So this is how I’ve been spending my days lately — in bed, either reading about fictional passionate affairs in Prague and how we can never step into the same river twice, or typing furiously into an old laptop trying to make sense of, well, everything, really, while blasting sad Icelandic indie music.
I haven’t been out in approximately ten days, and frankly it’s not so bad being a recluse. Then again, what does one do if one is afflicted with wanderlust since birth? At random times of the day I catch myself standing by my bedroom window looking far out, or browsing through invites that come my way, wondering what it’ll be like if I clicked on “going” and find myself with perfect strangers en route Mt. Balagbag or Caramoan Islands one of these days.
There is nothing to hold me back, after all. I find it pathetic that my bed has now become my favorite place in Manila, when months ago if asked I would have rattled off little corners I’ve found by always, always managing to get lost.
I’ve grown to accept that I’m one perpetually confused being, anyway. But it’s the good kind of confusion, I’m always on my toes, wondering. Wandering.
Enough of moping around. It’s been a year. Time to get some air.