Sunday, May 9, 2010
Where do I begin....
I first began to write so that I can sound eloquent in real life. I wanted to organize the messy thoughts in my head into nice long strings of words. And the more I write, the better my writing becomes, the more I write. I wrote from silly boring routines to life at home to hopes and dreams.
Then along came someone during one cold lecture. Forget about how the Sun or the number of moons Jupiter has. That first sight produced the following line: "It's funny when someone catches your eyes." Nothing more, nothing less. That's it.
3 months later, the same familiar face. This time, she looks different. Different good. It prompted me to write, "It amuses me how the person that caught my eye during one of my lectures earlier this sem happens to share the same mrt station as me. And lately,we so happen to cross each other’s path on certain lucky mornings and we also happen to choose the same mrt cabin and the best part of it all, i found out her name – without having any intentions whatsoever of knowing her name. Of course, it’s better to find out her name by talking to her but coincidentally seeing a very familiar face commenting on a friend’s quiz on Facebook isnt that bad either."
And I never saw her ever since.
Later that June, someone else caught my eye. "Some do leave you with a pretty sweet impression. Many did. Many could still do. But should one ever decide if the impression left is the sweetest? Or should one simply wait for the next sweet impression and then the one after that and the one after…" However, she too vanished not long after. These feelings come and go, I know.
The new semester began. Yet another cold lecture. Forget about Kafka and Marquez. I went back home that 20th day of August and wrote, "It was then when Pablo saw a girl running towards the bus from a couple of houses away. He’d seen her around once but couldnt put a place to the face."
The cold lecture, the train station. No wonder she looks familiar. Since I was taking a module that touches on the magic, the real and the fantastic, I began writing stories. The mundane became magical. I then wanted the magical to become real. One thing led to another and another and another and now,...
... now I wonder if this is real. Am I simply writing mere stories? Or are these stories my little steps towards her. As of this moment, I dare say that she has become more than just a story. Now what?