si Einstein.si Florence Nightingale. ang soccer at ako, ang manunulat.

When I was a kid, I often indulge in daydreams.

One day, I was this Einstein wannabe.

My greatest dream then – to concoct an expectorant that will snag the tiniest phlegm of stupidity and selfishness that has taken root in every person’s cranium and promptly expel from the polluted system.

I passed through that stage wherein I thought (and with Nanay’s prodding) I’d look good in a crisp, white uniform with that starchy little cap on my head. I thought I’d be the next Pinay Florence Nightingale.

And then, there was a time I thought entering the PMA and donning a Navy uniform would be the coolest thing for me (I ruled out the airforce, ‘coz I fear heights. Army is a bit ordinary, or so I thought.Hehehehe).
I dreamt of entering military school.

When I was in high school, I was drugged with thoughts of excelling in sports. I thought I’d be the next softball sensation - sporting the spanking, smart, pin-striped uniform of my school varsity. But just like my dream of suiting up as a junior basketeer, Tatay quashed the thought.
He wouldn’t want me to become a lesbian.

But then again, I wasn’t to be restrained too simply.
In college, I played soccer for three straight years, and went on to become my Faculty’s team captain on my senior year.
It was fun. True, I was observed to be a tad boyish for some boys’ standards, but I don’t care. I enjoyed the game and was, still is, perfectly in touch with my feminine side.

When I stepped into the university, I know, my calling was to become a communicator. Since elementary, I have developed this love affair with the printed word. Reading is only second to breathing.
And it is in writing that I found my heart.
The first stirrings of love pulsed through me, when I discovered the magic of writing.

I liked seeing my nails getting inked – from jotting down lectures, notes, interviews, quotes, using the typewriter.

There’s a different kind of high in getting facts, chasing people for interview, cramming everything into coherent phrases, shaping sentences, sewing paragraphs for stories that would inform people, make them laugh, tug their hears, shape opinions.

And there’s a different sense of fulfillment in seeing people actually read what you have written, it’s euphoric when an authority in the field actually acknowledge your existence.

And then I almost forgot how it is to dream, much more, indulge in that child-like trance of daydreaming things the adult me would perhaps dismiss as too simple, too naïve.

Almost. Forgotten. Almost forgotten.
But not quite.

I indulge in daydreaming still. Often, coming home from work. I daydream of spending one whole day, resting. Reading a book, snuggled on my banig. Tucked into my own realm. Unbothered. No household chores to think of. No impending bills threatening to nick my salary anew. Sigh. Those kinds of daydreaming.

Sometimes, I confuse it with my what ifs.
But then, that’s another blog entry.