There really are times when I can not push myself to writing. It seems to me that inspirations and motivations are hiding away from me. I am allergic to pen and paper or I can sit in front of my computer without even bothering to type on the keyboard.

No thoughts, all blank. But I want to write. I just can’t find the right words or topic or compose my mind.

Basically, what makes me write is “time.” It’s not everyday that good thoughts inspire me to push the pen but when those thoughts strike me, I really need to sit down and give time.

Thoughts are fleeting. That’s what I learned in high school from my English teacher. When you thought of something write it before it’s gone. But then, I usually neglect those thoughts and just let them fly away with the wind.

I also write when I am bored. That is when I have all the time. Since I am bored and has nothing to do, I start scribbling and write everything that I can think of. Sometimes, it is boredom that writes me a poem or a song.

Negative emotions also pushes my pen. Some say what writers should not write at the height of their emotions. But for me, it is one of the greatest way to handle them. I write everything I feel until they are gone or at least I am eased of them.

But time is… I really have to have the time to write.

Many ancient and classical writers have sought the aid of the muses but I think the muses if they are really existing, they are just inside me waiting to be awaken.

The following poems were written after I have received a “not worth publishing” remark from an editor after just following her plot. It was very difficult for me to accept it especially that she did not talk to me personally. After years of professional writing, this is the first time that I received such comment and I do not think I deserve that.

stop writing

the letters curled up as I set my pen on the blank paper
the phrases were coming together to compose a complex sentence
my thoughts flows to form the river bed of the story
the plot was set but there was no coherence

the words were eventually swept by the deletion marks
the sentences were crossed out and the phrases faded
my mind became turbulent and composition was not even possible
so I put down the pen and stopped writing

it was useless
it was not worth publishing
the story is gone
will I start writing again?

A Little More

When you have already composed your thoughts and ready to scribble your pen or type on your keyboard.
When you got a lot of ideas and your mind can contain them so you need to jot them down so not to forget.
When you have a lot of stories and think that they are worth sharing so you write them so many people can read.
When people show appreciation of your work, edit it a little for improvement and give respect to the thoughts you have written.
You are a good writer.

But I am bad.

I got a harsh editor who tells your work has no thought and is not worth publishing.
Almost everything I have written are being revised and deleted.
The thoughts and ideas I have in mind while writing my piece suddenly fade away because they become disconnected.
I can not please my editor with my story and it will be more likely that nobody will ever read it in print.

I am a bad writer.
But writing is not bad so I guess I’ll write a little more.

I started writing when I was in elementary. I had a little green notebook where I kept my first poetry compositions.

“Mommy, read this!” I always exclaimed after finishing one. She would say, let you Papa read it, too. I wasn’t sure if she really read what I have written; but my father would gladly critic my work — sometimes correct my grammar.

Both of them have been very supportive. They brought home so many poetry books from their library. I can’t forget Papa handing me a green pocket book of Edgar Allan Poe’s works. I did not know who the author was, but I know he should have been great. His words were very complicated. At some point, my mom would accompany me to the neighborhood where an English teacher colleague is. “Can I borrow a book from you, those with poems. I will just copy them then bring them back when I am done,” I used to say. I was afraid I’d be embarrassed. Then mommy would explain. I’d be waiting in the receiving room while the two of them look for the books.

I would spend many nights or a whole day copying the poems that sounded good to me. I would sit in front my study table, switch on the reading lamp or open the windows and start to write. I would wait until my middle finger is already callous or my back aching before I’d stop. The obsessive compulsive that I was, I did not want any mistake in spelling or indention. I would not use a correction fluid rather tear the page and write it again.

I kept all those poems in a big notebook. I just kept them; I can’t remember memorizing not one poem. Though, I read and re-read them, carefully learning how they were written. I tried to imitate their styles but I gave up when it didn’t sound good. They were really far better and I was hopeless I can be like them — William Wordsworth, Edgar Allan Poe, Percy Bysshe Shelley, Sir Walter Raleigh, Christopher Marlow and the others.

I dreamt that one day, I can be as prolific as they are, as good as they are. But now, that dream faded; rather it came to me that I can not be like them but I can be me — dreaming of publishing my own books and reading my poems in print. I am just hoping that I can continue my writing, writing in my own style, writing in my own voice, writing in my own eyes; not from anyone from my compilation.

I have already stopped copying and compiling others’ works but have started compiling my own. Though, I still read most of others’ works, buy their books and be amazed with their styles and great minds, I am the writer of my own story and poems now. I am not regretting those times that I copied others’ works; rather I am thankful for their inspiration.

Days after that breakdown, I took a walk to Luneta. Alone.

Luneta has always been a place of refuge for me. It is one of the places where I could dig some childhood memories — times when I was with my family, time when I go there to take pictures in front of Rizal’s monument or have picnic under the trees. Many times, I also went there to meet a group of young people for study.

But that night, all I wanted was to be with myself, with the nature and people I don’t know. The night was just between me and my God. I intently talked to Him, talked to myself. What are you doing to yourself? What’s happening with your dreams?

There weren’t so many people then, it was a fine Wednesday evening. My direction was so uncertain; I wanted a cup of coffee but not a cafe was in the area. I continued to walk and let my feet take me to places. My cellphone was out of battery and I did not know if that was good. People might be worrying about me and  c not contact me; but then, I need not worry. I was the time I had with myself.

I walked around in my office attire and my new haircut. I felt a little better after letting go of my long hair. I look up the sky, which like my burdens, is endless. It was dark and there were no stars; the moon was neither there. There were so many astray cats and dogs, which made me think if I was also astray. It seemed that I was running away from life.

My colleagues in the youth ministry of our church is all that I have. They are close to me and I can tell them what I feel; but since I have created a gap between us, I was already alone. I did not want Jong to be burdened, I was confident that the situation will soon pass and time would heal the pains. I did not have any other people to run to. I did not know where my friends were or if I have friends.  All I had were my thoughts, I was alone.

I sat on one of the benches aiming to clear my thoughts and lessen the burden I was feeling. There was a group of high schoolers in front of me. They were laughing and playing and laughing again and playing. I wonder if I can join them, I missed being at their age when I could still be care free.

I tried to scribble some thoughts in my journal but I just could not continue. I was so drained and I couldn’t think of any sentence to write. Unlike the last time I was there alone, I made a very long sort  creative non-fiction. The silence then was a great inspiration to unleash my creativity. But this time, I could not even complete a sentence.

What seemed to be talking to me was the song played over the loud speakers surrounding the park. Don’t lose your way with each passing day, you’ve come so far don’t throw it away… If we hold on together, I know our dreams will never die… God might have been talking to me to hold on to Him. I did not know how to reflect, I was suddenly empty.

As soon as I walked out of the park’s green lawn, everything seemed to be coming back to me. I wanted to stay but I needed to go. It was a long dark night at kilometer zero.

Mighty was shocked with my reaction. We have been colleagues and friends for years then, we have been in many difficult situations and arguments but it was the first time he saw me crying, shouting and cursing. We were in my bed, he just held me in his arm, did not know what to say or how to help me. He just let me cry.

Edward was talking to me over the phone. He was haggling with me some tasks that should be done before the week ends. We actually had the same arguments of late submission of inputs for the peace camp journal. I have set the deadline early October but the program head did not respond. I kept extending and follow-uping but still the tasks did not worked as planned. Knowing my capacity, I have set my personal deadlines. I need to finish this and that on or before this date. That was my limit.

A week before the peace camp, I quited as the head of the secretariat committee and as member of the whole staff. I knew I wasn’t on the right track anymore and I had no where to go other than to go down. There were misunderstandings, miscommunication and grudges. There was guilt.

I felt the resignation buried me under the ground. It was the first time I quited and cried over a work or an activity for that matter. I have been an organizer with various activities but that did not happen. It may have appeared to the working committee that I was irresponsible but I thought I have done all I can do and had to do. It’s just that, if I haven’t resigned I did not know what would have happened to me and to the program in general. I could not work with the team anymore especially if there were gaps. To keep that “peace” advocacy intact, I chose to withdraw than to cause more harm.

It became to difficult for me to recover. My being a loner did not work. It seemed that I was really lost. There was something in me that tells me go back and apologize for being impulsive, another tells me to stand by my decision and move on, yet another tells me to get lost and lost forever in that arena of my life.

That downfall in my leadership haunted me so much. My thoughts became disoriented. I told myself that there were still a lot of things to be done and I was aware of that, with or without that peace camp. But then, I did not know where and how to start. I was really tired of work. Sometimes I caught myself staring blank.

I needed a talk and more crying but everybody asked me to stop. I think they were not used to seeing me in that state. I have always been strong. Though, I could not accept that my move was a sign of weakness. I knew I was stronger because I stood for what I know would be beneficial for me and for the people around me. Mighty realized how much strength he was deriving from me, but at those days, I just can’t lend him some. Otherwise, will go together to the pit. He needed to manage.

Then, I also realized that without those people around me, I mean those people part of my ministry, I was actually alone. My loner type of personality avoided me to establish friends in the community where I could run to. I don’t even know the tenants from the door adjacent to our apartment.

It was very difficult to recover, I was broken.

I grew up in a home where everything needs to be done the right way at the right time, where things need to be put in their proper place and where you should look for things with your eyes and not with your mouth.

Since I started schooling, my mom posted a schedule at the back of our bedroom’s door. My day was timed from the hour that I need to wake up until the hour of my supposed bed time. All activities like fixing my bed in the morning, watering the plants in the afternoon, doing my assignments, a little of recreation and cleaning my usually messy room had a corresponding time post.

That training I think made me a very deadline-oriented person. Being late is a failure. If I remember, I never passed a school requirement late. Besides, my journalism training caught me even more on deadlines. Being a journalist, deadlines are actually dead lines or your career is dead. You can not get your article on print if you submit it late. I was trained to always work on a tight schedule especially that I had so many commitments aside from school or work.

I was about to turn 20 when I started working with an educational publishing company. I was the youngest in the team of seven writers and two supervisors. I did not opt to work with a mainstream media outfit because of that very tight schedule that might have affected my other commitments.

At the same time, when I started working, I was elected as the national education department head of the youth organization of our church. I also wanted to enroll for a master’s degree but since it seemed that I can not balance my time among the three, I kept my job and my being a department head. Both required a lot of creativity.

Almost all days are full of activities — weekends are devoted to meetings, weeknights other meetings and workshops; and a lot of thinking and planning. Most of the time, I have grown nocturnal, working to the best of my strength. I could stay up all night layouting papers then go to the office during the day. Loads of coffee keep me going but my eyebags usually bulge and my heart and muscles palpitate. After all such busy days, I could feel that I am almost dying. Most of the times, the only thing that gives me another batch of energy to move on is the feeling of being accomplished.

Days, months, years, my life was confined within the world of tons of activities that sometimes drown me to the neck. I have always been working with the same people, only different activities or organizations. My home computer, as well as that one in the office, could almost break down. Many times, these computers are my best company aside from coffee of course. If only they could shout at me, “stop abusing us!” they might say.

“Get some rest dear,” my mom and boyfriend always remind me.

Life is a sailing boat journeying in wide waters.

Over Still and Troubled Waters — I don’t know where in the world did I get that title! I was really on a crisis while I was writing that autobiography. I can only imagine. Though, I still hold to the truth of that title. Life is a journey over still and troubled waters.

At this point, I feel like my journey is in the troubled part. It was a fine Saturday. I finally decided to talk to my boss. All I wanted was to leave the company. I felt I am not happy anymore, I feel bored. I know I have more to offer, I can do more; but with the kind of set up we have, I just can’t.

How can I ever forget August 11, 2007. It was a heart-pounding day. I did not know how to approach my boss and tell him my plans. I am not really good at talking. Many times, my talking failed me.

“Sir, I am already planning to leave the company.” He just laughed at me. He did not asked why. I felt his silence as a sign that I should elaborate.

I wasn’t really expecting that I was able to share my struggles with him. I have almost told him everything. But the reason I wanted to leave was to give balance among all my commitments. I really wanted sometime off with myself, to ponder and plan; and I just can’t do it as long as I am working fulltime. I needed more time for my ministry, for my family, for myself. I wanted to give more time to the aspects of my life that I have set aside because of too much activities.

That was the beginning of the risk. I felt that I have sailed into a stormy weather. I was trying to give comfort to myself, believing that I will not fail.

That baby was I.

Bound in a green board paper, accumulating dust in my bookshelf is my autobiography ♦ a project I had in third year high school. I have kept that book hoping that one day I could improve it. Once, I reread it and it was funny to discover so many grammatical errors, poor sentence constructions and many profound words I don’t even know now why they are there. As a consolation, I thought, that’s why editors are trained to do the editing. I was no editor and was I trying hard writer who just wanted to submit that project. I just laughed and realized how I have improved over time.

She was named Earlie, after her birthstone Pearl.

I wrote everything about me in that book ♦ from my birth date to age 14,  the time I was writing it. I interviewed my parents and grandparents so I could write about the lost memories of my childhood. I generally relate them into separate essays, which I turned into the book’s chapter. I also included some pictures, songs, poems and letters I dedicated to the members of my family and to my best friend.

The mission has been fulfilled,
Sacrifices have been done;
Now here I am lying
With my eyes closed, sleeping tight
But I will never wake again.

No more worries will come,
And happiness will take its place;
Now, I rest in God’s hands
But only some people will remember
My memories will remain.

Apart from my epitaph, I have also written there my longest poem. Tone: melancholic, made of questions of a typical teenager undergoing personality crisis.

Though that autobiography was just a school requirement, the process of writing helped me to discover many things about myself. Keeping it is more than an accomplishment, it is a lived life, which I can easily go back to.

This is the beginning of a new journey. A journey I want to write and live. I will keep scribbling my pen until the ink fades away or typing on the keyboard until my fingers get weary.

I will be sharing my thoughts, my life. I am now opening my book. Allow me to share each page with you. You can say what you want and be a part of my story.

This is my new journey. This is my life. I write.