Beautiful & Pointless

We invent, we borrow, and we do our best.

– David Orr


Dry, brittle, infinite spaces-

Reasons, for now:

  • She died, I started writing.
  • Longing & loneliness
  • If you let this chance go by, your heart will eventually become as dry and brittle as my skeleton. – The Glass Man (in Amelie)
  • My mother: “Anak, tula ba ito?” (“Child, is this a poem?”)
  • My sister, aged 11: “Ate Lyza, why doesn’t it rhyme?”
  • I lost reason / to write you that letter / I owe you.
  • Q: What is your body after you have left? Also, what is it really, to talk to someone on a Tuesday and find out by Friday that they’re dead? Sometimes, in the same day. What will it be like when I live in that life soon? People dying, differentiated only by the time and dates of their deaths.
  • Books. The desire to read. And read. And read. And leave bookmarks like footprints.
  • Don’t worry about failure unless it comes through your own fault – F. Scott Fitzgerald
  • There are some things that can only find their place in the page, I think.
  • Hope! The idea, not the cigarette brand.
  • The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me. – Blaise Pascal
  • What is the name you give a wave the moment it touches the skin of your feet and quickly retreats?
  • Do I dare / Disturb the universe? – TS Eliot
  • Visual art is not enough. What is a stroke to the sound of a word? I am greedy. So, need both. Maybe more. Everything? One at a time. But greedy. Hungry?
  • Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I’m not living. – Jonathan Safran Foer
  • Because I don’t want to stop.
  • Because you gave me reason not to stop, when you did. The way you slowly folded under the pressure, let defeat (or even that slight delay) consume your bones – it moves me, reminds me of fear and what it does, and what I would never want to be.
  • I love the distance this permits me to keep (and what else is there to keep, really?)


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so you want to be a writer – Charles Bukowski

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.