|First page of the book Farmwife by Marion Roberts. If you're from Ateneo, you might want to read it patiently.|
(Written during my last month in Ateneo as a student. In which I spent time in the library reading a really old book, Farmwife by Marion Roberts, and sometimes free writing in which, most of the time, for more than 5 years, I didn't make any sense at all although I try to give my best but always fail.)
Let me tell you about myself. What I have become after twenty-two years of living. To tell you quite frankly, I don't know where to start. If I will write something based on today, it might or might not matter tomorrow, in a week, a month, or in five years. But today, I exist. I exist among these students in an air-conditioned library who are trying to study for their exams.
Today I am trying to finish a book published on 1952. It is about a woman who lives in the farm. It is not a novel rather a diary with twenty-two chapters. I am half way to finishing it. That is if I really want to read on. To be honest, I feel sleepy whenever I read it. The reason why I am reading it is because it is talking about a peaceful life of a woman in a farm with her family and tourists, who visit their little hotel, who are unbelievably interesting, nice, and happy. I have cheated though. I read the end pages of it and I learned that the story did not have an ending. The author was simply writing down her lovely life in the farm. I am seeking a peaceful and lovely life, situation, or even a fleeting happenstance in life, maybe that is the reason why I keep on reading it. The images I see when reading it somehow helps.
I am just killing time writing just like how I am killing time reading a very old book that no one around seems to care enough to open it. Killing time to read an old book that I love but don't love (because it is lengthy and boring) at the same time but cares to finish it anyway right after my hands, heart, and mind decide to stop pouring and writing down words on this paper.
And so I guess it ends here.