jar of poetries

on the afternoon of December

“You can’t really write if you feel like you have to write,” he said, snatching the pen from my hand.


In December, it was a gloomy afternoon when I decided to visit the nearest coffee shop in town. Everyone was busy for the yuletide season, and as I sat on a chair overlooking the transparent window, I have seen some people passing by with their shopping bags on. Couples are in holding hands. A child holding his dad’s arm. All of them were wearing masks.


As I sat there feeling cold, I realized that I had already been thinking about writing a topic for quite a few minutes, but I hadn’t. Writer’s block?


I don’t know.


Just like the cold breeze of the December in the afternoon, the business of everyone in the street, and the masks clad on the people’s faces, it dawned on me. It dawned on me that my mind was on that realm of December afternoon.


Cold.


Mess.


Covered.


Clouded.


It was a December afternoon, indeed.


“You can’t really write if you feel like you have to write,” he said, snatching the pen from my hand.

hebrews 11:16

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