May 2005

The philosopher Plato

I started out in my writing "career" with no other ambition than to please myself as a reader. And I had nearly moronic standards as a reader then.

I used to tag myself as a "writer of substance" because I was so poor in grammar that the only way I could mask them was by spewing insight into every paragraph. Needless to say, it worked until a well-meaninged writer friend inspired me to eat my own work and see if I can extract any real substance with a flawed form.

He engaged me in a Substance vs Form debate and I am forever grateful for the favor for it opened my eyes to the other side of the writing coin. You know who you are Chekwa and if you don't, that's too bad because I won't mention your name here.

As a hired business writer, however, I've learned to write neither from the mind nor from the heart. I've learned to write from a set of "mindframes" which I call "newsbytes". Its the best arm a philosophy mercenary could have to survive the brutal world of deadlines and multiple account assignments. At the end of the day, however, the writer inside feels robbed of an opportunity to speak its mind. And, if remained unexpressed, this same writer can unconsciously start writing boring stuffs in protest.

Indeed, it was not until I discovered this corny thing called blog did I rediscover what what joy it is to write again out of convictions. Now if only I could find the time to actually blog...

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Death haunts even the beautiful: an early 20th...

It was not until after my father died that I definitely committed to joining the Church of God. I felt then that I lost the chance to introduce my father to my newfound faith. Needless to say, I worried of what awaits him come judgment day.

Knowing even then the biblical truth that prayers of the living won't help a dead man's soul, I tried to pray instead for the living, in hopes that I won't miss the same chance again with others in my family.

I must confess though, that I prayed that my father may find mercy from God on the last day, holding fast to the knowledge that God once said "...I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy." (Exodus 33:19)

I wish I could say something better... something less painful to consider. But I felt then that, for him, it had been a meaningless life marked by an equally meaningless death. That was why I mourned so much...

He was then at the end of a very long journey that never really started. And I felt sorry for him. Being a favorite son to him, I knew that a part of me died with him. I will forever miss his presence, those hauntingly funny memories of him cracking jokes on the fly. His never ending stories of time well past. It was as if my own life preceded me, those stories of his that almost felt to be my own.

Of sadness and happiness, he had many. Of endless lonely musings he had much. But nothing can really mask a soul so engulfed in the heaviness of its own spirit, which no one can run away from except by sincerely turning to God and following His commands.

I knew my father to be a deep thinker, though he was uneasy articulating it. Lately I've been into some lonely musings myself and realized how painfully eloquent he had been. For those who've seen or heard of his morbid end, I hope they didn't miss the point. In life or in death, there is no real meaning beyond God.

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