In Extremis

I’d leave my corpse in your hands and my name on your skin,

so you’ll never forget that I’d live there

I’ll house you in a graveyard and bury you like roots and coffins,

for you to feel how it’s like to be left alone

With frost and rain, I want to efface your memory

and I’ll teach you my name

it will be the only words your lips will kiss, the only tale you’ll tell

I hope you fall like rain, forced in its downfall, lonely and shapeless

with nowhere to go, nothing to do, but fall

Because when you leave, you used the windows and leave winter to sleep in my bed

and now sunlight is a stranger touching my skin

my body is a map of your lost expeditions but I’m the only one presumed lost and

you, the only surviving member

Now I dream, cloth with the memory of your face

enduring what remains of my withering self


It’s easy. I knew I love you when we walk side by side and my hands naturally reached for yours. Like two magnets reacting to its opposite charge in pursuit to embrace the other. Your hands are the South Pole and mine, North. Even when you aren’t touching me, you caused a pushing effect that penetrates the materials that made my heart. Your magnetic field is strongest inside my soul that even at a distance, that even invisibly, you attract my soul through my palms.

More Than Stroke

(An Essay about Writing)


This may be an act of plagiarism or may be not for the thoughts presented in this paper may have been the thoughts of writers a long time ago. These ideas are the product of thousands of words from authors and a number of books that I have read. Yet, this writing is also the beating of my heart. These views are the result of my finding out how I think, what I see and what is represented by what I see. For writing is more than just composing text. Writing can accomplish a lot more than just putting strokes of color on a piece of paper.

Writing creates beauty, and what beauty means depends on the writer. For instance, writing is a bright light in the distance and from the corner of one’s eye, he sees motion. Something is headed his way, a package bound by rainbow-colored bows. He unwraps it. A Negro, a Chinese, and an English man start jumping out. Suddenly, all the national heroes he knows are greeting and smiling at him. Then, the sky turns black, the earth violently shakes, and the ground is ripped apart. He falls into the abyss and upon falling he wakes up and realizes that it was all a dream. This is the beauty of writing – not knowing what’s in stored. Along the way, one unravels the unique kind of beauty it offers.

More to creating beauty, writing also helps preserve it in different styles and forms by creating a new world. Writers may stare at the blank sheet of paper or at the blank screen trying to assemble the thoughts in their heads. Once they hold their pens or touch the keyboard, they are creating realms separate from reality. They give meaning and life to the words through typing them into a void. One may see a box and write that it’s a gift wrapped in glittering gold; or one may see that same box and write that it’s full of ashes and bones. One may utilize words to create a setting where people kill one or where one may immortalize another. Or maybe, the realm produced through writing may be as virtuous as the idea of heaven, or as wicked as the notion of the underworld.

Writing not only links ideas but also connects people to one another. By expressing himself, one attracts people with the same beliefs. Literary pieces bridge them to understand one another through words. Prose and poetry serve as an entry to a new dimension where the walls of miscommunication are broken down and where people find the circles they belong to. Through writing, they build a bridge from one side to the other end of the line thus connecting them to one another.
In writing, one gives a shapeless idea a structured form by combining it with other ideas. The writer gives it air to breathe and food to eat. Ideas, at first, are indefinite and isolated. However, when he makes the two of them meet, they become comrades. A relationship between two ideas grows and together they create new concepts.

Shakespeare in Midsummer Night’s Dream writes,
“And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.”


Writing may also serve as the voice when one finds himself suppressed by the rule of majority. In an age where people go with the flow of social media, with the gush of worldly opinions, in a stream of stereotypical beliefs, it takes writing to go and push oneself against the current and have the freedom to express. One may want to add an ingredient to the society or one may want to change or divert his vision from the traditional belief. To do so, writing is a free and instantly available commodity.

Through writing, a dot becomes a line. A line forms a shape. Shapes craft an art. In short, writing produces big things from small packages. One idea springs a thousand ideas into life. One question gives birth to numerous questions. Andre Dubus III, WD quoted “I think the deeper you go into questions, the deeper or more interesting the questions get.” These small packages lead us to the image of something bigger—a vision of knowledge or theory we never even knew existed. If one judges an idea, he will never know that it may hide something valuable.


Writing is a powerful craft that charms a writer to feed his ideas. Those ideas, more often than not, paints a vision in one’s mind without even knowing he has one. Or if one perfectly knew the vision he wants to share with the world, writing is one of the freest ways for that vision to travel.

Ultimately, in facing a blank sheet and writing this down, this writer has just created ideas, and gave them the most nutritive diet of words. Hence, it grows into an aesthetic writing which speaks and stands for itself. This writing, like thousands of written works of art before it, attempts to communicate and build comradeship among readers. Moreover, writing starts small and grows big. One may start with a question “Why do I write?” and that short question triggers one’s mind to many possible opinions. In the end, writing is more than just holding your pen and letting the ink bleed on the paper. It is more. Always.

My love is a lake

filled with calm ripples

whispering the sound of your name.

Slow dancing to your strokes and plunges.


Yours is a great swimmer

who came with passionate enthusiasm.

Thirsty for an adventure.

Impatiently, you dived and explored my depths.

Deciding that I cannot quench your yearning,

you left and search for huge waves.