FOR the past few days, I’ve been painstakingly trying to come up with a decent article for today’s column. I read, talked to friends a lot, strolled around the busy Session Road, stared at the swirling cinnamon in my coffee, sat for hours at the rooftop—everything and anything that could hopefully spark something worthy to write about.
I had all sorts of ideas, ranging from lame to outlandish ones. I started writing about the upgrading of the Dantay-Sagada Road with hopes of coming up with a piece that could be political and developmental in nature. But ironically, like the rehabilitation of that national road, I keep on stopping. Then I thought of working on something sappy to bring out the romanticist in me—dreams. But like how warped time and events unfold in our dreams, the ideas I was putting in were as distorted.
I had all sorts of ideas, ranging from lame to outlandish ones. I started writing about the upgrading of the Dantay-Sagada Road with hopes of coming up with a piece that could be political and developmental in nature. But ironically, like the rehabilitation of that national road, I keep on stopping. Then I thought of working on something sappy to bring out the romanticist in me—dreams. But like how warped time and events unfold in our dreams, the ideas I was putting in were as distorted.