Why am I writing? is a question that's been bothering me ever since I graduated from college. Bereft of inspiration and guidance from colleagues and professors, I found myself not knowing what to make out of writing. I still want to write, but there's no project behind it (i.e. no grand, overarching theme of sorts) which makes the act so easy to dismiss as sad-kid blogging--which I used to do some eight years ago. But I'll tell you, when two nights ago along the sidewalks of Lopez Ave. I found this woman sitting on her knees, scooping out fighting fish from a bigger container to individual, water-filled plastic containers (reminds me of the ice-tubig of yore) I knew I had to write about it. I knew it could depict the way I see life: as a random, good-for-nothing accident that turned into an event of sorts, a festival of meaning-making. To see someone embarrassed and harried at 11PM, doing that outside her pet shop, with that awkward, caught-in-the-act look her eyes made towards my stare, is something worth writing for, not because it's a special night (it isn't, to be honest) or that I found the entire scene oddly entertaining, but because it made me think of all the right reasons to enjoy life. So there's still that part of me who wants to write about people who, instead of using fork, use their hands to take out the seeds of a calamansi; or about the MRT passengers who sing along to the songs they had on their earphones; or about the bus passengers who snore; or the few people who read during their daily commutes. These instances are proof that every single one of us are doing something unique, something a bit different from the rest.