DISYEMBRE is always a tough time of the year. It sends signals to your memories. and even to your body. It doesn’t help the everywhere you go, there might be a small trigger. And you start entertaining the question,

“Am I where I’m supposed to be?”

This month is a dance with my longings and gratitude. It was an unpolished dance; yet one that I needed to let my body experience.

This year started with a poem and an idea to write one poem per day. At first I thought it was going to be easy. After all, how difficult can it be to write one poem a day? It proved me wrong; because writing was the easy part. Asking myself what matters to matter to be written about was the most difficult part. Some days are so ordinary, so mundane, that perhaps there was nothing to write about. Asking myself if I’m ready to write about a certain event or insight was also difficult. I can only write about ideas or insights that I have already accepted; which meant I needed to do a lot of introspection.

Writing became a refuge. It was no longer an idea of a refuge; it became a refuge. In that sense, I think I am where I am supposed to be; and my fifteen-year-old dreamer self would agree. Because all she ever wanted was to become a writer.

This is Disyembre.