On a day when it is too tempting to sleep in, I got up to write. I usually don’t get up early these days. I have become a chronic night owl. I tried to sleep in, but my mind is already abuzz. I can feel the holiday breeze in the air, hanging Amihan as we call it here, and I simply have to write. The air compels me to. I can feel a familiar, almost long-forgotten stirring in my heart and my bones again. My fingers itch for a pen and pad, or a keyboard, anything to write with.
Yes. I will write again like I used to all those years ago, and not exactly like it at the same time, for I am a different person now than I was back then. But this need, this nudge from the Muse, a constant longing to write, will always be with me.
When I woke up today, my first thought went to a Longfellow poem.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
This describes today in general, and my emotions, as gray as the overcast sky.
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
I hanker for an addictive stimulant–a cup of warm English breakfast tea with a splash of milk and half a teaspoon of sugar, or matcha milk, just the way I like it. But I can’t, or my acid reflux will punish me for it. And as I write, I discover there’s really no need for it. The act of writing itself is already addictive, once you’ve found your groove or whatever it is you want to express, and the words just keep on flowing from you.
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
And I am looking forward to better days ahead as I continue to write and be.