edit that.

I've been in a bad reading slump and I thought this book would be perfect to end it. Written by David Levithan, in what seemed to me a style almost like poetry and with photographs, what could go wrong? Well, as short as the book was, it took me almost a month to get through it. It didn't grab me or captivate me in any way. I found the story to be just flat. The main character was the only one that seemed to show a bit more depth, but I still couldn't connect or find myself to care for any of these characters. The crossed-over bits became almost annoying, having whole pages of text crossed-over did not appeal to me. 
Also, in the acknowledgments, the author explains that he would write the story as the photos were sent to him, he would basically write a piece of the story for every photo he received at any given moment. And that showed in the final product, because you could feel some parts were disconnected or even unecessary.
The ending just left me completely unsatisfied. A "Is that it?" kinda feeling. 
Anyway, this book did not work for me. I'll still keep an eye out for David Levithan's other works.

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I have been in a bad reading slump and I thought this book would be perfect to end it. Written by David Levithan, in what seemed me a style almost like poetry and with photographs, what could go wrong? Well, as short as the book was, it took me almost a month to get through it. It didn't grab me or captivate my attention in any way. I found the story to be just flat. The main character was the only one that seemed to show a bit more depth, but I still couldn't connect or find myself to care for any of these characters. The crossed-over bits became almost annoying, having whole pages of text crossed-over did not appeal me. 
Also, in the acknowledgements, the author explains that he would write the story as the photos were sent to him, he would basically write a piece of the story for every photo he received at any given moment. And that showed in the final product because you could feel some parts were disconnected or even unnecessary.
The ending just left me completely unsatisfied. A "Is that it?" kinda feeling. 
Anyway, this book did not work for me. I'll still keep an eye out for David Levithan's other works.

king of excuses

WHY YOU SHOULDN'T HAVE TO DO SPORT


Oh, you shouldn't allow me to do sports.
I don't have a thing with courts.
And it would cause me death,
Because at small movements, I run out of breath.

I am a girl who lived her life as asthmatic.
So I haven't done such things as acrobatics.
My lungs are quite weak.
So I haven't mastered any of the sports' techniques.

four items, one paragraph

I hesitated for a bit, trying to keep my composure. When was the time I last saw him...? I don't remember but it has been a while now. We're about to meet again, hoping that he won't be mad at me for taking a long time to return. I took a deep breath and entered only to be greeted by someone and ask me if I was looking for a specific person. "E-Emiliano Gonzaga." It's been a while since I've said that name. Has it been two years? More? I wasn't so sure. I stuttered, but I could've sworn I never developed a stutter. Was it the hesitation in me that made it happen? "This way, miss." She told me. Tap, tap, tap. Her heels echoed as she walked. Was she even aware of the noise she's making in this very quiet place? No? Then she should. I stopped as she suddenly made a halt and faced her left. "T-thank you..." I stuttered again. It's getting annoying. I swear I don't have a stutter. But it made me think for a moment, was it because I don't have the courage to see him? I mean, I'm here... Just a few exertions of force, I'll see him again. And I did. Behind the door, there he lies. A coffin so white, as white that it probably represented Heaven's colour. Candles about the coffin as if giving emphasis to the bed has laid on. There he is... Hello, granddad. We've met again. They looked at me, not sure whether they're happy to see me or not. I slowly made my way, trying my best to ignore their looks and there he is... in front of me. His face showed peace and calm. I observed his chest in hope that it may rise but to no avail. I tapped the casket. Tap, tap, tap. Yet he remained still. We've met again, but I guess I went a little too late. 

Weather With You

inspired by Shannon Williams' Daybreak Rain.

It was the sound of the rain banging against whatever surface it may find.
The sun was just about to make its way to show itself earlier, but it seemed like it's time for the rain to own the spotlight. She looked out of the window, sighing as if she knows that the weather's been giving sympathy for her. Rain falls as if it wakes the dawn. The bed has been a big bigger for the past few days, and the room has been filled with a deafening silence. She's been sleepless, she hasn't rested her heart and mind. She's tired and her home forgot its job to be her resting place.

Or maybe it's been always a resting place, but only for the physical body.

She remained her back against the soft sheets, where the rain has been the only melancholic melody she's been hearing. Rain... during the daybreak...? It must be a beautiful phenomenon. Her tears fell smoothly, just like the falling water outside. But each drop were silenced by the sea of fabric. She misses him, and it's becoming unbearable.

It's time to get up, but it has only becoming a burden moment by moment. The rain has been giving a beautiful, melancholic and yet monotonous melody. It's keeping her from getting up but she's also wide awake.  She shook her head, wiped the tears. She can't stay like this. She can't stay for long like this.

Look at your telephone. Call him.
No, She can't.
Just hang up quickly.
She mustn't.
He misses you.

It was raining in daybreak.

She called him.

This is my life.

One: They welcomed me in this world.
Two: She held me in her arms, he looked at me with love.
Three: I sung my first melody, I knew where I was supposed to be.
Four: I learned about the world and its wonders, my knowledge about it had never been so beautiful.
Five: He moved away, she took good care of me.
Six: She moved away, I was left alone.
Seven: I fell in love, I was safe in words. Writing did.
Eight: I stood independently, I waited for them.
Nine: They took me. I moved.
Chapter ten: I am still yet to write.

my city is a person.

If my city was a person, she would be loud.

Messy and low maintenance.
A very slow worker.
A show off.

If my city was a person she would be a hypocrite.

She's known to be one of the bests,
With a pleasing personality and an outstanding leadership.
But the people she leads says otherwise.

If my city was a person she would be a high maintenance pyromaniac.
She hated dirt, so she would burn everything down she finds dirty.
She would always use fire to clean everything up.
Fire is beautiful, and she would use fire to make everything beautiful.

If my city was a person, I would call her Chaos.
Chaos would be a great actress.
An artist with fire has her best medium.
Chaotic, fake, beautiful.

Dear Writer's block,

        It's not you, it's me. It has always been me.

I'm sorry for falling out of love, for being in want to be free. I am tired of being held captive by you. I didn't want us continue any more further, knowing that I never have felt I guess it's time for me to point out my mistake? I loved someone else.

I loved someone else, his name is Writing. He was full of ideas, a broad speaker and listener. I guess I fell in love the moment his words in crept to my ears then into my mind. He was good with his words, something that is enough to make my heart beat. Writing made me fall in love with a beauty non-existential to this words unless it was him speaking and showing it. He is beautiful, he is loved by everybody. I adored him so much that I was willing to show him every flaw in me- for he is enough to make it beautiful.

Writing made me beautiful. Writing has made me feel free. While you held me captive from your strong pair of arms, embracing me and never letting me go. But I was suffocated....

I suffocated and forced myself to follow your lead. You loved me in a way you love me but in a way that it made me weak. I'm weak and quiet and you kept yourself dominant. You never lowered your pride, and you never let me escape. Your lips are beautiful but the poison crawled its way in my mouth, refusing me to speak. You sung sinful lullabies and had made me think so much about my flaws and mistakes. You didn't allow me to say 'I love you', not even speak my mind out.

I'm sorry but I can't stand this anymore. I'm sorry that Writing has made me a better person.

I loved you but our stories have to end here.

I'm no controller but every playwright has to end their scripts.
It wasn't blissful while it lasted and it was a nightmare as it continued.

I am happy with Writing now. I hope that you happy for me.

Sincerely,
A flawed writer.