I thought of starting a diary today. An official one. One that may be published into a book if ever I do something great within my lifetime, a kind of memoir or an autobiography of all genres. I pictured myself writing earnestly, sitting in my high-backed chair with the smooth texture of lined paper fondling my palms. It was kind of indulging for my part, since I've always really wanted to be a writer. Indeed, the prospect of having to take at least an hour a day and put the events, ponderings, or peculiar ideas of the day into the beautiful art of language is more than tempting.

Alas, it is just a temptation. You see, what is not tempting is the prospect of having to write so much (imagine how fatigued my arms would be) with my pens (they are pretty expensive). So yeah, so much for that. Maybe not yet.

I remember the days when I was so infatuated with Him. You'll never guess how much poems I've written then. But then again, you'll never guess - let alone know - what really happened. But what I wanted to say, actually, is that the poems I've written were so... daft. Or, shallow is the better word. They're poems that you need not look deep into. There's nothing beautiful about them, but melancholy pervaded every word and sentence. Or more like, melodrama.

Here I go again
Alone, silent, reminiscin'
Staring blankly into space
With only the vague image of your face
And your voice, resounding in my ears
I'm only fighting back the tears

Questions left unanswered
are questions left unasked
And the regret filling up my heart
is the sadness the we didn't last

Here I go again
Uncertain of what to do
How could I go on with my life
When you took it away with you
Leaving me behind
With nothing but my fears
I cannot fight back these tears