Location: IBC 13
First Day: So this how it feels like on dead hours... by dead, I mean the hours when journalists are waitin', monitoring, observing which direction the thunder will roar, and off they'll zoom there head-on to cover... then deliver.
Second Day: So this is how it feels like?! I felt like a three-year old trained to swim, but in an almost cruel way. I was left with no choice but swim, or I'll get drowned. It took a dash of confidence, and oh, the right clothes.
For a second there I looked up, "Lord, are you really sure you're planting me here?"
but I shrugged the thought away and reprimanded myself for that little slip of faith... He is planting me here, I have to bloom here.
So I swam.
And in the same pool were the media-who's-who whom I used to only just see on TV.
Ivan Mayrina. Maki Pulido. Anthony Taberna. And a pretty o
ne whose name I lost. I, I...ME...bringing the same gear as they do, that is: a pen and a steno notebook. We were there in The House of Representatives, jotting down hurried notes as the congressmen deliberated over yet another societal issue.
Forgive me for magnifying the experience to the maximum... It's just something surreal for me.
I'm getting there... I'm getting there.. I'm reaching my star... nothing's gonna stop me.
.. and it's giving me the jitters.
Good God, guide me good.