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Missing last year’s November and December posts smashes my heart. I failed with my own discipline. I could use the excuse of the university workload, but I do not think it is fair. I have had free times then in which I could have written some words, some thoughts even, but I did not. It was my own reflection of losing the self.
The previous months have been a typhoon season to me. I had to adjust, and still am adjusting, with the new university system, course, and environment. I had mentioned on a post before that I was studying Broadcast Journalism, but the light of life guided me towards another sea. Nowadays, I juggle with history, politics, economics, and law, and it has never been a happy ride. But I found out one thing I could almost be proud of: I never knew I have a warm fondness towards these subjects.
So far, my adventure in this new age has been nothing, but exhausting, thrilling, and fulfilling. With all the demands of the written, academic words to be read, studied, digested, and reviewed, I lost the time to dedicate myself to my fiction universe. And I do not think you, my dear reader, have the true idea how disappointing and heartbreaking this is.
I miss the flow of my words—the way I swim across my thoughts and think of the various graces of euphoria in my veins. All I have before my eyes, and on my table, are technical words of the reality I have to face. These foreign words have never drugged me the way the fiction words do. But I have grown to love each of them. And I do not have the reason to even shy away from them.
This year started with an exam on sociology and politics. But the pulses of my heart called out my name to write its love, again. This is what I would like to do—to create a special space for the fiction words without compromising with its new friend in the academic world. And I do hope I can manage that.
I had no post about my 2017 time, just like before. Definitely, I miss writing about those, but I figured, my words would not cause fire like it did before. I have to train my fingers, pens and papers, and head again to write in a way the river rushes. And I pray it begins here.
I wish to you, my dear reader, a warm embrace, a rain of loyalty to the letters I write, and a box of luck this year.
WORD COUNT: 436
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.
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