After quite a while I find myself a proper weekend—48 hours all to myself. April has been generous with exciting projects and charming men (heck I met Jojo Lastimosa and R2 Tolentino), as well as sweet gifts. The days were long and oh so good. Tiring, yes, but how can you stop when the world is in a kind mood.
May, only two steps into the calendar, seems determined to take on the role of being cruel. Whatever euphoria I experienced the previous month was instantly snatched. I was hurled back to the sad fact, that these instances of happiness are simply that: instances, now memories. All this aggravated by the heat (we're under a 29-degree weather as of this moment).
I spent half of Saturday afternoon composing a letter to someone that angered me the previous day. Before sleep and as soon as I woke up, my mind was filled with this fresh frustration and I couldn't just let is pass. But neither could I make a phone call and confront this person, no. I would simply destroy their rest and I might say something I would regret. Besides, I wasn't quite sure yet what I wanted to say.
So I wrote. As many would agree, writing is discovery, understanding. Once thought is complete and truth, captured, the nebulous feelings and fragments of ideas take a solid form. A new knowledge is in your hands.
The composition took three hours and four pages. As soon as I finished I felt better and divested of that need to send said letter. It wasn't a case of hiding, but of learning how to handle a weapon that must be used when the occasion arises.