I Want To Write A Book

I was listening to some mellow music while reading the last chapter of The Secret – Hero when I suddenly thought of writing a book. No, it was not the first time I thought of doing so, but today is just so like I AM GONNA WRITE MY OWN BOOK. Yeah and I mean it all in capital letters. I do not know, though, how to start or what to write in the first place.

I want to write about life, about how amazing the universe is in bringing up living and non-living things alike. Even aliens perhaps. I want to write about how people live – how we all act differently but in connected ways. I want to write about connections – relationships, friendships and all. I want to write about childhood nightmares, about growing old, about reaching dreams. I want to write about troubles and defeats and how they make up one’s character. I want to write about the feeling of holding your first medal in primary school or getting a positive call for your first job. I want to write about how both happy and sad it is to wake up in the morning, and how our minds constantly wander into somewhere only our souls can decipher. I want to write about how it feels to be poor, to not being able to eat and wear what you want, to always check the price tag before putting something in your pushcart. I want to write about life, and understand that every move of the human body is in accordance to its society – like that of the Truman Show.

I want to write, to give focus on dreams and goals. On the journey of a person. I want to write about how, when and why people strive to reach for their so-called stars when everything they can see is a black and empty space. I want to write about fears and confusions. Things, people and circumstances will always make ways to block our sights, to make us feel unworthy of living and realizing our goals. There will be times when we opt to back off, to just raise our arms and give up. There will be times when we jump to our beds and cry, thinking that we are failures no matter how hard we try to triumph. I wanna write about how, after these hard times, people suddenly rise up and take another try. I want to write about how comfort zones aren’t really that comfortable after all. I want to try to write about how scary it is to take the first step out, and eventually smiling after realizing that both feet are now on an unfamiliar ground. I want to understand that everything is about trial and error. Try. Fail. Try again. Fail again. And eventually finding the perfect route towards fulfillment.

I was listening to some mellow music while reading the last chapter of The Secret – Hero when I suddenly thought of writing a book. No, it was not the first time I thought of doing so, but today is just so like I AM GONNA WRITE MY OWN BOOK. Yeah and I mean it all in capital letters. I do not know, though, how to start or what to write in the first place.

I want to write about life, about how amazing the universe is in bringing up living and non-living things alike. Even aliens perhaps. I want to write about how people live – how we all act differently but in connected ways. I want to write about connections – relationships, friendships and all. I want to write about childhood nightmares, about growing old, about reaching dreams. I want to write about troubles and defeats and how they make up one’s character. I want to write about the feeling of holding your first medal in primary school or getting a positive call for your first job. I want to write about how both happy and sad it is to wake up in the morning, and how our minds constantly wander into somewhere only our souls can decipher. I want to write about how it feels to be poor, to not being able to eat and wear what you want, to always check the price tag before putting something in your pushcart. I want to write about life, and understand that every move of the human body is in accordance to its society – like that of the Truman Show.

I want to write, to give focus on dreams and goals. On the journey of a person. I want to write about how, when and why people strive to reach for their so-called stars when everything they can see is a black and empty space. I want to write about fears and confusions. Things, people and circumstances will always make ways to block our sights, to make us feel unworthy of living and realizing our goals. There will be times when we opt to back off, to just raise our arms and give up. There will be times when we jump to our beds and cry, thinking that we are failures no matter how hard we try to triumph. I wanna write about how, after these hard times, people suddenly rise up and take another try. I want to write about how comfort zones aren’t really that comfortable after all. I want to try to write about how scary it is to take the first step out, and eventually smiling after realizing that both feet are now on an unfamiliar ground. I want to understand that everything is about trial and error. Try. Fail. Try again. Fail again. And eventually finding the perfect route towards fulfillment.

I want to write about love and pain. I want to write about how it feels to have your first crush and thinking it’s first love. I want to write about how you wanna be numb after your first heartbreak which was not heartbreak after all. I want to write about stomach twists when you say yes to someone for the first time, and dreaming the wonderful feeling could last forever, that you two could last for eternity or even beyond. I want to write about every moment that you smile with the thought of having someone you can share your life with. I want to write about how that perfect smile just turns into sobs when the magic fades. That seemingly endless pain makes you wish and pray to not open your eyes again. I want to write about mistakes, about selfishness in love’s name. And even if some parts of you will forever remain in them, I want to write about why first love and first heartbreaks are not the first and last. You will fall in love again and again, and get hurt again and again until you finally bump into someone destined for you. I want to write about destiny, make it sound real and tangible despite the fact that I know it really isn’t.

I want to write about traveling to somewhere you never thought you could set your foot unto. I want to write about the reason people go to other places, leaving some people and some things behind. Maybe for greener pasture. Or escape. Or growth. I want to write about how seeing Angkor Wat in Cambodia or the island of Santorini in Greece gives one so much delight. And why meeting people with different races and eating peculiar traditional food are actually the best part of traveling. I want to write about working in another country; the hardships and bliss of being a foreigner. I want to write about the tears that flow when we miss the ones we left behind, the life we exchanged for hopefully better one. I want to write about how painful it is to not being able to go to work because the dollars in your wallet isn’t enough to pay the cab, and how dispiriting it is to not send money to your family back home because you yourself couldn’t even afford a biscuit for meal. I want to write about trying to fit into a world you can’t identify your self with. How you just laugh when your workmates talk and laugh aloud, pretending you know what they are talking about. How you gain patience when talking to the lady inside the store, explaining that you are looking for a thread and needle. And how after all the years of sacrifice and longing, you finally go back home, probably with enough money to not leave again.

I want to write about writing. On how it gives a writer some kind of indescribable joy and pride when she types the last period of her piece. I want to write about the incredible feeling when you hear someone say he thinks you can be great. And how doubts cloud your mind when you read other people’s piece and realize that yours is a trash. I want to write why writing is not about hifalutin words or overblown idioms. I want to write with simple letters, those that do not require a Merriam beside, just eyes and soul. I want to write about writing as life. How it makes blood flow. How it makes the nerves on the brain ache as one tries to extract all ideas worth scribbling. I want to prove, though not in everyone’s perspective, writing provides air to breathe, impulses to make the heart beat. I want to write reviews on books and movies, maybe satisfying my thirst for movies and books, too. I want to write about why I sometimes hate Paulo Coelho, trying to pretend that his words do not affect me in any way. I want to write about how and why Sydney Sheldon’s Tell Me Your Dreams gave me something to think and fear about every night. I want to write about how I love P.S. I Love You and The Black Swan despite the disturbing scenes. I want to write about them and maybe insert my own plots in between. I want to write about writing and how it gives voice to unspoken words of the spirit. How and why the writer’s words are true and fake at the same time. Writers do not just play with words. They play with your mind, and play with theirs.

Really, I want to write a book. I do not know what. I do not know how. I do not know why. But I want to write a book so badly. I want to write my own soon. But I know there’s more to discover, to realize and to understand about anything and everything. And I have to grow some more as a writer and reader, as a dreamer and person. For now, let me finish my playlist and my book. And maybe, just maybe, this crap above can be part of the first few pages. Who knows? I am praying.

I want to write about how it feels to have your first crush and thinking it’s first love. I want to write about how you wanna be numb after your first heartbreak which was not heartbreak after all. I want to write about stomach twists when you say yes to someone for the first time, and dreaming the wonderful feeling could last forever, that you two could last for eternity or even beyond. I want to write about every moment that you smile with the thought of having someone you can share your life with. I want to write about how that perfect smile just turns into sobs when the magic fades. That seemingly endless pain makes you wish and pray to not open your eyes again. I want to write about mistakes, about selfishness in love’s name. And even if some parts of you will forever remain in them, I want to write about why first love and first heartbreaks are not the first and last. You will fall in love again and again, and get hurt again and again until you finally bump into someone destined for you. I want to write about destiny, make it sound real and tangible despite the fact that I know it really isn’t.

I want to write about traveling to somewhere you never thought you could set your foot unto. I want to write about the reason people go to other places, leaving some people and some things behind. Maybe for greener pasture. Or escape. Or growth. I want to write about how seeing Angkor Wat in Cambodia or the island of Santorini in Greece gives one so much delight. And why meeting people with different races and eating peculiar traditional food are actually the best part of traveling. I want to write about working in another country; the hardships and bliss of being a foreigner. I want to write about the tears that flow when we miss the ones we left behind, the life we exchanged for hopefully better one. I want to write about how painful it is to not being able to go to work because the dollars in your wallet isn’t enough to pay the cab, and how dispiriting it is to not send money to your family back home because you yourself couldn’t even afford a biscuit for meal. I want to write about trying to fit into a world you can’t identify your self with. How you just laugh when your workmates talk and laugh aloud, pretending you know what they are talking about. How you gain patience when talking to the lady inside the store, explaining that you are looking for a thread and needle. And how after all the years of sacrifice and longing, you finally go back home, probably with enough money to not leave again.

I want to write about writing. On how it gives a writer some kind of indescribable joy and pride when she types the last period of her piece. I want to write about the incredible feeling when you hear someone say he thinks you can be great. And how doubts cloud your mind when you read other people’s piece and realize that yours is a trash. I want to write why writing is not about hifalutin words or overblown idioms. I want to write with simple letters, those that do not require a Merriam beside, just eyes and soul. I want to write about writing as life. How it makes blood flow. How it makes the nerves on the brain ache as one tries to extract all ideas worth scribbling. I want to prove, though not in everyone’s perspective, writing provides air to breathe, impulses to make the heart beat. I want to write reviews on books and movies, maybe satisfying my thirst for movies and books, too. I want to write about why I sometimes hate Paulo Coelho, trying to pretend that his words do not affect me in any way. I want to write about how and why Sydney Sheldon’s Tell Me Your Dreams gave me something to think and fear about every night. I want to write about how I love P.S. I Love You and The Black Swan despite the disturbing scenes. I want to write about them and maybe insert my own plots in between. I want to write about writing and how it gives voice to unspoken words of the spirit. How and why the writer’s words are true and fake at the same time. Writers do not just play with words. They play with your mind, and play with theirs.

Really, I want to write a book. I do not know what. I do not know how. I do not know why. But I want to write a book so badly. I want to write my own soon. But I know there’s more to discover, to realize and to understand about anything and everything. And I have to grow some more as a writer and reader, as a dreamer and person. For now, let me finish my playlist and my book. And maybe, just maybe, this crap above can be part of the first few pages. Who knows? I am praying.