I have long suspected that my writing engine is fueled by melancholia. It seems that the sadder I am, the more freely and skillfully my fingers tap on the keyboard to create prose (or, on very rare occasions, poetry). And so you must know that I write this now with great difficulty and almost-physical pain because, well, I am happy.

Maybe happy is too—how should I put it—ah, small, to describe my present state of being. I am not giddy or ecstatic. There is no silly grin on my face, at least not right at this moment. I have no reason to think I have become delusional; I still see clearly the life and work issues that beset me. But when I reflect, there is no internal angst that yearns release on screen or paper. Neither is there a phantom of the mind that begs to be given form with words. What I have now, I gather, is a deep sense of contentment… hope… groundedness.

In that sense, happiness.

I struggled to choose those words. And as I did, I took quick glances at the woman right in front of me in this coffee shop who is herself immersed in writing. It makes sense to look at her when I muse about happiness because she, my wife of almost ten months, is the source of much of this feeling that has halted my gloom-fueled wordsmithing. Last June in Tagaytay, on a perfect Sunday afternoon, Daphne and I gathered our dear family and friends and, as sunset hues bathed all of us, we took turns reading our vows from our iPhones.

Since that time, I have not written anything interesting.

So, yes, I blame my lovely wife for this dearth of writing. She has not given me grief to take to the proverbial pen and paper. When she smiles at me, I am rendered wordless. Have you heard her laughter? It cannot be properly described by any word I know. She has gifted me with togetherness so that time hunched in front of a computer suddenly isn’t so appealing. When I hold her in my arms, I cannot think of anything but the present moment and how blessed I am to have the duty and delight to love and protect this daughter of Abba.

“You should write again, love,” my Daphne has told me a few times now. I do not have the heart to tell her it’s her fault that I have parked the pen. Maybe I can find a new place from which to write. As I grow friendlier with this blessing of happiness and togetherness I might be able to cajole the writing wheels to turn yet again. This time, with new fuel.

I think I will call that fuel with the same name I call my bride: Love. And by no measure is that a small word.


  1. Angst is overrated, Aleks. Simply because we wordsmiths like to wallow in or romanticize it. It’s fuel, yes, but love–as you found and defined it–is super unleaded special, or whatever it is you call the most expensive gas one can find, and guaranteed to give one a smooth writing ride. Welcome back to the world of the pen, all gassed up anew.


  2. ha ha. kuya aleks. sobrang inlove. well, i can’t blame you since being married to a person that God gave you in unexplainable feeling. Ano kaya sasabihin sa atin ng mga kaparehas nating ikinasal na tas ilang taon na silang mag-asawa? For sure, some of them are laughing remembering those feelings of early marriage years. Yung iba, tiyak, may sasabihin na you wait until you are such and such ilang taon ng kasal… but some would encourage us because up to this day, they are still in love with the person they married several years ago. But whatever the future holds, it is our privilege to express this contentment we had with our wives and the gratefulness we gave back to the Creator of this relationship. Kaya kuya aleks, keep the pen flowing with such state. Im happy for you and daphne.

    eson td bur.


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