The rain was falling outside. The class was empty and everybody was gone. I stayed behind. I had a raincoat but rather wished to leave when the rain stopped completely. I tried to write something, maybe an essay. But I didn’t know what to write about. I didn’t think I had the knowledge to write about it. But aren’t essays a personal opinion on a subject? But I wanted to write the right thing. I don’t know what kind of sentimentality is brewing in my mind. I wanted to be right, yet I wanted to write what I wanted. How can I do the two things at the same time? In all honesty, I could only do one at a time.
I like to write. I just like writing what I wanted. Yet I feel these constraints pulling at me, wanting me to take my work a certain direction. Is this for the better or for the worse? I didn’t know, neither I felt I would be getting a definite answer. I want to write what I want. Stories, poems, essays, and ramblings are my most written forms. In them, I try to be honest with what I am feeling. What emotion goes through me, goes through my hand and onto the paper. Very little, I edit what I write. Poems I have left untouched, even the typos undisturbed. They mean something to me. My inexperience. How I started this wonderful activity. If I go back and change them to my present skill, doesn’t everything become cookie-cutter in entirety?
Maybe my mistakes are not mistakes at all. Maybe these are personal touches. Maybe these things tell us we didn’t start easy. There was a time, young and we naive. We didn’t fail that moment. We wrote and maybe, even now in the future, we might look at this very moment and say, “Didn’t I make this wonderful mistake that time?”