I was looking over several ballpens scattered on my desk and found it amusing how I stopped getting excited over small abubots . I remember how free I was during my kiddie days wherein I would take home almost every trinket, keychain, any small treasure I could get my hands on. And it never failed giving me that kilig whenever I played with it or reminisced a certain memory. I guess this is the way I am right now, forcing myself to stop any urge of remembering. I don't know if it has done me that good, or if it has created me into a person more productive of her time, but I admit that I miss being more of my creative self. If I can only transpose that need to whatever it is the grown-up world can offer me, then I would be on my way.

After doing a pretensious interpretation of Allen Ginsberg's Howl
After struggling to come up with an acceptable analysis of Batacan's Smaller and Smaller Circles
After coming to terms with myself and finally passing that final draft of my thesis