A Reintroduction of Sorts...

My, my, my, how time has passed. If you couldn't already discern, it's been a solid four years since I've been here. I'm not interested in tangling you in the logistics behind my absence (and I'm almost certain you're not either), so I'll just begin anew with somewhat of a reintroduction for those who are new here and for others who just need a refresher pertaining to what it is I do and who I am.

My name is Reki* (REH-kee), and I'm an artist of many mediums; And while my first true loves were the art of song and dance, I found that writing quickly morphed into one of the most paramount aspects of my adolescence and youth/adulthood, and continues to be such a cornerstone of my existence today.

That being said, I'm a published author (via AuthorHouse Publishing). I typically write poems, prose, and songs (many that I've recorded) and sometimes even write essays, though that is usually reserved for this here blog. My debut anthology A Boy Like Me can be purchased here: A Boy Like Me

Perhaps humorously enough, how I stumbled upon the art of expressive writing was really not only by mere accident, but also not something I would have ever imagined manifesting into a career at its inception when I was only 13-years-old (I'm 28 now).

Setting the scene, it was April of 2004. I was upstairs listening to music and playing video games (the upstairs contained my oldest brother Todd's bedroom and a sort of catchall room that could be used for just about anything in which you could think). Well, in-between albums and games, I happened upon some loose leaf paper laying around underneath a chair, as though it was forgotten that it was even there. Naturally, being the inquisitive person I am, I picked it up and began reading. As it goes, it was my older brother Andrew's handwriting, and at the time, he had a girlfriend. Now, when I say that what I read that day transformed me, I mean it from the deepest corners of my fleshly heart and ethereal soul. It was such an effusive and eloquently inscribed LOVE POEM about her. I just remember reading it thrice, unmistakably aphonic, and peering out one of the windows overlooking the massive backyard that he and his friends were in when I discovered it. That being said, what I perceived to be almost paradoxical in this find was that this brother of mine was never all that keen on expressing or even admitting to emotions (thanks Dad and the hyper-masculine "machísmo" culture). Him alone having any sort of romantic involvement incited some kind of disbelief in myself when it was announced, as growing up, I was positive he was incapable. So the fact that this was him made it that much more influential. Alas, Andrew is the catalyst behind my involvement in writing. His poem moved me so much that I had to attempt it myself, in hopes that one day I could produce something of equal or greater emotional value.

When I started the next day, I imitated. I had minimal knowledge behind what I was doing (poetry and creative writing in English class somewhat aided my senses). In fact, I remember reading over what I had written after the first week and seriously considered quitting while I was ahead, I was that unimpressed with what I evoked (I tend to be a little mean to myself). I recall feeling a bit embarrassed, knowing that I was exerting too much effort in the quest to sound profound, and essentially pulling from no personal experience (what is love, right?). And to be honest, that same feeling still reemerges when I revisit those pieces because of the aforementioned. All that aside, somehow, even in all my doubt, my heart enjoyed the idea of still trying.

So I did.

Even if I wasn't good at it, per se, I intuited with time, practice, and lived experience, maybe one day I could be world-renowned. And in all the years of my expressive writing, I've noticed that it has made me more articulate and a better conversationalist. (Ironically enough though, while honing in, in said early years, I harbored somewhat of a complex when trying to verbalize my thoughts, as they never seemed to "come out right," as they say. I could tell you I liked your shirt, but it would come out something like, "your shirt is so peculiar, the way it fits you." In my head it was always different. In people's ears, it was always befuddling.) Nowadays, I could talk until the cows come home. And if I really like you, I'll probably never shut up. *hahahahah*

Who knew that I'd end up here?

I have this unyielding proclivity to write about rejection. I love writing about heartbreak in all its various and somewhat glorious forms. Pain seems to be a recurring theme in all this, as I would argue is the first true emotion that found its way to my inner light. That doesn't go without saying that conversely, I enjoy dabbling in what is opposite of these. In fact, I've been told that some of my best work comes from when I set myself free from the darkness. But I don't know-- there's just something about being fucked up in the heart and in the feelings that really speaks to the truest artist within me. And I can only pray that if you revel in this blog and what I've typed thus far, that my first published collection will give you the same inspiration and feeling my brother Andrew gave me back on that fateful day in April 14 years ago. Maybe I'm finally good enough as myself and not in mimicry. I suppose that only time will tell, right?


Dearest,

Reki*