It is evening, and the shade is slipping closer all the time. If I thought about it, I quite liked this part of the house, or rather, the backyard. It seemed to have an enterprising flourish to it. The plants corkscrewed their way to the light as if they were doing what they wanted instead of what someone else had ordered them to do. My little nipa hut is secure. Or secure-ish.

I had come out here to find a bit of silence and to get my head in some sort of order. I had phoned the companies—or rather, I sat in McGregor during the week’s afternoons, eating Tiramisu and giving instructions while my Finance Committee had done the ringing bit—and it was all sorted for the coming semester. Next two weeks. Only fourteen days. How was I supposed to deal with that? I still need at least another week to get the newsletter printed for the registration.

And there were other things. Relations with busy friends, past and current colleagues, were still strained. When I went to bed last night, my mind still half blinded with all the silent speeches I had made, I texted a common message to them all.

“Dreams pass into the reality of action. From the actions stems the dream again; and this interdependence produces the highest form of living. -Anais Nin”

I had checked my cellphone to see if one of them replied. Some of them did. Some had explained—quite noncommittally—about our org’s activities this coming sem, about our feasib’s groupings, about enlistment et cetera—but when it came to telling them my uncertain plans for the future, something happened. Or didn’t happen. They didn’t reply and I realized that I wasn’t ready to decide yet. Maybe the stars will have a say regarding my alternatives; maybe the CRS will decide for me; maybe it is out of my hands. I certainly would like to believe that it is, because I do not want to hurt anybody’s feelings.

Currently listening to:
Songs From The Attic
By Brooke White