In a Race that Matters

It has been more than two weeks now since I did serious writing. I have not had the momentum to pen my thoughts lately because of the sudden change in our routine and the minor disruption in our life right now as a result of taking a sick family member home with us. I have lost much sleep as well so much so that I need to take my Mosegor Vita again just so I could catch some sleep. It has been a helter-skelter week indeed. Hub has been going to and fro, driving, running some errands, and likewise setting aside for the time being his assignments. I have been on a spin as well, tagging along with him and doing some chores especially in the kitchen. My lovey (writing, what else?) has been placed in the back burner for now.  Indeed, when you lose your train of thoughts because the environment is no longer conducive to writing, it is just difficult to start again. It is like going back to the drawing board once more and exerting much effort to gather one’s thoughts and pen them...

I write because ...  I am not fluent in the spoken word.  My mind will burst if I don't. I am transported to a different plane when I am lost in my world of writing. I can be myself--unplugged, unloaded-- without having to look over my shoulder and care about other people's haughty eyes.  I am fascinated with words and how they can stir images, unravel mysteries, pacify or enrage tempests and bring to life the fallen, cold and dead. I relish squeezing my writing juices until my temples throb (or should I say, am I a masochist?) I can't sing nor dance well enough to get me to the movie industry. I need an avenue to vent the angst, frustrations, joys and challenges I face. I have inner wars to wage, mountains to scale and fears to slay. Words form both a formidable offense and defense army.  I maintain a secret love-affair... with writers I admire, look up to and adore -- the pinoy penman, pat, CDQ. I stopped chasing rainbows. With outstretched a...

I am the voice in my head. I am a mind of juxtaposing ramblings. I am a dormant volcano. I am a sage of old, resurrected from the depths. I am the gavel of my fate. I am a kick, a jolt, a tremor. I am the proverbial black cat lurking in the corner. I am a beehive of inexhaustible honey. I am a garden of fresh roses, tended by the glow and radiance of spring. I am an eternal apprentice –always panting for the answers, always itching, always scrubbing the itch. I am a diamond in the making. I am a wide-eyed kid. I am a squirming earthworm. I am a crushed grape, oozing with a sweet-sour juice. I am an herbal salve. I am a thunder, hidden in a whimper. I am a door slightly ajar. I am a knot untangled. I am a gypsy, a nomad, a voyager coasting along the billowing waves of the seas. I am mommy eagle –sharp-clawed, yet tender-hearted. I am a descendant of Diego Bandido, a progeny of Gabriela Silang, a secret admirer of the great Jose Rizal. I am fruit-king --- spiky on th...