Hello everyone! Kindly click this link to help me out with my project in NSTP. 

It’s called Batasan Hills Diaries

Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.

But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?

This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind. 

If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die. 

On a saturday night, there I was sitting on the couch located at the living room staring at my newly bought books and the empty Starbucks cup right next to it. I recalled glancing at the brown piano that was a couple of meters away from me. 

The next thing I knew, I was seated infront of the piano, reaching out for the keys hesitantly. It has been months since I last touched the piano, or has it been over a year already? I can’t seem to remember. 

I start to play the piece I claimed to memorize by heart not too long ago, Canon in D. Such a lovely lovely piece. I vividly recall the day I promised and crossed my heart that I would learn it and play it flawlessly. Maybe it was because of the scene from My Sassy Girl when Charlie brought that rose to Jordan during the 33rd day that brought me to tears and convinced me that one day, Canon in D will be played in my wedding. Am I talking too much? I’m sorry about that, I got carried away.

Going back, I began playing the piano. The music did not come out the way I expected. I knew the reasons why. My fingers were not familiar with the keys as much as they used to, they were slipping, poking at the wrong sharps and flats. My tempo and rhythm were off. It’s so funny how when I was six years old, I would play the piano every single day with dedication, though at that time I refused to believe that I was doing so well.

With frustration, eventually, I had to dig through my dusty pile of music sheets. There it was, Canon in D. My eyes had to scan the black squibbly musical notes while guiding my hands to hit the right keys.

What was I thinking? Of course I couldn’t expect to simply sit infront of the piano and play perfectly. I couldn’t have just left and gone back one day to expect that it would be the same. Who was I fooling? 

Two hours into playing, there I was, still sitting in front of the brown piano. A little bit frustrated, but had forgiven myself along the way. 

With patience, understanding and perhaps time as well, I know that I will certainly be back. A little bit older, different and changed. but with certainty, I know for sure that I will get better.

“Becoming a writer is about becoming conscious. When you’re conscious and writing from a place of insight and simplicity and real caring about the truth, you have the ability to throw the lights on for your reader. He or she will recognize his or her life and truth in what you say, in the pictures you have painted, and this decreases the terrible sense of isolation that we have all had too much of.”  

I will write about the following, anonymously leave one in my ask box  

• Dear girl I hate,
• Dear boy I like,
• Dear ex bestfriend, 
• Dear bestfriend,
• Dear mom,
• Dear dad,
• Dear Santa,
• Dear future me,
• Dear girl I’m jealous of
• Dear boy I had a crush on
• Dear (anyone and anything you have in mind)

http://timetravelling.tumblr.com/ask

I refuse to do my homework right at this moment, let’s see where my creativity would take me. :) 

(via turtle-heart)

“We’d said we’d keep in touch. But touch is not something you can keep; as soon as it’s gone, it’s gone. We should have said we’d keep in words, because they are all we can string between us—words on a telephone line, words appearing on a screen.” - David Levithan