Writing about one’s hometown starts with lovely ruralish images—bordering between innocent homesickness and cheap tourism—and ends with a tormenting confession.
I used to have motion sickness. Raised in farmlands and having mountains for playgrounds, the city was like the American Dream to the young me. I didn’t even know the existence of America then.
Let memory bring the Tuburan that I knew, and let the present disrupt this memory.
This will be a series of thoughts, recollections, confessions that may reveal the regrets and longings of my childhood home: Tuburan.