Home Run

I can't decide if I'm beginning to love the weather here, or not.

The wind chill, it gets to my bones. Much as I have been trying to moisturize every exposed part of my body, I still get rash, cracks, flakes, tightness, and a running red nose. My eyes turn blood-shot.

Not quite a pretty sight, I suppose.

Still, I love standing out in the cold. Walking, preferably.

Something about it, being out in the cold, makes me feel a different person. It feels so surreal, I feel like it's not just my physical being that's been transported to somewhere I am not supposed to be.

It's like... my entire mind and soul has suddenly found some new freedom, lost and wandering, looking for a place to belong to.

Maybe it's the numbness.

The numbness of the skin that numbs the mind.

Maybe it's the abnormality of my surrounding that makes me feel far, far away from home. Far, far away from my woes.


Maybe it's not such a bad idea to move here.

Maybe with everything around me being cold, warmness to the heart might feel more real.

Maybe when I'm alone, I can learn to cope better with loneliness.

Maybe when I plant myself somewhere new, cold and faraway, I might find a new meaning to this life.

Maybe the emptiness in every single cell and vein in me can be filled with other bigger things in life.

Maybe going to the waterfalls often enough can make me happy.

Maybe this world is just made up of nothing but ironies.


I might be a little too old to say this now, but I hate being an adult.


I am about twenty-four hours away from home.

I am looking forward to seeing my baby girls again. I'm looking forward to seeing my best girlfriend. I am looking forward to dress up my little man in the heaps and piles of new clothes I've bought for him. What the big man missed out on, the little man is gaining advantage of it.

I am not quite looking forward to making an exit plan. An exit from some stage of my life I'm still stuck in.

I am getting a little weary. I don't feel right anymore.


The stories of my life perhaps need my own crafting. I should be the script-writer, the director, the producer, the casting director, the actor, the storyteller, all rolled into one.

As all storybook writers learn and know, a perfect story is crafted with three simple basic elements: a beginning, a plot, and most importantly, an ending.

It sounds easy, but it isn't.

I once made a draft of what could've been the most beautiful story of my life. I fell headlong into the plot. The characters in my story didn't eventually turn out to be the way I initially thought them to be.

The plot turned haywire. A seemingly beautiful story gone all wrong and awry. And worse of all, there is no ending.

I lost control of my own story. Someone else had directed my life story instead, leaving me with no happiness but sadness instead.

This wouldn't have been a box-office hit, an Oscar-winning movie. I wouldn't even take a second look at this if I were a book publisher.


With a bad plot to a beautiful beginning, I don't suppose I can salvage the story with a nice ending.

The investors to my movie have pulled out their money. A nice ending seems implausible.

I have to regain self-credibility as a storyteller.

I'll have to dump this story and start a new one.

Close the chapter, keep it in my box of treasures, never to be re-opened, till the day it goes with me into my grave.


My creative juices are still running low.

I need new inspiration for a new story in my life.

Maybe for that, I need a new environment altogether.

Suddenly, life seems to promise something interesting again.

Research is always the most fun process in storytelling.


Got to go. Pack my bags.

Wish me luck in my new pursuit of a new story to tell.