Every time someone asks me when did I start writing, I would always answer, ‘since I’m three when my mom helped me try to write my name’. I always thought this was funny and lately I realised it was not as I started to lose some following.
Kidding aside, I really couldn’t remember when exactly. If my memory serves me right, it started since I wrote my valedictory address in primary school. I couldn’t remember if that was my first, or that was the one I actually used on graduation day, but I did write something for sure.
The written speech unexpectedly went too emotional. That moment marked the start of my passion of putting feelings into words.
In middle school, I started to feel a ‘crush’ in the most teenage way possible. I liked this girl who was actually close to me. She was our top one in class during first year. I fell for her. I wrote pieces about her—how she brightens the atmosphere on weekday mornings, how she completes my day extending it in my dreams, and how she made me settle for second place. The latter’s way too funny for me.
Until she broke my heart.
Before the semester ended, it’s come to my knowledge that she’s already dating someone else. There, I began to put sadness into words, though, sometimes, words couldn’t give justice to what we truly feel. Jealousy, envy, self-pity, and heartbreak quickly turned into poetry which was made tangible through pieces of paper I inked just to pacify myself.
Moving on was never easy as a teenage guy who always thought he gets whatever he wants. But poetry is there, and will always be there, to help me move forward.
I fell in love again, this time to someone who can never reciprocate my feelings, a friend. It was too beautiful to ignore, until the same person betrayed me. Immature and insensitive, I did hurt someone just to get revenge. My words became abhorrent, vengeful and miserable.
Until I received an apology.
From then on, I came to realise that I can never stay angry to someone I love. Slowly, anger turned into sorrow, revenge turned into regrets, and misery turned into self-pity.
It was then that tears falling from my eyes dropped as words, then words paralleled with tears, until they became one.
I never really knew what broken means until I experienced it multiple times, consecutively. I met the person who left me hanging in the end. I soared because it was my dream, to be loved by someone and make memories. We did make memories, tragic memories.
I was promised to be treated as king yet all I ever did was act as slave. It was the love I thought was true. It was indeed true, but only to my side and own belief.
We never learn. We risk it all.
For another time I invested into a relationship without clear relations or connections. No labels, a mere trial. Trial? For the other side it may be an open door to explore what it means and how it feels to be in a relationship. For me, it is a trial to attest to fate that I can be loved.
I chased the love I thought I deserved.
It was the greatest chase. It was the most physically exhausting, emotionally draining, and financially demanding era I had to endure.
It was an on and off relationship. Actually, we never established any relationship in the first place. I followed because this certain person made me believe that this time there actually is reciprocity of feelings. There was love, and that particular love, I’m willing to wait and risk everything just to gain it in the end.
However, it patterned the same storyline as before, like a mediocre filipino tv series. It was the most hurtful insult life has given me yet became fruitful in the end.
During the four-year chase, I’ve written a variety of hopeful and painful pieces. Every questions unanswered, promises unkept, and opportunities surrendered became stories and poetry.
It was the love I am longing for but it was not what I’m supposed to stumble upon for all of my life.
After everything that’s broken me, no one could ever break me as hard as when I lost my mother against an illness. The scar was so deep it was unfathomable. This is the best example where no words could exactly parallel or epitomise how broken and wasted I was.
From then on, I started to take comfort in brokenness. I made it my bed where I could lay myself in, take a good amount of sleep, then wake up more broken. It was a direct confrontation of reality. I made it my well being.
I write only when I’m sad, that’s become part of my identity.
Until I met someone who makes me happy, loves me for who I am and inspires me to write joyful and hopeful pieces again.
I found love right exactly when I have too much of it to share.
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