Writing has always been a passion of mine. You see, I’m not the most talented person out there, but i guess my tongue is good with rhymes… And letters, sentences and paragraphs. In fact, I have the urge to write like all the time, but when people ask me why, suddenly, thoughts fill up inside and I become tongue-tied. I used to answer with a statement, “I write to forget.” But no. Now I know.

Now I’ve come to realize that my answer was a lie for experience have unfolded itself between my eyes, and I became well acquainted with life.

Writing doesn’t make us forget; writing is to remember.
Writing is not a delete button for that time you were crying in December. Writing is not a trash bin for all the times you’ve cried on your way home, cold and shivered.

Writing doesn’t make us forget; writing makes permanent.
Writing is putting down life into paper, trapping your monsters inside so you’ll feel safer. Writing is locking your demons between the spaces of stringed letters, drowning them into thick ink.

Writing doesn’t make us forget; writing is building.
Writing is making your own utopia with the memories you’d like to keep, even sometimes the ones that made you weep. Writing is designing a structure, sometimes monuments that hold your best victories, sometimes tombstones that hold your worst tragedies.

But most of all, writing is individuality.
Writing is knowing you have the power to make your own reality, to empower that long-dreamed fantasy. Writing is beautiful because it considers you. It gives you a scepter in a form of a pen, and for once in your life, you have the power.

Why does the past haunt us?
Why does it come by your door
With fast knocks
And each beat echoes the one in your chest
Why does it hold you captive,
finding you in your most vulnerable state
Points your face into the mirror
And when you look it's not you that you see.
You see the bruises
You see the tears
You see the scars.
You see the fears
You see the flaws
And imperfections
And losses
And it tosses you around you think you might go crazy.
You look at the image and it pulls you in.

The past
The past has gone
But it goes by
The past should be forgotten
But it does not
It lingers somewhere in you, creeping inside you.
Hiding in the very space of where your soul lies.
The worst thing is
At that moment
when it knocks on your door
It's you who opens it
It's you who let it enter
You're to blame
Because you let it
Into your mind
And into your soul
As if it were invited
Because you let it sit
In the parts of you that wish to rest
Because you let it fill all your hollow spaces
And it slowly traces
Your lines, both straight and not.
And not too soon you've been consumed by
The past

The past is in you
And you want it gone
It lingers
It stays
And you hate it
How do you get it out of a vessel that has become its home?
How... That is the question.

And your choice is the answer

Do you let it stay?
Or do you push it away
Try to flush it out of your system
Try to forget it
And put it where it belongs
The past.  It belongs in the past.
It belongs in itself.
It is destined to end where it starts
It is destined to circulate in its very limits
The past is designed to be put back
To be in the past.
The past belongs in the past.

I tell myself
Again and again
The past is in the past
The past is in the past
But sometimes my bad grammar visits and i say
The past was in the past
The past was in the past
But then again no, I scream.
Put it where it belongs

I may never be a victor in this war against the past,
but I know this.
I am the present.
You are the present.
We are something the past could never reach
We are the very thing the past dreamed to be
Or dreaded to be

We are the nightmare of the past
We are stronger than the past.
You and I
Trust me.