I saw a short film earlier this morning and it really made me think about this whole blogging thing. Anyway, it was about a couple who was torn apart by war. But before the guy had to leave, he made a pact with his wife to be that he would return no matter what, and he'll be faithful and all that crap... Anyway, while the dude was gone, the girl kept writing letters for him, telling him to forget the war and to come home to her. What really struck me most wasn't how romantic those letters were or what they said, but it was because after the girl wrote them, she would tear it up into pieces and throw them into the wind.
I was like, what the hell?
For one, i love the fact that winds are so easy to come by especially when your a melodramatic damsel awaiting he return of your prince.... But anyway, I'm not really here to make fun. I just couldn't understand why she had to go through the motions of writing all that only to destroy the letter. I mean, really? Why write when nobody will be able to read them?
I realized thereafter, like a brick dropping on my head, that that's exactly how I write. Not that I await the arrival of a melodramatic friendly wind to carry off my words into that corny horizon, but I write not knowing who I'm writing to. Only to realize at the end of each letter, that the words that I wrote down wasn't for my muse, but for myself.
It's silly when you think about it though. I mean, really. But I really enjoy not knowing who reads my words; I guess you can say I'd like to keep it that way.
So here's to you, stranger.
I was like, what the hell?
For one, i love the fact that winds are so easy to come by especially when your a melodramatic damsel awaiting he return of your prince.... But anyway, I'm not really here to make fun. I just couldn't understand why she had to go through the motions of writing all that only to destroy the letter. I mean, really? Why write when nobody will be able to read them?
I realized thereafter, like a brick dropping on my head, that that's exactly how I write. Not that I await the arrival of a melodramatic friendly wind to carry off my words into that corny horizon, but I write not knowing who I'm writing to. Only to realize at the end of each letter, that the words that I wrote down wasn't for my muse, but for myself.
It's silly when you think about it though. I mean, really. But I really enjoy not knowing who reads my words; I guess you can say I'd like to keep it that way.
So here's to you, stranger.
Location:Quimpo Blvd,Davao City,Philippines
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