I'm supposed to write about Dumaguete.
But, sorry. I'm having a really bad case of post-travel blues. It's a literal post-travel depression plus another heaping of "post-travel depression", with allusion to a figure of speech that I sort of used before, so that makes it really really terrible. This is the worst case I've ever had.
Like a moth to a flame, why do I come back to this again and again? Why do we always go back to something even if we know it can hurt us? My papa used to say, "Jean, don't bother trying out a good thing if you know you can't have it for long." We used to argue about it a lot. Now, I couldn't agree more.
It's like a narcotic. You get a high then you crash. And every next shot would just be a futile attempt to mimic your first high. A useless attempt to regain that "thousand orgasms" (even the use of the phrase makes me weep! ugh!).
I'm supposed to write about Dumaguete. But I'm sorry. I just can't. Not yet. I'm having a terrible case of post-travel blues. And I don't even miss Apo Island. No, not one bit.
I'm giving my weary feet a rest this time. My back pack and my Lonely Planet would have to be shelved until I'm ready to travel again. For sure, it would take some time. A very long time perhaps.
Long ago, I found an oyster. In Apo Island, it opened up a bit. I got a peep. It's empty. No pearl. I left the island with an empty shell around my neck. Good enough souvenir. One day I'll have to throw it away. It's getting so heavy.