By Jing Villamil
SHE did not set out to write for the rest of this life.
When she first set down her pen at ten years of age, it was for an aunt who had so much love for the world but none to keep for her own. The aunt said – “You tell me tales of life once lived. As your heart beats, go and write of these! You hear, you feel, you see. Let too the rest of us hear, let us feel, let us see! That a life once lived . . . can be lived twice, thrice, more! But, babe, do write less of the pain, less of the tears.”
And so she went on to write. Less of the pain, less tears. Oft. Not all times.
You see, that was when she learned to use words a beat for each. For she was just ten then at the start!
She did set out to write for the rest of her life. Of the Why – of your shy smile, the streams of tears from your eyes, your fears in the light of day, in the dark of night.
And she drove fierce her brain to write of: How wrongs can be put to right? And: How right can be so wrong at times?
Years and years of these! Till her eyes have blurred, her back has bent. And the pen has lain still, not picked-up, for too long.
The tales have not ran out. But she has; she had.
Hush then the dash, and the rest of the marks. Oh. And do dot that last dot.
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