Prompt from here.
Dedicated to someone dear to me, who passed away last month.
whom I’ve been doing my best for.
I want you to know that I’m still doing my best.
I’m not as good as you are.
All I could do is to try to be half as good.
I want to make you proud.
And I know it’s not enough just being what I am now –
one of the many things that keeps me going.
I will continue doing my best,
with what I have,
with what I can do.
be at peace.
Because despite where I am now,
I will move on,
I will strive,
and I will live.
For being such an inspiration,
I will miss you.
But thank you.
Prompt from here.
A few times the thought had occurred to me, yet no reason had ever risen for it to happen. It had always been a thought, a wishful thinking: a scene in which a simple thing happened and no consequences followed – as if it was just another sunrise and another sunset hovering above the polluted skyline.
I blinked, the last copy of National Geographic lying still on the shelf right under my nose. To buy or not to buy – that is the question. There wasn’t any obvious motive to get it other than the conversation I had with him two weeks ago, again revealing how he never ceased to amaze me with his ignorance towards the New World.
How does one not know about National Geographic?
Or is it just me being too geeky to grew up reading it instead of Disneyfied Grimm’s fairytales?
Precious minutes wasted, I gave up and grab the copy, then brought it to the cashier. Within seconds I’ve walked out the bookstore with the infamous yellow-framed magazine in my hand with unclear intention of what to do with it. Was it my old self trying to be nostalgic or my newer self seeking a justification for spending unnecessary money on something I’d give away in the end, I had no idea.
That was last week.
Until this day, the outdated copy is still lying on the table in my room, its perfectly smooth pages mocking my coward act the day I bought it. The circumstances had risen along with the will. Problem was, the courage ran away with its tail between its legs. I let the sun set once more without the magazine changing hands. Then another sunset. And about five more sunsets.
I blinked, the same copy of National Geographic in my hands while I sat on the edge of the bed – once again hearing the imaginary mockery coming from the same unread pages.