Two Million Thoughts

"I go, not in angriness; I leave but I am not sad. It is just that from now on, I will no longer come back. That’s the way it has to be– when a river splits apart, each stream follows its own course."             -From a Mangyan poem

Every page must be turned. Every chapter has to come to a close. Every book must end.

I could still vividly remember the night I first started this blog. I was furiously writing down my thoughts and feelings, with so much passion I could almost sense the paper burning. Of course, as is always, I started my first entry in my ever-reliable pen and paper ritual, finally ending the writer’s block or creativity drought I had so long tried to overcome. And right after I’ve transferred my draft to a web file, the passion kept flowing, from my heart, through my veins, to my fingers.

About two years have passed and I am desperately holding on to that passion, with not so much of a success. I am experiencing the same writer’s block and the same urge to fight it. Nonetheless, I’ve decided not to push and to insist in writing too much; I’ve decided to take a breather and to allow life to take its course.

Often, I was asked my secret technique in writing (as if it’s worth knowing) and I’ve always answered, without batting an eyelash: passion. I drown my articles with so much passion I could see them alive, kicking, partying, dancing, crying, and rejoicing.

I never considered myself a good writer but I have always claimed that I LOVE to write. Scanning through my more recent entries, however, made me see half-alive words, barely kicking, not even in the mood of partying, hurt but unable to cry, with no reasons of rejoicing.

And it saddens me to note that my entries had become monotonic, angst-ridden, bitter, frustration-coated, self-serving and narcissistic–the very kind of entries I find irritating and pointless, but which, unfortunately, were slowly becoming my very own works!

So, I end this blog so I may write again. For the past months, I have so inconveniently confined myself to the books, cases, and more cases to digest. Now, let me explore new places, meet new people, rekindle old friendships, entertain new ideas…In short, let me embrace life so I may live again. Only when I have witnessed the four seasons riding in a carousel would I fully reclaim my passion.

And though this is not a book, I chose to end this with an epilogue. And I write this final entry not with angriness, nor with tears (though I would really love to cry right now, for some other reasons).

It started with the crimson foliage and the leaves kept falling. Then, the weather got dampy, and soon enough, the storm was batting against my walls. I took a final look at the raging seas, and the battling winds. I scanned through the room and found a rusty and weathered ballpoint pen, and a tattered notebook. I picked all these and carried a little lamp against the darkness. I did not know what to do. I could not think but my heart was telling me to go on. And as I scrambled to scribble my first word, I know then that I have found the cotton candy hanging in a dark bough and the rebirth of a bud of rose. Soon enough, I know, I will be going out outside the dark and old room, run through the seas in barefoot, and feel the wind, the sun, and the water in my skin.

To all those who posted comments, sent messages, and shared some lines, to those who rushed by my side at those times I wrote of morbid thoughts, to everyone who have shared my passion and the stories in my life–no matter how profound or mundane, worth knowing or nonsensical–my words could not convey how blessed I am to have you as fellow travellers in this journey.

Let this be my promise that I’ll never give up on writing. I write to live; I live to write!

Kampai!

I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in 36
hours, only stopping to attend to my evening classes. It is quite hard to
believe that the epic tale of Harry Potter has to end. I practically grew up
with it. haha;-) or rather, I practically read them grow up to be who they are
as the story ended.

I am filled with deepest pain and agony after realizing I
have finished the book, including the epilogue. I was awakened by the
formidable fact that there is no book eight to wait for. I practically was used
to waiting for the next book and rereading the last ones over and over again. I
will of course, forever miss the laugh trips of Fred and George Weasley, the
fussy mother yet strong Death Eater fighter that is Molly, the
haircolor-changing Nymphadora Tonks, the let’s-talk-sense Kingsley Shacklebolt,
the ever careful Mad Eye Moody, the vastness and hugeness of Hagrid, the stern
look of Minerva McGonagall, the weird world of Luna Lovegood, the Quidditch
world of Oliver Wood, Angelina Johnson, etc; the clumsiness and the later valor
of Neville Longbottom, the wisdom of Albus Dumbledore, the carefree
handsomeness of Sirius Black,the blue eyes of Aberforth Dumbledore, the cunning
stories of Rita Skeeter, the awkward growing-up years of Ron, the Miss Know It All,
Hermione, and of course, the complexities and trivialities of the life of Harry
Potter, whose story I have picked a lot of lessons to live with. Of course,
there are more characters and more places to miss (the Great Hall of Hogwarts,
the Gryffindor Common Room, Number Twelve Grimmauld Palace, the Burrow, the
Shell Cottage, the Forbidden Forest) but to put it all here would mean using up
all the allotted space.

I
still have not gotten over with the sadness of the end. But then, endings weave
new beginnings. As the snitch writing goes, "I open at the close."