Years Apart

The  tragedy of us is not kilometers.

It is hours, minutes, seconds ticking by.

Yes,we have ticked away all those years of what could have been – had we not grown apart.

If it were only kilometers, I would have run towards you – whenever I miss you.

If it were only the boundaries of zip codes, I would have leveraged all the fiber glass cables to connect.

But it’s you and me against the barriers of moments uncaptured and lost –

an incalculable distance, I’ll never be able to bridge.



Transitionary Post – Avoiding the Writer’s Tragedy.

Hi there!

Say hello to an aspiring writer here who just created her first entry to her first “formal” blog supposedly (whatever is meant by formal).

To tell the truth, she’s been struggling to form her thoughts for months now about what she’s going to share to the rest of the world and whether she’ll be able to attract any audiences. With all the different voices out there vying to be heard, who’s got ears for another one?

But then she knows that the voice simply speaks what the heart beats about. When one possesses the heart of a writer, whatever fills it at the moment must gush out – whether anyone cares to listen or not. It is innate in her bloodstream to create – that her fingers will ¬†itch to lay down the words she couldn’t rid herself of. Like what a portrait is to a painter or a cake is to the baker.

And yes, this post is the outcome of the itchiness of the fingers of the aforementioned writer.

I believe that the most unfortunate thing in the world for a writer is not that no one has ever read her but that, she, in her most fruitful state as an artist, never dared to sow the words that would give her the best sense of fulfillment she can ever have as a human being. It’s because she was created as such and was blessed by the prowess to archive her thoughts, emotions, ideas, and experiences through beautifully crafted paragraphs.

I appreciate tragedies in stories. I appreciate them for the fact that they serve as warning signals that there is a kind of ending we ought, and we can avoid. As a writer, to deprive myself of that very thing that gives me my purpose and unique identity in this world is tragic. Simply tragic.

Next in line: Meet the still aspiring Writer.