My dream last night was different in two ways.
One, it wasn't an elaborate chase sequence like most others. It was, for the most part, me in an office. I don't really remember much of what happened, but the setting, I remember.
Two, the dream was apparently so bad that I was screaming in real life, and Shalla had to wake me up.
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Two ladies entered the restaurant Shalla and I were in yesterday.
"May dine-in ba kayo?" one of them asked.
"Wala po, ma'am," the person behind the counter answered.
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"It's your blog. You write for yourself. Don't think about what they think."
This was a long time ago. Definitely back in college, when I made "blogger" my identity. I think it was Icka who said this. I can imagine her face when she said it. About what, I don't remember.
Occasionally, even up to now, this would echo in my head, especially now that I take weeks planning an essay, particularly those really long ones. I'm sure nobody reads those, because attention spans are short and demands for one's time are many, but still, I write them. It's my blog. I write for myself.
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The idea of travel bubbles isn't new. I mean, not new considering how the fabric of space and time seems to have dilated beyond recognition in the past thirteen months. Objectively, the term is new, the same way "quarantine pass" and "you're on mute" didn't exist until this time last year.
I remember this talk of a Hong Kong-Singapore travel bubble almost materializing, but then not happening, because of a spike in cases somewhere. I assume Hong Kong, since they're the city I've been monitoring more, for some reason.
In the past few days, however, that term's bounced back in my head. There's a Taiwan-Palau travel bubble, and there's an Australia-New Zealand travel bubble, all involving places that have had a better handle on this pandemic than we have, and so have earned the confidence of similarly-minded places to bring people over without the need for two weeks of quarantine.
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Some photographs have been edited using post-production curves from Shalla Yu.
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