the rise of shakespeare wannabe

I always desire to be a poet, a calibrated versifier perhaps, a bard maybe, or an artiste as a whole? Hehe. For me, writing is one of the most noteworthy ways of appearance. Writing is preeminence, it somehow nourished my core. I always keep my old notepad with me since when I was seventeen years young. The covers washed out and tarnished by time, and the edges of its pages were torn by book vermin. The smell of every page stinks as if it was sheltered in a coffin for more than a thousand years. Nevertheless, its appearance doesn’t count the most. I always considered my notepad as my most prized possession. Its materials were only made up of inexpensive paper, cut into pocket-sized pad so as to reveal its novel-like aura. Every stroke of its epistle still lurks in my mind (poems, words of wisdom, short story etc.) as I recall every flash of its boldness. Every stroke represents experienced. Every stroke symbolizes courage. For nine years of concealed-poignant-writing, I can proudly reckon some of my masterpieces, which has been created with untainted courage. Sometimes I scribble words that are infrequent to my conscious psyche (the reason why I always carry my pocket-sized-lexicon with me). There are times I question my “being” why I engaged myself in therapeutic field where in fact my compassion dominates more on inscription (journalism is my first choice course actually)…I never measured myself as an excellent writer, its just simply I carved phrases whatever goes into my cerebrum. Every time I took a glimpse of my wonderfully-molded notepad, I never thought I could create such piece of art. Maybe in the future I could fabricate “bread” out of my notepad, who knows I can be like Shakespeare too. Hehe…All I can say is… writing is my life and it will always be.