this I take, is one of the more heartbreaking ones.

I am ready to get hurt again



I am well aware I have been lacking when it comes to my duties as a writer. The future is still there, ready to be made, as I make plans and sacrifices that I meticulously preform, I decided it was best to step back from writing as I needed to focus on my day job and get the most out of it financially as I will be quitting it in the following months and moving away. That for one is a moment I can not wait, but until it comes I need to persevere, stand my ground solidly, keeping my head cool and composed, as now with more time on my hands I can get back to doing what I love, what I feel was brought here to do in the first place. So this year was immense for me, not just because of the terrifying notion of the changing future, but as the great start of my writing career. The blog is still going strong and I will be doing more here as I promised, but in this year alone my first book was published, “The Lonesome Road”, and I have finished writing my third book called “Equinox”. So with time on my hand, I slowly began sending queries, forgetting the pain that experience brings with. Ah, the rejection, the anxiety and depression of that one mail, where you know well that the majority will be denied. I was ready, so I thought, as I sent only few out and the other day got only one response that was quicker then I would predict. When you do this few times you get to know that getting a response so quick can never mean anything positive and surely, as I opened my mail after pondering on the question do I want to know what’s in it, I mustered the remaining strength and saw the rejection. Did I predict it? Most definitely, as this is not my first ride and I know how hard it is to get some attention with it. Did it sting never the less? Oh, as a dagger plunged in my heart. You see, there is something in it, where you prepare yourself for it, make your own mind understand it will be a process, that only the rare ones get it resolved so quickly and you practically sit down with yourself and talk to your mind and heart that we are bound to get hurt and that is OK, it’s perfectly fine and normal and yet again it doesn’t diminish the pain recieved. There is some consistency about it I reckon, where it will awake the doubts that you try to keep silent, making yourself question your capabilities as a writer, with the usual questions am I good enough. But one thing is funny to me. I really am at peace. Without pressure I go back down, with all of you my fellow colleagues, down back at the trenches, not losing hope, while accepting the pain od denial, knowing well that what I have in my hands, the work of my mind and heart, is valuable and it will find a pair of eyes that will appreciate it.

To live is to learn



I always say querying is an art form. Something, same as writing, you must master. And I can see that in my case. I compare it, when I started, with my first manuscript and how it went to now and I can see the difference in the approach of querying and even writing. In this profession you always learn something, you always upgrade your skill and I can see that, but what I found the most curious is how my mind set changed. When I first tried to query, I remember the constant rejection, the pain caused from it, how it made me doubt that I was stupid to think in the first place I could be a writer. But now, after everything, the confidence and self belief is astonishing. Especially with someone who battled with mental health issues for most of his life, I am surprised to why do I feel this sudden surge of confidence and serenity. It is almost worrying as I am not used to it. But I guess it comes with age, with experience, with life. After getting through so many mistakes, perhaps it is possible that even I, began to learn from them. Perhaps when we find our purpose, when we find something we love to do, we find ourselves. Maybe in writing more so, as we writers, orchestrates of events and tellers of tales and life, put a part of ourselves in the stories we create and with it comes an instinct to protect and nurture the thing we put out, as it contains our soul. Confidence comes from experience, yes, but it also is created, as no one is born with it. As we are able to create whole new worlds, so we are able to create the self belief necessary to put our faith in them.

The story that the mind holds



Now I am in the toughest position for a writer. I know I have a good manuscript which I need to send out, having the “The Lonesome Road” out which I need to promote, my heart right now cries for new stories to be made. It always pulls you away, the things you want to create, the worlds and tales you wish to present to the world, but I must stay consistent, as that is I feel the thing I lack, the thing that authors need to possess, consistency. I have this idea, which I talked about before here, a series that I want to create which has been in my head for decades now. But fear that I lack the experience to give the story justice prevents me to put it on paper. So perhaps one more project before that one is due, as I slowly started to write few words about it, then we take on the dream. Like I pointed out, with each story we gain experience, learning something new and valuable and for this dream to be put into writing I feel I need to be prepared. So before I take it on, one more manuscript will be written and I feel I will possess enough confidence to do that dream justice. But until then? I am not losing hope. The belief and trust in my capabilities are still there, more mature, more consistent. Right now I will continue to crawl in the trenches of querying, eat the mud and tears as I know that even from that I will gain valuable experience and knowledge. I am confident that Equinox will be accepted, but until then I commit myself to my duties to this blog, to my ongoing projects that are out, not losing faith, never losing hope and slowly making my return to the fold. Much love to you all beautiful people,

Harisson.


If you want to witness the start of my journey and give my first book a shot, here is the link for “The Lonesome Road”, you can find out more about it.

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

The master of misery

I am the master of my own misery,
A pioneer of self hate,
The lover of sorrow.

A broken image of a distorted sound,
An ugliness of a soul.

Left to wallow in the problems of the human condition,
I am not my own,
Not belonging to them,
Not taken by the world.

I am the master of my own misery,
Captian of a sinking ship,
A sailor who never tasted love,
A wishful poet of comfort,
A hopeful bastard of acceptance.

I am the master of my own misery,
I am me,
Always myself.

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.

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