I wrote "Senses" back in 2008. I had ended my UAAP track & field days, and was still sulking from the pain of losing. I was jobless and penniless, but I had loads of free time and tons of pent-up emotion. I did as much writing as I possibly can and was able to churn out a couple of [crappy] short stories.
Have you ever had the feeling in the morning of desperately wanting to go back to sleep, to grasp the final glimpses of a wonderful dream? I did. I always do. The boundaries between what was real and unreal seemed blurred within the confines of my mind. I usually wake up at the middle of the night, my mind hazy in thought. I would lie in bed motionless for minutes, sorting out those fantasies and accepting, in a sense, that they were nothing more than figments of the subconscious.
Have you ever had the feeling in the morning of desperately wanting to go back to sleep, to grasp the final glimpses of a wonderful dream? I did. I always do. The boundaries between what was real and unreal seemed blurred within the confines of my mind. I usually wake up at the middle of the night, my mind hazy in thought. I would lie in bed motionless for minutes, sorting out those fantasies and accepting, in a sense, that they were nothing more than figments of the subconscious.
Alone within the four corners of my room, it was like any other Sunday. The streets were more silent, disrupted only by the occasional low hum of a passing car, or the vibrant noises of people going to the nearby Church. Each passing moment was punctuated by the pleasant chirping of unseen creatures. I tried to go back to sleep, but I simply could not.
I have always been the sentimental fool. For as long as I could remember, I actually enjoyed staring blankly at nowhere, as my mind drifted to some faraway place. Life and life's experiences, despite my young age, are a treasure trove of emotions both high and low. The worn-out, spiral bound notebook - my trusty, dog-eared journal - was my constant companion. It was a living record of the summits, plains, and canyons of my so-called life.
I've picked up the habit of writing as a toddler, according to my parents. I used to scribble incomprehensible marks in different parts of the house. The kitchen wall was one of my favorites. To curb these tendencies of vandalism, my mother gave me an entire stack of scratch paper, a fancy pen and a desk of my own.
I have written constantly since then.