Tuesday, March 8, 2011
A Story of My Life
But then I could write metric lines best than I can write prose. Prose and poetry combined will make reading a lot more enjoyable, of course, depending also on the writer's expertise. Yet, considering all that facts about prose and poetry involved in writing, a "good poetry," however, as what Marina Tsvetaeva puts it, is "always better than prose." Such have sparked the idea as to how I must write my life story.
It must be the tension between carefully unfolding so much of the complexities of poetry into the simplicity of a prose and the transforming of a simple prose into some alchemist's device of what becomes the poetry of actual human experience. I would like to believe that the best stories are those that never been written, or rather, cannot be written. The writer only gets a glimpse of vague recollections of what must actually be the story no matter how much it was expertly and beautifully expressed. There would always be something that should be lost in translation. And for as much as my writing gets the metaphor it exactly needs so as to express into facts, I would like that my readers decide for what must be the best it can convey.
The story of my life should be called "Spear de Amor." But why Spear de Amor? Because just as love is like the meeting of two chemical substances to be trapped in two personalities, so is the mergence of prose and poetry as the Spanglish title the story of my life should be made of. If there's any reaction, both are transformed.
But Spear de Amor has just suddenly been re-phased from what was used to be the original form even before it evolved to become the written words. So this must be the impromptu version by which story telling materials or for what must that as far as the mind can procure, understand, or remember should be instantly processed to make the format to be posted online, unedited. This should be for your own version of my Spear de Amor. And it shall, after all, find its way through life's rhymes and reasons back into myself, being stuck in a sphere of activity where I need to reach out for more.
The story of my life is one that's just right here within me for yourself to find out, nurture, decorate, and give meanings to. And if it wasn't you, then be just someone else who cares, loves, and understands. So may I ask:
How will you take my utmost love?
When a heart says what it must feel
From deep inside, it needs to prove;
But how will you take it, pray tell?
How will I say I need you so?
When I'm left in the cold alone
Finding warmth at the thoughts of you;
But how will I say it, say on?
How will you know I cared a lot?
When something else's hard my heart fasts,
Dares, just to reach you inside but
How will you take a love that lasts?