How They Warm A Cold Heart

How They Warm A Cold Heart


I do love those who had written great ideas. I am amazed by their beautiful and inspiring lines on their stories. I am amused at how they express their deepest shade of emotions. And I envy why they have that. Sometimes I would tell myself, “I wish I am Nicole Tarkoff, Becca Martin or Bea C. Pilotin.” But as I learned in everyday living, I urged to stop this feeling and tried one shot of my best. I have been taught that I should read well in order to write well. That I should write beyond and within my discipline. I should have an active interest in other people’s views even and especially if they don’t coincide with my own. I should study how the best writers like Nicole Tarkoff and Becca Martin get their ideas across. How their pen bleeds on a blank sheet of paper. How they gave an intimate embrace that warms a cold heart and how their beautiful words enter the soul and alter the emotion.

Everyone knows that physical time is simply a physical time. It is how things happen and how things change. It is both strange and comforting to sit in a cafe bar with a cup of hot coffee and start writing about a particular period and put my fancy into words. It’s quite lovely to think of the times when I venture out. And when I do, I always found patterns…patterns of the blue sky; of the gray sands that hampered me barefoot; the occasional call of the water birds with the rushing sound and roar of the rolling waves of the ocean; the lovers walking holding hands on a subway. I have lived a thousand lives with a thousand struggles, pains and sorrows when writing a piece of article.

Yes, I have reached this far, with the reason when writing calls for overnight. When I feel that everyone demand for my story, I am fused looking at the faces of different people and things around me, then  I start making a haiku, a limerick or a sonnet. Or perhaps a love story that ended with a broken heart. And when the article is published, it’s like, “a best-selling one.” The failure is very different. It’s not that I’m ready to die but when I love a thing, I’ll suffer when I miss the time to be proud of it.

Bea C. Pilotin


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