Expanding Horizons

A writer's purpose is to be read. To touch someone, anyone, with her stories.

This blog has always made that possible. And it also opened a lot of doors.

You can also find me now at www.dailydose.ph

In Light of the Shadows

A reader once commented on the way I write. He said my posts were candid and insightful, and that at times I was refreshing to read. Unlike most blogs he’s come across which were light and fluff, he said mine slithered deep inside places that most people would’ve just rather kept hidden. My writing, he added, saddened him for he felt my words always came from a very dark place of hurt and pain.

That last remark had hit a nerve, for I pondered on this for weeks on end. I found myself re-evaluating this so-called gloomy outlook of mine and began questioning why I couldn’t be like those people I’m perpetually in awe of --- those who bounce off walls with seemingly ludicrous glee and optimism. Furthermore, was I too jaded that I couldn’t hold on to my episodes of happiness long enough to write about them.

In my thirty odd years, I’ve experienced most of what others have --- I’ve been reduced to the ground in pain and I’ve also soared among the clouds in ecstasy. Yet, some of these moments I might have experienced too deeply than others. What could be easily brushed aside by most, I dwell upon for ages.

I suppose it has always been in my nature to explore every crevice of a smile to the point that I not only know how it looks and feels but also sometimes I swear I even know its color, smell, and sound. And while the average person avoids the bad, I accept it by spending a great deal of time travelling these uncharted lows and acquainting myself with the strange shadows that lurk deep, until I’ve unknowingly come to know them as a part of me.

I write about my experiences every time I feel these moments would go to waste if I left them unwritten. But when everything in my life is in high spirits, creativity takes an unfortunate dip and my writing gets stuck. It’s either I’m too busy living it or the lightness of these joys just doesn’t interest me enough to actually sit down and write about them.

In turn, I’ve realized it is when I’m down and stressed that the ideas come spilling out. I don’t think it strange or that I’m alone on this. In fact, it comforts me to know that the Hemingways and the Poes (although I don’t even dare to think I’m in their ranks, yet) of our time were sad tortured souls as well.

It troubled me before when a reader said that I seem to draw inspiration and drive from someplace dark. Well, maybe I do… But honestly now, I don’t think that’s such a bad thing. Because I can’t be insightful unless there’s a willingness to dig deep into the highs and lows, and to visit places most would rather not even gaze upon.

So, to my readers:

I can’t be all light and fluff and everything nice --- because I’m also in the shadows, the intense, and in some places dark.

First Love

(taken from my first ever blog --- eons ago in my 20s.)



It has often been said our First Loves are the hardest to let go of. This is where the cheesy cliché "first love never dies" comes into play. I think this is because for that moment, everything feels new to us. Everything IS new. We see things in a different, much colorful light. And we love it. We become those squeamishly mushy romantics and we never thought we had it in us. The very first exhilarating taste of love is always incomparable.


My First Love wasn’t what you would call love at first sight. We crossed paths in high school but nothing serious came out of it. College came and in my search for spiritual enlightenment, fate led me back to my first love. An unexplainable attraction drew us closer. This time, we found ourselves committed to the other. The relationship opened my eyes to things I never thought possible. 


With my First Love, I laughed my hardest. Friendship played a part — my first love was constantly there for me, even through the hard times. I swore it was untouched bliss in its purest state. We got along so well that I don’t recall a time we fought, or even disagreed. Although, that became a problem --- our relationship was short of growth.


We decided to part ways. We’d run into each other on occasions. But that was that. The interest kind of fizzled out. This went on for years until a couple months ago…the inevitable happened. I found myself back with my First Love. And just like the first time, I was happy, contented. We lived a romance reminiscent of fairy tales'… But also, just like before, our bond couldn’t grow and old problems resurfaced.


Now it’s time again for me to turn my back on this affair if I want to find my focus. Once again, I will have to say goodbye. My First Love, I will miss you terribly. But worry not, for my love is of the undying kind. --- I can see that I’ll be puffing you again in the future. 'Til the next joint… 

Oh, the Horror.

Loshang (haggard) is the last thing I ever want to be.

As the youngest of a litter of ten, I watched my siblings grow up, marry, and eventually have children of their own. Through keen observations of a true blue loner and a ridiculously vain one at that, I saw and cringed at the sight of wrinkles, sagging skin under their chins, and unsightly dry frizzy hair as age took ahold of them.

Oh, the horror. It was like they were transforming!

It wasn’t just my siblings. No one was spared. Every one was getting old. Some aged with grace while others let themselves go. I vowed to never be the latter. To always appear youthful and put together, I became religious in exercising, drank gallons of water, had tea thrice a day to keep my mind sharp, avoided fatty and sugary food, and spent hours on end grooming myself --- all these to shun the inevitable. With that said, I knew at some point it was bound to happen. Just that I didn’t want it to happen to me. Yet.

Everything was working out so well --- until my daughter’s nanny decided to go missing. Thus, a two year old took over this single parent’s life with one mindless task after another, with screaming tantrums that never end, and with nights when she wouldn't let me sleep. I felt my fool-proof plan to fight the dreaded loshang process was slowly falling apart.

On my seventh week of being help-less, it was only now that I had the chance to stand in front of a mirror. And this is what I saw --- dry frizzy hair!

Alas, the transformation has begun.

Has Anybody Seen It Lately?

I'm afraid I lost it again. This usually happens when I'm not too careful.

It goes missing even without a hint of warning. But panic will never poke its ugly head, because I'm oddly unfazed.

So common an occurence that I already know how it thinks. I understand its erratic patterns, even its cryptic inner workings. Putting it on the back of a milk carton or sending out a search team will be all for naught. It will not be forced, be bribed, nor it be fooled. It will only turn up when it wants to.

Yet, some find my indifference rather troubling. To quiet their ails, I get up and make a show of looking for it. But I don't really. When I've inched my way out of people's evil judging glares, I sit back and just let the madness of losing it envelope over me.

It is a terrible thing to lose, I'm well aware. Hours, days and sometimes, years, it stays missing. At times when I've grown tired of its absence, I do catch myself calling out for it.

And when it's ready, my mind may answer.

Then I know it's back.