Status: On and going. Comments are welcomed. :D
Ink marks waiting to be heard
Intro #1
Je pense, donc je suis.
I think, therefore, I am.
-Rene Descartes
Artists draw, paint and create. Musicians sing, play and compose. Poets, writers and authors write. Every piece created, every piece that can be seen, heard, read and felt by the heart contains a piece of their soul. However much they try to hide it, try to deceive themselves, parts of their souls, parts of themselves are already a part of their works.
High school. You are taught the things you never knew. Either you learn the hard way or you remember the steps by heart. It starts with the ring of the bell and ends with the ring of the bell.
Each day begins with hope that the dismissal bell rings soon enough. Teachers will be teachers, droning voices amidst the quiet murmuring. Students will be students, knee-deep in homework and head-deep in stress.
Sometimes in the middle of the day, I would look at the fellow students around me and wonder, do they know what’s beyond the school walls, beyond the books and homework, beyond the tests and examinations? Sometimes, I really wonder, are they really prepared for life?
Constant flipping of books. What really goes in?
The droning of the lecturer. Is that a bee I hear?
Within this bleak, concrete building, there are dreams soaring. Amidst the sea of faces, there are dreams and hopes to soar and fly. That cannot be contained in anything, not books, not sums, not even words. Why aren’t we taught how to survive?
School doesn’t teach us how to mend a broken heart.
School doesn’t teach us how to love.
School doesn’t teach us how to stand strong through the rain.
School doesn’t teach us how to be true friends.
School doesn’t teach us how to chase our dreams, disregarding the flow.
I think, therefore, I am.
-Rene Descartes
Artists draw, paint and create. Musicians sing, play and compose. Poets, writers and authors write. Every piece created, every piece that can be seen, heard, read and felt by the heart contains a piece of their soul. However much they try to hide it, try to deceive themselves, parts of their souls, parts of themselves are already a part of their works.
High school. You are taught the things you never knew. Either you learn the hard way or you remember the steps by heart. It starts with the ring of the bell and ends with the ring of the bell.
Each day begins with hope that the dismissal bell rings soon enough. Teachers will be teachers, droning voices amidst the quiet murmuring. Students will be students, knee-deep in homework and head-deep in stress.
Sometimes in the middle of the day, I would look at the fellow students around me and wonder, do they know what’s beyond the school walls, beyond the books and homework, beyond the tests and examinations? Sometimes, I really wonder, are they really prepared for life?
Constant flipping of books. What really goes in?
The droning of the lecturer. Is that a bee I hear?
Within this bleak, concrete building, there are dreams soaring. Amidst the sea of faces, there are dreams and hopes to soar and fly. That cannot be contained in anything, not books, not sums, not even words. Why aren’t we taught how to survive?
School doesn’t teach us how to mend a broken heart.
School doesn’t teach us how to love.
School doesn’t teach us how to stand strong through the rain.
School doesn’t teach us how to be true friends.
School doesn’t teach us how to chase our dreams, disregarding the flow.