July 5, 2025 — Saturday, 8:00 PM
Sometimes, you just need a classic to reignite the spark in your creativity. I watched Dead Poets Society again, and this time, I understood it on a much deeper level. The plot, the characters, the script—it all hit differently. That line—“Carpe Diem,” and of course, “O Captain, my Captain!”—still gives me chills. I’ve come to appreciate the wisdom behind, “There’s a time for daring and a time for caution, and a wise man understands which is called for.”
But the one that lingers most is this:
“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. Medicine, law, business, engineering, they sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love… these are the things we stay alive for."
"What will your verse be?"
Lately, I’ve been missing poetry. Not just reading or writing it—but the whole experience of being inside it. The days before AI tools like Grammarly existed, when writing felt less polished but more alive. I remember those late nights, eyes strained under a dim lamp, just to hear the “melody” of crickets or to draw something out of the moonlight. I used to romanticize everything. Maybe I still do.
Looking back, I think I was always a bit “different.” I didn’t get it at first when people called me weird. But I was just quiet, contemplative. Most of the time, I was stitching words in my head, forming metaphors out of mundane things. Even when the poems didn’t rhyme or the structures were a mess, I loved them anyway. They were raw. Messy. Real. They came from a place of both brokenness and happiness, sometimes from quiet laughter, sometimes from deep groans and tear-streaked prayers.
I miss being that girl in the library, scribbling poetry and personal letters. I miss those 3 AM moments, searching for glue sticks and scraps of old magazines for my journal. I miss those offline blogs—unfiltered, unstyled. The messy handwriting. The unsent letters. Some of them even ended up burned while “Teardrops on My Guitar” played in the background. (Yes, Taylor Swift still makes me laugh-cry.)
That young girl has grown up now. But it’s strange, I feel like the pieces from back then are somehow finding new life. Who would’ve thought that the dream of writing for an aesthetic blog would come true one day? Thank God for his heaven-sent people, really, sometimes God passes us to one another.
Sometimes I wonder, would I just live simply in the woods? Maybe writing, journaling, reading… Teaching once in a while? It sounds so peaceful. So right. Maybe I’ve been trying too hard to chase a version of myself that I thought the world wanted and needed. But deep down, I’m still just that girl who finds comfort in ink and paper. Who’s in awe of creation? Of a God who writes stories, who redeems them, one by one, until we become like the One He sent.
Maybe life isn’t about trying to change the world or leave a big legacy.
Maybe it’s just about drawing closer to Him.
Not performing. Not proving.
Just abiding.
Simply wanting Him.
Letting every breath, every word I write, be a quiet offering—
because the way I feel about writing…
It’s just the same as breathing.
In the same way, I must learn to see life:
that living simply means abiding in God.
And as I abide in Him,
I begin to hear the quiet calling again.
The pause between the lines.
The breath.
The spaces.
The quiet worship.
The art and the creativity.
The spark.
The hope.
The comma,
The search for what I truly long for,
until I find myself once more,
swimming in words.
The weapon I’ve held for so long… yet somehow keep forgetting.
The journals...
Perhaps they’ve always been the quiet calling I was too busy to hear.
So here I am, in this old space again—breathing, writing, and abiding.
