Today, the writer will (speak about an) elevate (d piece of) himself. In various other ways he has long tried to do this—talking to himself, discussing with teachers, conversing with friends, or grandstanding.
In the past, he has written letters to friends, brothers and sisters, teachers, classmates, and those people whom he knows and who knows him. These people are not more than 20 individuals who are either simply familiar (just because he knows their names and faces) or really familiar (because they know him and he knows them better than other people).
The pieces he has written may have either been poetry, or essays mostly authored in first person. Some of them even have included artworks, sketches, variations of famous lyric poetry, short quotes, and even his own verse (which he would rewrite now and then until he feels they are poetry enough).
Most of the time, he insists to give them to these persons because he feels constantly driven to do so. Through a certain poem, essay or excerpt, he conveys aspects of himself.
In fact, these people would thank him for the effort. They would thank him for the odd opportunity of being written for unexpectedly, but also for the rare chance of receiving a poem for a gift. That something is written for them by him simply surprises or especially flatters them. Some would utterly thank him for the poetry enclosed. While others would relate to him how an artwork made them ponder for a while.
Through such pieces, he honestly conveys himself to them. Through them, he believes he shares his soul, because in these poems and essays, he discloses his thoughts, he articulates his emotion. In all these, he lays bare his sobriety.
On the part of those who receive his “gifts,” they would feel elated and grateful because somebody thinks of them, or because in a way or a hundred others, somebody, to the very least, regards them. On his part, this entails one true thing for which he ought to be thankful himself—his aching desire to draw an idea or enunciate each emotion, spontaneous or contrived, good or otherwise, in fine and creative written form. All this special time he has come to realize that two things in his poems and works are unmistakably consistent, or persistent: pain and glory, or worded otherwise, agony and ecstasy.
These extremes, expressions in themselves, have always been apparent in his metaphors or insinuated in his narration. Though these pieces which he has enjoyed putting on paper do not necessarily conform to the numerous literary standards or rules on style of his day, they have to make sense for perhaps they have been spontaneously written—but always to manifest an undisguised spirit born to pain and redeemed by ecstasy, speaking truth and nothing less.
His poetry, for instance, contains tension, some conflict fragmented either in details or in mixed metaphors. Though one particular poem written out of angst appears to have a forced ending, the person to whom he has given the work would tell him that someone who writes these lines, or even just comes to think about it is one tormented spirit—“a grim soul,” in fact.
A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.
A narration on a harrowing experience, meanwhile, may seem scattered or disorganized, but one thing there is the certain choice of words that depict morbidity and everything else it entails. Both forms, poetic or prosaic, say about only one true thing—pain and all it offers, agony and all it gives.
At times, because he spontaneously writes these poems and essays, he also makes it a point to revise them before he finally gives them to persons whom he knows and who can relate to them. Revising these unsolicited pieces enables him to be more insightful about every thought, emotion or experience therein. Because spontaneity and therefore truths among these pieces may be sacrificed or unfortunately wasted if he revises his works, he is better convinced that the unrevised ones tell the best thing in this conscious endeavor.
Every unedited or unpolished piece contains the grim provocation, the raw emotion, the stolid person. Yet, along with the ill forms and sad projections is his heart for the good—the highest hope, the unwavering belief in the ultimate goodness in all things, a constant, optimistic disposition that will banish all the afflictions rendered by reality.
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