Thursday, July 12, 2007

The Chronicle of Change

I have been contemplating on creating my own blog for some time, but I never really found the time nor the drive to do it.

I am always either up to my neck with work, or too tired, or too darn demotivated - there are always a million reasons!

I guess things have changed - as they do all the time. And really, if there's ever going to be a theme to this, it will have to be change - the strongest and the only constant force in nature.

So here begins the chronicle of my life and times, the chronicle of change.


  1. To change or not to change. That is the question.Hehe. :)
    We often hear people telling us not to change...
    the way they knew or liked us or the way they want to believe we are. But as you've said, change is the only thing constant in this world. It's inevitable. It just becomes a problem when along the way, people would come up to you and say, "uy nagbago ka na" as if you've become so conceited or unapproachable. Such change is of different sort. So whatever change or changes you will have to go through in your life, i hope it would be for the better.

  2. Ruthie my muffin honey, change is always good. It's the one word that sums up my life. Hehe. And you can be sure that the changes I go through in life always end up for the good of me and of those around me. Miss you. See you soon.


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The Chronicler's Creed

Where there's water and sun, where there are friends to see or new people to meet, where there's something new to learn, experience, or do, where there's life, there I will be.


Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.

And it was at that age... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I do not know, I do not know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I do not know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

- An excerpt from LA POESÍA (Poetry) by Pablo Neruda