Letters and Words

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Temporary lang. My apologies kung walang konek hahaha.

I wrote this minutes after I sent him my message.

“Why do you waste your time writing? Don’t you have MORE important things to do?” He had put emphasis on more.

“What a rather insensitive question”, I thought. Truth be told, I almost threw a fit. I am surprised he had the temerity to ask, that he sees writing as a good-for-nothing avocation, a flavor of the month, a thorn in the bush. Not wanting to start a fight and put our relationship in jeopardy, I composed myself and waited a few minutes before I give him my answer. 

“I write to keep my sanity at bay,” I responded plainly. I initially thought of stopping here since people only understand from their level of perception, but to do so will not render justice to writing. I had to present corroborating “evidences”.

So to you sir:

I write because it is something I am good at. And as people like you often find yourselves lost in flashbacks and extended metaphors for interminable hours, I could easily write a review of  the most intricate American novel. And maybe it isn’t the best, but who cares? 

I write because it allows me to see things in a different light, to see things beyond the superficial— the dark blue sky as  it slowly gets painted with the faintest tinge of orange and yellow, the stillness of the world at dawn, the humming of the little birds as they sing a song ever so lovely, or the fragrance of a blooming flower on a Sunday morning. 

I write because it excites my senses, it makes me feel alive. That after an exhausting chaotic day, I get to be human again. It gives me an opportunity to pause for awhile and unload my pent up frustrations over things that refuse to go my way.

I write because it takes me to all sorts of places that exist only in the minds of those who wander. Sadly though, those are the places you will never land.

I write because just a like somber prisoner imprisoned in a  sunless, forgotten oubliette, writing frees me from the prison that is my own anger and resentment.

Lastly, I write for the sheer beauty of it. 

And so what if the only thing I get out of this is a one-bedroom wooden house with a thatched roof made of palm frond? Still I know I’d be happy.

And so what if I don’t get anything at all? Still I know I’d be happy.

And maybe writing will not earn me a place in heaven, but at least I know that even if I die, I will remain,

Free.

Indefinite.

Interminable.

Immortal.

To all my friends who might be reading this, if you read this past 9AM, please don’t bother calling me or texting me. I might be asleep pa e. I finished this article past 4AM na. I really to get a life na, ‘no? Sheez! And just in case you ask, I am not trading my steth for a virtual pen. Contrary to the popular belief, you are allowed to love two things or more at once. Hahaha. And oh, did I mention that this conversation took place in my mind only? Yup, it did. 

 

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Letters and Words

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