Two days ago, I filled another notebook to its last page. It was the red pocket-sized, non-ruled moleskine that I started on the last week of 2015.
the first two years were easy.
the parts we liked about ourselves
were the ones we picked apart
and admired from up close.
Where words fail, images prevail. A collage is a visual essay. The pen tool is still a pen.
I write for a living and I write to live. These are two things.
let me buy myself
a cup of specialty coffee
or cold-pressed juice
to make up for the fact
After the workshop, nothing feels the same. I am once again understanding a new side of me and the change doesn't creep or crawl. It overwhelms. I look at old pictures to catch a glimpse of my growth and I try to predict what my next portrait will look like. Whatever happens, I can only write about it.
I meant to visit sooner or maybe that's not entirely true.
Today, I was reminded to give credit where it is due. As thorough and thankful I make myself to be, there are moments that still slip past my good graces, and I forget to say a word in thanks
You wake up early but you let me sleep in, even if it means missing dawn patrol again.
Sometimes I think you lose your keys on purpose, because you know I'd know where to find them.
Despite the time I've put into surfing, I am only understanding what surfing is now. It takes years of muscle memory and mindfulness to get into the flow state that all the best surfers have.
If I met a past version of myself today, I wouldn't know if we would get along. Four years ago, I didn't surf. I thought I had my life figured out; but nobody ever does, except the old, the wise, and the satisfied.
Do you remember all the wonderfully confused versions of yourself? Those past selves you now cringe at; those times you thought you failed at being real because you were only as good as you understood-- those are the moments you need to stop feeling sorry for.
The day we drove away from our house in Dalumpinas Oeste, La Union was when I felt it: a sharp stinging in the middle of my chest, as if whatever was in there had snagged onto the door right before we left.
And just when I thought I couldn't fall in love with Gubat any harder, my heart sprung open when I met the kids.
Surfing does not make you pretty. This is what I tell myself when I inspect a new batch of bruises or trace the outline of old scars.