It was 4:00 in the morning.  I was awaken by a blast of a VECO transformer nearby.  The electric fan in my room, which I usually leave spinning overnight, suddenly stopped.  All at once, the FM radio on my bed became so silent from playing all mellow-touch songs.  All I could hear were few cocks around the neighborhood crowing at its best, not minding the dogs barking furiously from somewhere.

I couldnt get myself back to bed nor close my eyes and again enjoy the vastness of endless thoughts or continue a sweet dream that had just been cut short.  I wondered for awhile if anybody in our apartment too hard to go back to sleep after the explosion would care to have a little chit-chat that very early part of the day.  No one.  Everybody else had a drained night before, only a volcanic eruption perhaps could shake each one from slumber. 

It was in someway sad to realize I was alone; awe-struck and curious how a blast, barely recognizable by my roommate, had left me restless, a little perturbed.  Neither the heat nor the dogs barking were enough to convince me of the perplexities I felt.  There got to be something this moment has for me, so I thought.  Standing in the terrace now, gaping, so silent as the leaves slowly swayed in harmony to the passing breeze, I looked around for other early birds in the neighborhood and watched the moon feeling rather cold.

That very moment brought memories of love, of dreams and reaching high, of what-ifs and thoughts of what I could have become and done.  I was made to think of the time when all I had to do were eat, play and sleep and my limited mind knew nothing but the medical doctor profession.  Feeling frail, I smiled, as I looked back at the sight of a child that was I too full of aspirations and boyish hopes.

I recalled how I got myself involved in a fight because someone said I was better off as a houseboy and not a doctor as I wanted myself to be.  All the time the reason of going home from school sporting a black eye were classmates whose ideas simply opposed mine, whose perceptions had nothing to do with how I perceived life and too far from what I believed at.  This time, gazing at the heavens, over the fading stars I thought of what all the fighting were for.  Did my little unthinkable, blameless combats and duels pay off?  And where all my dreams have gone?

I closed my eyes for a while.  The horizon was so wide, I saw.  Slowly, I was led me to some space and time where little things and wishes and hopes were left undone, unfulfilled and never been remembered but only now.  I was shifted to the time I became so obsessed with paintings; I wanted so much to become a successful painter like Da Vinci and not anymore a doctor.  A mentor told me artists are uniquely gifted beings and their obra maestras are expressions of what their inner self seems to say.  He taught me so much things, from the basic brush stroke to rendering colors and to even sketching my own portrait.

The happiness seemed boundless, as life was a bunch of contentment, learning the craft in detailed by heart.  Each product my hands did, the single twirl and drift of the brush, the fading colors everything was done perfectly to the best that I could, just for reality to look like real.  I knew from the beginning, modesty aside, I have the skills and chances of excelling to whatever endeavor I would fit myself into great or small.  Yet as I was thinking, where all the dreams have gone now?

The dream of becoming a singer, following Gary V's steps or perhaps imitating Martin's was one of the most popular among the top five list of fantasies I had.  What could have been the use of Mom's voice lessons, of the many exposures from singing on school programs to joining amateur singing contests during fiestas and even on the radio live, if a professional recording artist I would not become? Mom conquered the airwaves on her early years, sort of.  And so did my younger brother!   Theyre known to be songbirds birds who know how to sing nice tunes.  Their vocal chords may have been created perfectly; no one could say anything not pleasant at all.  What about me?  Well, in the first place, who cares about the way I carry a tune anyway?

I was good at it, God knows.  Maybe still is.  I could give a good piece or a melody, reach certain pitches, and have a style I can always call my own.  I was once a choir member and friends say I could easily earn a living out from my voice.  But where my hopes have faded?  Martin Nievera has to say, I give my all but I think my all may have been too much I was getting anywhere  Its exactly true to me. 

Now look.  "What is this writing thing?", I wonder.  How did I end up sending articles to anyone and to many others just to let them know my sentiments?  Who inspired me to write anyway?  And who among my relatives this blood of liking to words and literature came from?  No one, no matter how I would get myself to think.

I love to write.  Had I not won a regional essay writing contest during high school years, I wouldnt probably have the inspiration and determination of spending hours and hours tinkering on words and structuring phrases.  Was the memorable day a go signal from above to further hone this talent I wasnt even able to trace its roots?  Could it be only a trial-error thing or error-error stuff: I try and everything went into error?  Or is this some space in my life intended for patience testing and stamina assessment?  Most say, only people with reserved patience can write long and good articles and can survive a lot of rejections.  As a young writer in this very competitive world, many times I felt almost close to giving up, letting go of this wild dream and just venture into something else.  I almost raise the white flag and shout to the world how crazy I am to persevere days of thinking worthy topics to write and stare blankly in the computers screen for hours.  But look at me now, persistent and enduring in this field God-knows-what better things will bring and where probably might lead.  Somehow, somewhere I know there is a place for me in this spacious circle of words. 

I sat down thinking of the days of glory in the past, staring at nothing in particular and still wandering if these were all the early morn had, oblivious of the days beyond.  I thought of so many other things.  If I were a doctor or a painter or a singer perhaps, where would life possibly lead me on this wide, wide world?  Would I be contented saving peoples lives from dreaded diseases? Could a painting help me fully express what lies in my heart and what it wants to convey?  Could a melody and a right note assure me of pleasing anyone or at least giving them a lasting smile?  Maybe yes, maybe not.

My life now comes from giving the best of everything in the past.  I am what I am now, because I gave up some of my dreams that seemed to hold me for quite so long and fulfilled a lone dream my heart told me so.  Though little does one think I could reach certain things in life such as now, I firmly believe in trusting myself, the ideals and making dreams happen not just for my own good but also for good of all.  I may not have realized a dream of becoming an admirable doctor, a noble painter or a professional singer but surely very much happy and contented for all that I have become.  I know now happiness is not measured by reaching all your aspirations but living happily with just one and making each happy moment last forever. 

The sun slowly rose in the eastern horizon.  A very beautiful day to begin life with something new and inspiring thoughts.  I smiled as the stars faded from sight and the moon said its farewell.  I was still sittin and starin at the heavens hoping the moment would not stop there.  I just hoped it won't.  I hoped.

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