Ay dunt no haw too ryt.

I suck in writing. Period.

As the first semester closes, I find myself not in my usual self - and realized it a bit too late.

I cannot even make a cohesive, even a comprehensible, paragraph.

Looking at my classmates papers and comparing it to what I've done, damn! I feel like a monkey talking about quantum physics, a kindergarten kid submitting an essay in an Eng 101 class, a street urchin's work presented in an Ivy League school. wah.

Struggle, a constant struggle, that's what Kali and Peter told me. I just have to shake off my academic rust, focus better, and avoid writing about subjects that I hate (eg Wojtyla's love. wtf.)

As the semester comes to a close, I am tempted to take classes with less paperwork (or at least less stressful papers). But the Ricoeur class, with Dr. Garcia - yes, i have been forewarned, is really tempting to take. Ack.

Think. Think. Think.

On Writing, Still.

A long time ago, I wrote poems.

I wrote love letters.

I wrote notes, about everything and anything.

But now, I cant even write a friggin' line.

I tried to write about the rain.

the cool breeze it brings

and the cold feeling it brings

But in between the raindrops.

I cant find the right words.

She said, I write - simply because I'm good at it.

But then again, my words are lost.

Lines drenched in the rain.

Verses carried by memory's flood.

Stanzas burned by lightning.

Rhymes carried by the wind.

Still waiting for the rain to stop.

And the rainbow to paint again my sky.

 

Comet Moment

"The boy saw a comet and he felt as though his life had meaning and when it went away he waited his entire life for it to come back."

Would the comet come back?