ECHOES OF THE UNHEARD

DAWN OF VERSES

Friday, June 1, 1990

Dear Diary,

I am in my favorite spot in the room. My sister, Natalia, is still sleeping on the bunk above. I don't know why I woke up so early. It's only 6:15 AM, and the alarm isn't set until 7. Why do I say this is my favorite spot? I'm sitting on the edge of the bed, gazing at the tulip Granny brought me last year. This morning, I woke up with one or two verses in my mind, and it was too compelling not to jot them down in my notebook. The approach of summer always lifts my spirits, and I find myself eager to write poems about flowers. Poetry helps me escape my melancholic feelings. Sometimes, I try to discuss these feelings with Mom, but she doesn't seem to understand. She thinks my sadness stems from missing my father and not socializing with girls my age.

Finally, the alarm clock rang, and Natalia caught me writing. "Good Lord, are you really up to this so early?" she exclaimed. Even at breakfast, Mom noticed the sudden shift in my mood but also that I was unusually quiet. She asked if I was in love. As strange as it might sound, at that moment, a couple passed by outside; the man brazenly grabbed his lady's behind. I quickly looked away. No, this wasn't what I envisioned love to be. For me, love is something sweeter and more tender, perhaps as simple as being given a flower.

I yearn to become a poet, not for fame, but to convey the true essence of love. I don't care much for hanging out with friends. In fact, I don't have many. My only friend is Liv. She possesses a soul as sensitive as mine and plays the piano beautifully. Liv is the most generous person I've ever known. Perhaps, in this cruel and unfair world, poetry is my only refuge.