I hate confessions. I mean, the church thing we Christians go to every Lenten season? I hate disclosing myself to anybody, you know. Writing in this blog is a sort of a revelation on my part. And I think that we don’t really need priests to hear our every blunder. All we need to have is someone with listening ears (and reading eyes for this matter?).
Confession comes from the Latin word confessionem meaning “acknowledgment.” All right, so in this blog, you’ll read all sorts of acknowledgment: an I-owe-it-all-to-myself sort of drama–thoughts, musings, experiences that make up the entire ME.The pathos, so to speak.
People see me as a silent type of person. I consider myself a wallflower. I don’t talk a lot. I choose my friends. Yeah, I don’t talk a lot, even to my family. My little brother is right when he told his theology teacher that between him and me, I am the quieter one. But then, being quiet and being silent are two entirely different concepts. At least for me. Me being a quiet person is just an impression. If you try to scour my brain and dissect my heart, you’ll be appalled at how much these organs contain the ores of my emotions and imaginations. Then again, you don’t need to do that. Coz I’ll be scouring and dissecting myself. IN YOUR FACE. I’ll be disquieting the quiescence and expunge all that I feel and think in the most honest manner as possible.
I AM A WALLFOWER. AND THESE ARE MY CONFESSIONS.