my love for writing began when i was at my elementary years. i used to write the scripts for our role playing activities, i used to contribute poems to yearbooks, i used to write stuffs simply because im bored and it’s what my mind told me to do, nothing serious then. but when i reached the age of 13 (i guess), that was when i began to discover the meaning of writing; that is it not only an activity to kill my boredom, but an outlet to express what is inside of me. that was the time when my world was invaded by my poetic skills, each day i tend to write tons of them. and as the years passed i ventured into short stories, fiction to be exact. i write with words from my genre of course – Gothic Emotional – because it’s where my heart is, not because i think it’s cool. a couple of times i tried to write novels, but unfortunately up to now im still not successful in that. well, perhaps it’ll just come in the right time.
when i had my son at the age of 16, i slowly manipulated my heart. i told myself that i should avoid writing for it will not bring me anywhere, thus, i should just focus on my son. and that’s exactly what i did, i stopped. all the poetic lines straight from my heart, those abstract stories, they all got lost; it was all my fault, i made myself drift away from my most beloved craft. no words can explain how hard that was. with all these riot shit in my world writing became my outlet to express every pain, every hatred, every emotion, and suddenly i cannot do it anymore and that was all because of my silly rule. the depression (though im not sure if it was depression) i was experiencing years ago that was often because of me being misunderstood often and having less friends, it was shown in my writing crafts. i never felt misunderstood when im with my pen and paper, and that certain depression suddenly doubled up when i never held onto my pen anymore. trying to stop myself from writing was one of my biggest mistake ever.
it was approximately 2 years of no writing for me. a couple of times i tried to, i also opened myself to blogging, and dealing with MS Word, but after a couple of minutes only i will end up telling myself “why would i even write when i will not get anything from it?” and the next thing i know, the new MS Word document was deleted and my blog was closed and there was no pen and paper nearby. that was one of the most worthless questions i have ever asked.
as the time goes by, i slowly realized the deeper sense of writing for me. i don’t write only to express my emotions, i don’t write only to kill boredom, i don’t write only to be an geek in English and Filipino language… i write because it is my craft, my passion, my life, my breathe. i write because for me it’s an entrance to another world, a world where freedom is never an issue, where drowning in words is the most fun feeling ever. i write because it is my outlet to show who i am – and i am a writer. i may not have a blog filled with comments from my precious readers, i may not have any books published, i may not have authored any memoirs, i may not be a reader myself, i may not be writing for a long time unlike others out there, but i can confidently say that im a writer. books and blogs are not the basis, it that certain feeling a person gets when he writes, that satisfaction after a poem or story is finished, and those are what one should consider before calling himself a writer.
after 2 long years of playing deaf from my heart’s calling, this is the first writing piece i have ever done. it may be short, it may not free from grammatical and typo errors, but surely it is free from “fakeness”.
(originally composed: December 25, 2011)