Authentic.

In a world full of artists sharing and channeling their masterpieces through technology, a virtual catalyst, I find great importance in handwritten letters and raw journal entries, along with ink blots, marks and scratches.

The energy of my thoughts and expressions are given more depth as they flow through my veins, ignite my muscles and trigger my hands to take hold of a pen and simply write. Write until my hand hurts; until the strain is felt and is treated numbly.

The curves of the letters or characters created, the smell of the ink and the embossed words on a thin piece of paper is what inspires me, knowing that I have created a work of art; one that embodies me and the different worlds that I place myself in. I take pride and utter happiness in the fact that I have created something raw and beautiful.

A day for her

From my Tumblr

They say a mother's job is the hardest one there is.

My mother has been with me through the ups and downs in my life and the troubled times I'm still bound to go through. Many times, I've failed to understand her. I've seen her as the enemy who can never seem to sympathize with me and my problems. Many times, I've taken advantage of her and her ways of showing how she would help me out and shape me into a better person. Many times, I have disappointed and hurt her.

But throughout my hardships, my stubborn ways, my troubled and crazy thoughts, my constant and sometimes unnecessary hunger and search for what lies ahead on that dangerous road, my little flaws and my little quirks, no one has ever supported me as much as my mother.

I suppose I never appreciated it. I suppose I never looked past the strong person who always puts us first, who has a different way of showing affection. I suppose it took me so long to understand her, but when I did, I became even more thankful for being blessed with a woman like her; someone to guide and strengthen such a person like me.

She is the one who has always been patient with me, who'd sacrifice so much for her family, who'd crack a joke or two and laugh like a maniac, who'd offer a day of shopping for therapeutic purposes, who'd remind us how good we have it, who'd never fail to be there, no matter what.

When I describe a person like her, I can never seem to give her justice. I love her in so many ways; ways I don't think she's even aware of.

She is a beautiful woman, full of love and compassion. It isn't and will never be perfect with us, but we manage and love anyway. Having her for a mother will always be something worth treasuring and again, being extremely thankful for.

Letter #6: Captured

This place is dark, love. I haven't seen anything more frightening in my life. The smoke released from their constant tobacco sessions suffocates me. The only source of light is the oil lamp in the far corner of this room they keep me locked in. The light seems so far. I can't reach for it even if I tried. I overheard them talking. They say it's been days, but I feel like I've been here for thousands of lifetimes.

Let me tell you how they've been making me live here.

They make me lay my head on rocks. I use an old, damp cloth as a blanket, one that barely covers my arms. It's cold, very cold. They throw a few pieces of bread through the small hole on this certain wall of the cave. I rely on a small cup of sewage water to quench my thirst. I don't know why I'm here.

The only clothing that keeps me warm is the one I've worn from the moment they've captured me; now it is dirty and torn, barely covering my bruised arms and legs.

Please help me escape. Please help me find warmth again. I haven't been able to sleep well, and I haven't been able to stay up either, for fear that they might come in again. Please find me; take me away.