JULY 13, 2004 (TUESDAY)
*looks down at last entry*
My god, I am fucked up.
I apologize, dear readers, I really do.
I promise not to do it again.
Digging Through The Archives
As usual, the mosquitoes have gotten the better of me this early morning. And instead for studying for our first long exam in French, I am busily doing everything but - fixing up GRAIL stuff, editing poems for class, even looking through my old prose archives to see if I have anything to throw at my fiction class.
I know I'm not really a prose writer, and it shows - I have a tendency for verbose paragraphs that pay more attention to scenic details than the development of the plot, and most of my paragraphs resemble uncut poems. Furthermore, my characters tend to sound like me, act like me, and even dress like me that it's almost eerie. The last story I wrote will never see the light of day again - although I was pretty pleased with the way I played around with the form. These were during better days.
But still, my first forays into writing were mainly fiction pieces. And as my grade school friends will tell you, I wrote fan fiction - to the point that I had a small but loyal following well into third year high school. I even had a writing partner eventually, a girl by the name of Karla Manlangit who had a incredible sense of humor and I swear, up until now, she's the only person whose writing makes me laugh until my sides hurt. When you're twelve - technically I wrote my first piece of fiction on January 25, just two days prior to my thirteenth birthday - and you think that the world is against you, everything you write will sound so amazing you'd wonder why you still haven't won any awards. ^_^
Eight years after, I'm not surprised I haven't won any major awards. Take a wild guess why. My prose sucks to high heavens.
But still, I don't take it as seriously as I do poetry. Which means I get to have a lot more fun with it. I get to play around and prance around naked in my fiction and pretend that I'm not me; in my poetry, it ends up with me in a corner, rocking back and forth with my arms around me, and whimpering. I like being both - I'm schizoid, I know.
Anyway, I found something that I've written last year. I'm not sure if it's meant to be a piece of sudden fiction or a prose poem. But then, I end up blurring the lines between these labels anyway. But it's interesting to see how far I've come along in terms of the craft.
She awakens momentarily to listen to the rain, then allows her head to fall back on the pillow. Moonlight is reflected in prisms across her room and she remembers one summer, back when she was young and fell in love easily, when she would step out of their rented cottage during the evening and watch the moon scatter light across the languid ocean waves.
He would come to her then, the dusky boy from the nearby fishermen’s village. He would walk with her along the shore, tell her stories about the moon and the ocean and the ancient trees that jutted out from the low green waters, reminding her of falling leaves. His voice was low and soft, following the rhythm of the sea.
She remembers the touch of his hand, rippled and hard like a seashell’s surface. He tasted of salt, and the wind blowing from the other side of the world. She remembers the sand beneath her skin, soft and prickly and capturing the curves of her body perfectly. She remembers how the wind snatched away her whispers of love before she owned them. She remembers everything.
She awakens momentarily, and her hand moves across her belly. It is shallow now, an empty shell collapsing inwards. She runs a finger across the scar, a faint shoreline of flesh running across her stomach. She looks out the window, at the rain falling gently over the city, and imagines she can still hear the sound of the waves.
11 October 2003