We may have been over accustomed of how life looks like through the years, yet like the sun that we see in its rebirth, its meaning would seem to appear like always new.We still wonder.How old is its “age of innocence”? when we start to grab a quill and mirror its definition transcendentally reflected in a tabula rasa?
We never stop to write.
As long as one has breath, as long as the blood is alive as the crimson; as long as one heart beats the rhythm of the soul, one will never run out of ink.
Everything is written. Everything would make sense.
(VMRetumban, March 2008)