Walls on my Existence
Now a days
my life is so
intertwined with
others on whose
lives I depend on
for my existence. Sometimes,
it’s hard to swallow
the bitterness of being
on the receiving end,
knowing I’m still
too helpless
to afford pride today.
I just hope for the time
I can stand on my own and
live my life without a care
on what others might
think or say.
THE MOUNTAIN VIEW
There was a majestic mountain at the edge of the barrio. The slopes were steep and rugged. Not many climbed it. Not even the villagers nearby. Most visited only the foot of the mountain to gather firewood. An old man, was one of the few who climbed to the top. He often described the view. The mountain was in the middle of a plain. He would tell about the view of the rice field and vegetation.
One day, four farmers decided to hike to the very top of the mountain.. They were curious to see the much-vaunted view. So nearly in the morning they began the ascent.
The first farmer happened to wear relatively new shoes. They were tight and comfortable. So throughout the climb, he kept complaining about his feet that hurt. He missed the view.
The second farmer saw the gathering clouds, he kept worrying that rain may come. As the clouds darkened, he alerted others for the coming downpour. He looked around for possible places for shelter against the rain. He missed the view.
The third farmer saw many things and wanted to possess them. He saw a big tree and wanted it for his furniture. “I wish I could cut the tree and bring it home.” he said. A wild deer dashed into the bush. And he wanted it for a pet or a meat for his food.. He missed the view.
The fourth farmer did not complain about his shoes. He was not bothered by any impending downpour. He was not greedy for the material things along the way. He alone saw the view from the mountain.
Why I Write
People ask me why I write. And the most common answer I give them is because I want to.
But the real reason is because I have to. There is something inside me so powerful that it forces me to write. Someone said that stories are ghosts. They come out from nowhere and haunt you. To what purpose, only the ghost can tell. Sometimes it is just there to amuse you, others to help you realize your fate. But always, always they enrich our lives a little at a time. And I believe him, whoever he is, because I feel these ghosts whispering to my ear everyday. They scream for their stories to be told and they haunt me until I have written them, all these places, characters, situations and ideas, down onto paper. It doesn’t matter if it comes out as a story, poem, a song or an essay, as long as their soul is there.
I suppose being a loner and a bit nerdy as a kid helped me develop my imagination. Out of necessity, sprouted tales of love and romance with my Care bears and my dog Honey. I acted out scenes of Jack and the Beanstalk to my beloved dog as if I was rehearsing for a play. I made up dozens of stories from playing pretend when I was alone in my room, often fantasizing about other worlds or my own “Indiana Jones” adventure.
My dreams and nightmares also played an important role in my writing. Fears and aspirations toyed inside my head. The supernatural, the dark forces and the curious leave me shaking in fright but inspired to write stories just like them. Although, some dreams are meant to be forgotten.
Still, that doesn’t mean I’m a great writer. I may have the perfect storyline or a subject for a poem but unless I have the right words to describe what these ideas are, my pieces are no good. What is a singer without a good voice? What is a writer who cannot articulate well? So I read and read. I try to find ways to make my craft better by developing my own writing style. I look for friends who can support me when I need encouragement and search for opportunities to make my writing voice heard.
I guess this is my feeble attempt at immortality. If I could touch just one person with my works, then I could say that my stay in this world is not a waste. God didn’t make a mistake in creating me after all.
So until I realize my dream, you’ll find me here, sitting in front of the computer, punching key after key and writing the soul of my latest ghost.
