To write is to reminisce,
To write is to remember,
To write is to perpetuate.
–  Why I Write
A Lost Poem

A bus ride to nowhere
Is where I’m heading.
I don’t know where to go,
I just follow the flow:
Flowing without a direction
Into this depressing complication.

I thought I knew my decision
I once called my destination.
But things get too real,
And circumstances get uncontrollable;
I’m terrified of what I could feel,
Is this still even manageable?

”This must only be a burnout,”
I always find myself to say.
But when does it end—this dismay?
Another side of me happens to doubt,
But I don’t want to completely close my door
To the possibility that I can go back to what I wanted before.

New Years’ Eve

How big is the universe, and
How small are we
That we get to celebrate New Years’ Eve
When it just simply means
Seasons changed—a revolution completed?
But isn’t it perhaps, also
An end of a time, a beginning of a generation?
A cease of the past, a future celebration?
A mark of an era for some perpetuation?
A kind of endurance for the continuation?
How vast is the universe, and
How minuscule are we?
In this place, maybe we are
But still—deep in my mind—I ponder:
What a cosmic miracle are we!

Why I Write

I was seven years old when I started writing.
It was all for fun.
I could be writing a funny fictional story about an ant,
or greeting my mom a “happy birthday“—
it was everything in between.
It always started with a story to tell,
and maybe I do have stories to tell.
All I knew was that I was talkative back then,
and that I needed to be expressed.

I was twelve when I knew I enjoyed writing.
I kind of began to take it seriously.
I joined a journalism club back in elementary school.
I had no idea what journalism meant,
but they said it was about writing,
so of course, the gullible me says, “Count me in!
At this time, I didn’t know that writing would be such a huge part of me.
All I knew was that I enjoyed it,
and that I found enjoyment in words.

I was fifteen when I wrote about how I felt—
Raw emotions of sadness, nostalgia, or happiness,
You could say I was writing about myself or even for myself.
I’d mostly write haikus, because I knew
that I was a woman of few words.
My Attempts on Writing,” my iPhone notepad says,
That’s where all my prompts and drafts would go.
All I knew was that writing was a necessity,
And that it was the only way to immortalize my emotions.

I was sixteen when I wrote about you.
Quite stuck in my head, you’d see yourself in my pieces.
I admit, maybe I was writing for you.
I wrote when we fought, laughed, loved,
I wrote when I had you, missed you, lost you;
I guess when a writer adores you, you’ll never die.
I wrote and wrote, and as I did, I’ve realized—
Everything ends, everything leaves, but my words
Are etched on paper—emotions and feelings never to be forgotten.

I am seventeen now, but I still write.
People have given me good and bad memories,
They have mocked me, broken me, attempted to ruin me;
But all I see are opportunities to write about them—
To liven up my dreams and imagination,
To record and experience again all the feelings I’ve felt, and
To immortalize my consciousness.
All I knew was that to write is to reminisce,
To write is to remember, to write is to perpetuate.

“I am looking for friends. What does that mean—tame?”

“It is an act too often neglected. It means to establish ties.”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, the little prince

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