Foreword by Quentin: I got this article from a visitor (thanks Gen) to mine humble blog, and it kind of reflects how much I dream about the things I wanted to do myself (ofcourse, I will never think about being a mother and a whore and a mistress o_O). And well, right down to lying in bed and looking at the books and the sketchpads lying on my shelf in my room in Cavite.

The morning breeze is quite fresh on my window this morning. Sign that the coffee flowers will be blooming soon.

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i have been reading to escape my own life. sometimes i’m an old traveler, a paraplegic, sometimes a mistress, other times mother, whore, lawyer, kid, most of the time, psycho. it’s just amazing how i can get away and take on other men's lives, how books can bring me to places i’ve never been. places i’ve been dying to visit, and even to spots i’d never want to go to like the underworld.

sometimes i lie in bed and just stare at those books stacked up on the shelf. and suddenly i hear voices, i see ghosts talking to me, telling me to stop and listen to the great teacher. as if each book is my own experience, some painful, some gratifying.

no matter how odd the ideas are, it’s great to know that with books i’m not alone. i am surrounded by words that tell who i am. why i feel what i feel. i travel halfway between life and dreaming, my own consciousness in someone else’s mind, taking me from gravity to levity, from mars to pluto, and on to my lover's arms.

i guess i’ll just keep on reading till i can’t read anymore, after all, it is saving my sanity.