I noticed this blog is having its biggest downfall since its birth three years ago. Blame it all to its writer who seems to have lost all his sentences when he tried doing a headstand in one of the metro's weekend waterhole. So I guess apologizing is in order.
But then when I started blogging, I was not a fulltime writer unlike now. So writing became too taxing that no more I consider it something therapheutic. I'm just too tired of fact-checking, interviews, plain thinking and then facing a blank computer screen with a ticking bomb inside my head as my deadline.
The good news is I found a new way to go around writing. I'm into poetry now, which is hard, but I always love the challenge. Sometimes I get frustrated reading works of those young poets, some even way younger than me, for I find them achingly beautiful. I just couldn't find the soul of my words yet. I suspect it is lack of inspiration, a muse to drive my heart, mind and fingers in complete sync. But I'm in no mood finding a muse. Or entertaining one.
Music is always there to help. I'm in love with Florence + The Machine and recently I discovered Angus and Julia Stone. I listen to them all the time especially on my way home as the slow hum of the car's engine making its way out of the city and the flashes of street lights blurring provide the best brooding background.
I'm also thinking of going back to writing music but my piano keyboard at home, apparently, is not in the perfect condition for it since the lowest C is no more working. Most of the times I work on Bb so it would really be a bother. It's a shame, really. Last night while walking along the driveway that leads to the house I had a melody inside my head but I lost it as soon as I took of my clothes. It never came back though.
The "Project Hot Bod" isn't working exactly as I had hoped for. Sometimes I suspect my chest and tummy area were sloppily made by God. Or He forgot to iron it out before letting me go and proceeded immediately to the next hot guy behind me.
But enough blaspheming. The fault must be entirely mine. I just can't stop munching chocolates and cakes and diving onto a gallon of ice cream. Eating sweets is the best stress buster to me and its taking a huge toll in producing the dream beach bod. So I doubled my cardio workout. However, free weights suffered immensely as I'm already too tired to get serious with it. I might be in need of a personal instructor but I have no money for it. Or I might join one of those overly gay group exercises (I think they call it Body Jam or something) but I really hate them. I don't feel like talking or interacting with anyone in the gym.
I can't wait for this election to finish. I will be working 12 to 16 hours for four straight days. I just couldn't imagine the level of stress I'm getting but right now all I'm thinking is to just get over with it.
But I'm also thinking of travelling alone as soon as all these things are done. I'm thinking of going back to Dumaguete and reclaim that innocent thought that dawned on me which said I could be a journalist. I mentioned about this to my mama and naturally, I didn't get her permission. But that's another story.
But I really want to get away alone. Lie down naked under the sun, swim in the open sea, fuck a random stranger under the rain, hitchike, eat with the street dwellers - so many things I want to do only that I have such little time. And little money.
Finestra is the Italian word for "window" and writing this, thankfully, made me able to take a peak inside my messed-up brain after a long time. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to carry all these thoughts, images running relentlessly inside like a storm that won't wane and keeps changing direction. Alas, maybe it's another way to go around writing. Just pour out some of the mind's content. It matters not that the tenses are correct, or the measure is right for the sentence, or the word is properly aligned with the thesis statement, or if there's a coherence even proper punctuations. Maybe one can write without worrying to much. Can I?