Where the spirit does not work with the hand there is no art.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Untitled

In this world of superficialties,
of deception and doubt,
of danger and of fear
of all that lurks about,
I found in you a safe place.

You eased all pains
and opened my eyes
showing me that there was nothing to fear;
not when you were there.
You were my courage
and strength to face the world.
It didn't matter that I was unarmed,
not when you were there.
You taught me the world's greatest secrets
and we listened quietly to life's song
but the silence never bothered me..
not when you were there.

In the still of the night
when darkness is at its peak
I'll dream my worries away
and go home to my safe place

You will always be home.

I couldn't sleep tonight, so like I usually do when insomnia gets to me, I rummaged through my things to find something worth digging up again or some forgotten piece of random thing. (there are endless pieces of random things in my room). Tonight I took out one of my writing/doodle notebooks. Not a particularly old one, just one that I don't so often use anymore. I found this written 4 months ago. Of course, it aint a nobel prize worthy piece, but I do remember specifically what I was feeling when I wrote it. I wasn't trying to be all poetic or anything,I know I'm not profound enough to be a good writer.
I used to like writing a lot more when I was younger, but as I got older I guess I just stopped. I stopped the stories, the poems, the very short prose, and i'm still not exactly sure why. I guess things just got more complicated as we grew up and I didn't find the time and the right enough imagination to continue. I once started a story when I was 13, and I could only continue it every summer when there was no school. It went on and on until I was about 15 or 16, and then I stopped because I couldn't remember how it was going to end. I didn't wanna change the ending because the story was based on a dream I had, and I just invented the rest to come up with a whole story while still retaining the main point from the dream. As time went on, I forgot the whole thing altogether, and can't even find the notebook where I wrote it anymore. I've a strange feeling I threw it away when our room was being renovated. After that I just kinda wrote whenever it was required or when I really felt like it. My journals were never up to date anymore, and I remember stopping to write in mid-kwento due to whatever distraction. Hence, the decline of my writing skills, had there even been any. If not for my blog, I still probably wouldn't be writing. It's not that I don't like to write anymore, it's just that i'm kind of intimidated by it for some reason.

Anyways, this in fact wasn't even really meant to be a poem. It's just...a release of words. of emotions. Here's something else I got from the same notebook:

Nothing

Am I, are we really existent?
Or do we ever prowl in endless seas?
Am I really here right now, inscribing?
Or am I but a fragment of the mind?

The wry road of endless, eternal life
Is but an extinct yet profound dream
I truly do not exist in the world
I am but a fruit of the will to live

The will to live allows us to go on
It allows us to strive on and on
It gives us meaning, significance
Simply why we are never nothing.

Would you believe me if I told you a 5th grader wrote that? Well, one did. Now at 17, his simple written down thoughts influence, entertain, and inspire and make me wish that I still had the same fondness for writing that I had had before. I am pleased to say that I personally know the author and hopefully, we remain to be good friends.

~Whether you decide to pursue writing as a career or not, you know there will always be people listening. And on the day of publishing of your first bestseller, you'll notice a familiar-looking little girl all anxious and excited, waiting first in line.~

tricia grew up at 2:09 AM

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