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Bedoor Bluemoon

Everyday writing to expose the soul

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Life as a Fraud- Inferiority Complex

Fraud

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They say confidence is key.  Key to what, I wonder as I put on my beige dress.  Here I am getting ready to graduate at the top of my class from a great university and I still wonder how did I get here?  I never thought I was the sharpest tool in the box (is that how the saying goes?) and I never really did so great in school; and yet I got accepted in the state university on a full scholarship.  I remember joking with the counselor who insisted I apply for the scholarship telling me that I was a great student and all universities would love to have me.  I thought he was joking but I got nudged into it by my mom who held the camera as I played the violin.  I missed a few notes but didn’t feel like redoing the whole thing, so I sent in the tape with all the mistakes.

A few months later, I got the acceptance letter and felt ecstatic.  Scared, but happy.  Then my complex kicked in: am I as good as they think I am?  Am I really worth the money they’d be throwing away?

I walked around campus those four years trying to keep to myself most of the time but it was evident that things cannot go unnoticed.  My high grades got me on the honors roll and I was turned into one of the university teaching assistants and library buddy.  I was also playing the violin in university performances and was given awards for “best performance” and “Classical music guru”.  Yet I kept wondering what they see in me.  What can they see that I can’t?

When things go against my will, I understand.  I live in that unknown and thrive in knowing nobody is watching.  Then I excel, and everybody watches… and I start questioning.

Am I a fraud?  Am I an illusionist who has everyone scammed into believing I am made of something that I am not?

Then I look around, and see people who have accomplished less than I have, look half as good as I do, and are less talented but who are booming with confidence.  I choose to keep quiet in seminars, even though I know the answers before anyone raises their hand.  I try to live in the shadows of my doubt, to live behind those who are in their fuschia and turquoise dresses, screaming for attention.  I choose to stay in the shadows where only those who are looking for perfection would find me, could find me.  They would take me out, polish me a bit, and stand in awe at who I am.

And then, as I stand glistening in the sun, I will still wonder if I’m a real diamond… or a fraud.

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Emptiness

Source: Writing Prompt #308

 

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It was just an urge that he’d acted on, he’d punched the window and now he was standing in a pool of shards.  He was looking for any other feeling besides the feeling of emptiness that has consumed him for  years now.  This was not a good day for him; he had better days when he felt like he had some control over his life.  But today was different, today was just black.

He woke up this morning with emptiness around him.  The feeling of grief consuming him even though he didn’t lose any loved one.  The pit of his stomach seemed so heavy, his heart felt burdened, and his breathing stressed.  All these feelings even though he had a good night sleep.  He felt afraid, no, he felt very afraid to get out of bed.  He felt the ground was filled with demons, red hot fire burning around the sanctuary of his bed.  He tried to pull the covers over himself and felt weaker.  His anxiety started and he was soon out breath.  He didn’t know whether to leave his bed and die or stay in and die as well.

It was a bad day.  He pulled himself out of bed and still felt the emptiness and fear.  He felt alone, scared, and lost.  He was floating in the abyss and can see himself walk across the room, hunched down, and sad.  He wanted to shake himself into feeling something, anything, and didn’t know what to do.  He floated down to his body, looked straight into his dark eyes and saw nothing.  He peered down into the shell of his body and saw no soul anymore.  A body consumed by nothingness: no hope, no dreams, no nothing.  He looked and found nothing.

And he walked to the window, thinking that maybe the sunny day would lift his spirits. Huh, what spirit?  There’s nothing there.  It was gone, he was gone.  He hoped the sun would work.  On the way, he turned on the music and played one of his favorite songs so maybe, just maybe, something would flicker in the shadows.  But nothing flickered.  He reached the window and punched… but felt nothing except his depression.

The Lost Boy

(writing prompt #304. https://purpldragon.wordpress.com/2017/09/14/writing-prompt-304/)

Source: Writing Prompt #304
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He watched through the window as his mother tucked his half-sister in bed and kiss his step father goodnight, then he turned and vanished into the night.  It was a daily ritual for Tom since he ran away from his father’s house six months ago.  His father was an alcoholic who, in his opinion, probably didn’t even realize he wasn’t around.  He was living bad days and worse nights when his father would come back from the bar and wake Tom up from his sleep just to start beating him.  One night, Tom decided it was enough, he was going to go live with his mother instead.

His mother always wanted him in her life.  She never gave him up, on the contrary she fought hard to gain custody of Tom but it was all because Tom’s dad knew how to best beat the system that she lost him.  She cried so hard knowing that her ex-husband didn’t really care about Tom, he only wanted to hurt her by taking him away.

That was five years ago.

Tom lived with his dad and was neglected from day one.  He was abused verbally all the time, listening to how he was the reason his parents got a divorce and why it would have been better if he were never born.  He went to school after he made his own breakfast, changed, and packed whatever junk was available at home.  The place was a mess and Tom tried to keep it clean as hard as any eight year old boy can.  He missed his mother.

Running away was the best thing he did.  It wasn’t like he was living in a better place but at least the homeless man had more paternal instincts and started sharing everything with him.  During the day, Tom would try to sell anything to get some money and buy some food to settle his rumbling stomach and share what little he has with the homeless man.

He wanted to go directly to his mother and that’s when his new habit started.  He reached her new home at seven p.m. one night and saw her new family gathered around the dinner table.  He could smell the roasted chicken but something in him stopped him from ringing the doorbell.  He didn’t want to ruin the beautiful picture with his dirty boots and jacket.  From then on, he continued to watch his mother live her life while he lived his.  She never saw him behind the bushes.

One day, Tom fell asleep watching his mother and step dad watching a movie.  He wanted to feel as if he were a part of her life again.  He sat down and watched from afar until his eyelids could no longer stay open.

He woke up the next morning indoors, on a bed, and with mother’s arms around him.  He knew her smell very well and couldn’t believe it.  He turned around and saw her smiling into his face.

“How long have you known that I’m watching?”

“Just last night.  Do you think I’d let you go if I ever found you?”

Scars and Stretch Marks

tattoo

Many people prefer to hide their scars and stretchmarks not keeping in mind that they make us who we are.  We are all born the same: an empty canvas which awaits what life brings upon us and which can be showcased to our grandchildren.  Yes, scars remind us of the times we learned and stretchmarks remind us of the times we grew.

Scars.

Physical scars from childhood reminding us not to take that route,  not to climb that tree, and not to play with those kids.  Physical scars from adulthood reminding us not to take that route (yes, again), not to forget the seat belt, and not to talk to that guy.  Emotional scars from childhood and during adulthood reminding us that best friends may change, boyfriends may cheat, and loved ones may die.  Scars that represent lessons in life, that tell a story of where we have been and where we once longed to be.  Scars tattooed all over our bodies and souls making us human.

Scars that cannot be covered.

And stretchmarks.  Representing the times we changed and grew: gaining weight after high school, losing weight when you realize that weight you gained was a bit too much, growing less confident, growing more confident, pregnancy and motherhood, changing what we believe, changing who we believe, changing who we are.  All those changes are changes to our skin and our minds.  Not accepting to change means that we are made out of stone and are no humans.  Not all change is evident but a simple change makes a big difference in our humanity.

 

I do not wish to hide my scars nor my stretchmarks.  On the contrary, I wish to show everyone all my wounds, to show how alike we are and how human we can be.  I accept the lessons in my life and thank the growth that they brought upon me: work less, love more, and be gentle.

Dignify our Elders

Dignify

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When you think of old age, you either think of someone else or of a funny meme you saw online of an elder doing something funny or technology related which, in your opinion, is purely cute or basically obscene.  It is never that we think that we, one day, will be old in our age and will have to consider how the younger generation perceives us.

You see, how old you are in your mind varies from one person to the next.  I always saw myself as a late teenager/early twenties person.  My sister always perceived herself as she were, and a friend of mine saw herself as an older person.  (In Your Mind, How Old Are You?)

It is not a joke when you start having grey hair.  Thank you, mom, for the great genes (yaay).  It is also not a joke when you get diagnosed with high blood pressure, kidney stones, diabetes, heart conditions, and all the fun stuff that are pointing towards the way life is flying by.  This is not a post to make you seize the moment, by all means, carpedium all day.  This is a post for you to consider those elders in your lives and what they feel.

Their bodies are not as strong as they used to be.  Imagine how that would make you feel?  They can’t see as well, start losing a bit of hearing, and some start forgetting words.

No.  It’s not very dignified.

And we come in, all young and stupid acting like we know best.  Some have lived through wars, seen how life changes, lost loved ones and families, and yet we come in, all young and stupid acting like we know best.  Acting like our limited knowledge of how smart phones work gives us the power to know.

No.

It doesn’t.

Just because they ask us how to download their emails or they believe everything they see on social media doesn’t make them any less.  It makes them more.

They are pure in heart, pure in soul.  Lived longer and seen more.  Wiser, warmer, and much better than we ever will be.  And we will only know their worth when they are gone.

God bless our loved elders who still have patience in all our foolishness and childishness.

Dignify your elders and you will be dignified.

Afternoon Tea- Repost

Tea

Repost- Afternoon Tea

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The first memory she had of her grandmother’s house was the scent of freshly baked blueberry muffins.  She loved how the aroma filled the entrance and loved the traces of flour on the surface of the working area.  She would draw little hearts and her grandmother would tease and ask if the hearts were meant for her or the muffins, and she would answer the muffins.  She loved her grandmother who introduced her to this wonderful world of baking.

She remembered the sweet lemon pies they would make in the summer to accompany the swimming trips and the warm apple cinnamon crumble that would accompany the winter winds.  She was her grandmother’s little helper.  The person who would hold the rolling pin and the person who would garnish the cake tops with chocolate shavings.  She was the person who would cut the two day old bread to cover with the custard, raisins, and nuts and turn it into warm home-made pudding.  She would always choose the floral tablecloth and tea set for their days together and would help serve afternoon tea to her family and enjoy every second of their tea time together.

All her free time was spent in the kitchen with her grandmother.  she learned everything in regards to the temperatures, recipes, and baking tips. She asked her father for a set of baking pans for her tenth birthday and was ecstatic when she unwrapped the pink wrapping paper and saw them in the box.  Her first baking pans.

She always wanted to settle down and start a family of her own.  She met Owen once she started college in orientation and  things just clicked between them.  Her short dark hair and warm hazel eyes penetrated his heart and he knew that she was the woman of his dreams.

They had some joined classes and Owen was so happy to help Catherine with her work.  They spent so much time preparing for projects and presentations.  After two years of college, Catherine told Owen that she will not be continuing her education and a Diploma was enough.  Her grandmother have passed away and she had to go back and spend her summer in the old kitchen.  He understood her passion and wished her well but didn’t want to lose her so he promised to take some time to visit her for a week during the spring break.

She walked into the old kitchen and ran her fingers across the top of the working area. Dust in place of flour.  She opened the cupboards that once held the dried cranberries and vegetable oil and they were empty.  She sighed.  She opened the fridge that was once packed with eggs and cream to have an empty space stare back.  She took the rolling pin in her hand and started to think of a way to bring life back into her grandmother’s  house.

She smiled and started to work on cleaning up the house.  She started with the kitchen, then the rooms, and finally the living area.  She made sure the place was warm and welcoming as it always was when her grandmother was around.  She left the house and came back with bags of groceries.

She started by making a basic vanilla cake. She sliced the vanilla bean and used half in the custard she was cooking on the stove.  Her heart skipped a beat when she thought the eggs curdled but was satisfied to see that it all went well.  Her grandmother taught her well.

she was expecting her father, mother, and sisters to arrive soon and Owen also confirmed he would be coming over for tea.  He had a different plan in mind and coordinated with Catherine’s mom to propose.  She was ecstatic to hear and gave her blessings.

Catherine chose the floral table spread and got her grandmother’s floral cups and saucers.   She started boiling the water for the tea and was piping creme patisserie in her eclairs when the doorbell rang.

It was nobody.  She felt a bit of wind across her face so she had to make sure the draft was managed by closing the windows.  Catherine arranged the eclairs, vanilla cake, mini sandwiches, scones, and oatmeal cookies on the table and took a seat next to her grandmother’s chair.  She placed a plate with one piece of each baked good and a cup of warm tea as tribute to her grandmother.  She was content with the outcome of four hours of baking and felt her grandmother would be proud.

The guests walked in and were impressed.  Her sister beamed and Owen didn’t believe she didn’t buy the cakes.  She smiled and sat down, making sure every one had a taste of her cakes.

Owen proposed.  He went down on one knee and told her how she filled his life with happiness and what an honor it would be if she accepts to be his wife.  He slipped the ring on her finger.  Her family congratulated them and soon the get together was over.

Catherine was alone in the house, cleaning up and putting things back.  It was the perfect day in her grandma’s little home.  She was wiping the working area and unconsciously started drawing little hearts.  She was exactly where she wanted to be.

“These are for you, grandma,”

The Man Who Buried 

Bury

He was known to bury his feelings. A great actor with a greater teacher. A teacher who taught him that when you were born and cried, your mother wasn’t there to hold and comfort you, for she abandoned you. A teacher who taught him that being bounced from foster home to another only meant friends changing and never settling in. A teacher who taught him that he is not wanted, a dog when families required puppies. 
 So it went on… a child living everyday wishing it was his last and not feeling anything because, come to think of it, why would he want to feel anything?
So he buried a piece of himself.
When He turned 18, he was given the opportunity to leave the home and find his way in the world so his teacher encouraged him to do so, just to slam every door in his face. It was difficult to find a job, any job, so he looked some more. Persisted and chose to bury all feelings of disappointment when he was turned down at interviews. Until he found a job that required him to work night shifts moving truckloads of trash away from civilization.
So he drove all the way out every night, and buried a piece of him. 
His life got better: the orphan boy who could. Many people invited him to their homes, it was a way his teacher showed him what he never had growing up but he still looked with curiosity. He buried all feelings of longing and envy.
His teacher taught him that there is a person out there for you when he met his girlfriend, then he found out that things can only get better… just to get worse. So all he did was bury a relationship before it ever became anything.
He buried his hopes and dreams of a family when he buried his heart. 
The more he learned, the more he grew.

 The more he grew, the more he buried.

Illusion

Illusion

He made sure that what he portrayed was just an illusion. He made sure that when he chose his next victim he would have things set out in order. The car, the shoes, the clothes. 
His name was Jack Carter, a professional illusionist who, in some ways, beats the best illusionists of this time. The only difference is he doesn’t make a big show to flaunt his skills, he makes sure to hide them.
What he does is plain and simple. He moves to a new town after researching his victims and starts stalking her. He watches her every move, studies her actions, likes and dislikes, her social circle, and other important points that help his attack.
He plays with his food before devouring it, makes sure that the temperature is just right, that the woman he chooses is ready to sell her soul to him. Of course, this courtship offer takes a few months but he’s been getting better at his illusion.
Either that or women are losing their sight.
He entered the town Chistal and drove to the East side in his black minivan: a car he once researched was the most used car around the eastern coast. He parked next to the conventional white piquet fence and watched as a woman in her early fifties walks out of the house for her daily walk. 

7:05 a.m, right on time dear Mrs. Robbins, he thought.



Jane Robbins was very attractive for her age. A tall, polished businesswoman who recently got divorced after a 25 year marriage. He stepped out of the car, making sure that his shoelaces are tied and started walking behind her, giving her just enough space to not realize that the illusion was about to start.
She power walked for the next few blocks and he started to gain speed. Only when she decided to take a bit of a break did Jack start his jog; he needed to break a bit of a sweat to compliment his act. 
He walked up to Jane out of breath. He knew that he looked very attractive with his black shorts and blue t-shirt, he also wore his fake Cartier watch especially for this encounter.
He treaded softly, approaching the bench with a big smile on his face. “Hello beautiful, nice day isn’t it? Do you mind if I sit down?”
Jane never knew what happened, never had a chance.
By the end of the year, she woke up one morning looking for her fiancé and found him gone, along with every penny she had. 

The Bridge

Writing prompt 240


He sat on the rail of the bridge watching the people cross, waiting for his next victim.

He didn’t know that he was being watched, followed from the second he stepped out of his house. He didn’t realize that there is someone who wanted to prove his methods were not up to par, not meticulous enough. He didn’t know that during his last attack, the single slip up was the reason he was now hunted.

Once a hunter, now hunted.

Hunted because he let the girl scratch his face and the police found the evidence of his DNA underneath her fingernails.

And now, he was no longer part of  the group. No longer welcomed.

Watching, he was being watched. Planning, his death was being planned, schemed.
The next day, newspapers read “the Bridge Serial Killer was Found Dead Beneath the Bridge.”
How ironic.

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