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Criaturas del cine: personas que se ven atraídas por el cine. Viven el cine, respiran el cine, son criaturas del cine. 
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sábado, 27 de octubre de 2012

The rain

Is there anything better for writing than rain? Not for me... Me and rain have a special sort of relationship. It was apparently pouring the night I was born (not strange at all for an October day in the tropics) and the rain has a calming effect on me. I'm not sure if it has anything to do with my birth but I've always like to make those connections.

I have been writing about it, in fact, for a creative writing class I am taking in school. It's supposed to be an autobiography that gets fiction elements added to it. Most of my class mates started writing cute autobiographies about how they went to school, when they met their best friend, their parents, their first love, some of their college life. When the teacher asked me to read some of mine to her she smiled and asked me how old I was (I look about uh... 15) and when I said I was 25 she quickly understood. Now, I am not saying all 19 year old people that write are amateur little twats (I know I for one didn't consider myself so) but hey, not everyone started writing seriously before the age of 10... Most people don't.

Anyway, she was surprised that I had barely if touched upon the first three months of my life for my autobiography. I based it all on the moment of my birth and the three months that followed. I wrote about pain and I wrote about rain. The two constants in my life.

I loved writing that little tid bit, however because (believe it or not, seeing as you're reading a blog about me, written by me) I hate writing about myself and my life. Mostly because between the ages of 17 and 21 I made sure I let people know how little I cared about myself. Ah yes, my teenage years were a blur I sometimes wish I could forget.

Truth is, I didn't really know who I was and what I wanted to be until very recently. I wasn't one of those teenagers with their whole future planned out from the age of 16. I had no idea who I was and what I wanted to do with my life. I felt lost and confused and just thinking about my emotions makes me cringe. So, I hate writing about me and myself (mostly because I have been known to consider myself a pathetic human being). But, upon taking the assignment of seriously writing about me I realized that it's those things (those horrible, horrible things) about me are what make me unique. Without them I would not have reached the age of 25 and been able to say: I finally know who me is. And the more I wrote the more I realized that I was able to describe the whole of me basing myself off a simple little fact: I was born into a world of physical pain and it was thundering the night I did.

If it took me 24 years of horribleness to get to the point where I can describe myself in a sentence then... I guess it was all worth it wasn't it?

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