Prologue

I was a strange child. I spent countless hours peering out of my bedroom window, observing the world move, yet I was motionless. I would save every movement that I saw; a picture frame imprinted in my memory through a window frame. The irony is I still feel that way; watching the world move on and I’m not moving with it. I am a strange young adult.

I’ve been keeping journals and diaries for the longest I can remember. The main reason for it is the fact that it has always been easier for me to write events or ideas down; rather than sharing them publicly. As I was growing up I always felt like I was being put under pressure constantly. Coming from a family were everybody seemed to be a genius at anything they would set their heart to, made me feel a bit excluded. My grandparent always says, “Your grade point average says a lot about the effort you put into things.” Truth is, I was never the best student and I had a tendency of getting distracted a lot very easily, so it was hard for me to remain focused. I remember being in class and the teacher would be giving instructions, or directions to a certain task, and I would doodle in the margin of my paper; always lost in countless daydreams.

Many people that know me, are aware that I am definitely not a school person; but for some odd reason I always had a deep connection with words, and Literature was the only subject I was outstanding at. Even if English is not my primary language, I always felt a fascination and enchantment that was indescribable every time I would read a story, either for English class or simply for my own amusement. One day I walked into class and my teacher called me to his desk, I immediately thought he wanted to discuss my lack of participation on the previous weeks; instead he went through some files on his computer and lastly he printed out a scholarship application. He wanted me to apply for it based on my writing, and music skills. I clearly remember him saying, “I really want you to apply, I believe you’re a great artist overall and I know you can do this; I believe in you!” I took the form, gave him thanks and smiled. I walked away… I set down on my desk, stared at the paper for at least a good 30 minutes. I had no words, and let me just be clear and say that my G.P.A (grade point average) wasn’t at the time enough to even graduate and get my diploma. How is it possible that someone could have such high hopes when most of the time I feel as if I’m not capable of achieving my own goals? I wasn’t used to the feeling but, it was wonderful for someone to have faith in you. I was there, and in front of me was my future.

Hey there future! So, ummm you tell me what’s next…

I think the most essential part of being a writer is the fact that, we might die more deaths than the average person, but only because we have lived more lives. Poetry is a metaphor for life and humans have worked to reflect our lives in poetry the way other craftsman have left their marks on the world in stone or marble. The effect of poetry as art is similar, and as profound, and often as lasting and durable in its own form. I consider myself to be just another human being, crafted from nothingness, looking for somethingness.

It means imagining I could be my own hero in this story, that for once all it takes is an open mind with paper and pen to leave a legacy behind. That’s what this book is about, “A Step Closer” to become who you want to be, to go where you aspire to go, to be yourself and embrace it, to fall in love with words.

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are we stay alive for”

―Dead Poets Society, 1989