5 Pieces

The Dark

1/21/2014. It was 12 A.M and I woke up in the middle of the night with the urge to pee. Every single light in the house was off. The only thing separating me from the bathroom was an endless hallway and the unknown that lurked in it. I was hesitant on whether or not I should go, but the more I stalled, the larger the urge grew. It was to the point where I had no choice but to make a run for it. So I bolted through the hallway and frantically searched for the light switch at the end of the corridor, clumsily brushing my fingers all over the wall until the light switch turned on. After I did what I needed to do in the restroom, I took a deep breath and turned off the light switch. The dark was now darker than before, as my eyes were not adjusted yet. I felt the haunting presence of the unknown, making my heart beat faster and my breath heavier. Once more, I sprinted back across the hallway making it back to my bedroom, where I was safe. 

The Love of My Life

Three rooms away, her fragrance pierced through the walls. I immediately stopped what I was doing and walked towards the smell, curious as to what was on the other side of the walls. I arrived at the room that contained this smell and opened the door. It was love at first sight. Her skin, glistening in the light, cooked to a golden brown, crispy perfection. I walked over and took a bite. The juiciness. The crispiness. Pure perfection. I have never tasted anything like it. It was addicting. I could not stop eating it. No matter how much I got in my mouth, the smell still kept me craving more. Little did I know this was just the opening act. Because after my mouth was filled with it, the hot sauce came. It was hot and creamy, adding another level of delight to the experience. I was chained. Trapped and tied down. Forever enslaved by the food of the gods known as fried chicken.

String Theory

Six strings. That is all it takes to create something magical. The amount of emotion that can be portrayed and displayed through six strings tied to a piece of wood is unlimited. Something seemingly simple, yet so impactful to my life. The versatility, evolution, and potential of this instrument is virtually limitless. Used in nearly every genre of music, the guitar is hard not to love. I remember practicing for hours and hours upon end during the summers and breaks, trying to reach my technical limit. It was frustrating at times but very rewarding as well. But now, with school and extracurriculars, I have a lot less time to practice. So now, I enjoy guitar through listening to others play it.

Garbage Day

It was back in Vegas when I was a little boy. I was around 5 or 6 when I had a fondness for garbage trucks for some reason. The sound that the truck made when it came around my neighborhood in the morning woke me up with excitement. Every week, I would run out onto the driveway and watch the garbage truck do its thing. I was amazed and astonished at how large it was and how the “arm” of the truck worked. Watching the trash bin get lifted up and its contents poured into the truck was very entertaining to me. These were the times that I look back on and wish for life to be as simple as it was then. To be able to watch a garbage truck work just because I had enough time. But now, I am caught up with new garbage, leaving no time to see everyday things like a garbage truck.


I had never liked writing. I still don’t like writing. I don’t think I will ever like writing. Getting the thoughts from my head and onto the paper is always so difficult. In my head, my ideas sound much better and flow much better. But on paper, it does not have the same impact as it did when I thought of it. It does not flow nearly as well nor does it feel like my whole point gets across to the reader at times. Even writing this piece of writing about how much I dislike writing does not really portray how much I dislike writing. There is always some sort of requirement when we have to write. We have to write in a certain structure, with a certain vocabulary, and a certain format. It is never like how we would have thought it out in our head. Yet, we have to write it out in a way that sounds formal yet takes more time for the reader to comprehend. I’ve never gotten the point of doing that with writing. I’m done with writing.

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