My life is compounded with irony.
I studied journalism in a university but I ideally quit writing some months after that. I ended up being a textbook editor when in fact I never cared to edit my thesis paper.
In high school, I dreamed to be a reporter, having been amazed at how TV news affect people. I continuously watched news channels at that young age when others would be watching music channels or playing outside. I was interested in current affairs while others just listened to pop music on the FM band.
After I graduated college, I tried being a correspondent for a local newspaper. Later did I realise that I was too timid and shy to ask the local politicians about the issues of the day. I thought I might make a social blunder by asking the wrong questions in an interview, for example—they might regard me as a stupid reporter. I was not confident at all. That I realised.
I studied journalism and mass communication but I was not confident in most ways.
I thought of finally going back to writing one night.
I was riding the metro, and the train cars were packed with people eager to go home. My hands outstretched for the railings, I was easily sandwiched when men in sweat-scented polos flocked the train car. It was rush hour, at about seven in the evening.
At that moment a proposition swiftly went through my mind. “Write a blog,” it said. Many thoughts raced through my neurons—opinions and theories about life and living, problems, money, and a possible stampede inside the train car—and I had to release these somewhere. “Try to write these reflections,” I heard mysef said.
Now, I’m writing the first paragraphs of my blog.