Derek Minor

Happy New year pple. A poem for your thoughts 
          I just published "Sunny Days" of my story "And Then, There Was One". https://www.wattpad.com/1600401732?utm_source=android&utm_medium=profile&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=DerekMinor

Regret is oftentimes a choice when I think about it. A lot of times, I find myself regretting something not because of the repercussions.
          It's normally a choice I regret because of how it made or makes me feel.
          And feelings shouldn't hold us hostage. 
          Have you ever remembered an embarrassing moment and gone, 'Damn, I hate myself.'
          It's more of disappointment in misrepresentation than it is regret. Sure I wish I hadn't done it but I'm bound to do something embarrassing one way or another. 
          I'm learning to accept I'll embarrass myself eventually.
          It doesn't mean I can't expect more from myself. 
          Regret is proof I can do better.
          And for the really important decisions in life, I think taking time to ponder helps. We wonder if it'll be enough but if a decision has to be made and you take your time to make it, that's the best you can do. 
          In hindsight, it always seems like you could do better. 
          I will write something and I think it's amazing in the moment. 
          But after a while I go, if I had just added this word, or changed this part.. It could've been so much better. 
          But that's the best I could do at the time. 
          So to do better, I just have to raise my level. Raise it enough so in hindsight, there's not much to nitpick.

A short story. 
          I just published "Silence" of my story "My Name Is". https://www.wattpad.com/1484866849?utm_source=android&utm_medium=profile&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=DerekMinor

Everything encounters its limits the moment we become involved. Music is limited by its very definition; no matter how unconventional you try to be, there are certain tenets a piece must obey to still be called music. And those limits are ultimately created by the people who define what music is.
          There are things music may never express — or rather, things we cannot express through music. It is a language at the end of the day. And life is more than language.

A poem for your thoughts 
          I just published "Jenga" of my story "And Then, There Was One". https://www.wattpad.com/1591670482?utm_source=android&utm_medium=profile&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=DerekMinor

Awkward moments seem to have found their home with me. Maybe it’s because I’m a bit of a recluse, interactions haven’t gotten better with time. My observational skills have though. I’m not Jackson Lamb or anything but I have a knack for reading emotional cues. Knowing when I’m not wanted. It’s a beautiful thing to feel like the object of another’s desire. It’s a special thing to know when to take a hint. A lot of us figure there must have been some sort of mistake when we’re rejected. So we press on to clear the misunderstanding. We were just being nice. We press on. I’m sure they’ll understand. We press on, piling the pressure until we become something we are only ashamed of later. The benefit of hindsight is that you can be more objective with your emotions. Objectivity in spite of them is also a skill. And like any skill, proficiency is bred in practice. So embrace the awkward moments. Discomfort is the perfect place to learn. About yourself. About others. About holding on and about letting go.

It was a dark and stormy night. My glow in the dark watch wasn't working and I could feel a sense of humour in the air. Almost like death was smiling at me. The sky roared with the promise of rain. And yet all the promise of the future was clouded by the stench of loneliness that pervaded my tiny apartment. 
          Loneliness is the beginning of death.
          At least, I think it is.
          And death to me has always been the path that we sojourn. Life being the opportunity to experience that path. To learn and unlearn. To separate the temporal from the everlasting. 
          Death is everlasting... much like the feeling of loneliness. 
          It bores a crater into the depths of your being, even in the presence of company. People are a distraction. Television is a distraction. Everything else is an attempt to quell the hunger in that place. 
          A place we prefer not to look at or look into. 
          Well, because it reminds us that we are everlasting, struggling with the absence of a reason why.

Quote of the day,
          
          
          Most folks live and die without moving anything more than the dirt that it takes to bury them.
          
          
          A well endowed lady just passed by. But my eyes are focused on keeping it a mental struggle.
          
          
          Earlier today, I met an old man, a fellow connoisseur of a long life well-lived. That was until he started talking the way old men just prattle on like they don't see I have places to be, people to save. Life is hard for a dreamer. 
          
          
          He looked sad, like an old dog pouting while plagued by its owner's absence. He had an old notebook with him and he held on to it like he was clutching a detached part of himself. 
          
          This was of course, speculation on my part but I do have a nose for these things, an ear, an eye, I'm practically an esper.
          
          I was curious but I had no intention of sitting through an old man lecture at this point in my day. But I did stare, long enough for him to cease rocking to and fro restlessly. For a while, I forgot I was staring. 
          
          
          Turning gently, his voice cracked with a depth that could echo under water, 
          
          
          Do you know me?
          
          
          Of course I don't know you guy. But I didn't say that. I reflected on all those seminars I painstakingly endured. For the sake of my future self, I decided to do the sensible thing. The only thing one can do when faced with a mysterious adult trying to recognize you. Lie.
          
          
          The well endowed lady has passed by again. But I'm still committed. 
          
          
          Respectfully yours,
          
          
          The cable guy.
          
          
          

A poem called good deeds. Are we good? Are we bad? Are we both? Are we not?
          I just published "Good Deeds" of my story "And Then, There Was One". https://www.wattpad.com/1588283460?utm_source=android&utm_medium=profile&utm_content=share_published&wp_page=create_on_publish&wp_uname=DerekMinor

I have this random urge... maximum points if you get it
          
          It's 104 days to summer vacation and school comes along just to end it but the annual problem for our generation is finding a good way to spend it... Like maybe...