Categorically I dislike melodramatics. People devote to melodramatics to perfect their creation. The purposefully-furrowed faces some adopt when boasting about the piquancy of a severely-tragic story which influences their creation. The faces that are teemed with wrinkles and creases, on they put an unworldly veil. If I happened to be an ant I would take refuge in one of those crisscross lines and guarantee the longevity of my inhabitation.
I used to hold the receiver conventionally like how everybody holds, but now I have the natural inclination of holding it lateral, does that make me admirably histrionic? Vacillation is the commonest and dreariest symptom of a young adult who is trying too hard to assert himself. I’ve been vacillating like a tumbling ocean whose tides are already fizzled with cloying foams. The result is a doubtlessly exhausted body causes by constant rotundity. Headaches also occur occasionally.
But my soul is never exhausted. It is generally believed that vacillation spawns a creative mind. Resembling to a form of a spiral, when a person vacillates all her spirits swirl around the body with a red-and-golden hue that almost makes that person statuesque of a goddess. Presumably that is why people coveting for vacillation before worshipping creativity. They believe creation is something that can be put behind a glass cabinet, or on the mantelpiece flanked by your grandpa’s photo frame and your father’s gong. Creation is something that is best exhibited and admired by all the dropping jaws.
It is not too warped to suggest that searching for inspirations or gleaning materials is like cohabitating with strangers you stalk on the street. It is double-edged, hence the unrevealing dangerous side. Some stories or people you stumble upon like when stumbling upon a haunted house on a most wholesome jaunt. You peek inside. You judge the interior and the exterior. You purse your lips like a detective and decide to cast this haunted house into your story. Then a man with disguise ambushing in a corner you fail to inspect. He almost prances to you and confronts you with some weapon of not telling anyone of this house and this incident.
You then escape unwound and for your friends, most normally unruffled but who knows you are truthfully unruffled? Something does happen in that house and oh my, what a great actor you are concealing your bewilderment. And what happens between you and that mysterious man? How he let you walk away if he is so dogged about keeping the house a secret? How a mutual agreement is made that you’re be able to go scot-free?
A story or how some still insist, a “creation,” is therefore born. Hopefully the readers will find the answers to all their suspicions and if not, they still possess the irresistible joy of reading the story or, more perversively, fabricating their own story of the protagonist’s harrowing yet enchanting chance encounter with a haunted house and an unidentified man.
How will the readers say if they found out something much contrary to their naïve fabrication? They close the book impulsively before throwing them out and say, “It’s warped!” I ceased to be that inspector or protagonist when the aforesaid staged in my head. I hold the firm belief that life is itself a contested battlefield and nothing can be easily disciplined by any of your high-minded aphorism. I became eventually, that haunted house, with which normally you know absolutely nothing about.