It is the month of May. Aside from sand, sea, and sun (and nowadays, a little bit of rain), it is the season of writers workshops. You know, those little groupings that allow little men to discuss and rant off intents, objective correlatives, punctuation marks, caesuras, etc. for a couple of days with big men as their necessary acoustics
And since the Millennials are said to be harbingers of glorifying nostalgia, even if my belonging to it remains to be debatable, I would not ignore this opportunity to skip a few years back with these mandatory snapshots and, well, notice what has transpired from this to this.
The memories that cling to them are eerie, but I think that is the point of recollection. To know which to hold on to, which to steer clear of. They may be still recognizable but they could be unusual now. Things do change.
Well, I believe there will never be a path that leads to an absolute destination, there will never be sameness (there could be a hint), there will never be symmetry of the sort that would make Wes Anderson blush. There is only incongruence, there is only difference, and maybe even chaos, the kind that completely distorts, if not erases, the trajectory of Point A to Point B, making you ask, “Where is he now? What happened to her?” or “Why?”
But it seems they do not really matter that much. What follows is what is important, what will always be necessary. The practice of writing, after all, is a self-imposed struggle of looking back while plunging headfirst into possibilities, good or bad. Now, I could only glance at the photos with a wry smile. I am going to Dumaguete in a few hours.