I never thought that it would come to a point wherein just the sight of an immaculately clean sheet of paper would lead me to silently scream with anticipation and glee.
True, homesickness could do that to a person.
More true, homesickness could do that to a person who has so much words just waiting for their right moment to be unleashed.
I don't even need my muse to sprinkle some magical inspiration dust on me. What's ironic still is that I can write (Imagine that? I can really write tirelessly at the moment!), I can definitely write without any blocks or inhibitions at the time when I gave up my reigns over my muse. I feel like a giddy 8-year old child on a May morning, quenching my thirst on a windy seaside with a slice of saccharine watermelon--- unmindful of the juice that trickles from my mouth to the space in between my shoulder blades, unmindful of the fact that in a few minutes time, the sweet juice that stains my pink summer dress would be as sticky and as gooey as a melting candy. That's what homesickness and the occasional bouts of depression can do to a person.
Now I understand why Rizal wrote some of his best works while away from his motherland. Lolo Pepe might have earned the title as our national hero and he might be brave enough to willingly die for his country, but you see, Lolo Pepe was just human like the rest of us, and a suffering writer at that. So even the great and illustrious Jose Rizal wasn't spared from the homesickness bug after all.
Now, I'm a little bit comforted.
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