Where Words Are

Have you ever had this kind of day when you just have nothing to say?

People call you writer, and today, you don't know how.

You're staring at a blank sheet, the cursor blinking.

Words are lost.

None is coming out.

None.

So you put everything down, and set out to look for words.

You ask your father, pet your dog, and hug your sweetheart.

You take a bath, listen to music, and go for a long walk.

Words in the sky.

Words in the air.

Words in bells ringing.

There are words in Chai tea and Panini.

Of course, there are tons of words in a bookstore.

But nothing seems enough.

You step in the chapel, your shoes tapping.

You walk, listening to dull echoing.

Closer and closer, you come before Him.

Your eyes upon Him, the Source of all words.

You take a bow, your knee touches the ground.

You lift your head unto Him then sit down.

You see how Jesus is bare, wide open.

His arms outstretched, his body bleeding.

But He is there, dying in glory.

He gazes dearly, adoringly.

Oh, He is filled with love, honesty, majesty!

And in its depth, there are words brimming.

Brimming.

Drawn to Freedom

I cup my hands over you, 

O floating light,

And keep you safe,

keep you in my heart.

I wish to have a whit, a speck,

A touch of your sliver,

Bury me in your dust 

Until I own it,

Yes, own it forever!

O freedom,

I like your pleasant face.

I envy your mirth,

How you're loafing, 

Smiling at the sun

And let your dress flutter 

When you run.

O freedom,

How you spread your arms before the sky!

You walk this earth barefooted,

And in the grass, you lie

Embracing and soaking,

Soaking in its sweet scent.

Freedom,

I like your verity,

You strip off clothes of hypocrisy.

You face the world unmasked,

Trudging hills and bushes,

Scathed by torns and branches.

You are brave, very brave.

Freedom,

In the night, your mind wanders,

Dabbing, staining papers with paint

And then threading words,

Creating worlds that don't exist

Yet live through pens and paintbrushes.

Reading for its sake

One day, I found myself deliberately reading faster than I used to.

I was hurriedly leafing the book's pages, I couldn't absorb the words well enough. I was in a rush to finish it because I was too excited to read the next book in line. I also thought it wasn't good for my writing as the author's writing style was far from my taste. It wasn't stimulating my creativity and thus was uninviting to the muse.

I couldn't afford to put the book away and just erase it in my list though. I wanted to finish it. The fact that it fell on to my hands, it was giving me the chance to know its insides. I didn't want to miss whatever it could offer. It certainly was a good book just as I thought in the other days. But I was in a hurry, and I realized that reading it this way is the same as not reading it.

So I closed the book, kept it and promised that I'll get back to it when I'm ready to indulge myself in its beauty again.