{Day 7} I Feel Like My Lungs Are Going to Explode Into Feathers & Words Tonight

[x]

I’ve been using my words and my inner desires to figure out the person that I am right now and to create the person that I want to be in the near future. It’s not that those two personas are quite different. I think it’s like my current persona is in the puberty age, looking up to my future persona as her full-grown adult superhero.

I have passed the baby and the toddler stages. Those were the days when I learned how to write, how to blog, discovered other writers, appreciate and even envied a few, both living and dead. When I try to recall how I feel about my kiddie selves, I like my innocent scribbles during those times. I’ve written for myself, keeping all my thoughts a secret — both offline (notebooks, journals, password-protected Microsoft Word) and online (anonymous blogger).

That went on until I craved for recognition and interaction with regards to my writing. I wanted to be read. I wanted to be heard. I wanted people to slice my chest and take a look at what’s inside. I wanted to induce a reaction — mostly affirmation from them. So, I decided to come out in the blogosphere.

I took the first step.

I made a blogging mess obviously, writing about this and that, but consciously worrying of what people have to say about me or my thoughts. So I kind of filtered them. My high school honest, ethereal, dramatic writing faded on my current ink. I questioned myself on how evil of me to let that precious little writing pixie go.

Well, it’s just not me to blame. I took up engineering, trying to awaken the “smart and technical” side of my person because I always thought that I could be a better person if I could contribute like how the left-brainers of society do. I ended up being a test engineer, facing integrated circuits for breakfast, talking to them on coded words, on a level that they understand me.

I stayed in my company, you bet, but I couldn’t stop my fingers from hitting on the keyboard in an attempt to save my writer alter ego. So, after a brain-draining day, I would always write on my blog until I discovered that I could get paid for my writing. It was a prestige that I am not willing to keep to myself. I read more blogs, fished for more employees while keeping my day job. My personal blog transitioned into a Lifestyle and Finance blog. And I don’t know where to place

I have been writing, but I’ve been writing for somebody else. I longed for happy reliefs after a tiring heartfelt entry. I longed for writing for myself. I longed for writing and reading and reading more and writing more about what I have just read and reading more about writing. I longed for this kind of life.

I dream of this life while writing pieces (ie, e-mails) that I am not excited about. Okay, yeah, I often get lost in my thoughts in the office because I can no longer wait for the day when I can say that I’m giving up writing codes for writing on blogs. Repression breeds

Today may not be the day when my adult writer self should be awakened, but I can feel its faint breathing oh so close.

Caprice by Santorini

Charleston Farmhouse Door

Hopping and skipping on uneven cobblestone paths

on this warm sunny day.

Watching the taverns dot the caldera of the island,

I gasp in the air filled with garlicky and organoic aroma.

Then I stopped for a moment to wrinkle my nose

for I wouldn’t want to eat lunch just yet,

I scraped off that layer of smell and inhaled the wet, salty taste of the sea,

and chuckled, thinking, Only dogs smell in layers, not humans.

Not sure as to where my feet would take me, I recollected my early morning’s memories

of the latest beach hopping that I had.

The last beach has the finest sand my feet has ever buried themselves in, and

I jumped and built sand castles only for the waves to wash them away.

I could always build another for I am a princess, 

my kingdom follows me wherever I go. 

That beach has become my favorite. Who would have thought dreadful things breed beauty?

Like what the volcanic eruptions did to my known sanctuary.

I opened my bag and brought out polaroids of the beaches that I’ve been to

and I sat, my flowing skirt ballooned halfway through my action.

As my floral bottom fell flat on the uneven pathway, I laid each polaroid carefully.

Red. Black. White. Cream. The colors were varied and each photo palette holds its own grace.

My nana used to tell me that the colors of the beaches on our place

depended on which geological layer is exposed.

A heart tug is what I felt for the black beach; I think it’s wickedly sophisticated,

however, I disliked its ability to absorb the majority of the heat that hits it.

I looked up and an appalling chagrin replaced my earlier carefree doldrums,

the black dead lock remains as it is, while its chromatic wall paint happily danced.

*Written for the Magpie Tales

Excerpt From Journal Entry 06/03/12

I need to shake whatever I am feeling off. It must’ve been the tequila shots from last night. Or the Bacardi shots that followed the tequila shower. But, most certainly it can’t be because of the San Miguel Light that capped the dancing. I can accredit it to the lack of sleep or rather to the one-hour nap which replaced what supposed to be a twelve hour sleep marathon. Caffeine may be to blame too.

Sipped Vanilla Coffee in McDo after logging in to the office. Yeah, my breakfast out was practically a paid activity. Or it could be the working on a Sunday fever. Or… it could be those reckless nights that I have with my untamed side, my imprudent behavior in front of the people that I barely know. Or the thought that once again proves that I am having a tremendously difficult time to stay, err, faithful. Ever since he broke me, I am not totally faithful to him again.