She was a quiet girl. So quiet that even a rabbit will be embarrassed to make a squeak in front of her. In her room, there was only the constant tapping of the keyboard. Clicks of the mouse. The movement of the fan. The wind-blown curtains. The ruffled pages of her open book. The specks from the sunlight dances while her mind is swept with all the words she typed.
Her door is a closed wall that only opens once or twice a day. Nobody at home will ever know whether she has left the house or not. Primarily because she hardly left the house. The second reason is because she was a quiet girl.
A wonderfully quiet girl.
Which is why it is excusable for everyone to be surprised to find out that Rouen was not in her room one day.
Nobody suspected it. She was long gone, five hours to be exact, before her mother stood in front of Rouen’s door, wondering if she should knock. Her daughter is quite moody when writing, and the school paper always demanded finely-polished contributions before anything goes into print. Rouen gave her heart and soul into writing. She abandoned every dream in order to create something for the world to read. This is her first step.
“I guess she’ll come out when she’s hungry,” the mother decided, walking away from the peach colored door, not hearing anything. A writer should not be disturbed during their epiphany, and Rouen is a moody, nutty character when bothered in the middle of her writing.
I wanted to communicate. I wanted to reach out. That’s a desire that bubbles up in my heart.
I want to connect with people. I want to tell them something.
I want to get lost inside a crowd, but still with an ample space for me to do what I want and be what I am.
I find comfort in hearing noises, all at the same time, looking at movements, stories.
I love spending time in a group of people without anyone, without knowing a name.
I love seeing strange faces.
As long as I always know how to get back, as long as I know I have someone waiting for me.
As long as I have a place, a person to call a home
My boat will probably keep sailing on that one condition, an anchor.
I have always been in love with children’s books. There’s something beautifully magical about them: everything is written in a whimsy that can be absurd but relatable.
I wish we all can be beautifully absurd and genuine at the same time.
I wish we can speak our feeling frankly without being tainted by fear, malice, doubts, anger and all the feelings that covers the adult heart.
I wish we can all look into the sky and spot magical things streaming into the great, wide blue, without thinking of what time it is and how much money is running away from our pockets.
I wish that we stop keeping score. And I wish that though we age, we’ll never grow old for these books.
It has been said that nothing is real
until it is observed
That something exists once it is defined
Unconsciously our brain weaves different
thoughts of realities, facts and fiction
ideas and notions, toppling each other
like a stack of blocks
We are left confused which is true.
It is normal for a human being to calculate life
Just as if it was some sort of a math problem
Logic teaches us that everything will be answered by a number
But even sciences argue, pulling each other’s hair
because even they have their own logic to stand by
The universe is too much for a human mind to digest