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The Worth of an 8 Year Old

Few months ago we had an outreach program. The goal? To at least provide children with something to eat, to teach them the word of God, to make them feel that they are not alone.

A kid once approached me and shared his story about how he used to be a homeless kid roaming on the streets of Manila and stealing stuff before moving to the new town. I asked why he did that and this was his answer:

“I know for sure that sniffing rugby or solvent is a bad thing. But I had no choice, it makes me forget that I’m hungry at all. I had no choice. I don’t want to steal anymore because the policemen or the people might just beat me to death. ”

“So those are actually true” I thought, because I have seen a lot of kids saying that on the television.

I tried to hold my tears trying to imagine everything the child has been through and just patted his back. Then, he asked me,

“Am I still worthy of God’s love?”

I burst in tears. I told him about parable of The Prodigal Son. I also told him how precious he is to God.

Now, my colleague just told me that this kid just started attending church.

FACETS OF WRITING

The dance of the river gush

Bearing with grace

A facade to thought

Demanding the plays of the mind

And commanding the attention of the foe

For the melody travels down thw abyss,

Where the soul is gleaming

Canvas of novelty,

Where artistry is born,

And blossoms into a pillar of thought.

Of rebellious temper, sweet optimistic truth

Thay says to innovate is to break barriers

Not just of one mind but of many

A seed of knowledge is planted

A seed that will grow

Into a tree born of inquisitive will.

Making it as the basis for

The dwelling of abstraction

Fundamental in complexity

Yet in solitude within the masses.

Orchestrated medley of chaos,

Lucid, but disorganized several ideas competing for dominance –

The very definition of disarray

Yet on further examination the reader realizes that this,

Expression free of structural restrain,

Is in the true spirit of coherent.

Demanding the courage to endure,

Eternity in the prison of flow,

In the prison of artistry,

In the prison of knowledge,

The strength, forbearance to withhold,

To the patience to unite these entities in spite of it all.

Painting by Derek Magill

Excerpt Entry #2: I Promise

Promise me something,” I asked gently, grabbing a hold of her small hands. The coldness in her is striking against my warmth.

“Anything.”

I take in a deep breath, looking deep into her stormy eyes. It broke me to know that she couldn’t see herself the way that I and the rest of the world saw her; beautiful. Absolutely stunning. Words would never be fit enough to describe her perfectly. “Promise me you’ll never change. My words are warm and light yet they seem to catch her off guard. I can tell by the way her eyes widen, then slightly crinkle with confusion.

The world was a cruel place that exceeded at changing people in twisted ways. I’d seen it happen many times. An innocent girl turned bad because of societies views, a kind hearted boy now spiteful and cold because people demanded for stereotypical behavior. The popular crowd that eats up good people and spits them out as a completely new person.

Our views on how the world works are unreasonable. It’s not society who changes us, but the people that influence us.

“I promise,” she responds quietly with that beautiful smile that never failed to send the butterflies in my stomach wild. I grin back, squeezing her hands in appreciation. She is perfect in every way, and I did’t want her to think she had to change. Society couldn’t get to her, and I wouldn’t let it. “But promise me you’ll never change as well,“ she asks playfully.

Bad Dream

Bad dream, bad dream

Please go away.

I hate the dreams that feel so real.

The ones that get inside your head and drive you so upset.

The ones that have you waking up in tears.

The ones that make your heart ache.

The ones that have you bawling your eyes out long after they’re over.

The ones that have you overthinking in the dead silence of the night.

The ones that make you replay every bad scenario in your life.

The ones that leave a mark on you.

The ones that you can’t shake no matter how hard you try.

The ones that keep you up for hours after.

The ones that have you crying yourself back to sleep.

Sometimes our dreams are scary because they manifest in the darkest parts of our mind.

The parts that we try so hard to tuck away.

They are composed of all the bad thoughts we try so hard to avoid during the day.

Those

are

the

worst

type

of

dreams.