The Reincarnation of Menard's Pen

"Life they say is full of mysteries... It is from God- the Mysterious One."

I think that it is the reason why when I face a new horizon in my life, I feel like groping in a limbo of confusion... afraid to stumble and fall. But with faith and optimism, I'm enthusiastic to journey the arena of life... go, explore, discover, and live with the meaningful treasures... transcending the unfathomable mysteries of life...

Being the Associate Editor for External Affairs of the Voice Publication of Notre Dame of Dadiangas College (now University) in School Year 2005-2006, I worked with the Director of Student Affairs- Ms. Marites Esteva whom I consider my sister, friend, adviser, listener and mom. When I submitted a letter to her involving the name of a certain administrator, she said "Menard, mali ang spelling ng name ni..." Then, I told her " Ma'am puedi e-change ko using correction fluid and handwritten nalang?" She replied, "Ok lang man, pero puedi iba lang ang magsulat?" I smiled... I knew then since Grade 1 that my penmanship is bad! Discrimination to my handwriting isn't a new story anymore! Perhaps, only Zea Raiza Pidut appreciates my chirography. She says, "Meng, hindi naman pangit ang penmanship mo... The right term for it is ARTISTIC!" I still don't know until now if it was just my friend's way of comforting me or another way to insult me. Anyway, I love ZEA!

As I grew up, I had seen the contradictions on earth. So, I grew up also believing that my bad penmanship could be turned into a positive factor for my existence. This faith somehow turned into fate... Perhaps, when I thought of it, a star decided to fall just to make it happen.

I started writing during high school. I composed poems dedicated to my crushes. Aside from it, I had been requested to make orations and scripts for stage plays, masters of ceremonies and the likes. This was not just a passion but mainly an outlet of my mysterious emotions under the excruciating curse of identity crisis. Also, this had been my outlet as an orphaned child at the age of 14. In solitude, I had been drinking coffee all night long while enjoying the art of writing poems and other literary pieces.

When I was in college, writing became not only an outlet and passion, but also a responsibility. I actively played important roles in the official student publication of the school. We call it opportunity, power, prestige, fame, leadership, advocacies... we call it the VOICE! Writing then was more than just passion. Our slogan which is from CEGP even says, "To write is already to choose." It was all about responsibility to respond to the challenges, concerns and events in the school, the entire country and the world. It was so meaningful then... thinking that a writer is an agent of social transformation by affecting positive change from a small community going into a wider world.

My pen died as my attachment to responsibility faded. I'm not anymore part of any publication. I'm an educator... molding lives... building futures. My profession is equally important and meaningful. Yet, my passion to write is still in my nerves. I don't have much time for writing anymore. If I will be composing articles, I would rather rest and wake up as a cool teacher tomorrow.

But now, I have to write and I need to write because I'm infected by a venomous mystery called LOVE. My friends call it insanity! But then, if love is insanity, who is still sane at this very moment!? I would rather define LOVE as a state of thermodynamic equilibrium. That is how Miriam Defensor Santiago defined DEATH. Yup... I just have equated love into death. I'm suffering right now and I call myself pathetic. But this is a different death! I die each day because I allow myself to suffer such premature death in exchange for its magical effect... the tingling sensation in my spine...

But who can and will understand me! I am enmeshed into a primitive society practicing unjust culture. The people here have no brain cells for the rhythm of my heart. Definitely, they have barbaric ways of defining happiness and love. However, I'm still thankful for some who have tolerance for my music. Perhaps, when there was a precipitation of this kind of love, it penetrated their veins.

And that makes me sick. But it makes me happy as well... The person who can make me happy is the same person who can inflict pain in my terrestrial existence. And it goes on each day. I smile, feel excitement, and become sad. Worst thing, it makes me alive 24 hours. Love infects me more than drugs do.

Really speaking, because of love, my pen is reincarnated. The cycle is back again. My passion to write is burning again. It is not about responsibility. It is about healing my poor soul with aching heart enmeshed under a primitive culture.

This is the new birth of my pen.