I stopped writing lately since I’ve rarely nothing to contemplate about. Perhaps, this might be a good time to really sink in to that brain and squeeze as much juice as I could. Writing has always been a huge part of me since I was young, when I learned how to read and write of course. But it’s been my only escape since then too.
When I was 5 years old, I would write Apology letters to my parents for every time I did something wrong. I’d slip them under the door at night while my parents were asleep in the master bedroom. Making sure that when I got up in the morning, there would be that big hug waiting for me. Unfortunately, those letters became a gateway to more scolding. One time after I slipped a letter, my dad was awake and he picked it up and opened the door. I ran back to my bedroom, pretending to sleep. He turned on the lights and shouted at me, telling me that I should never apologize through a letter but go up to them and confess. Since then, I stopped writing those letters, and I never confessed upfront what I did wrong. I knew then how to get in behind their backs and live my own life.
At 9 years old, I started to keep diaries, journals as some would call them. There, I wrote my deepest thoughts and began exploring poetry, from Tagalog poetry to Haiku. I was so proud of them that each time I write, I’d show it to everyone close to me. They were immensely impressed by my ability to write flawlessly. Of course not until it got to my grandfather, the greatest critic of them all, judging from the vocabulary to the grammar. He advised me that whatever I write should come from my heart and even if it’s from other people’s experiences, it should demonstrate what I learned from my perspective. I have that thought to this day. Rest in Peace Grandpa Max.
I was 15 years old when I wrote individual hand written letters to my dear friends. Friends that I grew up with and those that have impacted my life largely. At first, it was going to be a short and sweet letter, but as I kept thanking them, it got to 3 full pages. I was tearing up and my excitement giving it to them was even more overwhelming. I don’t expect them to give anything back to me, because ultimately I just wanted them to know that they’ve always been my blessing.
When I was 18, I gave one of my notebooks to my then boyfriend, Denmar. That notebook was precious to me because, it was only filled with songs. I learned to write songs from him, I learned to love funk and jazz from him. I gave it to him for proof read because he knew how much writing meant to me. The songs expressed the deepest emotions I’ve felt that I never got to put to words in poetry or in normal narrative. I did it anyway and I gave it to him. Where is it now exactly? When I found that he cheated on me I asked for it back, but he said he lost them. Until most recently, his little brother had been singing them in his album; ‘Written by Denmar…’ Should I have not given it to him? I have never spoken to him neither do I want to, the book is gone and so it a part of me.
Today, I stopped writing on notebooks, no more letters, just this blog. I’m trying to invest my time here since everything has gone digital. But nothing beats the paper and pen, where the paper gets wet, the ink stains your shirt or the fact that you can tell how many mistakes you’ve done while writing. I will get back to it one day.