#jaquespeaks

[jaquespeaks]

Beyond the Road Hump

The younger one was not weighed down by the same fear that his brother had in him.

“This may be a game between children, but as they grow older, such a mindset of being close-minded to others who are different from us is dangerous.”

It is quite amazing to see what media can do to shape the life of one who is new to this world. It makes me wonder how certain filters, certain angles, and certain stories can be enough to shape the mindset of one so young to fear or to accept those unfamiliar to him.

In that brief moment one breezy afternoon, I was astonished and almost disgusted at what I saw. 

These two young boys were out playing when I, two houses away, went outside the gate to take a breather from my work. One boy holding in each of his hands a gun that mimicked the ones that action movie stars held as they fended back their opponents that burst into the scene. And his younger brother who, quite timidly, followed his brother around, almost stumbling as he did.

They continued to play when suddenly from beyond the hump on the road, there was another young boy, a much more east Asian looking boy stared back at them. It was brief though it felt so long that they had been staring at each other. 

I took the photo in that brief moment as the boy across the hump ran to the opposite direction, and as the younger one among the two followed suit. 

The older brother stayed firmly where he stood. He looked heavy, weighed down by his guns. He looked skeptical, defensive and on the guard. 

His younger brother was timid, yet he was curious and ran ahead. It was as if he was not letting his fear make him judge one person who could be a new friend. He was not stiff. Hesitant, but not afraid. 

He had no guns to weigh him down. He was open-minded and open-armed. It seemed as though he had nothing else to lose.

This may be a game between children, but as they grow older, such a mindset of being close-minded to others who are different from us is dangerous. 

Do not shy away from putting certain filters on what the world really is, but let them know that the world is not just guns or roses. 

Help develop the mindset of a child not to peruse with hatred something they do not understand, but to tackle it with what the world lacks now---courage, compassion and patience.

[jaquespeaks]

On Writing Well: A summary and reflection

Part One: The Transaction

In the beginning of the chapter, we are faced with the question “What is it like to be a writer?” Two faces are shown to us, juxtaposed as two kings on a chess board—one that sees writing as a tedious, complicated, dignified curse, and another that sees it as a form that our freely flowing spirits take as it is manifested into our writing.

One that said that it is an art form that requires discipline, and the other that said that it is our way to ease our tensions away. When a writer confronts a block or something that prevents them to continue on with their craft, one answers with a chin held up—persuading his work, not paying any mind to the things that hinder him. If to write is a job to accomplish, rain or shine it must be done. The other takes pride in taking walks and staring at the still water to wait to get inspired by the things that surround him.

These sides that are shown in the essay by the author are not individual selves within a group of writers split as two groups who think differently about words that form meaning, but they are present in every writer, regardless of skill or profession. As the author says, there isn’t any “right” way to do such personal work. And I personally agree with this statement.

The way to properly write is relative, I think, and it depends on the individual on what to write, that’s why we do not have more than one J.K. Rowlings, J.R.R. Tolkiens or C.S. Lewises. Each person is a writer, whether or not they use pen and paper, or a keyboard to write a story or a report. Juxtaposed in this essay was two faces of one writer battling not only to overcome his own weaknesses in his craft, but to reinforce his strengths in it.

Part Two: Simplicity

Cluttered, scattered, so many unnecessary words are usually found in sentences of those who aspire to be writers. It’s nice to see them stretching their vocabulary as well as learning to manipulate sentences to however they want to convey a certain idea, but the key to most successful and sentences full of impact, according to the author, is simplicity.

Many times do we try to put flashy words and make elaborate sentences to sound more important and meaningful, however when the reader is clever enough, they’ll see past the unnecessary words and sift through what you’re trying to say with ease. More often than not, if there is no deeper meaning or simple message, it is called beating around the bush.

I agree that it is important to use vibrant words to impart meaningful things sometimes, but just like a normal relationship between human beings, the most important things are said in all honesty and simplicity. Decorative words and elaborate phrases are only needed if the reader needs an explanation. Keep it simple—keep it clean.

Part Three: Clutter

As is said in the previous part, clutter makes it a lot harder for readers to sift through certain bits of information—that’s because we see it as something to decorate our sentences to sound fancy, smart or elevated. An example stated by the author was the use of “at this point in time” instead of “now”, or “personal” instead of just the regular sentence usage of certain nouns like “his personal feelings” instead of “his feelings”.

These unnecessary words sometimes become clutter that make things hard to understand and complicated. Sometimes if we are not keen enough to see it, these words become something of a term we use in everyday life. It’s the over-expounding of certain words as well, just like the time where the author uses the word “slum” to turn it into “a depressed socioeconomic area”. The point is to simplify, simplify, simplify. Most things we want to say are short and honest, but they still hold the essence of what we want to tell our audience, and that’s the important thing–not to over-expound on the things we want to simply say.

Part Four: Style

Strip your message down to its bare bones and then from there, you build back up. The metaphor in itself is easy enough to understand, however, it is a concept that I myself have a hard time trying to understand. In essence, the author is telling young learning writers to be themselves as they continue finding themselves in their work. No one writer is the same with another, as each individual comes across different works and learn from other different authors.

Finding a style should not be rushed at all, not forced. Being as honest as you can as you write the words you want to impart into your audience will all the more help you to develop your own style and standing in the sea of writers. Being yourself as you write helps the audience to find the human in the article, the one that feels, experiences and relates with them.

Writers often expose their entirety as they address themselves as “I” in their works, however there is a contradiction wherein writers do not allow themselves to write in first person because of being taught so. Some cases show that in their focus of the pronoun “I” in their works, it makes the article self-centered on the author, but it still shows a sense of humanity, something that the readers can hold onto as an emotional handle.

Part Five: The Audience

So far, we’ve learned to simplify and explain what we mean to say, be honest to ourselves and our readers in our works, and to learn from others as we continue to endure with our craft. We know how to write—but do we really know whom we write for?

The audience consists also of humans, people who experience things that you do as well. Things that you find humorous, exciting, upsetting, or anything that triggers a certain emotion from you, because chances are, your audience will feel the same thing as well, only if you can write it as simply as you can for them to understand the punchline. Do not pretend to write something you think your audience will want to read if you don’t even find it entertaining to read in the first place.

Be honest with yourself, your editor and your audience. You are human and you write for humans—show a bit of humanity and warmth, as the author puts it, in the things you write.

Part Six: Words

A writer must develop a particular love and respect for words. As I stated in one of the earlier parts, one writer is not like the other. In this part of the chapter, the author stated that in order to write the way he did, he copied the way the authors he looked up to write. He wanted to write like them, and to do so is to try to write like them indeed. However, his skill slowly sharpened and in turn, his style became more honest to him and it became something he can call his own.

Lazily written and edited works might contain more clichés and figures of speech than we can bare to know because of how often we use them. These writers have been used to reading works and reports containing such redundant phrases, so much that they have begun not see the faults in the words that are right in front of them.

Try to read, and keep reading, and in the same way, write. Read different things and write different things. These are the things that I think can prevent you from these clichés. In your work, you must also try to read it aloud to yourself—if it sounds wrong, then it probably is. If it sounds good enough, continue to try improving it, and this doesn’t mean to add more words! It simply means to simplify or clarify, it doesn’t matter how many words there are in your sentence, but only how well you present a thought, an idea.

Now, sounding poetic is not the same as trying to sound fancy. Sounding poetic in your works have a sense of simple understanding and yet there is something more to it in essence than how many words and letters there are to find another way to say beautiful or pretty. Sounding fancy would seem evident as you are trying to over-expound the obvious.

Part Seven: Usage

The usage of words of similar meanings yet their implications are so different. One word can become relative with its meaning changing with each week just like a strand of fashion articles. An example that the author uses in this part is the word “freak”. It can mean someone who is enthusiastic about something one day, and then it is all of a sudden given a negative meaning in the next.

A writer must have enough knowledge in vocabulary, strip their ideas bare to show the very core of its message, and know the audience to whom the story is being told. However, the details that lie among the words in the sentences have meanings that are ultimately relative in definition and usage. This basically means one word might not mean the same thing to another person, but that’s okay because your ideas and overall concepts will redeem it if that one word drops the reader’s attention falls away.

Reflections

In short, I’ve learned to be as honest as I can be as a writer. To not pretend like I can shower my sentences with bold and elegant words that might elevate my small and narrow mind in the playing field of writing.

My works, no matter how long, must have a sense of humanity in it, still, as well as a piece of myself in it whether it be humor, sadness, anger, or joy. The spectrum of human emotion is just too wide to encompass, and through the proper usage of certain words, I can at least draw out some of that emotion from my audience.

It feels good to be honest, compassionate and simple after all–even in writing!

[jaquespeaks]

To and Fro

To and fro, then and now,

And the sky is still the same.

Cavite—a province that holds a very special place in my heart. I remember quite faintly the fields of lush green fading into a crisp golden brown stretching out into the horizon just as the sun began to kiss each and every stalk bowing its head. Dragonflies just hovering above the head of a child as she reached to hold one in one of her frail, cubby little hands. It was a sight that was all too familiar to me and although it sounds like an opening scene to a movie filled with love and drama, it was always a sight that I fell in love with, early on as a child.

But as I grew older, my eyes have been turned to things that were, well, more important. I began to have less and less time to play as I did on the streets of my home. Neighbors and friends grew more and more distant as we had less and less time to run together in the pavement. They had to study in the city, but so did I, in a place called Quezon City.

We always had two paths to take in the three to four hour drive to school every day—through the history-flowing Quiapo, or through the 54 kilometer cosmopolitan road of EDSA. It was like reading two sides of the same map, and though I did not understand why we had to take either of those roads, if we were going to the same destination anyway, as a child, I still admired how different the scenes were. One that had a sense of the past and one of the future.

The scene was much more different than what I was used to. High rise buildings and posh cars littered the surrounding in a dizzy ballet of work and stress. It was overwhelming at first, but I had to get used to it because of my parent’s work there as well. It contrasted the small low rise buildings that took up only few places in Cavite. It was rather rare to see something that was higher than three floors back home. The lush green was replaced with a smoky shade in the air and in the buildings and concrete streets of the city.

It was not such an easy change for me, especially because I was a tough child, growing up in a school back in the province that was filled with bullies who forced me to toughen up. But in this new school, everyone who ever met me was so kind and forgiving. I couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t like the way I was treated back then. It was new, just like these new faces and surroundings.

Driving through Manila these past few years, it gives me a sense of home—how deeply imbedded it is in me to travel, to be on the road, see new places and new faces. Everything will change eventually, whether we like it or not, but I think everything will be well and good so long as I keep my feet in the road, head above the clouds, and heart steady in my chest. These changing winds of fate, I know it will take me to many places, but I also know that it is not there to tear me apart, but to make me stronger. And no matter where I go, I will go with a smile, ready to face the things that will come to me.

[jaquespeaks]

White Peak

There is this very known metaphor about standing at the foot of a mountain that you need to climb, and being intimidated by the height. It’s to teach a person to not be afraid of the challenges of life if, indeed, what was waiting for them up at the peak is success. But at that great a height, do they teach you how to deal with it when you are faced with a ridge and the only option you have left is to go down?

This is the story of the day I seized the mountain side.

Our black Chrysler drove over the edges of the mountain road, like a squirrel swiftly running on the branches of an old pine. Driving through a twilight in the forest mountain side where neither sun nor moon left the theatrical stage of the skies. The stiff pine trees dancing across the stage as the stars hopped over each one in a dazzling display of veiled light. The fresh mountain air smelled oddly like dry and cold grass, well, perhaps because maybe that was what was on the ground. But it still had a fresh nutty smell to it.

I sat quietly at the back of the car, with the window rolled up to protect us from the coldness of the air outside, and I held teddy bear tightly and securely on my lap. I was afraid that the car might slip on some of the ice that spread across the road during those December days and would have fallen into the ridges that would quietly engulf our vehicle and to sing a song of grief into the wind of a family and torn trees.

But, I shrugged the fear away, if in fact it was a fear, and turned to my brother who was sitting with his mouth slightly agape. I sighed and looked around for something else to do to pester my brother, that was the job of a younger sister after all. After a short treasure hunt around the many bags at the back row, I had found nothing but a small bag of Doritos and giddily opened it and gently placed the bag on his lap and one pyramid shaped chip into his mouth.

He didn’t wake up.

Now that the plan was set, I thought, all that I had to do now was wait.

I looked back out of the window wondering where we were, despite just rolling through the same road, twisting and turning like a maze in the kingdom of wolves and deer.

Twilight turned into night and the car rolled silently into a sleepy village in the mountains, not surprisingly, with every house turned into a shop for foreigners and tourists. Log cabins occupied each block and the lamp post softly illuminated the roofs of these wooden houses, softly scattering the light onto the cold gravel mixed with ice and snow.

We continued to drive up to an inn, Days Inn specifically, and there, we stayed for the night.

The light burned through the night sky like a light eating away at a fabric tainted with a Sterling’s feathers.

The next morning, we found ourselves once again on the long winding road to a resort–a ski resort to be specific. There, where people glided across the pale white plains of the crook of the mountain’s neck and climbed back up on a bench, did they find themselves. I, of course, was intimidated. But would not let this mountain conquer me.

The first two hours of the beginner’s class was simple, and had the basics down for the twelve people, mostly adults with their children.

Needless to say, the first two hours seemed to turn out for the worst because of my failures. Whilst everyone was up and about, skiing along with each other, doing the simplest things as to go and to stop, to move forward and to walk, I could not do any of those.

I always fell. And fell front, back, and even toppled over to my side. Towards the end of the beginner’s class, I noticed how I still couldn’t do anything. I’d often laugh it off but the sting I felt as everyone giggled ever time I’d try to slide for more than a foot away from myself and still fell kept growing and growing.

There came a point where my downcast face met the snowy mattress and I did nothing–I didn’t stand, and I didn’t even try. I just laid there as motionless and as numb as my feet that were aching from the 12 pound ski boots gripping onto my shins tightly.

The crackling of ice and snow moving towards me caught my attention as I saw the instructor’s hand reach out to me ever so slightly, but this time it was not of genuine help, but of pity and embarrassment.

Oh, how I loathed it.

Definitely, nothing was better for anyone than to be giggled at, to be seen as weak and not being able to help herself without the help of the instructor.

My nose scrunched every time I heard someone giggle, whether or not it was because of my efforts.

My lifted up three prayers that afternoon, all in question, all asking for different things.

I first asked why, as I gripped on the cold metal stick in my black gloved hand, I was falling despite trying my best to follow my instructor.

I asked for correction.

Then I asked of what I was doing wrong, and asked the holy one above the clouds if I could be held together without falling at least once if I was even truly meant to be there.

I asked for balance.

And then my last prayer was a cry, a cry to end my suffering on that mountain top as the other eyes around me fixed their gaze upon my frail and seemingly useless legs. A cry, if anyone was really out there listening to me, I asked for strength to stand one more time despite the tears threatening to roll down her frosty and dry cheeks.

I prayed.

Hours had passed and neither my brother and I could take the stress of the unfamiliar landscape as well as the pressure on our legs from the boots. (I was wearing really thick jeans at that time. Bad idea.) I was reduced into a ball of whines, crying because the boots that I had on were way too tight, and way too painful. I had marks on my shins and feet..they hurt so much. I wanted to cry and just give up.

But the a gentle loving voice whispered to me.

“Don’t give up. You learned quite a bit and you did well.”

I thought to myself, “I’m horrible, I keep falling and I suck.”

The voice told me, “you can’t see it yet, but you will be great. I am with you.”

And if that small conversation didn’t feel ridiculous and holy enough, I wonder what is. I thought that I might turn into a prophet and turn this ski resort into a temple or a church of some sort.

Later on in the day after the first two hour lesson, we ate lunch..

It was two burgers for the entire family with some fries and a cup of mountain dew and coke..and some water..

I felt i wanted to die..

Later on I asked my dad when the next session was and he lifted his watch and turned to us before standing and said, “1:45. That’s now. Gear up, gear up!”

My brother and I groaned.

The session started and we started by going back up the hill to where we began as beginners, and I as–still someone who doesn’t know how to ski.

This instructor told us to show him what we can do on the snow.

We did something called the wedge.

It’s leaning forward downhill. While your legs are straight so that your body weight is being pushed on to the front so you can break and stop.

Needless to say, I sucked.

I was going to fast and I didn’t know and I didn’t trust myself enough.

I fell and crashed.

Then, an unfamiliar lady came towards us. Her name was Lorey.

She seemed old, but not too old.

She had snowy blonde hair with a hat over her head to keep those waves of frosted gold tucked under for warmth. Her voice was soft and gentle like Ellen Lee DeGeneres’ voice, but she was just as cheerful as a familiar blue fish from a children’s movie called Finding Nemo.

We started the next session by going up the “Magic Carpet” up to higher ground. It was a conveyor belt like you see in the air port for people. Except, we were standing there instead of baggage, in all of our skiing gear.

She then turned to us as enthusiastically as ever and asked, “You guys know what a wedge is now right?” and we nodded.

“Good,” she said, “but this session, we’re gonna work on how you stop, how you continue and how to turn. Well, The beginning of learning how to turn,” she cooed.

I smiled a little, finally someone who might not judge me for falling–

But then her kind and gentle expression knit into a glare. “And NO ONE FALLS IN MY CLASS.”

Then she smiled again. “Okay, let’s go!”

About an hour later into the lesson, I noticed that I could move, stop and control myself properly. Almost how a real skier could move. It was almost as if some odd unnatural force made me become more skillful and controlled at my movements.

“This feels amazing!” I thought to myself.

Maybe all the thousand times I fell on my side, butt, knees finally paid off.

I was gliding down the mountain, feeling the breeze against my cheek.

And my lust for speed gradually grew.

I’m just like that.

But then i heard that voice in my head again. “Slow down,” it told me, “I cant hold you if you keep going your way and your speed.”

But I said no.

I wanted the speed.

I wanted the power.

I wanted to feel like i didnt need any help from anyone————

PPPPHHHHFFFF

I fell back onto the snow.

Surpised.

Shocked.

But then I started giggling and smiling at the clear blue sky that stared back at my light maple eyes. “Okay Papa,” I giggled, “s-sorry~..”

I got up painfully struggling to get onto the ski again and continued to ride the chair going up to higher ground to ski again and again.

Snake tracks were left in the snow as I glided down  just as a real skier would, proud and content that I had God holding me in place.

It almost felt like it was just Papa and I on that hill. Ms. Lorey’s voice echoing to me as Papa’s gentle voice.

And now it was to no surprise that I did so well.

Except if I became too over confident and tried to do sharp turns.

Sadly, toward the end of the session, I began to forget everything I think I had learned in class. I began to fall again, one after another, but it was because of two things.

I’m getting really tired and I need to rest, or it was as if all of a sudden, Papa’s voice started fading and drifting away, as if I was loosing signal with him.

But that’s okay, because that was one hell of a day.

And, there is this very known metaphor about standing at the foot of a mountain that you need to climb, and being intimidated by the height. It’s to teach a person to not be afraid of the challenges of life if, indeed, what was waiting for them up at the peak is success. But at that great a height, do they teach you how to deal with it when you are faced with a ridge and the only option you have left is to go down?

This was the story of how I seized the mountain side.

[jaquespeaks]

Social Media

What do you think of when I say “Social Media”? There are a lot of ideas playing around that word–some good, some bad.

Well, anything can be said when talking about social media, right? There are a lot of merits and demerits to its fame and usage because though a lot of human relationships were built with the use of its technology, a lot of human relationships have been ruptured because of it as well.

Merits

Human relationships are extended past the physical kind.

Exposure to different cultures

The humbling of an individual when they accept that the world does not revolve around them after talking to people of different cultures.

Being updated with whatever society sees as an important issue or the current events

and if you’re a kind of person that goes for a deeper kind of relationship, I guess you can check a person out based on their facebook profile then compare it to how you actually interact with them if they really do what they say they do or put up a front about it. See the development between you and your relationship with that person from a perspective that looks from afar.

Demerits

There are some predators lurking online in places where the youth wander in. It’s a cliche fear thing, but it’s still very rampant if you think about it.

There are some content that is available in social media sites, especially ads, that can probably end up harming an individual’s computer or through a hack.

Not all news that is available online is filtered and some are usually cherry-picked content, so you should not always believe it unless you do some actual research yourself.

[jaquespeaks]

Dawn

What’s a girl to do?

Thoughts continue to flutter around my mind as I sat on the edge of my seat watching–waiting somehow for something, anything to come. There was very little to do in the amount of time you would spend during mornings like these. Cold, silent and somehow, anticipating. For what, you ask? Not even I would know. Maybe you should keep those questions to ask the Sun or the Moon.

I lifted my head as a though passed through my mind: “how long have I been staring at the pavement?”

Hazy brown orbs met with the vast twilight. Stretching across the heavens, a cloud that engulfed the skies of the horizon, slowly taking in my own like a god reaching out to the Earth to throw it far away into the pools of space. The hand started to dissipate as the twilight started to scatter across the horizon, taking the source of its light with it just like how a red carpet would have to be rolled out for the arrival of a king.

What was left of the hand was a silhouette of what might have been the tree of Yggdrasil. A great wasp’s nest like cloud formed from the scattering of the clouds that formed the clouds a few seconds. Heavier, more solid groups of cloud beginning to look like rocks that formed around the tree in a heavenly display of shadow and light.

At this time of the day, one could say that whilst the creatures of this world continued to sleep as the king of the day arrived, the lights that illuminated their homes began to make it seem like the stars had fallen down to earth. That there was only morning, and night.

Streaks of atomic tangerine (yes, that’s a color), and tea rose stretched across the skies from a peak like a serene explosion of color, announcing the arrival of the Sun, like the knights and trumpets that sounded in celebration. Though somehow, all of this happened in the full silence.

My eyes flickered to the edge of my view, where cars and vans began to hustle as if the world had already awoken. A smile crept up in the corner of my lips as I chuckled and whispered to myself “it’s time for you to wake up too.”

One last look, one last look to the sky before I return inside. Contrasts of warm and cool colors, the harmony of the blue sky and the orange streaks of light slowly scattering and bidding each other farewell as the blue started to overcome it.

Once again, the sky had been full of one color, the blue that we all know and love. But somehow, living in an apartment makes me feel like this sky has a big piece of my heart because if you look at it without any sense of time, you won’t know if it’s dawn or dusk.

In the same way, I stand here overlooking all, not knowing if I belong to the ground or the sky. Perhaps that’s what it feels like for someone who does not know what their calling really is.

Leaving behind the chair, with my laptop folded under my arm, I reassure myself that there will be more dawns to watch, even if I watch it alone.

The sun will rise, and in the same peaceful manner, there will always be a

Dawn.

[jaquespeaks]

Chewie

I remember finding myself in a dark and rainy place, wondering where I was. It must’ve been in the yard for a warehouse. My yellow boots and rain coat barely giving me any salvation from the bombardment of water that fell from the sky. It was cold and uncomfortable, but I didn’t seem to feel much about the situation I was in. I remember holding someone’s right hand. Clutching their fingers tightly in my own little ones. We stood there in the rain, silent for some time, or maybe I just couldn’t hear anything from the rain.

I started to wonder how I got here in the first place, what we were waiting for—then I remembered that maybe it had something to do with why we met up with the doctor about three days before.

You’d think that finding a companion for them would be easy and it was, in fact. My parents only wanted one that had short hair, was smart and kind to children.

I was still very small and much of what I remember is now but a fuzzy, hazy group of shattered reflections of when I first heard we were going to get a dog. Back in those days, I still couldn’t grasp certain things for very long. That’s how hands of children were like, right?

It was back when we still stayed in Dasmariñas, so long ago. My parents and I were at the old, grey building in front of SSS where the short palm trees and shrubs of flowers almost seemed to embrace the building. I stared out to the rolling green fields of rice where the kalabaw and its owner toiled and planted new seedlings for the next harvest, the sun just peeking out through the clouds that one hazy afternoon. The railings of the balcony were just warm enough to let my little grabby hands hold onto it as I placed my just as tiny feet on the edge of the cement. It almost seemed like a good idea if I tried to let my shoe fall off the edge, I wondered what would happen too if I did. Would the world explode so suddenly, or would my mother explode at me for dropping my dusty, white strap-on shoe. The breeze blew against my frame, reducing me to a, not surprisingly, small shivering child as my short, wavy hair, not giving me enough protection from the elements it seemed.

“Juls, pasok na bibi,” my mother called out from inside through the sliding glass door, “nandito na si Doc Ed!” I grinned widely as I turned my head to my mama sitting by one of the small coffee tables inside the second floor of the building.

The cafe had sunset orange tiles. It was a small and compact, but had all the warmth of home. Dim lights scattered across the ceiling of that floor gave just enough light for us since only the four of us were there. My parents, all dressed in casual outfits, myself and a tall, rather dark skinned man. He wore his signature green polo shirt with a lining of the same orange that the tiles of the cafe took on. His jeans drooping loosely over his legs and a large mole on his cheek, almost like a raisin. He smiled at me, flashing a toothy grin as I giggled at him and ran over. A sincerely kind man, I used to think of him as my hero, he was a farmer after all.

The rest of the conversation was a blur, after all, conversations were bland and boring. Nothing too interesting for a five year old.

The sound of a crate being placed down slowly, shook me away from my recalling of how I even got here. Then everything seemed to have fallen silent and the rain seemed to slow down as my gaze fell upon a small black figure huddled up under used mats for warmth. It lifted its head, its long and brown snout, sniffing my little finger as I reached out to it. Folded ears raising slightly as a stranger started back at it. Slick black fur, soft black fur. I placed my hand on its head as it sniffed my wrist.

I fell in love with her.

I fell in love with her stubby little legs, her floppy ears. I fell in love with her long, stiff tail and her beady eyes. How her long, sausage like body would comically roll across the rug of the home as she ran to me when I called her name. I loved that even when I grew taller, grew bigger, grew more angry or more irritable, I changed and yet she stayed the same. She loved me, possibly, as her own puppy, and I loved her as a second mother of sorts. One who could listen and be patient when I broke down when the days turned old and the nights turned cold.

She meant so much to me, and we brought her everywhere. I made sure she would see all the things I saw and enjoyed the same things I did, well, as much as she could. She was a dog, for goodness’ sake, but she was more than a dog to me.

She meant so much even on that one May evening, where she laid in the comfort of her pink doggy bed, weak and shivering. The IV liquid trickling down into her arm like the rhythm of death’s finger tapping on the rusty brown railing of the balcony. Even as the tears started to roll down, she still wanted to lick them away–but I knew that she couldn’t. Not anymore.

[jaquespeaks]

What do you know, it’s me~

Jaque, 

or how I’m called on the internet, is an alias I’ve made for myself as an artist in the beginning of my journey primarily for Deviantart. As of now, I have one main blog website over in tumblr, but it’s mainly for my art works and random rants.

I’m currently approaching the end of my days in high school and adolescence, worried about my current course choices, and worried about my spiritual, mental, emotional and physical maturity as the burden of my country is placed on the shoulders of many other students in this school just like me.

My favorite colors are black, white, blue, red, violet, and gold–which are the usual colors I use mainly for my many artworks.

I’m fond of dogs and though I’ve own a few for as long as I’ve even been alive, I’m pretty sure my red-eared pond turtle is a dog as well.

I’m fond of history, philosophy, arts, astronomy, music and have a growing interest towards astrophysics though I know I’ll not have enough will in me to work for NASA. Maybe that just means I have to start my own NASA over here, right?~ Hahaha~

I’m also very fond of puns, I guess you could say I’m pretty punny myself~

I don’t really find talking about myself comfortable, especially because I’d rather listen to others tell me about themselves, but I guess that’s all that I could say about myself for now~