I wanted to have a home for my writings, regardless how clumsy, awkward, raw, and messy they are. I deem it my responsibility to carry my words, breathe life into them, and give it space to grow. Because no matter what form they take, they remain my truth.
I write because I want to remember. I write to confront the things that needs to be resolved within me, to help ground myself, and to try to make sense of it all.
This space also serves as a way to document my progress as a writer, to remind myself that writing is writing–even if it is imperfect. Everything is a work-in-progress. I am a work-in-progress.
And so, with that, I hope you will honor this intimate space, as I bravely claim it for my own.
The Bad Years
Fragment of a memory from a turbulent time.
The Last Recital
What I thought would have been the last time I played music.
A Letter to the Past
A letter to 20-year-old me from 30-year-old me.
Dearest Tito Bong
A letter I wrote on the passing of my uncle.
A Letter to the Present
A letter I wrote on my 30th birthday.
A Letter to the Future
Every word and sentence I put down is a confrontation.June 24, 2020