I hardly write this aspiration on these pages. Maybe, I have dropped a line or two on Twitter, where random thoughts are easier to publish because there is no need to create narratives to support the idea. In my deepest yearning, if I were to choose a way to live, I would like to be a travel writer: someone, who creates vivid images with words and paragraphs to describe what the eyes can see. To this day, I refuse to part with the idea, knowing too well that I may never have the clarity of thought to tell a story that pleases my taste. For I have this habit of artistic self-flagellation, of finding this odd pleasure of looking down at my own works, ashamed to let it out in public.
This thought is just between you (blog) and me (writer), and you know what is strange? I never had this doubt before, when I can still switch between writing in Filipino and English, sometimes, even mixing the two languages together in one essay. I guess times have changed, and I am paying the price for setting up the benchmark too high, that my own free time cannot afford it. With instant gratification I enjoy on social media, and more work asked for the raketship, I have little reason to believe that long-form artistic writing - for pleasure - is just a memory. If I were to endure this literary eclipse, I will have to change my storytelling style to something closer to once was the less uptight writer in me.
With two successive posts published this November, it is my hope that the time of de-flowering has again resumed.