22-11-2015.

00:01

I was looking at all my writings since 16th October.

It means that it has been 37 days since my first post.
With this post, my blog has a total of 49 posts.
38 posts of my thoughts and feelings,
and 11 posts of my poems.

I looked at those numbers, and thoughts came to my mind.
“How can I wrote that much?”
“The poems are still too few. I need to write more poems.”
“Heck, I need to write more.”
“Poems. More poems!”

So what brought me to wrote things ?

I never actually liked writing before.
And like I said, I LOVE to read. I could finish more than 45 books a year.
Last year, I even finished around 51 or 52 books.
Although I haven’t read much this year since me and her exchanged words of love.

I remember the first time I seriously wrote was around 1-2 weeks before her birthday.
I was about to give her a “365 Jar”. Basically, it’s an ordinary glass jar filled with 365 messages.
One day, one message.
I wrote those 365 messages in 10×10 cm papers.
In normal measurement, it would be like doing full page writing on 61 A4-sized papers.
Or 62, because I wrote her a letter, too.

But she, she is a writer. She loves to write.
She wrote many stories and poems in our language.
Back then, she would wrote things daily about me and her in a book she called a “Magic” book.
She wrote it to remind herself at difficult times of what she and I’ve been through.
To this day, I still haven’t read that book.
I told her I would read it later when the book is already full.
Is it already full now ? I don’t know, I don’t think so.
She might have stopped writing since ‘that’ day.
And I actually LOVE to see her writing.
For me, the moment she’s writing about me and her, she becomes a totally different girl.
A girl filled with love and care, whom sometimes decorated herself with a lovely smile.

She and I once had this conversation :

“Why don’t you try to write? You’ve read a lot of books. Usually, when a person loves to read, he/she could be a great writer, too.” She said to me.
“Well, I.. Just don’t know how to write. I mean, I do know how to write, just not poems or even stories like what you wrote.” I replied.
“You really should try to write!”
“Love, I never tried writing before. And what’s more, you already are a writer. Just let me be your reader. Your own, personal reader.”
“You see, someday, when you write things, they won’t be just ordinary writings. They would be masterpieces.”

I just took a second look to all my writings.
Are they masterpieces?
Uh.. I don’t know?
But if I have to say things about my writings, I would say they are not really that good.
I’m not being modest. I just really thought they are not that good.
Although honestly, I REALLY want to publicize my poems.
But I can’t. I’m being anonymous here for a reason.

I’m not experienced in writing things.
I even wrote my first poem in only less than a month ago.
And I didn’t know what made me wrote that poem, but I guess that poem was the start.
Right now, writing is a daily thing for me.
I could spend more than 7 hours daily just to write ideas about poem.
Where did I get those ideas ?
It’s from her.

As you may know, all my poems are connected to her and my feelings.
Be it love, jealousy, or yearning.
Not only feelings, but moments, too.
And as Lang Leav wrote in one of her writings,

“I don’t think all writers are sad, she said. I think it’s the other way around- all sad people write.”

Well, obviously I am sad because of what happened to me and her.
But, somehow, in writing, I found something.
Something that could connect me and her.
Everytime I write, it’s as if there’s an invisible bridge that connects me and her.
A bridge between my heart and her heart.
It’s as if I could perfectly convey all my thoughts and feelings to her.
And I don’t know why I wrote in English and not in my native language.
Perhaps because all the books I’ve read are written in/translated to English?
All I know, I need to enrich my vocabulary.
I need to read and write MORE.

Words are power.
I guess I understand why she said that I could find all her honest feelings in her writings.
Because, I feel that too. Even now.
There’s another quote, this time by Maya Angelou :

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

And I could say she’s bloody right.

So, back to the question. What brought me to wrote things?
All I could think of an answer right now, is :

Her.

I won’t even wrote a single poem if it wasn’t for her.
She’s my inspiration.
And she’s far too lovely to be left as a mere inspiration.
That’s why I wrote.
I need to describe her fairness,
to describe her magnificence in my writings.

……

Dear Love,

You said my writings are all perfect.
You said they touched your heart.
But I won’t write anything if it wasn’t because of you.
Because of us.
Because of our love.
Because it feels like I love you too much, but I showed it too little.

And so, I think it’s safe for me to say that it is you who are perfect.
It is you who have touched my heart.

Know that my writings aren’t all about lamentation.
They aren’t all about me whining.
Yes, sometimes I pour out all my feelings in my writings, even the most awful ones.
But most of the time, all I have in my head and in my heart is you, and our love.

I have hundreds of things related to us, waiting to be written.
I just.. Well, having some difficulties finding the right words.
I am practicing myself everyday to perfect my writing.
Because perfect things need to be described perfectly.
Anything lower than perfect would be an insult to their perfection.

You, are my inspiration.
My muse, and my obsession.
It has always been you.
And you, have always been love.

Love,
Yours.

V.A.C.W.

 


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