A Blazing hearth all alone.

There is something about Fridays that depress me. They should be reliefs from long hours of research and reporting. But, in my case, they're just reminders of some illusion I keep foolishly believing I have.

In two weeks or more I shall head home. Home, that one word that represents joy, laughter, and imperfections. That one word sends me to some fruitful haven in my mind, heart and soul where I am free and complete.

It may be hard to believe, but I do like it here. It's just that I feel myself trying and trying. Constantly moving and moving. Always in motion. Never comfortable. Nunca acceptada.

My friends back home keep wondering when they'll see me. They've even plan the day. Signed the T's. I think it's one of the hard things about living so far from home (besides my parents) is not being with them. I know exactly my place and footing with them. I can be stark crazy, dead serious or simply philosophical.

I don't have awkward silences with them. I use to have a sense of humor and knew how to use it for crying out loud. If my friends saw me now they'd think I'd gone absolutely bonkers.


Focus on my stories and finals. That's exactly what needs to be on my mind. You came here to be a better writer. Go back to observation mode. Remember you we're meant for margins not front pages.


I feel like a broken record. I should pop in Rush Hour 3 and let the fun team take it away.



-One may have a blazing hearth in one's soul, and yet no one ever comes to sit by it.
Vincent Van Gogh