I write because

I am not fluent in the spoken word.

My mind will burst if I don’t.

I am transported to a different plane when I am lost in my world of writing.

I can be myself–unplugged, unloaded– without having to look over my shoulder and care about other people’s haughty eyes.

I am fascinated with words and how they can stir images, unravel mysteries, pacify or enrage tempests and bring to life the fallen, cold and dead.

I relish squeezing my writing juices until my temples throb (or should I say, am I a masochist?)

I can’t sing nor dance well enough to get me to the movie industry.

I need an avenue to vent the angst, frustrations, joys and challenges I face.

I have inner wars to wage, mountains to scale and fears to slay. Words form both a formidable offense and defense army.

I maintain a secret love-affair… with writers I admire, look up to and adore — the pinoy penman, pat, CDQ.

I stopped chasing rainbows. With outstretched arms, I want to feel those droplets of rain pelting against my skin, my face awash with delight and exhilaration, my heart thumping in sheer joy.

Nobody asked me to. It’s my choice.

I can.