Semi-epiphany

For as long as puberty has graced me, I have been somewhat different. If you were able to read my note about the 16 Things About Me, then you should (but probably don't) remember that I like analyzing and diagramming sentences. I attribute such English prowess to my middle school English teacher, Mrs. Gloria Wayne.

However, even though my peers received this very same education, I am not aware if they have progressed to become good writers/essayists/what-have-you. Also, my brother, though very proficient in his writing ability, has never written as much as I do, at least as far as I know.

Thus, among my closer circles of friends, I have always felt like some sort of anomaly, a branch sticking awkwardly outward from a smooth hedge. Though the multitude of them are generally very good writers, able to voice their thoughts and skillfully manifest them into words, I viewed few of them as being formed and identifying with their writing ability. They always had their other capabilities, but rare was it among my friends whom I thought writing the core of their identity (with notable exceptions, i.e. Eric Woo). However, in the back of my mind, I viewed myself as someone who was not necessarily a writer, but had writing tendencies.

So, the majority of my self-perception revolved not on my writing ability, since I have read many works that reach well beyond my imaginative dexterity, but rather, revolved around my random whims to write shit. Yeah, I could spin a yarn or two, could give a few quick lines that I hoped was original, but I was never really a writer, per se (per say, ;))

So, over the last year or so, I decided that I would take on the title of "writer" and would hope to expand my ability to write extensively. I felt that it was the only way to channel my education, much like music is to some and sports to others. I conformed to what people told me I was good at doing.

Well, people. I think you're wrong. I used to think that I had writing tendencies, but as I was falling asleep in Macroeconomics today, I jotted a few things down.

When Professor Herrin woke me up (which is another story in and of itself), I looked down at my notes. I found a few lines of poetry written. I don't remember writing them at all, but there they were.

Then I knew it. My tendencies do not lean toward writing. Sure I can shit out an essay about The Little Mermaid or Howl's Moving Castle or something random for a long time, but it wasn't exactly a skill that came easily to me.

My tendencies are toward poetry. I am, at heart, a poet. Poetry is my hobby, is my sport. I write stories and describe events because sometimes it's just the best way to express certain things. But if I were to express myself fully and most earnestly, I would do it in poetry.



So that's who I am. I've finally come to terms with it. I hope people care, haha.

Here's what I wrote while falling asleep.

I am tired; I am beat,
Body broken, burdened heat,
Holding onto heart so hollow,
Falling fast my fate will follow.

I am sure that I am strong,
Yet still sure that I am wrong.
So which strength must I take heed
If I'm wrong and weak indeed?

Is there strength in self-awareness,
Analyzing my own fairness?
Or is there strength in being strong,
Trust my own self all along?

I have nothing to reply here,
No such answers for the sly ear.
Hear me ponder; hear me rant.
Find the answers that I can't.

Find the answers hidden in this.
If they're hidden, do they exist?