Writing for me is not just a hobby. Poems and fictions which I usually write are mere expressions of what is inside my thoughts, which I want to show out of my mind’s rifts; stone pillars were made. The scratch paper and full waste bin shows, the rough drafts, the cigar butts, and the filthy room signifies my endeavor to verbalize the content of my pen.
All from the quicksilver in my eyes, from the kaleidoscope of a vision. Where beyond the limit of imagination, verses of words were formed to symbolize the seamless background of my existence and express the struggle for a better world where I am participating and willing to sacrifice. Letter formations raged my head whenever the unexplainable urge of my neophyte mind speaks out.
However, mediocrity shows in my weakness to fully explain it inarticulate words, and only in a pen and a paper can translate and suffice.
I was there, perpetually suffering from my desperate attempts for my unfinished fiction and dull verses that seemed to be always on the morphing process. Where it always on the sly things figurative and literal, whose penchants were sensualists see-no-where stares caused by the long-burning peptic ulcers and dying nights of discussion with the wind and my filthy room. The attempt to sort out my experiences or beliefs and translate these into words, drenched both heart and mind, sometimes twisting my own principles of writing, yet I know there is no death here not even a painful passage. Because it is true in the world that in contradiction, the best is bought.
It is through writing that we are able to appreciate ourselves more fully, in which the pen serves as a resource for the beautiful ideas to be written and be turned into an artistic oration. Poetry is my unfading memory of a future inside the wallows of a vision. However, the fire doesn’t come when the spark touches the fire, we have to blow on it, gently somehow. Who knows what a handful of worlds we might reach as we sculptured our foothold of words.