Monday, April 18

Reading, Writing, and a Love Letter

Reading: Is there anything that that quote left unsaid? This is why I love reading.

Writing: All writers read. How amazing it would be if I could write something that would make my reader feel the things it described. It would be the ultimate satisfaction.

A Love Letter: Because of the aforementioned, the book I'm currently reading crossed my mind. The love letter below, I feel, is one I could have written myself. Or anyone, really. Who doesn't fall in love that way? The writer took the words from my mind. To find a writer like that is kismet. But destiny has a funny way of going about its business. I would never have bought that book if Fully Booked didn't hold a sale. I almost didn't buy it because of its title. And because it cost 50 pesos. But I said, what the heck. It's only 50 pesos, you miser. And I NEEDED to read a book. 

This love letter. This is me, in love.

Dear Goat,
How does one fall in love? Do you trip? Do you stumble, lose your balance and drop to the sidewalk, graze your knee, graze your heart? Do you crash to the stony ground? Is there a precipice, from which you float, over the edge, forever?
I know I’m in love when I see, I know when I long to see you. Not a muscle has moved. Leaves hang unruffled by any breeze. The air is still. I have fallen in love without taking a step. When did this happen? I haven’t even blinked.
I’m on fire. Is that too banal for you? It’s not, you know. You’ll see. It’s what happens. It’s what matters. I’m on fire.
I no longer eat. I forget to eat. Food looks silly to me, irrelevant. If I even notice it. But I notice nothing. My thoughts are full and raging, a house full of brothers, related by blood, feuding blood feuds: I’m in love ——Typically stupid choice —— I am, though, I’m racked by love as if love were pain —— Go ahead. Fuck up your life. It’s all wrong and you know it. Wake up. Face it. —— There’s only one face, it’s all I see, awake or asleep.
I threw the book out the window last night. I tried to forget. You are all wrong for me, I know, but I no longer care for my thoughts unless they’re thoughts of you. When I’m close to you, I feel you hair brush my cheek when it does not. I look away from you, sometimes. Then I look back.
When I tie my shoes, when I peel an orange, when I drive my car, when I lie each night without you, I remain,
As ever,
— The Love Letter, by Cathleen Schine.

Friday, April 8

What it takes to skip a heartbeat

She stands among the crowd. Theyre either listening intently or half-listening to the man on stage, talking about global warming, natural disasters, tsunamis, that kind of stuff. Her classmates are horrified. She feels someone move in beside the pillar she was leaning against. She pretends to look around, spots his friends, and finally lays her eyes on him, standing a little ways to her left. She wonders what powers would urge him to stand so close to her, causing her heart to palpitate with his strong presence. She keeps on standing in the same spot, trying to keep a relaxed pose while straining to understand the speaker's lecture on disaster management. Futile. She could smell his scent -- a hint of aftershave. She could even feel his eyes on her. Could it be --


Everywhere he went, he would see her. An unusual girl. But their classmates respected her. She was always the type to get things done excellently. She was someone they could depend on with school affairs. Who knows what possessed them to vote him as the VP to her President. The more he thought of that, the more he thought that if it wasn't for his stint as vice president, he wouldn't have known about her love for books, for Bruce Willis movies, and wrestling. He couldn't have spent so much time with her to notice that she scratches her elbow everytime she lied, or how bright and pretty her eyes looked when she was intently discussing plans for the school fair. If it wasn't for all that time, he wouldn't have fallen in love with her.

He would have to explain later to their homeroom teacher why he was late for the assembly. It was convenient, however, because he was placed in the back, near to where she was standing. He sees her surreptitiously scanning the auditorium, but she doesn't seem to notice him. She was nearsighted where things really mattered. At least he was able to admire her from this angle. The light did great things to her eyes (lately he was obsessed with how light touched her face), which did strange things to his stomach. Here comes the butterflies. 

What was the guy at the podium talking about? Something about tectonic plates. It didn't matter. He's too busy thinking up a plan to make her a part of his world.


-- nah, he can't be looking at her. It's her with her assumptions again. Why must he be so cute? Why must he bear himself with such grace not commonly found in boys his age? How can he be manly and boyish at the same time? He had no idea how he can be so influential with their classmates. A natural peacemaker. He should be a diplomat. Not only that, but she noticed a kind of brilliance in him that he doesn't care to show. She had a funny feeling he could easily surpass her.

Was it, or was it not, incredibly hot in that gym? She drags her friend toward the lavatory to get some fresh air. She passes him, once again smelling that aftershave. But there's something gnawing at her. They say that if you catch a guy turn his head to look at you while you're passing by, it means he likes you. What the heck? Might as well find out.


He could smell the scent of raspberries as she passes him on her way to the girls' room. His eyes follow her. He was unaware that he had half-turned his back at the podium, and was all but ogling her. Her back is turned towards him, but she suddenly turns her head. 


Their eyes meet. 
A heartbeat. 
Then a skip.

April 4, 2011

I think  love stories are the easiest to write, don't you? Or maybe girls just have a huge reservoir of fantasies. OR maybe it's just me.

This story got quite of hand. I thought it would take only a few paragraphs, but I guess I really was trying to build a novel (?). Now that I think about it, I shou;dn't have tried to supress it. I'm uncomfortable writing love stories (though I have written a few), when all I have ever experienced were unrequited loves. I wonder if the one who read this thinks its as cheesy as I think it is. But then again, love stories have a certain level of cheesiness.

Thursday, April 7

I'm chasing words but they have a mile-wide head start.

I may not dream of writing the greatest novel, but I dream that people will one day quote my words. Fat chance if no one's reading them. Nonetheless, I'll continue to write.

This poster has really struck me. Especially number 10. I remember listening to a talk that a teacher once gave to us student journalists. After giving us an assignment of writing about anything, she found out that students tried to write about politics, education, the state of the nation. But not one chose a simple subject. Why don't you start writing about the grass? She said. If you can't write about a simple thing as that, you won't be able to  go far as a feature writer.

I was news writer and it had nothing to do with me. But I still remember what she said.

I'm trying to write as much as I can. They're starting to look like the one written before them. That's why I need to practice. But what am I doing? Writing about needing to write. Pathetic, I am.

Not only that but I haven't read much lately. I buy books that I don't take the time to read.  These past few days I've been restless. I feel like I'm chasing things. I'm chasing words. I'm chasing light. I'm running after something I have no chance of catching. But I'm still running.

I wonder if I'm really the one who's running after something, or I'm the one who's running away.

Maybe tomorrow I'll post the "love story" I wrote two days ago. Till then, good night.