more than anything, i have most often been mistaken as a poet by seattleites. or perhaps, they are naming a truth i do not feel i can accept yet.

what defines a writer? is it by the number of works they have published? or is it by this private, inner compulsion for voice, to speak?

i have lately, become more at peace when i realized i am someone who will probably be known for one major work, finished close to the time i die.

today, the first day of rains. this city is tough on the body. but as i was feeling the sky for your echoes, i examined my inherent shame at calling myself a writer. it is because i write, but i do not publish. i don't like people to know what i write, and most didn't suspect the sheer volume until people found out about the notebooks and blog. but none of it is what i really want to say most, churning to keep me in shape until the time when i can. i write only what i want to say, and i have no control over the flow, like by saying, i want to finish a book, or i want to have a screenplay produced, i suddenly freeze up. i don't seem to want these things. at least these are not as important to me.

i have something deep and pressing inside me. it is so deep, i don't even have access to it myself. but the only thing i know, is that there is only one person i want to tell this story to. and i've been holding it for him, waiting for myself to get stronger so i could have the words. it is positive, but powerful. with great power comes great responsibility. i think that's why i'm waiting for someone as strong as me.

i wonder if, perhaps, it won't be me who writes this story. i wonder if the real writer, is the one who hears it.