Beginning Anew

Today, a day that is non-incidental to any of significance, I claim that a new year begins. 

via

It is not that I would like to veer away from the beauty of the recent days that have passed. In contrary, I have found multiple opportunities to rejoice and consider greatness, for miracles have unfolded before my very eyes. It is just that I desire to fully embrace this season and make fruitful out of it. It is in great excitement and gratitude that this new year begins, so that I could treat it with a renewed mind and renewed ways of approaching it. 

For what does the newness entail, but that of replacement of things past and of seizing things present? It is that of each phase the moon undergoes. It is that of each path the strong winds walk. 

What belongs to the new then? Wouldn't it be filled with new hopes accompanied by new plans? That instead of waking up at 7:00 in the morning, I vow to start my day at 5:00, before the sun rises. In this hour, I would praise the Creator with waking roosters and chirping birds. To which He would respond with light that pierces through the glasses of my home. 

That instead of browsing through my electronics in every space between (and more times, within) activities, I would resolve to thoughtfulness and to listening. That I would not consume images and stories that are unnecessary. This reminds me of when C. S. Lewis told Walter Hooper that not reading newspapers is "how I keep myself unspotted from the world." It is not that I would embrace ignorance, but that I would limit the spaces for irrelevances, so that I could contain more of what is profound to me. 

Oh, and that instead of exchanging the fruits of my labor for momentary bliss sold by pleasurable packaging and words, I would store them for things that would last. 

What else in this newness do I want to exercise? Would I be able to follow my timetables as written? That I would learn to keep my vows to myself, so that my body and mind wouldn't scream at me for rejecting my own intentionality. 

That my thoughts that are to be formed may not be stifled by my laziness and complacency, always thinking that tomorrow may be a better day for me to do this and that. With that, here I say that I make a new oath to use this platform to release reveries (fiction or reality) twice in every week. 

My, my. Just thinking about these and just imagining how life would be, I get the discomfort that comes from starting anew. It is the fear that I would not be able to do as I said I would. But then, what makes me up but every substance that is human? With this, I know that growth would take a day at a time. With such wisdom comes grace to myself for her weaknesses and grace to time for its speed. 

As I write now, I am getting more minutes behind my schedule. Allow me to ink this with expectation that I will do well and that the beauty that comes out of my resolve would glow ever bright through me. 

I miss writing

I have been visiting my account for the last few weeks, trying to work on something to write, but just every single time, something pulls me out of it until I wouldn't be able to get back to it anymore. My Blogger drafts and the one-line first statements on them have grown in number, crowding my list of posts. And this morning that I'm in this, I have been trying to think of what I would really want to write and I have been on it for a few minutes now, until I realized that there's only one thing I have in mind as I seek to write something: I miss writing. So badly. 

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. 

Blog Renovation!

Hello Lovely,

I just fell in love with writing even more than I ever have before. Experiences and heartbreaks proved me that there is no better way of salvaging shattered pieces than to express it with ardour and honesty through words. For this reason, I want to take it to a higher level with the purpose of being a window before the people who take the time to drop by in this little cave of mine. And I want to be something/someone who could leave a legacy with words. 

So I've been getting blog traffic! Thank you to those people (who I don't think ever come back after their first visit). I don't know how they came across this little page, but I am delighted to see that someone /maybe/ took interest in my mumbles. From this, I have realized that every little thing (just like this blog of mine, and this amateur writing career) can be an avenue to shed light and inspire different kinds of people. As it has always been my dream to be connected to people, in a way that our lives will be intertwined through stories/poems/thoughts/etc, I am going to take this desire into action--I mean writing. 

I have not much of a high hope that my life is very much interesting or that I am very much agreeable, but I am going to give this one a shot. That is why, I am going to be even more faithful to my blog-writing--promising to talk about love, faith, beauty, truths, passion, adventures, skies and everything as the hue of the morning daylight. 

May my heartbeats tug your heartstrings. Follow me as I get to my next adventures (after this post).

(Yep, I just advertised my blog. Thank you!)

Living a life of Love-driven passion, 

Skate Penny

PS,

How to follow Skate's adventures? Get a Bloglovin' account (so you can follow other lovely pages, too) and hit the follow button right there at the right (?) side of this page. Thank you! (Or just do it manually. I may be posting once every week.)

Writing a true story

via

Right now...

I'm writing a story. It's categorized under fiction. It happened in real life. I write it as squarely as it happened. But still, it's fiction. It's not even a fiction based on true story. It is a true story that is considered as fiction. I've said the word "fiction" four times already. And that just made it five.

Imaginary. That's almost all of it. It was as if a walk in a dream. It seemed all true. It felt so true. Because it was felt in the veins. Because it was felt in the heart. Because the stars brightly shone even amidst the breaking skies.

I'm writing about red lights. I'm writing about a person who pedaled through these lights. I'm writing how it has been a dangerous ride.

I'm writing from a point of view.

And I'm writing from someone else's point of view.

I'm trying to write from two very different people's points of view.

I'm writing fiction. It's about struggling. It's about discoveries. It's about people. It's about growing up. It's about perception. It's about the heart. Of all the things it is, it isn't about love.

It's as simple. It has no other setting but words and thoughts.

It's fiction.

But it happened.