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Poetic attempts.

For most of my Saturday, I was stuck at home reading Marlowe and Raleigh's "bickering" on love by way of the iambic tetrameter. I'm not really much of a poet -- actually, no, I'm not a poet at all, period. I cannot write poetry to save my life, even if I wanted to. In fact, I think I am the antithesis of poetry. There is nothing poetic about me, which is tragic, considering I am a CW major. I guess I have to thank the gods of Fiction and Non-fiction for saving my literary ass.

But I did do something close to poetic and that is getting myself a knitted top from Freeway's National Artist Collector's Series featuring Jose Garcia Villa. It has the poem "Farfelu" on the back and can be worn as either a top or a mini dress. I will put myself under the illusion that maybe wearing clothes with poems on them will rub off on me physically, then eventually mentally and emotionally. Ooh, I hope the gods of Poetry somehow repay me for this one day. There should be points for effort.

Since I am hardly ever poetic, I can never give anyone the satisfaction (or humiliation) of getting poems from me. Not even songs. Nope, not for Valentine's, for birthdays or other special occasions -- expect nothing. My words find other means of being coherent: they come together in sentences, not verses. I can, however, give someone the humiliation (or satisfaction) of being mentioned in this blog through perfectly adequate nonfiction: an anecdote.<br /> <br /> The other night, I couldn't fall back asleep after having awoken at one in the morning. I can blame it on stress messing up my body clock, or my body missing my dorm bed, or my thoughts cluttering my mind but nonetheless I watched a movie in my iPod to free my head of all the weariness. Finally, I dozed off but not without the stress. I dreamed I was in the passenger seat, driving around the Oval, feeling frustrated and tired. It felt like I just had an exam or a paper to rush, and I was physically and mentally bruised. But as the rain slowly sprinkled the windshield to make up for the tears welling up in my eyes, he whose hands rested on the stirring wheel pulled over just in between Melchor and Malcolm Hall to hug me.<br /> <br /> I woke up, feeling like it wasn't a dream. The rain, the setting, all the other elements were poetic. Even the words. But it wasn't just a dream. And I know. Though set in slumber, it was creative nonfiction at its finest.