Recently, I have a difficult time extracting words, stringing them into spasmodic thoughts, and then organize it into comprehensible write-ups. In the first place, I am always led to believe that I am at times a burden to understand. My world comprises of a certain kind of reality where even the intrepid avoids to venture. I am constantly trudging a quivering road of waywardness. And I usually find myself walking on thin high wires of novel words, and a tiny slip will mean either death or torture. And the latter will make the former more tempting.

These are one of those moments where a deep contemplation fails to evoke a sensible idea. Even an abysmal travel towards universe unknown becomes a suicide or treason towards my own kingdom. My little bubble of reality requires me some time for inactivity where even my mind suppresses its wanderlust. Sometimes though, the required rest is a malignant disease and by a single wave of the wand of boredom, metastasizes throughout my system rendering me futile and smashes me into a pulp. I have to fight this disease, this ailment that is keeping my desire to travel the world with a magic carpet of dithyrambic ideas, and just squeeze what little juice is available from my brain: brain juice! And I think I am not doing justice anyone or anything with this haphazard, senseless entry.

This malady of quasi-brain dead never could have come in a rightful time: New Year! Inasmuch as I want to bombard my dependable though soporific blog with hopeful thoughts and resolutions that could never be, my efforts will be verging on futility. I am paralyzed by a periodic disease, and this is a bad time for me to have it. But all hope should not asunder. January 1 is but a day, and upon each day bestowed to us by a grand architect, a new year beckons a streaking ray of breathtaking hope. Each day is a new year. Waking up is a constant battle against death; sleeping is a strand away from death. It is the closest the hands of afterlife can come to us. And when we exit the world of serene but trepid darkness, we escape the realm of the incorporeal. Everyday, as they say, is a new day. We should not stumble in our own inertia, and just continue to move forward; not ahead, but forward. For life is not a congenital race where the moment we learn to walk, we begin to decide to catch up to others. Take things incrementally.

As the traditional New Year approaches, I cannot help but realize how short 365 days are. It is a transient express; a fleeting flap of graceful wings and it’s over. But there is never an absolute end. And every consummation is another empty white slate. We get to start over, or continue the good things that have been working for us. As for me, I’m still in disbelief how I manage to lure and catch my love; ceaselessly grateful towards fate. But life, in anecdote, is a journey. It does not compromise of sure ends nor does it constitute a clear path. It is a giant, whirling ball of uncertainty. It runs you over at times. But it usually, always, leaves you wounded. My journey with the girl of my impossible dreams has just begun, and a termination is not an option. I will continue to walk the boulevard of misty tomorrows. Today may matter the most, but man thrives looking beyond where he is currently standing. And I am looking beyond everything. I am envisioning a reality where I get to have for life the love of my life. I am hopeful. And as 2010 draws to a close, and a new set of number combination plagues the accustomed mind, I remind myself that I am a victim of serendipity. And that fate is passive. It is us that should infuse a syringe-full of effort. I am forever trying to keep you, until life gives up on me!