A little kid inspired me to write this. Wish I could tell him. Maybe some other day.


I wish to be busy. Not the corporate ladder racing, money chasing, all work no sleep kind of busy. I’d like to be busy like a child. That child who’s playfully chasing butterflies and ants, hugging and talking to the pet, getting distracted every few minutes, building imaginative castles. And at sun’s exit, finally sleeping tired, with a smile, eagerly looking forward for the next day. I wish to be busy.



The violin rested in the corner, gathering dust. Grand piano sulked alone in the middle of the stage. Those dark drapes shut them from the world. Perfectly stitched musical notes of the two once filled up the entire hall. Now all they wished for was their masters to get back together, make music and put this painful hiatus to rest.


It’s sunday. She’s going to visit today. I wish I could tell her how I feel. That I have fallen in love with her, her troubles, tears and eyes. Morals and duty dictate that I shouldn’t tread this path. But something unknown is giving me strength to finally express my love today. Waiting in this confession room, I am, the Father of this Church.