French Mum, humanitarian, restless explorer and doer on sabbatical in Cebu (Philippines): one Attila in each arm, I am exploring the “toddlers safe” corners of the region, while trying to keep some room for Me.
I never trust self proclaimed writers. I have been living in the Philippines long enough to know that karaoké screamers, in spite of their say, are definitely not singers. Same for writers. As shouting in a mic does not make you a singer, taping on a clipboard does not make you a writer either.
Real writers are alchemists : they do magic with words. They turn them, twist them, color them, and mix them so well they become life. Their clipboard is more than letters. Animated with their spirit, it becomes a magic wand. Real writers don’t just write : they take you on a trip, they talk to your soul and play with your senses. I know one of them. She totally embodies the words of John Green about writing “It’s a profession for introverts who want to tell you a story but don’t want to make eye contact while doing it”. Welcome to her world:
It comes every now and then, this threat of happiness and I don’t care to trust it. I refuse to trust it.
There’s a conspiracy hatched by god, his angels, zeus, sandman, and whoever else is fucking in charge to keep me from it. They dangle happiness like a mexican piñata and like a toddler I fall for it, believing that if I hit the donkey, goodies come tumbling out, glitter will coat me like snow. Only it never happens. The piñata swings the other way and there is the swoosh of my bat slicing through air. It is the sound of grasping, emptiness, bad luck.
Last night I had a dream. I know I know we all hate it when someone enthusiastically offers to tell us about a dream they had. Our own are often so incomprehensible that listening to another person describe a mosaic of images overladen with…
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