Recently, I have been remembering much of my childhood and the struggles I've had in it. Among the things that I would say have helped me survive through all those crises was the freedom I've had to express myself on paper. If there's a place I have been most rebellious, weak, in love, confused, creative and all the other faces of mine that I have barely shown, it would be found among the pages my fingers have stained. It used to be the next impulse, it used to be the go-to companion. Back in the time when internet was a luxury and when all I've had where these organic materials I could find around our home, my papers from old notebooks I could unearth from the corners of our house were the most attractive hideouts. In fact, writing is my first love, it's the activity that makes me feel most heeded to my design as I'm in it. There was a time when there was no end to the ideas that I could summon from daydreaming until the time I'm trying to doze off. It could be ideas for stories or stories themselves, short ones or those which could have been long. It could be poems, essays, and just random statements. It used to be the sole comfort of my lonesome childhood and teenage years. My dreams used to be all about it.
I remember imagining myself walking the aisle of a literary awards ceremony to receive my recognition on something I have written. Or someone approaching me, telling me I've made an impact in her life because I took the courage to show the world what I've written, not being afraid to be lashed out and criticized for it. Back then, I was so afraid and insecure about everything I produce (which were a lot, and I think that my best ones are among them). I never got any chance to get feedback from people on how I'm doing with my crafts, it was very personal. But eventually, the inevitability to let them out has worked its way through.
It was in my freshman year in high school when a significant recognition happened. I didn't have an assignment for my class at that time (yes, I was a semi-lazy student), and I borrowed my guy classmate's notebook to copy from his. After having done so, I decided to pull a "prank" on him by writing a short letter with a poem at the back pages of his notebook, signing it off with his (unattainable) crush's name. I completely forgot about it until I saw my classmates gathering around the notebook, gushing over it (now, don't call me conceited because it was exactly how it was: we were kids). I thought they were teasing him for having a letter from his crush on his notebook, and so, I feigned ignorance of the letter saying I didn't write any of it. Little did I know that they were admiring the writing, and so, I had to tell them the truth because they have been pointing it to different people who kept on denying it. And then, the career was launched. All of a sudden, it felt like almost everyone wants a poem of their own, offering me "job opportunities" I gladly accepted. I sold some of my poems for 40php (I remember that that was my average rate). Some guys were even asking me to write something for their crushes, I was happy to do it. I mean, my introversion has been of use to the society.
I don't know if any of my classmates back then would remember any of those things, but I remember all those clearly: the start of the recognition.
I have to put my post to an end here, because I have to go somewhere. But I'm gonna be posting this up, afraid that I might queue it again left among the drafts pile. I guess if given the chance, I'm gonna be continuing writing about writing.
