“Let there be grammatical mistakes.”
God, “Genesis” in Bible. (I guess.)

Let me get this straight — I hate English.

Every time I try to write something and let a person who actually has a brain (unlike me) examine my work, I am always graced with grammatical mistakes, awkward sentence structures, mediocre or misused vocabulary, and of course — tenses used in god-knows-where.

I never stop, strangely, and I still grind through the torturous language concepts, even though English always acts like a slave master, smiling at me while whipping my bottom.

Perhaps I’m masochistic — I don’t talk back, even when the shame and pain are sharp enough to break my porcelain heart.

But as you can see, “not avoiding” doesn’t mean “not hurting.” And how could I not be weary of seeing small bones picked out of my proudly made dishes?

I have an SOP — snatch the plate back, throw it in the bin, take off the apron, shrug, and say “Yeah, I know it’s trash. Don’t eat it, I’ll get lost.”

And no, it’s not avoiding — it’s a strategic retreat.

Before I picked up the apron from the ground again, I stumbled upon a converter in my brain —

it was named the “Worsifier.”

And here’s the mechanism:

“This word is misused” means “you’re barbaric.”

“That’s a wrong tense” implies “you have Alzheimer’s.”

“The grammar is awkward” equals “Cringe. You’re cringe. You own the word. You’re the overlord of it.”

It has traumatized me.

Now, the more I see English characters, the more I feel like they are just instant noodles in various shapes.

So, early Westerners only learned to write beautiful instant noodles on parchment, pronounce those fancy shapes and call them art and life.

I find it absurd, but then — normalcy has never been a trademark of English.

Rules are meant to be broken with a handful of exceptional cases, and you have to break the rules under another set of rules.

I hate this instant noodles monopoly.

A ‘how to eat instant noodle’ course could cost hundreds of dollars — and it is essential.

Every company needs us to take this chemical as a base requirement.

Though, I could understand — Britain has never produced edible food in her rich history, and she is always eager to show the world just that.

No matter who you are, you still have to swallow this abomination — just because those who were in high hats, monocles and fine suits left their footprints all over the world.

Nevertheless, even I am hating English with every fiber of my being, I can’t truly give it up.

Not because of obligation, but because of the wild energy it gives to a rant, the Victorian love letters, the butter-smooth Received Pronunciation, and fantasy lands inspired from its culture.

And most importantly — just because I hate English,

I hate losing to it more.

PS.

Gosh… It’s been three months since I started writing on this account.

Anyway, I wrote this agglutination of words (I don’t want to call it prose — it just isn’t) on June 17, which was roughly a month ago, because I was so upset with my writing.

My English used to be quite presentable back in high school. But now — probably because God hates me — my words have devolved into something a child might sneeze out.

Honestly? I want to inhale the entire Oxford Dictionary and bury myself with Shakespeare for a year as a form of ⭐edification⭐. (This word is written with Montblanc)

To my Luna,

Once, under a brighter night sky that strewn a thousand glistening stars, I wandered into a serene grassland.

There, beneath the ancient oak, sat a maiden. The starlight filtered through the leaves on her wavy, amber hair, dancing in the gentle breeze, drawing me to her.

I approached quietly, careful not to disturb her thought. Finally, I was close enough to see her hazel eyes, wide and pure, reflecting the crescent moon — my only companion that visited me not more than once a month.

For I had never seen any person in the vicinity, I asked to know her, and with a faint smile soft as the moonlight, she whispered, ‘Luna.’

‘Silence of the night had brought me solace,’ she said. Then, I knew a kindred soul was not far.

You pointed at a faraway glimmer, admiring that the North Star had kept us company for ages.

I shook my head — because I had never seen it, and never had it gave me the chance of a glimpse until the night we sat together.

You noticed my disbelief and chuckled, said since it was rather dim, and too far away from our lands.

But you were wrong, for I found the North Star — mine — was not up in heaven, but within arm’s reach, outshining the sky.

I did not tell you. I did not wish to break the peace you found, so I left.

I must continue my journey, but may the ancient oak be my vow to you — I will protect my North Star.

Under the watch of the moon,

Caelum

PS.

I mean, I believe for at least once has every man had an unrealistic dream of knighthood, and I was no exception.

We surely want “An Encounter Under the Moon” than “I Met Her on Instagram,” don’t we? But fantasy is fantasy, and no matter how beautiful it is, it’s only in our head. Though, I do hope I can find my Her, even if it’s just in a dream (or a daydream). Well, who knows?

I’ve bought a fountain pen recently and I am certain that it will haunt me if I don’t write something nice with it. So, I came up with this love letter from a knight.

Thank you for reading! Punch me in the face with your feedback — I demand it! See ya :)

I was walking down a narrow lane, navigating through the thick, white snow.

The end of the lane was a familiar corner — it led to a wide street that once echoed with my footsteps.

At the moment I reached the end of the lane, the vistas flashed in my head — green, majestic oak trees on the sideway, looming over the figures with their tall shadow like a strict and caring father looking after his children — A jogger with her pink tank-top and a pair of black shorts; a teenager in a black hoodie with a white headphones; an old man, maybe in his 60s walking his dog; and the countless people heading in different directions.

“Ugh!”

As I turned at the corner, a burst of snow immediately lashed agsinst my face, erasing the last bit of my memory to the city’s prosperity, emptying my brain with nothing but pure whiteness.

I could barely open my eyes.

Yet I was confident that I saw no joggers, no teenagers, no elders… and no man.

The trees had disappeared, not even a shadow could remain.

Vaguely, I could see a silhouette of some remnant weeds on a dent from far.

Without a second thought, I dragged myself forward, hoping for a companion.

A few strands of withered, yellow grass were clinging weakly on the frozen soil. They bent downward sharply at the middle part; Seemed brittle enough to be crushed by a delicate touch.

“I should’ve expected this when the siren sounded.”

I slowly raised my head — skyscrapers soared up, but their bodies were torn mercilessly, the tops were swallowed by the suffocating clouds, and the faraway street slowly dissolved into the thick, ominous fog.

“I… don’t recognize this…”

That was when my legs suddenly gave out, as if I was pressed by an unseen hand.

I fell, knees sinking into the snow.

“The New One now orders my submission… ”

A dry, powerless chuckle escaped me — but the sharp wind found no humor in it.

Whooshing relentlessly, tearing my skin, freezing my tears.

My hair whipped backward as if it was desperate to flee, to run away — but it couldn’t, neither could I.

“And the Old One has forsaken us…”

Soon, I will be swallowed by the whiteness — a punishment of daring to wander in a deserted world.

“Take me…” I whispered, “I’ll close my eyes — and wait.”

PS.

I’ve tried my best to incorporate loneliness, despair, and the anguish of being betrayed by one’s belief into the apocalyptic scene. If a vivid image was formed in your head, then I have succeeded.

Thank you for reading! Punch me in the face with your feedback — I demand it! See ya :)