Artisan Dream

It's highly unusual how every writer's dream connotates to wanting our craft never to rot in our overridden frustrations. For the past weeks -- or a month as I may roughly put it -- I haven't been posting regularly to update my blog on things that have been spontaneously happening in my life.

I asked myself the same question I illusioned almost a half a year back.
"Why do I want to have a journal?"

I bet writers' influences are very much relative and poignant to a certain point that it gets frustrating how you can never perfectly leave people to understand what you really mean (no matter how good you are in imagery). Words are but mere creatures to suffice for what lacks in reality. Maybe one thing God never really planned to bear us with.

While I was editing the works of my literary staffers, I was disturbed. Not with the output, but with how I've started to leave my other passion in hope of besting the other one.
Debate has grown to be a passion, a desire, a mainstream in my bloodflow circling my veins.

I was left to derive every inch of what's left in my personality to draw my new self. Almost a year ago, I was thoroughly neglectful of my potentials. I was more eager to spare myself for others than to develop what I already have as an artisan.

For this year's first issue of Mometum, I've surpassed different ordeals.

Tara sa kawalan ng ating katotohanan
Ngunit sa lahat ng kasinungalingan
Tayo'y iisa.

My works were dry, steady, and yet striving for a new color and flavor to their entity.

Nothing. This past month was bloody. Murderous like hell. But for some inept reason, I am silenced. Stolen by the air to redo all that is wrong.