Size Seven Shoes

 I take my specs off and attempt to clean it yet another time. My frustration grows as I still fail to pinpoint exactly where the smudge on the lens is at. This dim bedroom lighting is definitely not helping.   Staring at the laptop late at night like this is a challenge, and I feel as though it is getting worse lately. At times, it feels like I have to strain my eyes just to focus on what's on the computer screen.  I've just sipped up the last few dregs of my homemade iced coffee. I'm now savouring as much as I can of the remaining ice cubes in my glass. I'm popping one into my mouth every few minutes, sucking it till they dissolves into water once more that trickles down my throat.  My husband is snoring. My sons are asleep too. It's 4+am in the morning. And I am trying to work. But concentration is hard to come by. And my progress seems so slow.  The deadline for this copyedit job is creeping up in just a few days.  Meanwhile, I fleetingly consider how behind I a

 So many hindrances to writing lately.  There's this neverending list of outstanding chores. And the immediate family needs, whatever those may be at any particular point in time.  Meanwhile, paid editorial work should always take precedence, should it not? Hence, all passion projects and personal ambitions will need to be sidelined whenever a new income stream emerges. I should be thankful, yes?  Then, there is this issue with my specs that cropped up lately. The coating has been peeling and it's starting to get in the way of my line of vision. I mean, like, literally. The light bounces off the affected areas on my specs and then it bothers my eyes as though there's a constant glare in my eyes.  And my son keeps making ad-hoc requests to use the laptop. To do online searches and to read random stuff online. To play games. To video call his friend.  Not to mention that I am oh-so-tired over this Chinese New Year season. Everything ang ang, including the current phase of my

So I've been trying to make inroads into authorship lately.  It's not the first time I've tried writing creative stuff but I think I don't try doing it often enough. Also, out of the many times that I have actually made attempts, there have been only a handful of occasions where I have successfully produced something.  Mostly, I stick to poetry and short stories because those were things that have always seemed manageable to me. I have now and then also tried writing longer forms of fiction in the past, mostly for Nanowrimo, and those have all failed.  I am currently attempting to write a novel (or two or more!) in order to enter it into a competition. Such gradiose ambitions. I don't even know if I'll really make it in time for the deadline.  I guess for now I'll just be content if I can have a manuscript written out. Perhaps nothing much will become of it, but if I could just write one and complete it, maybe something magical will eventually happen.   And

I've always wondered: Would you know it when your life is reaching its end?  So many ways that a person could die. Some of which happen really suddenly, while in other cases, it is a slow buildup to that final day and hour.  We cannot choose how we will leave this life. But will we at least have some kind of premonition or warning before our time comes?  I suppose I will never know until that fateful moment arrives.  And I guess I'm thinking about these things a little more than usual because of several recent deaths of people I used to know.  Also the fact that I am turning 40 this month.  What does a life amount to at the end of it all? Will it count?  I guess the most I can hope for is that God will be merciful enough to offer a gracious ending.