The House with a Thousand Doors

Everyone knew she was so fascinated with doors that she built a whole house full of them. In that house, there were over 1,000 doors. Large and small, thin and thick, to the sturdiest to the weakest materials they were made. And everyday, she did nothing but open doors, from room to room to room. That’s what she does. That was known to be her eccentric hobby she often got misunderstood with.

There were doors that were made of steel. These were the hardest to go through, for she needed to open a million locks before the doors can be opened. A great number of all the doors in the house were wooden and they were easy to open. They have only their doorknobs as their locks. A small number of doors were made of thin metal screens. They just need to be pushed or pulled to be opened. There were certain places in the house that were doorless but they were very very few. But these were her favorite for she did not need to open a door anymore to come in.

But there is something peculiar about these doors. Everyday, they change depending on how often she comes through them. On top of being the hardest to open, most of the time, the steel doors never changes no matter how many times she untiringly enters through them. The wooden doors were easy to open but they can be frustrating for they easily change to steel doors if she doesn’t come through them all the time. Though few, the screen doors were the easiest to open and the most important to open everyday. However, they can be difficult, for some screen doors change back to wooden doors or worse, steel doors in just a snap. Some of them disappear and become doorless, but this rarely, rarely happens. It’s not impossible but it doesn’t happen all the time.

Everyone in the community mocked her for living in a house with a thousand doors and opening them everyday. She was judged, misunderstood and called names. Little did they know it was a life-long curse and the house was her prison.

She was bedamned to make the house completely doorless or she wouldn’t be able to leave and be trapped in it forever. 21 years have passed and every single day, she did her best to open them one by one. There were some doors she wanted to disappear so badly that she worked hard for them to change but her efforts were in vain. There were some wooden doors that eventually changed into screen doors and she strongly felt they would become doorless soon. But often times, she comes back and these doors change to wooden doors again.

One day, she finally realized that making the house completely doorless was an impossible thing to do, for the doors change every time. Because ironically, change is the only constant thing in the world.

And so she knew she needed to escape.

The highest floor of the house was doorless and she knew its walls, the weakest. In her despair, she desperately cut a small opening in the middle of the wall. And so finally… Finally, she saw the outside world. The smell of fresh air from high above was tantalizing and she craved the sound of peace. So without looking back at the house with a thousand doors, she set herself free.


Writer’s Block?

Those moments when you feel small, pressured and paralyzed by rules. I need to write to feel, but without feeling I cannot write.

Finals is nearing and I am getting sad. I’m getting sad because people are expecting too much of me (and I, myself) when I am very pessimistic about my “talents”. I don’t even think I am talented. I am skilled. Not talented. There is a difference.

The most famous writers took them a long long time to have a breakthrough in their craft. They had to undergo a million failures before having one successful story recognized in all of their writing careers. JK Rowling was a rejected writer of many novels before she became one of the most idolized writers in our century with the Harry Potter series. But in time, it was fruitful.

But in design school, it’s different. I need to pass my plates. I need to meet my professor’s standards. I need to maintain high grades I’ve gotten from midterms for finals. I need to be creatively perfect. This is why I loathe the standards of society because this is what they put in our heads and we fear it. Society creates our demons in us. They expect students to be excellent in a short span of time and I don’t think I can do that. Not even two months of time can be enough to write a literary masterpiece and I need to be excellent and creative enough to deliver one in less than a month.

I am a visionary about a lot of things but I am not a creative genius. I need time that I don’t have. So God help me.

The System

I don’t expect anyone will understand what I’m writing. But I think I have developed a fear within me. A fear of conforming to what’s ordinary, what’s average and safe, what’s expected from society, what’s branded as the norm. And I can’t do anything about this thought in my head because I practice exactly what I’m afraid of. Even though I am just as ordinary as the next person is, and ironically and by human nature, I struggle to level with society’s standards too, I came to despise how we struggle to survive to be accepted in society. How we struggle to “fix” our crooked roads and get back to the “right” track, the track to what’s accustomed.

But what is the “right” track really? Anyone’s answer can never be valid nor invalid. The society’s ideals, beliefs and standards on what is “right” is not the universal law, it is not freewill either. It is something we created in our heads influenced by the many things and happenings around us.

I despise the fact that every time we reach a “stage” in our lives, we always know what to do next, one way or another. Or at least what we should do to get to the next “expected” stage in our lives because that is what we accept as the normal. After we graduate from college, we know what to do next, we get a job. If we don’t, we are judged and heavily criticized. Then we get into a relationship and get married, have kids, grow old and die and the cycle goes on. And it makes us happy once we are in level with society’s standards too. Why is it so important for us to be the same? We live differently but we go through the same paths until we die, or until we die trying to get there. Why can’t we make our own paths? Why do we say we are unique and different from others but still want to achieve the same things in life? Why do we end up doing the same things in life? I don’t get it. And I’m confused. I just don’t like how the world works. In this world already run by obvious information we call “facts”, rules, laws and sometimes, judgements, we are clouded by scientific reason and that there should always be a logical explanation to everything. And I don’t think there is a logical explanation to my question.

Nevertheless, I still question.

I don’t think I can ever get answers to my questions though, because I know no one can answer it. We are, of course, all the same, we think the same, we strive for the same things or at least we struggle to and we’re all part of a society that influences our every move. Or sometimes I think I just watch too much movies, read too many extraordinary stories or believe too much in the unaccepted and unknown that I think this way.

One thing is for sure, fuck the system and the cliché mentality it creates.

The Suicide Restaurant

The birds were singing,
The flowers were dancing.
But amidst the happy setting was pandemonium.
Under the festive skies sat a couple wrangled in emotion.
On the last bench, farthest from where the pigeons were, they sat.
She wore her wishful frown in front of the guy she couldn’t look at.
What’s worse, she couldn’t even concentrate
Because her stomach was in war, it was just yesterday since she last ate.
Despite their blues, they left together to eat and drove for an hour.
They didn’t speak to each other whilst in the car.
She knew they were doomed and their relationship in bricks.
Eventually, they found a dining place just a little beyond the Lake of Styx.
They pulled over in front of a peculiar-looking restaurant and parked the car at the square.
It was odd because they found it in the middle of nowhere.
What made it odder was that it was called The Suicide Restaurant.
The sign on the brownstone said “Happiness comes to those who want”.
The place was cramped, small, and filled with so much gloom.
Inside was a white elegant Victorian-themed seven-tabled room.
At the center of the room was an intricate crystal chandelier,
And an old torn dirty couch on the left, in front of the cashier.
But let me tell you something about this odd little place,
The restaurant is popular for the many deaths it had to face.
Many intentionally come to just dine and die.
They willfully come to bid the world their last goodbye.
Once, there was a whole family who took their own lives in there.
The restaurant’s one and only staff found them and didn’t even care.
For in there, she had witnessed countless lives taken for thirty years.
The walls have eyes and the ground have ears.
Inside, she sat in that torn couch and waited for him.
She looked around and noticed the customers looked grim.
She was really tired that she looked so bland.
Although all she ever wanted was for him to care and hold her hand.
When he came in, he sat beside her without even glancing.
She noticed there were two tables in the middle with five to six people eating.
She thought this place wasn’t as eerie as it first appeared to be.
Then they saw this girl at the corner about to drink a cup of tea.
Just as she drank it, she fell face flat on her plate.
She’s dead, she had put poison on the food she just ate.
The woman at the cashier looked at the dead girl with a poker-face.
For for thirty years, these scenes she had already embraced.
The couple was horrified as they watched the girl take her last breaths.
The waitress just shrugged and said, “This restaurant cannot live without its deaths.”
They ran for their lives in shock and despair.
Turns out the restaurant was a silent hungry monster who fed on the souls of the people who died there.
Strangely, the other customers didn’t react and continued eating normally.
It was as if they already know… that it’s a place where death occurs rather too frequently.


This experimental short rhyming story* is based on a dream I had last March 1, 2014. The whole post is the narrative of how my dream went.

*I used the term “experimental short rhyming story” because I originally wanted to write this in the conventional narrative way but I figured, it would be more fun to read it in rhymes so I experimented using rhymes in this short story. Not creatively written enough, I know. But I just wanted to share the whole idea of a suicide restaurant. I found it extremely weird, at the same time a very cool idea too. Thanks to my weird dreams lol

Pitch Black

The room was pitch black except for her illuminated face from her laptop. It was almost 3AM in the morning. She was at the brink of her bed, still having a very interesting chat with her bestfriend. She didn’t notice it but a figure was slowly shaping from the right side of her bed. She turned to her right and was horrified at what she saw. A foot from her was an eerie little boy in all white, his white face half-illuminated by her laptop, his bloodshot eyes was staring at the screen as if he was earnestly reading their conversation. She screamed and wrote what happened in her Imaginarium notebook to scare herself.

It was all imagination.


Happy Halloween!!!! 😀

The Augmented Reality of a Schizophrenic

I opened my eyes to see her staring at me. I looked at her with disgust and shame. She looked at me with soulless eyes. Her eyes turned dark. I was astonished and mortified at her sudden change of demureness. I sat aback and turned to my left. She sat aback and turned to her left. She bemocks me with grimace… I tried to push her but I couldn’t reach her. I got farther every time I came near her. Then I saw the mug on the table which I used to drink milk this morning. I took it and hurled it at her. Boom. Shatter. And the next thing I saw was a pool of blood. I looked around and saw pieces of shattered glass. I picked up a piece and saw her again. The glass pieces piercing on her face with grumes of rose red everywhere. We then, fell into an undisturbed sleep.



Moment of Bliss

I peer through the tiny window
Intending to see change
Yet it was all pain and sorrow
It was all very strange

When you look up and see no sun
Just call out the Lord’s Son
When darkness falls and hope is none
Grab a pen not a gun

Embrace pain like we’re all haunted
Time seals it with a kiss
Because all we ever wanted,
Was a moment of bliss