The past two years, I turned out to be less bolder of insisting to myself what I desire to do. We've traveled quite a bit, but I chose not to keep a written record of each sojourn. It was a moment of almost self-serving my ego, hence geared to other direction. In other words, I felt ecstatic outwardly; my eyes and senses were satisfied, but my inner self was not totally at ease, something's amiss: I needed to write. Be it mumbling or rant to others, I needed to write! But I was an old fool to myself. I kept the hunger lingering.

The desire became stolid, the eager left-hand emaciated. Continuing on my denial has taken it's toll on myself. While mentally capturing breathtaking beauty of a new-found place in order to satisfy my inner hunger, I drawn out superficial laughter to show how much I liked the adventure. It was not enough. Inside, I sensed I was mocking myself. Since when did I turn back myself away from it? I used to love tapping my fingers on the keyboard while my mind floats to sea of ideas. I weave words in my dreams. I shape-up stories in my room.


More than two years has passed. Within those couple of years, I was admittedly busier. Hard-pressed with almost everything and loaded with all the realities of life had to offer. It worried me because I was being deceitfully busy. Lately, it appeared in front of me, haunting me, asking me like an orphaned child to his keeper: "Why did you neglect me? You're supposed to feed me, yet you continually ignored me. I have been here all along. Please nourish me!"

If there is indeed a talent or the lack thereof, then I am in denial of it. Yes, I weave fabric of words. But are those adequate to shroud (or not) critical eyes whose every set is set to judge the ability? Or the stories I built up from scratch. Will they satisfy and stack-up to them that 's been flying off of the shelf soon enough? I guess not. I guess not.

In a brief epiphany lately, the ingress of desire has turned out quite strongly. Consequently, a renewed self -commitment was settled: the orphaned needs to be nourished; the fingers has to be more alive; halfhearted laughter has to be reconciled with genuine appreciation of both the ability to admire each travel experience and the courage to write adventure of each sojourn. Doubt has to subdue. I will find time to write.