There was a time I was lost for subjects to write about. I tried to write anything about the war though I feared there will be no enough justice for the fear of a little child as she holds on with her tiny fingers on her brother’s hand after rebels raped their mother, and she’s next. I failed. I thought I could write about the groom who never imagined his bride, a goddess, tying the knot with a man who has only love to promise and to shower her with. I failed. I looked for articles about dying, to help depict what a mother must have felt to have given birth to an infant who no longer had the strength to breath, to pump blood from his tiny heart while watching human hands acting gods desperately trying to save his small body but futile they seemed. I failed. Maybe I could write about old couples who held hands while walking at the park in the place they first met, how the old woman accidentally poured coffee on the immaculate white shirt of the man who eventually became her lifeline. I failed. So finally, I started writing about the president who sleeps or rather never sleeps. He walks around, to see the real image of the place that he’s trying to build from ruins and hate but I knew I’ll never picture him perfectly, the struggle he battles with everyday and the fact that no matter how his bed is inviting, he needs to face another day of criticisms and daggers. I failed. Am I a weak writer? For these things that I cannot picture with words are stories happening everyday somewhere in the world or there are just moments words cannot suffice?
Flim, Maybe that’s why love is all I write about (via brokenstairwell)
