Pen In My Hand

I love visiting Powerbooks. I love the atmosphere. I love how the store makes me feel that they respect what they're selling. I love how they present their books - like when they're putting the books on pedestals, they're just not doing that to sell the books; they do it because the books deserve to be there. To be admired. To be revered. Like they know what's really inside each book.

When I'm there, I daydream of seeing one of my works on the shelves. Red, with a matte texture to the cover, smelling of new paper. I see the cover of my book, my name, the title. I can see one sample of my book open. I can see others still covered in plastic. I imagine myself picking up my book, leafing through the pages, and reading my favorite entries, my favorite lines.

I can see myself, standing there, my book open in front of me, and as I'm absorbed in the words of my own work, I am taken back in time. I am brought back to the most memorable days of my life. I can see the faces, I can hear their voices again. I can feel the warmth, the coldness of that particular day. I can feel the emotions, the tears, the laughter... I am taken back to that particular day, that particular hour.

It may be akin to my mania for making albums and giving them to my students. I want to preserve my memories. With each blog entry, with each song I include for my album, there is a particular memory attached. There is a story behind each song. And everytime I listen to one of my albums, I feel exactly the same as when I'm making the album. I experience how I felt at that time - the bitterness of Lovely, the pain of Eleven, the self-loathing in Break, the sunshine of Light.

And everytime I publish an entry, everytime I release an album, I get to share a part of myself to my friends, my students. It's a wonderful feeling. It's like I'm telling them, "Hey, this is what I've gone through. This is me. Want to take a look? Maybe you'll learn and feel something from it, too..." But unfortunately, many might not be able to absorb that message. Some do take me for granted. But I don't care. What matters more is that I've done my part... It's up to them to open themselves to me. To my message.

And so, I return to myself, daydreaming inside Powerbooks, and I ask my baby, "You think other people will buy my book?", and he replies, "Of course."

Of course. It's easy for him to say that. But I know that not all books published get to be appreciated. What are my chances? Writing is not my job, it's only a hobby. But I have the will to express. I have the dream to share my life with others. Maybe that will count for something.

One of the things I've learned over this past summer is how to let go of dreams - that not all dreams will come true. I dream of becoming a writer. Should I let go of this dream too?

Nah.

In fact, I'm at work on it. I am joining a writing contest. And if I don't win, what then? I've always had a problem dealing with my failures. Will this stop me from writing? I don't think so. Writing is already a part of me as much as my **** is. And you can't just take that from me.

(Haha. Bakit kailangang haluan ng ganun?)

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(Baby, I miss you! Mwahmwahmwah)