Travels, the reality and fantasies

In the span of less than a month, I’ve been to many different places, felt so many different kind of feelings, both familiar and strange, and have been mostly grateful and inspired.

From Tarsiers, Chocolate Hills, and the ruined churches of Bohol to Asia’s largest Balete Tree, Sabang Beach, and the Mother Falls that can all be found in Baler, Isabela Province. The next weekend, I went to see another falls and another awesome beach in Puerto Galera in Mindoro, just right before I went back to the country I’ve always loved for some reasons, Singapore.

I didn’t care if going to these places meant spending my hard earned savings. I could still earn them anyway. What I can’t have back are the great memories I have collected during those separate journeys, moments that I will try to remember vividly in my mind for as long as I could, that I will try to chase even if time flies as quickly as the sand forms into a different shape after the sea passes by the shore, every millisecond.

Honestly, I haven’t written so many things the past weeks. I have been wanting to. I just seemed to struggle to find the right words to put into my writings. I have searched far and wide, went to new places, met new people, hoping that finally, my mind would find the exact dose of peace and battling thoughts that could be translated into an art. I did find remarkable places as well as interesting people though. It’s just that, sometimes, the transitions are bitch and everything changes in the blink of an eye while it takes so long for me to absorb things because I just feel so much. Now, I feel I’ve been chasing so many words, those that exploded in my box of thoughts and just when I could already use some of them, they seem to have faded already.

I feel so much and my astonishment about certain things, moments, and new people, they don’t easily die down that when I go back to my usual routine, I try to breathe them in and out like a bittersweet promise, as if I’m longing to see them again, feel them again, experience them again in the future amid despair and hopelessness. Until all the right words fade, the night arises, and I move to the next chapter of my life, without any written proof that they did exist in real life, not just in my imagination.

The thing about being a writer, I am obsessed with words—seas, mountains, books, love, music, ocean, wind, shore, bench, trees, sky, beer, birds, wood, sand, alcohol, hostel, blue, electric, green, alcohol, scent, rain, poems, and sex. They dictate my emotions, spin my world, and fuel me. I’m a conflicted soul of million nouns, verbs, and adjectives.

To each place I go, I search for word in the tiny fragments of my past, my present, my future that could best fit it. Words are mostly the subject of my frustrations. I want to write everything. I want to write about Baler, Puerto Galera, Singapore, and so much more. I want to write about people, moments, and feelings. I am addicted to details, its intricacies and broadness. I don’t know. It is just so hard to forget about these things and let myself go out into the wild of purposeless freedom. It’s impossible, especially now that I just figured out within myself, that maybe, I could dedicate this lifetime for an endless travel and write about it. I’m not too ambitious, no?

madelaine miraflor

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