When I am home, if my folks could not find me at the living room, they know that my usual destination would be the room upstairs…looking for some of my old treasured stuff such as journals, photo albums, letters, postcards, clippings, and reading materials that I am keeping in a box (however, there are still some stuff that I did not include in that box)  with my name labeled on it, or they might find me feeding the two cows with the Napier grass grown personally by my dad outside the house.  Last weekend, I had the chance to flip and scan some of my journals, all of which are still intact.  I just couldn’t find the blue folder where sets of poems were neatly printed (good thing that during high school, computer subject was included in the curriculum).  I was in the mood reading them and pore over the words chosen as mostly in the collection were in the form of rejection, though I wasn’t the one who composed and compiled them, but in my possession.

I still do write in my journal as I am keeping one, hidden under the mattress.  This is the right medium where I could see places I really wanted to step into; a place where I can convey unheard and unsaid strings of words and phrases, that if I don’t want to remember or read excruciating writings caused by various circumstances, it is easier to tear them off and crumple them; but this act sometimes this gives me a real bad headache, and ask “what is the point of doing this?”.

I know that when i keep the day open for any purpose with open eyes and ears without pretenses and reservation, it will be full of bounteous discoveries and new beginnings, and I know I will come to that point…


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