I wanted to write a story but I had no pen and paper at the time. I had my phone, but I guessed it’d be too long for my phone, so I didn’t type a thing. I figured my ideas would stay intact. I figured that this time, maybe my thoughts would stay in place and not float away along with that beautiful scenery before my eyes. But it did. The ideas are still fresh in my mind, yes, but the words. Oh the beautiful perfect words I had so carefully chosen to describe every inch of that scene, every single detail narrated to perfection. They’ve all gone and escaped me. They’ve all gone to dust, blown along with the wind fighting against the jeepney full of people from different classes, of different ages, of different meaning but of the same purpose. The perfect scene of life at it’s simplest and most basic. Each passenger had a story in my mind and they all had endings. My imagination rooted out of my mind and I could see the characters of my story come to life. But now, all I have are little patches of that reality, some in technicolor and some just plain scribbles and objects moving back and forth. I feel like a failure. I feel empty. I feel sad. A good story has fled me once again and all because I didn’t have a pen in hand, nor had the initiative to type it in my phone.

A story should be written. It should not just stay in one’s mind. Else it will fade and crumble and if reconstructed will never be the same technicolor again.

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