pattern recognition

quite odd, to recognize a pattern that has been staring at you for the longest time possible in ones life and only realize its true shape now.

admittedly, i have created a lot in my life, and when you talk about my poetry, even others would tell you that i have written thousands. though i also have to admit that only 1 out of every 10 poems that i create passes my own very rigid standards. the remaining nine are like practice, exercises, though it is frustrating sometimes when a work that i am not satisfied with ends up being liked, loved, admired by those who read it. i mean, why did they see that i, the creator, did not? i see clearly the flaws of the work, and yet all they could see is that it touches them, and they love it. ashamed, though i try to hide it well, i shape my face into a smile and accept their words. partly im happy, much more sad.

of course, there is that thought that is always at the back of my mind about creation, that once released into the outside world, the creator does not have anything to do with it, that it has to survive alone on its own merits, with no connection whatsoever or help from me. and it saddens me to think that i give birth to a lot of sons and daughters with missing legs and arms, blurred faces, undecipherable names. the woes of guilt!

perhaps it is i who missed things and not those who read my poems. perhaps it was my eyes whose windows have been living under a blanket so wide that i no of no other else but that. perhaps. but there is something that i have seen that some have been mistaken with.

many have thought that because i have written so many poetry, most of them concerning the best and the worse when a man and a woman comes together (i wonder if any other mortal topic could beat this) does it mean that i know a lot about love itself. and yes, the pattern i recognize is that i do not know a thing about love, that i have been blind to the praises and the shapes that wanted to be free inside of me.

i do not know anything about love. true. and it was scary at first to admit to myself. felt alone in the world, a feeling that i thought i have forgotten.

but it is true, and afterwards, i smiled. yes, i smiled because i somehow recognized my stupidity.

i wrote a lot about "love" because i did not know what it was. all of the other works were searches, excavations and flights to regions in search of the elusive thing itself. out of 10 love poems, only one had a shred of truth about it, faint traces.

and now, i have to learn what "love" really is. like a child.