I’m in love with writing.
I mean, I would not waste my time adding another kilo in my eyebags doing nothing. I would not be a night owl loving the whole blanket of epic silence enveloping my world, making way for my ideas to “flashflood” from my nervous ink to my virgin paper again. Yellow paper, I mean.
So, my yellow paper is a whole mess of unripened ideas all the time. I would have a heart attack if I would find any of them missing. I know them not by their names, but I just know and recognize each of them just like how a mother does it with her double dozen children. Oh yes, there they are! The one has hidden itself in the pocket of my jeans. The other one in the drawer. The other one in the sink?
Meanwhile, I have prepared for the coming battle. I have already bought tons of pen and yellow papers. So when the Gen. Moon commands its army of stars to go to their designated positions every night, I would just fire them with my ink– it never runs out of bullets as long as I live here on earth.
It’s because I am a writer- with or without pen or paper.
I would think of alternatives, of course.
I would grab my cellphone in the middle of the night and save my ideas on drafts.
Sometimes, I would have a quick voice record, especially when I am sleepy because of too much exhaustion from studies.
What’s so special about writing?
Well, I write the simplicity and complexity of things. I write what I see. I write what I hear. I write what I think. I write what I think I cannot think. I write what I think I cannot solve. I write what I think is right or wrong. I write the mundanity and dullness of life. Or sometimes, I write the opposite of it. I write dumb, senseless and foolish things– poetry is one of them. I write the possibility that maybe they should not be considered as so.
I write what I want to paint. I write the rhymes which I composed in my head awhile ago. Or the lyrics. Or a quote.
I write the past, present, future and make a mixture experiment using these three ingredients. I write about how I wonder what it would look like if I mix the three.
I write about writing. I write about waiting. I write about him.
I write the pain and the bitterness that I feel, or the pain and the bitterness my twinny feels. Well, you get it; we’re twins. The difference is, I was a broken-hearted hopeless romantic in the process of God’s healing.
I write the nostalgia my grandmother feels towards her little sister who seemed to have forgotten her. Or the confusion and loneliness my high school best friend feels. Or the exasperation of my uncle.The joy my mother. Or the exhaustion and hopelessness a young beggar feels as he wander along the lost streets. Or the contemplating pregnant lady sitting in a bench. Or the frustration and tiredness a jeepney driver or a market vendor feels under the tyrant sun.
I write about Jesus. I write how great He truly is. I write His available mercy and grace for everybody. I write His love for us. I write about hope, faith, and love.
Why does a writer like me love writing so much?
It is because I write about the world. I write about my world. I write about the world of my dreams.
I write who I am.
I write my soul.
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- Prayer - March 21, 2015
- Mga Tanong na Mahirap Sagutin - December 16, 2014
- My Father’s Towel - July 29, 2014
- “Tuesdays with Morrie” - July 22, 2014
- 20 and Vulnerable - March 21, 2014
- For Richer, For Poorer - March 20, 2014
- Of Hopes and Infatuation - January 16, 2014
- Believe - December 31, 2013