Time is passing. Pictures range from favorite days to days which stories don’t deserve retelling:


of favorites

Palm Springs



birthday flowers

Disneyland 2 19 penny arcade 22


Some days go better than others; some days plan other days; some days prove previous the extreme opposite; some days are predictable; some days are lenient to us; we let some days be, some days let us be.

Some days are kind, some hopeful, some unforgiving. It’s already the second month of 2015, I’ve read two books, slept through the eve of my birthday since I can remember, been to church more than I used to, and started thinking more of dematerializing (mostly clothes and insincere relationships). If truth just happens as time is passing and memories are our constructs, I want to fill it with genuine people and only the necessary things.

If truth just happens as time is passing then memories are just our constructs. If memories are our constructs, I want to fill it with the warmth of lovely people. Because even in unkind days and days with seemingly endless monotony everything’s bearable with people who love you — even in your unkind days.

“However insistently the blind may deny the existence of the sun, they cannot annihilate it.”

When I still lived in the Philippines, my brother had to move to Saudi Arabia for work. I was younger then and thinking now, I probably fully did not realize how hard it was for him to leave. I remember us praying as a family before his flight and I remember he was wearing his brown polo shirt, and when he hugged my dad, I felt so sad. I felt so sad not because my I’d be away from my brother; I felt sad that I had no idea how it must feel for a parent to see their child go to some far place, sad to see them go yet happy for their success in life. I felt sad because I had no idea why people had to move. Anyway, that was the first time our family was apart.

The saddest day of 2014 was the day we drove my brother back to the airport after his weeklong stay in Manila. It was like 2011 (the year we moved to the US) all over again, only this time, I was the one being left behind. He flew out back to Malaysia three (I’m not sure) days before I had to fly back home to the US, two days before my dad has to fly back home and approximately a month before my mom had to fly back home. I knew the days we had were limited, but I’ve never fully realized how hard it was to be the one left behind. When we brought my dad to the airport, that was when I knew it was real: we were going back to our respective realities — apart. Again.

It must be incredibly sad for my sister to see us come and go. Repeatedly.

The sadness that I feel (felt) though isn’t the empty kind. I don’t have a term for sadness that comes with acceptance. I have come to terms with us being apart. And to be completely honest, when I went back home (Manila), there were days I wanted to be back to the US. It’s push and pull; I have two homes, I am living both lives.



2014 is the year I was able to go back to Manila. Seeing this after my fifteen hour-long flight probably was the most surreal. It was all kinds of nostalgia. I felt so sentimental, it felt like the first time I was seeing Manila.

As soon as I walked out of the plane, there it was: crowded NAIA (Ninoy Aquino International Airport). Dubbed as one of the worst airports in the world. The discomfort of slow to almost no Internet connection, the humidity and the crowd. I have lived here before, but now I carry with me a point of comparison, an alternate home.

I saw my sister for the first time in hundreds of weeks and I saw my niece, the first time since I last held her when she was just six months old. I hug them dearly. We drive for dinner to a mall that is 10 miles away and I wish I was kidding but it took us over an hour to get there. Everything Manila-related was so immaculate in my thinking when I lived in lonely, quiet America. And yet this was the traffic I was romanticizing about.

One random time at the mall while waiting for friends stuck in traffic, I happened to open into Bob Ong’s Bakit Baliktad Magbasa ng Libro ang Mga Pilipino?


“Manila (Metro Manila) is one of the dirtiest cities in the world,” sabi n’ya. Parang musika sa tenga ko ang sinabi n’ya. Muntik ko na nga s’yang ilaglag sa sasakyan. Pero mas malakas ang sipa ng katotohanan. Madumi nga yung lugar na ‘yon.”

I used to hate, abhor, hate Filipinos who talked about Manila that way when I moved here (US) in 2011. When I was asked about being homesick, people were quick to console me with “nothing would happen in Manila anyway,” or somewhere along the lines of having no future in the Philippines, or that there was too much corruption, so on and so forth. I had so much to say: that leaving the country does not grant us a better place in the society we deem non-progressive. Maybe I truly believed that; or maybe I got struck with guilt by my patriotic university upbringing that makes me think I believed that. Or both.

We tend to be territorial about or beliefs or identities or things we like to protect and claim as our own. Probably why when I was new in America, everything that has to do with Filipinos made me swell with pride sometimes for no logical reason. Explaining anything that is associated with Filipino culture to non Filipinos made me beam with pride and enthusiasm. And meeting people of Filipino/Asian descent made me somehow feel connected to them, thinking that their identity is static: only to be disappointed when a Filipino born in America tells me “I’m American.” It is because I come from a homogenous place, where if you differ in color or language you are classified as a foreigner. Either you’re a Filipino or a foreigner. America has taught me to embrace varying ethnicities and ancestries and remove my ideal of associating physical appearance with people’s identity (identity as in where they come from).

These are the two things that I let go of and made me happier as an individual living in what I then viewed as a foreign country (US): exclusive nationalism and association of identity through people’s ancestry. We are all just individual human beings traversing this earth.


Back in Manila

Fast forward to the day I had to renew my passport. I had to line up as early as 7 a.m. at the Department of Foreign Affairs (DFA) in San Fernando, Pampanga only to be informed at 9 a.m. (when they started speaking to inform people in line about general procedures) that they do not offer expedited services (I had to renew my passport within seven days). I lost two hours of my dad’s and my time. These officials weren’t sorry at all nor were they approachable in any way, shape or form. We weren’t the only ones who lost our time, I was speaking to two other men who can hardly wait to leave the country.

“Yung ate ko, sa Brunei, pagpasok at paglabas niya sa DFA doon, tapos na ang passport same day. Tayo, mag aantay pa, magbabayad ng ganito ganyan.” (My sister who lives in Brunei, their passports are processed the same day. When she walks out of that office, her passport is in her hand. But us, we have to wait and pay all kinds of unnecessary fees here and there.)

Long story short I had to travel to the DFA’s main office in Manila; some two hours away and had to line up all over again. This is when I realize how amazing America’s customer service is. Actually, it is not amazing. It is the status quo, it is the standard. We should not feel privileged receiving that kind of service. But living in Manila, I didn’t know that because I had no point of comparison back then.

“Totoo ang mga kwento ng boss ko. Nakakangilo sa ngipin, pero totoo. At bagama’t nakakapikon s’ya minsan e mabait at mabuti s’yang tao. Sa bayan nila, hinihikayat ang mga tao na umunlad.”

I’m afraid I now share those Filipinos’ sentiments, those Filipinos whose comments I used to hate. I’m afraid that when I’m asked if I still want to live in the Philippines, I now hesitate at my answer. I used to be able to answer within three seconds “yes I would definitely live there.” But these days, hesitation takes more than three seconds. And I don’t think it’s a bad thing.

I’m afraid that in more days than I’d hope to have said it, I mentioned about how I can no longer live in Manila’s public transportation, the unruly driving standards or the subpar customer service (and not to get started on government corruption, etc) now that I have experienced living in my point of comparison. Now I understand what others then have been talking to me about, not to make themselves sound better than people who still go through these every single day — because no one is truly better than anyone — but just to state facts, actual things.


I booked my flight as early as March 2014 to fly to Manila in October 2014. I wanted to go home to:

1 see my family
2 see my friends
3 relive my favorite things to do

Going home (to Manila) is like cleaning your room, and finding that stack of notes full of highlighted lines and some textbooks you’ve used in high school. Flipping its pages brings up vivid images of your classroom, your lunches at the cafetria with your favorite friends and long Math classes that seemed to make that time stop forever. You relive it, your heart warms with (hopefully) fond memories but you just can’t go back to it — those books have been closed and you’re in a new chapter.

Going home I learned:

1 family will always be there for you. period.
2 people (that includes yourself) and people’s priorities change

Time did not allow me to see everyone I wanted to, but I’m glad that I have a better idea of who are willing to stay around. And I’ve experienced the real definition of having no distance between true friendships and sincere relationships. It’s crazy how I have been apart and have not talked on a day-to-day basis with my amazing friends and nothing seemed to change. In the same way that it was crazy to assume that nothing will ever change but some people just have different priorities now. And it takes being away for years and travelling the 7,000 some miles to realize this.

3 your memories are your made by your own preferred perceptions; and
4 ‘home’ is a moving, changing concept

While I might prefer to stay in America, I don’t think I can ever find a place with a stronger sense of community than the Philippines. I don’t think I can ever find the warmth of genuine friendships built not only by time, but just by the inherent culture itself. In the Philippines, if I left my house keys and got locked outside, my neighbor would invite me to dinner while I wait for my parents to unlock the house as soon as they found out. If that were to happen to me here, I think I’d have to make calls myself and just buy take out and forever blame myself for my stupidity. In the Philippines, you meet someone for the first time and you just feel like family. Here in America, ‘busy’ is so glorified and time is always passing, always seems to be passing in between work and chores.

Manila teaches its children the realities of life early on. And the practical implications of your choices. It prepares its children that we are not too good for anything (unless you’re a spoiled brat). Students commute in traffic and rain. Children exist in a harsh but real world. America’s poor is still in better living conditions than the rest of the world.

Yet I have never found a happier place with happier, more genuine and welcoming people than the Philippines.


I have lived in America for three and a half years and I realize there’s a reason I’m still living here. I choose it to be. It’s a painful process of dematerializing: not just actual things but your relationships with people back home. And for those who live abroad, this feeling must be universal. The indescribable pain lingers, but we get used to it. Moving emancipates us from a lot of unnecessary beliefs and traditions and it constantly trains us to try to be better people as we deal with individuals who entirely differ from us (language, culture, skin and all).

Would I have made these realizations if I stayed? Maybe.

Would I have been still friends with people I lost touched with had I stayed? Maybe.

Would I have met new ones that could have been incredibly significant in my life now? Maybe.

But all those maybes; I really don’t know. I can’t question what is unknown to me. But I’d like to think that moving is one of my life’s best, hardest choices. It cost me my relationships with important people and beliefs however has rewarded me a better, much better perception of where we all stand in this earth and has rewarded me with knowing what’s genuine: be it people or beliefs I hold dearly. It’s push and pull; I have two homes, I am living both lives.

“I believe that one can never leave home. I believe that one carries the shadows, the dreams, the fears and dragons of home under one’s skin, at the extreme corners of one’s eyes and possibly in the gristle of the earlobe.” – Maya Angelou

This was Maya Angelou’s disagreement with Thomas Wolfe’s “You Can’t Go Back Home.” I seem to agree with Wolfe. I left home three and a half years ago, and I know that coming back will never be the same again.

I separated from my home: I always felt like the concepts ‘home’ and ‘self’ were a whole, but still two separate entities independent of each other. I left what has been the one and only home for me. To this day, it is still a touchy subject. (Or maybe because I am just an emotional creature.)

I had to disengage, be unattached, with all that was familiar – the crow of rooster wakening the entire street in the mornings, my friends, the currency that I used, the almost unwarranted smiles and sighs I share with strangers on lines and on my daily commute home, nilalakong taho sa umaga, and many, many others (most of which I can’t literally nor figuratively translate in English). All these were a part of me, but without me, life goes on. It’s neither sad nor unhappy; it’s just a fact. Life keeps moving on – with or without you, with or without me.

I hate numbers in as much as I hate starting sentences with “I.” But I do it anyway. As a matter of fact, all seven or however many paragraphs this entry has will start with “I.” And that’s how we survive. We think we do not like or can’t possibly come into terms with things until we do them, until we break our own rules ourselves. When I moved, I disagreed with all the idea of it until I’ve finally known – gotten used to – how to add days apart and coexist in a different time zone; always in contrast but still in conjunction with the life back home. Life that I left and life that goes on: again, with or without me.

I have been here almost four years and yet, I somehow still can’t call it home. It is home, but it’s never just a whole concept anymore. I couldn’t recall how many times I felt nearly depressed, and again, I am sure that all stories of immigration weave into the same thread. Leaving and going; leaving and going. It is much more than being physically disengaged with your familiarity to people – you think of your soul mates, friends, family and spirituality that you’ve attached with ‘home’ – you all are one piece: a whole. But truth is, you are different entities. You travel in time, you step on a new land and you no longer move in the same dimension. You are your own, and their life goes on. You move parallel to each other, like two trains that never coalesce. Two trains with different destinations. If you stop, life goes on – with or without you, with or without me.

In three years I moved three times, and now that I think about it, I probably wallowed in sadness because I always thought that I was the one life was leaving behind. When you’re away, you romanticize everything you think you have left behind – you think that the red tail lights during that three hour commute back home is magic, even though you’re only really traveling 20 miles which could have taken 20 minutes. You suddenly want heavy traffic, unbearable heat, the noise from all the impatient drivers, horns and all the pollution that makes you want to not inhale the change of your current home. You suddenly crave for rain and see the droplets on your car shining in dim, yellow lights from traffic all around you.

I probably wallowed in sadness because only now do I realize that despite live moving on without me, I actively chose to have mine going, only in an alternate world. Because that’s how most things are: we choose them to be.

I wasn’t part of the cultural experience with people who grew up here when I moved; I felt empty. I wanted people to know my story, to hear me, to know me. I wanted people around me to feel compelled to my flashbacks of the reality back home — overthinking not knowing how to make people relate to me and find that common point.

I couldn’t agree more with Thomas Wolfe. You just can’t go back home. Moving feels like you’ve been uprooted – no matter how beautiful your new jar is, you’d always have a desire for your old place, the same exact rays of sunshine that glowed in the morning. Moving feels like you’ve been replanted – because the old pot can no longer bear enough water for you and your roots continue to spread. And you just can’t seem to grow, or you refuse to bloom under the same light in a different place.

Moving feels like demystifying that certain glow books have in a shelf when they’re together. Or when a certain piece of furniture or jewelry look so beautiful in store under a certain light all together – but when you take that piece home, the beauty disappears and all of a sudden it does not match your wood, that necklace doesn’t match your dress or you suddenly just don’t feel like reading that book and its pages aren’t as glorious as you thought they would be without it in a shelf. That’s how I felt. I felt like I was a piece of puzzle dismantled and placed in a totally new set of pieces that will never fit together.

Moving brought me indescribable change. Change that was massive beyond my grasp. Change that was immensely massive beyond my grit. When I moved, I found myself feeling like a tourist. Always. No matter how much I honor my car, my job – no matter how much I honor my bills. I still feel like a tourist. It’s a good thing I guess, because being a tourist leaves so much room for wandering, for wondering. Life goes on. My life goes on.

Last week (Monday or Tuesday, I forget these things) I woke up with a stiff neck (not that it's related to my dream or to this story, but it starts with my dream so I figured it's okay to start with this); I woke up after battling with dogs. Or after the idea of battling with dogs. I dreamt I was at war with human beings, and I could not recall why. I was running and running. And when at last I shifted to some sort of force that allowed me to climb a tree toward a roof, the humans became dogs, and for some reason (I like my 'and's after commas, you see) these dogs are able to freaking climb the roof where my feet were at, and I had some sort of light saber that was able to make the dogs disappear. Then it was 5:43am (exactly) and I thought was late for work.       I kept on telling my coworkers when one asked me what movie I watched and I completely claimed it was totally random until I remembered I was rereading The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon. I remember first reading this book in my senior year in college, when I was in the dorm...so bored, so bored. Anyway, I'll try blogging about books to bring my #52in52 project closer to actualization. Ten years from now, I don't think I'll remember Wellington (the dog) instantly upon mentioning this book but I'll remember that Christopher reminds us that: 1. Words are merely words. It reminds me a great deal about semantics. It reminds me a great deal about semiotics.  

“The word "metaphor" means carrying something from one place to another . . . and it is when you describe something by using a word for something that it isn't. This means that the word "metaphor" is a metaphor. I think it should be called a lie because a pig is not like a day and people do not have skeletons in their cupboards. And when I try and make a picture of the phrase in my head it just confuses me because imagining and apple in someone's eye doesn't have anything to do with liking someone a lot and it makes you forget what the person was talking about. ”
“Siobhan says that if you raise one eyebrow it can mean lots of different things. It can mean 'I want to do sex with you' and it can also mean 'I think what you just said was very stupid.”
It reminds our over-thinking selves to not over analyze things in the same way we're reminded to just take things as they are. No what ifs, no hidden meanings. 2. Our sad stories should not consume us entirely. Otherwise the greatest love songs wouldn't be such hits, if only applicable to one or two people.
“And when you look at the sky you know you are looking at stars which are hundreds and thousands of light-years away from you. And some of the stars don’t even exist anymore because their light has taken so long to get to us that they are already dead, or they have exploded and collapsed into red dwarfs. And that makes you seem very small, and if you have difficult things in you life it is nice to think that they are what is called negligible, which means they are so small you don’t have to take them into account when you are calculating something.”
And our sad stories should not be dwelled upon too long; we can't always control things: 10156036_10202767986578196_4882198363931432807_n *** My other favorite ideas besides parents' unconditional love for their children are: On Time and Space:
Because time is not like space. And when you put something down somewhere, like a protractor or a biscuit, you can have a map in your head to tell you where you have left it, but even if you don’t have a map it will still be there because a map is a representation of things that actually exist so you can find the protractor or the biscuit again. And a timetable is a map of time, except that if you don’t have a timetable time is not there like the landing and the garden and the route to school. Because time is only the relationship between the way different things change, like the earth going round the sun and atoms vibrating and clocks ticking and day and night and waking up and going to sleep.
On Choosing “In life, you have to take lots of decisions and if you don't take decisions you would never do anything because you would spend all your time choosing between things you could do.” P.S. Also read about us knowing only a fraction of the universe at any given time on page 157 :)

Disclaimer: this post is brought to you by me given “the talk” on how young age can bring such idealism that apparently dissolves into nothingness when you enter the “real world.” And I beg to differ, reality does not come with responsibilities brought by age. The concept of “real world” only applies to those who aren’t ready for it. You only live today for today; there is no preparing for the future — only by going through the present. 

My job entails talking to people everyday, maybe six full hours of my usual nine-hour workdays. (Okay, maybe four full hours.)

My job entails literally reading what is going on with people’s lives, what has happened within the past year – in between things beyond their control and things they choose to be beyond their control. Reading what is going on with people’s lives, and how my job affects what they’re going to have to eat within the next week, or how much money they can have to buy alcohol for the next few days.

My job entails listening to people: the indifferent ones, the grateful ones, and most of the time, the struggling ones. Having spent eight full months into this job, I have figured out a way into weeding the lies in between the context. I talk to people all the time and I hate to have to admit this, but sometimes all stories weave into a universal plot. (Although I feel like that goes for the entire humanity but that’s another story or not.) Jobs require results, and when I am pressed for time, I am afraid that more often than I want it to, faces, names and stories turn into numbers and plainly into tasks I have to meet for the day. And the next time we talk, I really don’t remember the details off the top of my head.

Everyday I walk into my office; I walk into an office with everyone older than I am. I can safely assume that I am the youngest person who works in our office and I genuinely believe that the more years you spend on this lovely planet, the wiser you become. But age is just a number, and it does not discredit what you have experienced and what you have to say.

I am happiest when I can hear a smile on the other end of the line when I tell people they have more money today. I am happiest when I can tell them they’re disqualified for the program because they’re over income – and congratulate them on the new job. I am happiest when they share their struggles and at least for the time have them feel that someone sincerely feels for them (because I sincerely do—at least for the time being). I am happiest when I can help the elderly ones fill out paperwork because they can’t read; and wait for that sigh of relief that they have finally submitted all the taxing, required paperwork.

And the list goes on.

All these do not mean that I am the nicest, and all these do not mean that I always have nice people to talk to. I cannot count the number of times I have been shouted at, or mocked, or shouted at, or shouted at. When program regulations get crazier by the minute, it’s hard to explain in plain, simple words how this is rational at all but I have to. I have to conform to rules even I do not completely understand. And on the other side, when they have to make ends meet, sometimes people think they have to resort to lying.

And I get lied to — in my face every single day. But I think to myself, if they had a better choice, they would not be here. What people do to you does not justify how you can treat them. Last week, I was subtly reminded how age can bring you so much idealism as you can be so naïve to a lot of things. They say that life is pretty much a choice, and I agree a hundred percent. Circumstances aside, life is really how you make it. But what I mean by people not having a better choice, is making that choice itself. (Really, how many times can I write choice?)

Just the fact that they think that quitting their job is better because they would have more money from our program is sad. Just the fact that they think that saying this and that and this and that instead of the plain truth is already sad. Just the fact that they could not bring themselves to make better choices, or that they could not bring themselves to the idea that whatever has happened in the past does not have to repeat itself is really sad. Who am I to judge what their motives are? Who am I to say that my life is so much better than theirs?

Anyway. I have so much respect for older people; but I hope when I become older, I wouldn’t hold people guilty before they’re proven innocent. I hope that as I get older, I wouldn’t be so hard on other people nor to myself. I hope that I can easily forgive what imperfect ways people have to say to go through and get through life. And I hope that I don’t judge younger people on all the positivity they have and carry around with them.

 “Wherever you go, no matter what the weather, always bring your own sunshine.”

One time I had a person wait for me for an hour, and I was utterly sorry. To which she was quick to ask: “are you new?” As I said yes, she told me she knew it. I promised her I’ll still be sorry for whatever wrong I’ll do when I’m no longer new.


Don’t get me wrong, I judge people a lot. I judge people who takes tons of selfies when the truth is, I do too. I judge people who wear almost nothing outside when the truth is, I am just plain insecure of my weight. I judge people a lot, and writing this serves a constant reminder that I have no right; whatever the circumstances may be.

All pictures taken on December 26, 2013. 


Twenty thirteen is the year I left San Francisco. This is the third time in three years that I’ve moved; only never finding home. I have always thought of Manila as home, but at this point I don’t know where home is yet or anymore at all—but I’ve always home with family and Manila will always have its home in me.




My thoughts were always consumed by thoughts of then home, what used to be, and my indifference toward the beauty of the new city I was in. I did not live in the city itself, but I always think I do/did. Because true enough, I was mesmerized by all the glory of its air, its bridges and its lovely, lovely people; but I was never absorbed by its way of thinking. Probably because I felt intimidated by the idea of loving this foreign land or I was scared of betraying my illusion of exclusive nationalism. Or I was scared to make mistakes.

My mind was always someplace else, I never exactly knew where, but I was unhappy.

Its fastness scared me—I felt like I was running out of time yet my life was going too slow, I felt stuck. I was always planning and dreaming, yet I saw all my ideas always in reality with someone else, or something else.

It was this city that let me have my longest days, where todays proved to only bring more difficult tomorrows. And in between commutes, I always questioned why I settled for what I accomplished before I moved to SF. Why did I not travel to as many provinces that I could; why did I not study harder; why did I not listen to live bands more; why did I not pray harder; why did I not create more things to look back and be happy about. I thought about these questions until my bus approached, or until my train stopped to the station.

I would Skype with my sister on a daily basis and bug my friends to not go offline. I only sincerely felt happy when I had food, and when I watched shows which characters thought in the same first language I did. I dreaded every phone call asking how I was doing, what internship was I doing, was I getting paid, was it a real job, would I consider going back to school for nursing, and so on. I deliberately cried when I thought of nothing else to do–looked at old photos; thought of family and old age; it was comforting to have to cry, because what could be worse after that?

It lasted for a while until I fell into a monotony after long wanting to not go through the daily existential mechanisms that I felt this world required me to do. I waited for my  phone alarm to go off,  I waited for the shower to turn hot, then blow dried my hair otherwise I’d freeze. I got used to the daily wait to the bus stop, my walk to the train, and my train walk to my office and back.  I’ve gotten used to it, like if I thought I was a cat. I’d eat twice a day, sleep the entire midday and wait for my humans to come home – I’d tell my dad that I felt life was just repeating itself. Repetitive, and he asks me; whose isn’t?




This city was so beautiful to my eyes and it had beautiful people. It gave me long, long stretches of silence and acquainted me to start thinking in its language. Today I fully realize that people come and go, and this year I have not given up on reaching out to people just as I hope they would not on me, but I’ve given up on making myself available to those who do not value my friendship. Today I fully realize there is no point in being hesitant to changes, reluctance will only pull me into a blackhole of hopelessness; and this year I have not given up on my past, but I’ve given up on holding back and letting this universe’s system swallow me whole.

I’d still need the long stretches of quiet and silence, I wish for her to come and go, but I can only be grateful to those long, long days that allowed me to think and write.  Since I’ve moved to a less prettier place, I smiled more often; I hated small talk a little less, and I have seldom quipped any reference to Manila when something, anything, was brought up. I’m no longer searching one-way tickets back and wish into the abyss that people from here would not notice my absence although I still badly need and want to book a roundtrip ticket.

Here in on I’d be dreaming more of pastel and wooden books in antique bookshelves, of dusty typewriters and ambiguous furniture. Perhaps in a future city as beautiful as these pictures I would be writing with lavender macarons about Northern Lights. Twenty fourteen could only be better.



This seems like a sad post, but 2013 is wonderful. This is the year I had my first full time job; achieved most items on https://elliscatherine.wordpress.com/2011/12/; spent more time with and understood family more; saw my brother after two long years; landed on more airports than I ever have, explored New York by myself, saw what could be the most astonishing building I’ve ever seen (US Capitol). And so on.

I worry on days I think I won’t make it; I worry on days I think I won’t be able to make, or create anything at all. I worry about tomorrow, I worry about things I’ve said in the past. I worry that at times I don’t understand people — I worry more about people not understanding me. I worry about things that are yet to come and people I have yet to meet. 

I worry on days I think I won’t make it; except I already did. 

I worry on days when things are not enough, I worry on days I’ve got more than I could grasp. 

I worry about the future, I worry about now. 


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