I settled on reading books I had long abandoned. Like a ritual, I took each one and wiped the dust off the covers. I flipped to marked pages. I tried to recall where I left off. I realized I had left my books too long that I could no longer recall. I had bits and pieces of the stories in them, nothing more. I settled on one of them, Connecting Flights. I resolved to read it cover-to-cover. As I went along, I discovered missing pieces of what I could not remember fully. I discover new stories I had originally skipped. I consumed it within an hour.
I picked up another. Pete Lacaba's Edad Medya. I read a couple of poems. The mood was too somber, I could not go on. I might've triggered depression if I did. Most of my old friends would tell you that I suffer from these episodic bouts of depression, which confused many of them, so much so that I've only managed to keep a handful of them. I picked up The Kite of Stars. Memories began to flood my mind. I knew this book well. It imprinted on me so much that the mere suggestion of it's blue cover with gold lettering triggered memories of the stories the lay within it. I will read it again, when I lacked inspiration. There is no better epitome of so great a love than the kite of stars.I picked up Dream Noises : A Generation Writes
next. I read the first three stories and felt a sadness settle in me. I stopped reading and decided I really had to do something else. I have a writer's heart. My skills are not at par with many of the published kind. But I have the heart of one. I read and I understand. No, I feel the stories. They stir in me the emotions these authors felt when they created these works.I guess this was one of the reasons I stopped blogging, or even writing in general. I did my best work in the most emotionally destitute times of my life. I wasn't the kind that could write the cheery side of everything. I was the kind that fed off my darker side. The sadder I was, the better the prose. I subconsciously begged myself to stop. And stop I did. But you cannot really deny what you are. I need to write again. If only for myself. If only for me to release my demons.
As I started typing this, it started to rain. A light drizzle that belied the true strength of an approaching typhoon. I guess we all need some rain in our life. Otherwise we would not wish for more sunshine, however hot it was..
I finished reading 
, the story has me thinking about me, what it means to be me and how being me affects the people I love. Like many other people, I go through my own troubles. That's maybe why i named this blog as it is titled. Thoughts sometimes go through my head, each opposing side talking whiel the core self listens to both arguments. Often, it's a stalemate. No one side wins over the over. At times one side presents a convincing argument, but the heart of the core self belongs to the other side.
The man, he suspected of being his wife's lover. That turns out to be untrue. But the man touches him with his gift, a unique connection to the universe that conspires to make dreams come true. This man helps him find what he truly seeks. The other woman, girlfriend who loved him so, stayed with him as long as he would have her. She knew he still yearned to see his wife, but she stuck on anyway. Because that was how love was like, it cared not what it received in exchange of what it gave. All along the story he recounts how he hesitated before he started writing. He recounted how he poured his soul into each succeeding book without even knowing it. He pictured how he would write, possessed with a torturous need to finish each book, only finding solace once the book has written itself. He believed a writer was just that, a typist for the book. The book finishes itself. The book always had a life of it's own, revealing itself so the writer could share it's essence in a language men would understand.