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The Fuel

The fame goes to

I was never meant to be famous. I knew since I was born. But, I was meant to write, and whether I will publish or not, it was never up to me in the first place. It has always been a number of things at play in the universe and at times, I felt at odds with the whole world. I wrote since I could create words and composed sentences, for pure healing. I felt it was the sentence of my life and I may die never becoming a published author, but the process may lead me to a place of health and solace. 


The fame never belonged to me in the first place. It has always been for those who led me to a place of comfort and compassion. The un-named Indonesian lad who offered me Kopi Lewak at the compound at the base of Mt. Bromo in Java, who offered counsel and told me that the whole world was full of assault victims, and I should never be afraid of life. The stranger who told me that I will one day reach my destiny, in whatever form it may be, near the telescope at the wall overlooking Mt. Bromo, where God spoke to me and told me, "Enjoy your sunrise, as if it is your last."


The fame goes to the Ethiopian man who asked me for some sustenance in the middle of Central London, as I handed him a Larabar and he replied, "You deserve a Pulitzer prize," without knowing if I could even write. To the Briton in his tank top who kindly obliged to my request to share a table at a crowded Starbucks, so I could write out my busy thoughts before I dropped into sobs from symptoms of PTSD and Depression. To the Mayan little girl in Mexico, who negotiated on a fair price and convinced me to buy a pair of handkerchiefs to bring to America. Her skills touched my heart. They deserved all of the fame in the world, although the world was never kind to the random strangers who didn't fit into a mold of a model or a billionaire.


The fame goes to my friend Kristin who showed me a rainbow patterned men's brief boxers with a goofy picture of an Afro-Puffed man near the groin area. Her comedy came in a blonde bombshell full of suprises. To Sarah Schantz, the author of FIG, whose craft inspired me to become raw and honest leading me to a steady flow of juices of creativity. The fame belonged to the volunteers at homeless shelters all across the world whose self-less devotion meant confidence in humanity. 


There were plenty of famous people worldwide, if we could look closer, that I never asked for fame, instead I lived it because I was already the apple of God's eyes. That even if I were to die in my sleep, I would die happy, knowing I wrote for 15 minutes in full honesty of my heart. Never regretting the path of how I got here, because it was not entirely my own doing, but through good works and faith, I was led to a peaceful life. 


The fame goes to the millions of artists, carvers, painters, illustrators and designers who worked behind the scenes, enjoying their art unfold without the barrage of media and publicity. Their earnest patience and humility nobled the process of artistic value. Their love without the selfish desire for attention created authenticities grounded to the soil, for their blood, sweat and tears. 


The fame goes to the legions of victims of racism, including myself of the assaults, all across the universe. We deserve a voice to be heard, for every sorrow we endured and every heartaches we overcame. Writing it all down as investigative reports to God.


And so, I will write, not for fame or glory, but to heal and for all fairness in life that I deserved; because of the scars upon my back, my heart, my mind and my soul. It was my destiny.


Novels, short stories, verse or poetry, psalms, lyrics (yes, I sing), or chicken scratch, I was meant to.


The fame goes, to you, O dear reader. 


I love you. Just write. 

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