I won’t be able to participate, so better share the word.
For us, writers, this is such a profound question of our existence. Writing for me, has always been a constant source of inspiration and sheer joy. The intensity and magnitude of exhilaration that writing gives can’t possibly be gauged. I, for one, cannot even find words to construct a coherent answer to define this feeling, this beautiful feeling that I experience when I write. Writers feel this way. But why do they?
Maybe it’s this uncanny ability of penning down something heartfelt that transmogrifies our complete state of being when the weight of our emotions gently get absorbed in long parchments and old diaries. Maybe it’s the written monologue that elevates our souls to a level of blissful equilibrium. Maybe it’s the effortless exercise of mind-cleansing that writing brings with itself. Maybe it’s the fact that writing is a medium of communion between the deepest corners of our minds and the strangest…
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I read about https://anghulinghugotero.wordpress.com/2016/03/25/the-hugot-playlist-opm-edition/ and I discovered this song.
It was right to the feels, kahit pa lumang luma na. Actually, pagdating sa OPM, I prefer songs na kahit luma na, basta damang dama nung sumulat at nung kumanta yung lyrics.
There are times
When I’m lyin’ in my bed
How I bellow and cry from this stupid get
And my eyes are like windshields on a rainy day
Almost rubbed-out, swelling
As I keep on
Diggin’ my face
In these cold hands of mine
Heaven knows how embittered, I am
Ganitong ganito ako, noong sinabi niyang wala na, tapos na. Kung noon, panyo lang ang nababasa sa mga luha ko, ngayon unan ko na. Kung lahat ng feelings ko ay literal na lumalabas sa pamamagitan ng pagluha, nasa unan ko na silang lahat ngayon. I was murdered by an angel.
Dumating ako sa time na ayoko na lang magsalita. Ayoko nang magkwento sa mga kaibigan ko tungkol sa sakit at galit na nararamdaman ko hanggang ngayon. Natatakot ako na dumating yung araw na sumuko din sila sa akin, dahil paulit-ulit na lang. I have this fear of disappointing people, and I don’t want to lose them. I can’t.
And this is the only way I can release the pain, to cry silently. Hoping that he will find home in me again.
Life is an irony.
When you love, that’s when you get hurt.
When you already knew something’s wrong, you still go for it.
When you want to make things lucid, that’s when they get blurry.
When you almost believe that life is a boomerang, that’s when you get nothing in return.
When you felt loved, t
hat’s when you’re not.
When everything’s dark and left unvoiced, that’s when you’re conscious of the real you.
Who’s left alone. Who’s undone. Who’s muted by his absence. Who’s addicted to his ‘mimicry of love’.
Why is it required to answer positively when someone asks you how’s your day?
Why is it required to be okay in life? Why is it required to be jolly?
Why is it required to be heard? Why is it required to be fine?
Why is it required to be whole again?
Why do hearts get broken, and people bid goodbyes?
Why do we have to begin with strangers and end up being the same?
Why do I find it surprisingly emotional the moment you left?
I guess the moment you realized that life is full of irony is the moment you’ve experienced so much pain.
Irony teaches us how to balance, somehow.