I can still remember the first time I discovered that I wanted to write, which was also the first time when I had written something I can call different from all the other stuffs that I’ve written before. I was in my secondary years and I had an uncle whose past time then was shooting birds (my grandparents’ place is in a remote area that is almost forested). One afternoon, uncle came home with two small birds with feathers the color of leaves. The other one was dead while the other was still alive but already dying, with a bullet planted in its throat. Uncle placed them on top of the water tank, and I could not take my eyes off them – in pity and in emotions that I could not express during those times.

Moments later, ants started crawling around the two birds, attracted perhaps by their blood. The bird that was still alive was in a grave condition. I watched every heave of its chest, breathing in synchrony with it, as if I could transfer my breath to that small bird and save its life – although I knew I couldn’t. I knew it was dying, and I hated my uncle and his hobby, I hated myself for not being able to do anything. As the bird was breathing, blood was already bubbling in its nose (or would you call it nose?). It seemed like the eyes of the bird were pleading, asking me to do whatever I could to save it. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t do anything. I wanted to get out of there and just to put everything out of my mind, but I could not find the courage to leave that bird. I can’t remember how long I have stayed there until finally, the chest of that small bird stopped heaving at all.

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I didn’t. Long after the bird was gone – cooked or thrown I can’t remember – I was still bothered about it. I could not put it off my thoughts. I just found myself holding a pen and a paper. Words came pouring in without control. I wrote about the bird, describing how it looked like in its last minutes, putting into words the feeling that it would have probably felt as it was dying. At the end of it all, I came up with what looked like a poem, at least in physical structure: meter and rhyme. If I could read it now (I feel sorry I could not, I already lost it), I would probably find it very amateurish (not that I am not anymore an amateur in writing) and filled with grammatical lapses.

I have forgotten the exact words that I have written. I cannot even remember the title of that piece. But I very well remember the emotion that was veiled in between those lines. For when I think of that small green bird with bloody bubbles bursting from its nose as it tried to suck in its last ounces of air, I still grieve pure grief. It is because of this that I can conclude that each poem, each piece ever written, is purely emotion put into words. It was when I have realized how much powerful words are and how much I wanted to use them (want to, until now) to articulate my thoughts and my feelings. And although most of what I think and what I feel are beyond words, I still try hard to capture them in their fragility. And I believe and convince others, and myself, that I am succeeding in this endeavor, that everything I feel and think I have finally captured within words, even if I am not so sure.

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