Am I a writer?...

The Preformation

They say I can be a good writer but I’m in qualm of it. I want to believe and thank the people for observing my potentials. Perhaps, I’m writing now because I want to bear out to myself that I can be someone they want to witness evolve out of me. I actually want to write articles and see them published, read and admired by many. I have wanted this since I was a kid but never really poured much attention to feed this desire. I have tried writing before, in my high school years; even became a contributor of our school broadsheet but that never really overjoyed me. I want more at this instant. I yearn for my writing to be enhanced, finer. I want to write now not because people notice me as having the would-be peculiarity of being a writer. I am going to make salient articles, laudable pieces. People will read my text over and over again until they are restrained. With my soft sentiment I will embrace each extol I will heed from my readers and commit to memory all practical criticism I may get. But, utmost is my triumph inside of me. I have become what I pine for! I am a writer, by heart and by soul, unchained and heady.


Its beginning…

Now, I start my journey to paving a new trail to just before a reverie. Hesitation begins to sink because confidence outgrows it. My hand eagerly scribbles what my mind exerts. My eyes then gaze to hail the product of this stream. My heart lurks for the creation of the new headway I make. This is the true beginning of it all and to terminate when, that I do not know or perhaps no ceasing at all. Maybe though asleep I’d still continue to note down. As I try to outline in my thoughts the words I’m going to write, I make a promise to myself to commit to this passion. Writing will no longer be just a hunger that I need to suffice. It will be a definition of existence. It will core the metaphor of the long ago, the contemporary and the expectations. Furthermore, it will turn out to be the finest annals of life. It will pilot a reader to a world beyond his being. The ardor of wanting to read more of my work will mount. Critiques will come into the scene to tip off that everything made sense. On or after will surface my faux pas in writing to mold me to become the finest I want to be. From my writing will emerge a new person in me, an avant-garde of my own. My writing will be my identity.