melancholia revisited

a repost from september, 2007


Where does it go when it dies? Love.

If the law of energy states that nothing in this world can ever be created nor destroyed, where does love go when it goes away?

Does it wane with the dying embers of burnt letters? Or float with the black smoke of boxed memories?

Does it fade with the fading faces in old photographs? Does it disappear with the ink that made up those smiles? Smiles that should have been frozen forever. Silent laughter that wasn't supposed to die down.

Does it silently fall through the cracks and crevices of memory? Like what happens to good dreams when we open our eyes? Or does it just lie dormant in some forgotten place? Like a shiny silver coin in the pocket of your old jeans. A gold locket in a candy jar. Or an old diary in a box of old toys.

Does it change its direction, change its form, change its mind?

When it dies, does it resurrect, does it go to heaven?

When it dies, if it ever dies, does it really die?

i have learned

I have learned that loving someone is the most natural and beautiful thing a person can do. It’s also the most selfish. You do it to feed your ego, boost your energy, satisfy a desire, ease up a longing, realize a dream, or maybe complete an otherwise substandard life.

I have learned that it’s easy to love a person if you have hundreds of reasons to. But what if you have hundreds of reasons not to? I have learned that the true measure of love is when you love a person not because of, but even if. I have learned that one has not loved until one has forgiven.

I have learned that while it takes greater effort to forgive than to be angry, the latter is more tiring.

I have learned that forgiveness is not absolute. It never is. You always keep a little anger in your heart to protect what little dignity you have left. Just a tiny bit of anger—barely noticeable yet unmistakable, like a trace of incense in the air. One that you secretly and painstakingly nourish every chance you get. Subtle, yet possibly strong enough to cool the flame when it gets out of control.

I have learned that in life it is imperative to make difficult decisions once in a while. Decisions that many will never ever understand. Decisions that you can't even defend by pure reason or logic. Decisions that are not necessarily right, but are justifiable at least to yourself. After all, at the end of the day, you only have one obligation and that is to please the self.

I have learned that when you choose your battles, you don’t always pick the one that has the greatest survival potential. Sometimes, you pick a lose-lose situation that’s worth giving up your life for.

I have learned that the kind of love that's worth keeping is the kind of love that has survived battles, the cruel twists and turns of fate. The kind that persists even if its existence is constantly threatened. The kind that goes beyond reason, almost to the point of stupidity. The kind that hurts, the kind that thrills, the kind that pushes you to your limits, the kind that screams for world attention. Because true love—or at least the real one—is not the kind that knows no pain. It’s the one that’s been stabbed one too many times and still survives.

I have learned that in love, no matter how much you’ve learned, you’ll never really learn. Because you know that in love, there are mistakes that are worth repeating again and again and again.

I have learned...that I haven't learned at all.

poison ivy

hush now, little one
save your tears
if i've stung you
and caused your little fingers to bleed
it was never intended.
nay, little boy
don't look at me with accusing eyes
you knew i must not be touched
you were told to walk away
if you can, while you can
as my hands are thorns
and my lips are poison
cursed by the same gods that blessed the roses
pained by a love that was no more
do not judge me, lad
you do not know me
for under the gloomy sky i stand
where the wind is dry
the sun is cold
and the stars do not twinkle.
do not take it personally
it was pure self defense
my vegetative soul does not think twice
nor does it look back and apologize
so walk on, lad
linger no more
walk past me
do not love me.

forgive me, i'm too angry to hold sensible thoughts

They said, let it go, if it comes back then it’s meant to be. And I said, bullshit. That was probably the greatest mistake of my life.

For the past few months, I have been competing with Chance. They say if something is meant to happen, it will happen despite your best efforts. When everyone was repeating the exact same line, I held on to Coehlo’s words: When you really want something to happen, the whole universe conspires in your favor. When someone hits you on the cheek, you don’t offer the other side just because someone decided your face is meant to be hit. I’d say it’s only prudent to fight back. I thought I was too old to believe in things like serendipity.

But everything I did turned out to be one futile attempt after another. I fought a good fight and I scored my best points but still I lost. Instead of blaming it on Chance, I told myself that maybe somebody else wanted to win more badly than I did. Someone else was hungrier and better prepared. And so I gracefully accepted my defeat before my opponents and mourned secretly so as to not spoil someone else’s victory party. I was taught that in matters of love, just like in war, you must know when to surrender. Because sometimes, it’s not about winning or losing; it’s about not losing yourself in the process. But unlike in war, in love, as long as you keep another happy, even if you lose, you still win.

And now that the storm has passed, Chance is asking for a rematch.

When I was young, I used to mull over how God decides who gets to win in a basketball match. If both teams with equal number of players would pray for the win, whose side is He gonna take? Isn’t it a wonder that if a team wins, every member would naturally raise their hands to heaven and thank whoever is up there, but if it doesn’t, the members would simply shrug their shoulders and say, “our time hasn’t come yet.” It seemed to me that every possible life path in this world has already been carefully mapped out. We’re already traversing a long and winding road with fixed u-turns, dead ends, and detours. A lot of times I asked, given a perfect masterplan and a grand design for everyone, are prayers still necessary? Does competence matter? Do our choices and desires even count?

It really never ends, does it? I thought running forward would take me somewhere else, anywhere but where I came from. I must have taken a wrong turn because now I’m back to square one, facing the same people and challenged by the same options. The truth is I don’t want to fight back anymore; the war has claimed so many lives already on both sides. But I also know that this is my one last shot at being completely happy. Once again, I find myself at the threshold: One more step backward and I’ll fall over the cliff, one step forward and he’ll pull the trigger aimed at my head. I don’t like where I’m at right now but I don’t know where else to go. One misstep and I’ll go crawling back again to the seven circles of hell.

And so I am now making peace with Chance. I thought I was different; I guess I’m just like all the other fools. So, Chance, go ahead and rule my life. After all, I have nothing to lose anymore. If it turns out well, then I’ll thank you. If it doesn’t, then I’ll forever hold you responsible. Why trouble myself with making difficult choices when I can always close my eyes and walk blindly towards the easiest way out? Why not leave everything to chance because that way nobody points a finger at me when somebody gets hurt in the process? At least all I need to do now is to grab anything that crops up right in front of me because maybe Chance has willed it to be there. Maybe I’ll sell a book with my new number on it and marry whoever gives me the first call. Never mind logic, forget values, to hell with free will. Chance will always be there to bail me out, right? I think that arrangement is fair enough, not to mention convenient. God, I’ve been completely stupid, thinking that what I want actually mattered. So do your thing, Chance, while I sit back, put my feet up, and watch the world roll by and get fucked up.

Closing Circles, Crossing Borders: A Final Look at 23

As a journalist, I know I should be writing about the renegade soldiers or the unreasonable arrest of the ABS-CBN technical team or anything of universal importance. But humor me on this one as this will be the last time I will be writing about the past three months. Here goes

As I was celebrating my birthday, someone’s funeral was taking place.

Fast-forward. A few nights ago, as Au was choking back her tears at the sight of her surprise birthday party, a relative of mine was holding on for dear life. That relative died on the eve of another friend’s birthday.

Flash back again. On the eve of my birthday, my friends and I dropped by my friend’s lolo’s wake, his final night. We left a little before 12 a.m. because my mother said, “Masama na nandun ka kasi birthday mo.” Au asked me what the connection was and I just shrugged my shoulders. Obviously, I didn’t understand either.

At first I thought it was just one of the laws or superstitions that you find absurd but have to follow anyway to appease the gods and goddesses, or at least the movers and shakers of your life. And then I thought of the many birthdays I didn’t bother to celebrate because of the growing pressure to be happy on those days even if you’re not. Perhaps my mom thought the words “condolence” and “happy” don’t sound too well when put together. But after some serious thinking, I’ve concluded that life and death are a perennial love team—like bread and butter, cup and saucer, guy and pip, chip and dale…

I think it’s impossible to celebrate life and appreciate it completely without the full awareness of death. Come to think of it, if you know you’re going to live forever, what’s the point of counting the years? You’ll just be collecting days forever and for what? Life and death…poles apart but nevertheless inseparable.

I have also learned that growing old is different from growing up. Growing old comes with responsibilities; growing up comes with understanding, with knowing that the world has a far more important mission than attending to your needs and frustrations. Unlike growing old, growing up is not compulsory, and birthdays have nothing to do with it. It just happens, at irregular servings and at irregular intervals. For me, I think most of my growing up happened this year. Maybe somebody decided that I’ve put it off much too long already.

What a difference a year makes. I used to think that as long as you’re not contributing to the scum population, you’re already doing the world a huge favor. I thought it’s enough to pay your bills, pay your tax, abide by the traffic rules, mind your own business, follow paternal orders, feed your children, visit the sick, and bury the dead. But I guess being human takes a lot more than that. This brings me more questions: What makes us humans? The pursuit of happiness? But what is happiness? Is it really synonymous with contentment? Peace? Satisfaction? Perfection?

If so, then how easy it is to be happy. Just be contented with what you have, what you are, and where you are. Don’t dream. Don’t aspire for greater things. Don’t wish to be better. Don’t compete. Don’t go anywhere unfamiliar. Don’t look at the stars and wonder why they are perched above the rest of us. Don’t think. Don’t ask questions. Make do with what is there, with who’s available. Love only those who love you, only those who will love you back. Pretend that you believe that you are born to thrive with the rest of the workforce, those who live for work, bills, tax, booze, and sex. Pretend that you believe that this is all there is to life. Only then can you tell me that everything you could ever want and need is right at your fingertips. In short, downgrade your standards and everything will be perfect, everything will be too good to be true.

But I guess being happy takes a lot more than this, too—more than deciding not to be lonely. So I do hope that some people will take great care when saying “be happy.” As I’ve recently found out, happiness is not something you can force on anyone, not even on yourself.

Right now, I’m still trying to get accustomed to normalcy. After going through hell and back, I get a little suspicious sometimes when life throws good things at me. It almost feels dirty—this unwelcome liberty—like a bribe, a free lunch, or an undeserved salary raise. What is this going to cost me this time?

But then I think of how I’ve managed to keep a good head on my shoulders during those rocky times. Of how I’ve kept my values and how I’ve preserved my sense of self. I was the one on the losing end and I could have misbehaved if I wanted to; I have all the rights and justifications. But I didn’t, and it took every ounce of my energy. I fought my own demons alone and at night, when no one is watching and the risk of a collateral damage is at its lowest. I never burdened anyone, never cried in front of anyone, never pointed a finger. If this is not achievement enough for you, not enough to earn your kudos, then fuck you, Life, bring it on. I am stronger than you think.

Nevertheless, I am not going to pretend that I’m over him. Sometimes I’m not even sure if there were enough getting-over efforts in the first place. But at least, aside from learning certain survival and anger management skills, I have already come to terms with all my unanswered questions and made peace with my past mistakes. After all, even with the best intentions and the best laid-out plans, life spins out of control from time to time. That’s beyond my control. I can’t always own up to the misfortunes of the world. I can’t always take the blame for everything. I’m just a little girl, and my decision was just one decision. Other people could have acted differently if they really wanted that happy ending. He could have acted differently. If he did, then maybe, just maybe, my mistake could have been easily forgiven and forgotten. It could have been just another insignificant flutter of a butterfly wing.

But, as I’ve said, mistakes are necessary evils, things you can either choose to peacefully live with or spend you whole life running away from. I’m choosing the healthier option this time.

As for love, maybe I’ll love again, maybe I won’t. If we consider the ratio between the number of men and women in the universe, I doubt that everyone will be assured of a lifelong partner. But even with these figures, plus the dwindling supply of straight, formidable, and non-polygamous bachelors, I’m not entirely losing hope. One of these days, I’m going to fall hopelessly, fiercely, stupidly, and head-over-heels in love with someone again. And it will probably hurt again, as badly as the first. It will make me cry and scream and throw myself at the mercy of someone again. It has to. And in the end I’ll cherish every groan, every cringe, every sting, every pang of pain, because only a coward bastard would love a person for mere proximity and expediency. No pun (and bitterness) intended.

Yes, I’ll probably love again…but not today. If you want me dead, the easiest and most dignified way is to blast my brains off with a shotgun. Spare me the hassles of another heartbreak, that’s too gory.

I’m going to change the world one day; I will make it a better place—one that’s conducive to little girls naïve enough to give it their all. But for now, allow me the luxury of being reckless. Let me screw up a bit, just a little bit more if only to say that I’ve lived a life that knows no regrets, no limits…if only to say that once upon a time, I was young and restless and free.

Someday, I’m going to change the world. Someday I'm going to move mountains with my bare hands, but for now, let me succumb to my own foolishness. Let me submit myself to new possibilities, discover new frontiers, explore uncharted territories. I know there’s comfort in leading a picture-perfect life, but I think a little unpredictability wouldn’t hurt. It’s ok not to be ok sometimes. And if I intend to be happy in this life, I’ll have to learn how to loosen my grip on things and take the backseat once in a while. After all, the sky is an infinite mass, and I think even with overpopulation issues, there are enough happy endings for six billion people, even for the unworthy, screwed up ones. For this, we only need to trust that there’s a higher power, a divine force that governs the mechanism of the universe. We have to because there’s no other way, because I’d like to believe that there’s wisdom in all these.

I don’t have all the answers now, but I do know a certain connection in all these exists—the same connection that bridges life and death, heaven and hell, human and inhumane, triumph and tragedy, happiness and sadness, love and indifference. Luckily, I don’t need to know everything at once, but I sure hope that the higher power would bless me with a little understanding so I can sleep soundly tonight.

Goodnight, world. Goodnight, November. Tomorrow, as always, I’ll be one day older, wiser, stronger, braver.

move

i was trying to re-learn how to drive when i wrote this one year ago. i didn't write this for me but it pretty much sums up what i feel right now.

*******
So this is how a bullet feels.

When I move, certain things appear blurred. The trees, the billboards, the lampposts, the sidewalk vendors.

The more I speed up, the less real these things become. It makes me dizzy sometimes. Like whirling inside an artist’s head, yes, that’s exactly how speeding makes me feel. As if the street is all so suddenly a moving spectacle: a mass of shiny tinsels moving in circles, a riot of colors chasing after their shapes, a barrage of shapes multiplying in slow motion, a parade of scribbles and doodles and lines that don't make sense.

But I do know they make sense, despite certain conspicuous differences in appearances. That smudge of emerald and chocolate is a tree. That whiff of white is a billboard. The recurring diagonal lines are the sturdy lampposts piercing the heavens. And that heap of redundant shapes is a heap of woman flesh selling cigarettes on cue. Ah, those few hallowed moments of fantasy, they ebb and flow, you know, so you have to enjoy them while they last.

You know you’re old when all things make sense to you. It’s not because you’re wiser, really, just older. Unlike the normal process of abstraction, fantasies do not necessarily give you the right, sensible, ready-to-eat answers. They give you, instead, more questions, things to chew over and over, which are, most of the time, more enlightening and gratifying than the answers in the pipeline. Answers give concrete directions; questions give endless possibilities. Supernatural promises. Deeper wonderments. Like when I move, I always wonder how I look like from the eye of a tree, a billboard, a lamppost or a street vendor. And if they wonder, too, who among us has really moved: they or I.

I wonder, too, if motion is an illusion, a concept used to describe the sudden absence of stillness, of the familiar constancy, of the perceived normalcy. Like darkness, just like darkness.

On second thought, maybe to move is to be actually at rest. If you take into account the earth’s incessant revolution since the beginning of time, it would be easy to argue that even when you stand still, you still move. When you’re stuck in a traffic gridlock, you still move. When you’re pinned behind your desk for hours, you move. When you’re flat on your back and strapped to the hospital bed, you move. When you sob soundlessly in one little corner, you move. When you while away in some forgotten forest as you contemplate about your life, you move.

Maybe the only way to achieve perfect stillness is when you move with the earth. You see, there’s always a good reason to be tired.

So when people pat you on the back and nudge you to move on, what do they really mean? To stop swimming in your own thoughts and join them? How should you respond when you’ve been on the move all your life without your consent, and all you are asking right now is for the world to slow down a bit? If you could get off once in a while, what wouldn’t you give?

Of course man has never stopped tinkering with the possibilities of this, of literally leaving the world we know behind. According to an Inquirer article, all it takes now is $35 million and you’re off, literally. Imagine being your own satellite, the blurb said. Who says money can’t buy happiness? There, your own weight wouldn’t hurt you; the law of gravity doesn’t apply in most regions. I even doubt that your wristwatch could still dictate your daily destiny. There, fashion is functional along with everything else. There, you’ll realize that the things that used to exhilarate or agitate you down here are minuscule and hardly visible, even insignificant. When you think about it, $35 million is such a small price to pay for having liberty in its purest form at your beck and call.

Of course the harsh facts will always find a way to kick you in the shin and pull you back to the gritty realities of life. First, the moon and the stars are more like the cosmic versions of predators that feed upon wayward astronauts than the diamonds in the sky you read in romantic poetries. Second, what are the chances that you or I would find $35 million lying on the sidewalk? Nada. God, I can’t even afford to cross continents yet, what made me think I could skywalk one day? So, to hell with space traveling. Besides, the earthbound thrills still work for me. And the nothingness or somethingness of movement still affords me that unbearable ecstatic energy.

Imagine such great power within my grip. The power to make rapid strides and be somewhere else in a matter of minutes, even seconds. I’ve never been allowed to move this fast before. I had asthma, and every form of physical activity used to be life threatening for me. Even as my condition improved, my frail form would not withstand a hostile environment. Things are different now though. I got fat, but that’s beside the point.

Strange thing, motion is. When I move, the whole world becomes smaller and smaller. As if distances are suddenly nonexistent. The great ideas that once moved mankind become nothing more than shapes and colors. As if they’ve always been just shapes and colors. And I, I become something else. I become the machine and the machine me. I become an invincible four-wheeler—constantly buffeted by the uneven asphalt and hazardous street life, but finding ways to drive on and move with the earth in spite of it all.

. . .

for when i said forever, i meant a lifetime.

and since i died yesterday, today does not count.

#

some thoughts on love

Now, I wonder, “Would it hurt less, if I didn’t give it my all?” or “Would it be best to be skeptic to avoid future disappointments?”

There are only a handful of men (and women) who are willing to commit—“who would rather choose hell, than be without the one they love.” And the worst part is, I thought I've already met one, but as the days go by, it's turning out to be a lie.

These couples were willing to commit, but at some point, decided to take separate paths. I may not know their reasons. And maybe I’ll never understand why they allowed it to happen. I just hope that “never giving up for the one you love” is not merely a movie plot.

--my sassy gail

it's because to love is the most selfish human activity. you love to live--not the other way around. i hate to contradict the bible, but i refuse to believe that such selfless love can possibly exist between two mortals. you do it for you. you love a person because it makes you happy. you give everything you have because it fills you with something else. it fulfills you, even when the love is not returned. you do it for you. it just so happens that somebody else benefits from it too. and so, if a love ceases to make you happy, then it defeats the purpose. what's the point of keeping it? letting go isn't always an option. sometimes, it's just the logical next step.

a call from six feet under

last night, my sister dreamt about my grandma.

my grandmother died when i was 6, i think, and the last time i saw her, she was sitting happily and peacefully in their house's balcony, bidding us goodbye. we were on our way to pangasinan, and it had been a habbit to drop by my grandparents' house first before we head off to the northern realm. she looked very healthy that day, so we never had an inkling that she could pass away within the next three days. but she did, it was all so sudden. next thing we knew, we were rushing inside my granparents' well-lit house. i've never seen that house, or any house, lit that way and surrounded by so many people i've never seen before. it was strange. it was like a really gloomy fiesta. i watched my mom and my older sister cry and wail, but at that time i didn't understand why.

that was the first encounter i had with death.

not that death hasn't attempted to lure me before. i was born a sickly child. just like all grandmothers, mine was a very superstitious one. she said getting sick was my way of protesting against my name, so, to appease me, she deemed it necessary to change my nickname from gracee to ningning. miraculously, i stopped getting sick immediately after.

that wasn't the last time she tried to save my life. sometimes, growing up in such a fascinating world could have adverse effects to a curious child. you know, my hobby of poking an electric socket with a pin or landing heavily from a steep stairway fall could seriously injure me, if not kill me altogether. but thanks to my grandma who would always come to my rescue seconds before i see the light at the end of the tunnel. she would angrily scold me after for always being that close to danger. there were even times she was tempted to spank me; my grandmother never spanked anyone her whole life.

when she died,i didn't even cry, even when everybody was while she was being burried six feet under. i guess at that time i didn't understand the finality that comes with death. for me, the funeral was no different from that day we came to her house to bid her goodbye. it's just "see you later" right, christians? we believe so much in heaven and yet we consider a natural death a mishap. maybe i didn't understand. or maybe i did more than anyone else.

it wasn't until many years later that i cried for many many hours because i miss my grandmother so much. if you think about it, the whole goobye thing isn't supposed to be as sad as it is, because it isn't exactly the parting of ways that hurts. it's the sudden and unwanted changes in the lives of the people left behind that cause the pain. when you can't see them anymore, talk to them anymore, or when they can't scold you anymore for poking an electric socket. of course how i deal with a loved one's death now has changed a lot. for one, i cry now. but it's not because i understand better, it's because i don't. in the process of growing up, i lost a very valuable lesson, and it's not about heaven. it's about not getting too attached to anything or anyone.

last night my sister dreamt about my grandma. it was weird that it had to happen a few days before november 1, when i was trying to beg off from going to the cemetery along with millions of others. for my mom, it couldn't have come at a better time. she found a compelling reason to drag me out of my bed at 4a.m.

i don't know exactly how the dream went, but my sister said my grandma had three messages. first, she was telling my sister how poorly her house is being maintained. then she asked my sister to tell my mom to never entrust her keys to anyone. and finally she asked, "how's ningning?"

what do you want me to say, grandma?

chasing oblivion--and maybe, peace

there are many ways of remembering. trying to forget is but one of the many. this is why i keep telling myself not to rely on memory too much. it is fickle, it is unkind, it is ever evasive when you need it most.

there are many ways of remembering. but on how to forget--i don't have the slightest clue. while you can make moments, you can't un-make them. once they're done, they're there for life. and there's no escaping. unless you bang your head on the wall and damage your memory bank, the pain of remembering will haunt you like a recurring dream. most of the time, it will strike you at your weakest: in the dead of the night, on cold winter mornings, on rainy afternoons, on your bed, at weddings, at the sight of young couples swearing impossible promises.

there are many ways of remembering, trying to forget is the easiest way. try to erase that one painful instance, and you'll instantly be reminded of every single element that made up that day. everything comes back that you can almost see the exact same spot where it happened, smell the ambient scent, hear the familiar voices loud and clear, feel the exact same thing you felt a million moments ago. only now it's different. this time, it comes with the thought that that day will never happen again.

there are many ways of remembering, not all of them are happy recollections. not all of them evoke bright and sunny images. and while it helps not remembering sometimes, not remembering doesn't always mean forgetting.

there are many ways of remembering—all of them are right where you can reach them just when you’re trying to forget.

i, super-ego

The prime motive of the id is self-survival, pursuing whatever necessary to accomplish that goal. The newborn child is regarded as being completely 'Id-ridden', in the sense that it is a mass of instinctive drives and impulses, and demands immediate satisfaction. It is an alimentary tract with no sense of responsibility at either end. It is without a sense of time; completely illogical; primarily sexual; infantile in its emotional development; will not take 'no' for an answer. The id doesn't care about reality, about the needs of anyone else, only its own satisfaction. When the id wants something, nothing else is important.

The super-ego is the faculty that seeks to police what it deems unacceptable desires; it represents all moral restrictions and is the "advocate of a striving towards perfection."

- Sigmund Freud on the divisions of the human psyche

It was Mayo who first called me the super-ego.

It all began with a group project for Filipino Journalism, and I was—fortunately or unfortunately—teamed up with Mayo and Kristel. Kristel, being the one who would, more often than not, sleep through the whole production process, was good-humoredly called the ID. The id would do whatever feels good at the time, sleeping for example, with no consideration for the gravity of the present scenario. On the opposite side of the ring, the one who would keep the wheels of the machine spinning, sometimes up to ungodly hours, was I, the SUPER-EGO. A perfectionist by nature, the super-ego would always rationalize and weigh circumstances, but would always end up going for the logical and the morally acceptable alternative. Mayo, on the other hand, would like to believe of herself as the mediator or the EGO, whose task is to find the balance between Kristel’s primitive impulses and my inflated sense of responsibility. It is due to this disparity of personalities that we probably developed a certain kind of rapport. In the end, we would always get good grades.

I wasn’t always like that, a super-ego. As a child I grew up with the word “delinquent” stamped upon my forehead. You should have seen the look on the adults’ eyes whenever I passed by them. They looked at me as if i'm a broken puzzle waiting to be solved. In a way, I deserved it, considering the seriousness of my offenses. But since I was really cunning, I could get away with almost anything.

Maturity came at a tender age for me. For me, maturity is when people leave you alone because they trust you enough to police your own actions. I realized the only way to keep their prying eyes away from me is to blend with the crowd and act like a normal 10-year-old child. And for a 10-year-old child, "normal" means a day without detention for major misdemeanors, bruises and scratches from enemies (a.k.a. sisters), and heated arguments with parents.

It was a peaceful and quiet life after. You barely get in trouble with elders once you start following the social order. People say if you do the right thing, you’ll never go wrong; they are right. The problem only arises when the world starts allowing little margin for mistakes.

I have learned that the more you widen your social circle, the less space you leave for personal movement. This is the reason I only keep a few important people in my life. Believe me, one boss, five family members, and one boyfriend can be a handful already, especially if everyone has a burning desire to assert their authority and rule your world. For the most part of my college life, I never had big dreams, and the only reason I wanted to do well in school was to get my dad to attend my graduation rites. All I wanted then was a normal life: a regular, boring job that pays the bills, long and lazy weekends with my family, and a decent man to spend the after-hours with. Instead, what I got after graduation was a career that required me to lead a fleet-footed life, stressful Sundays with career-driven family members, and a virtual boyfriend whom I can’t even expect to show up during emergencies. Still, I was grateful, and I knew I wouldn't want it any other way. So I developed a strategy to keep things from falling apart.

To maintain your life’s equilibrium, there are certain rules to follow. First, make sure everyone in your life is coexisting harmoniously. Second, keep them separated from each other to maintain enough breathing space. As you do this, try to keep a comfortable distance from everyone to make sure all their needs are easily attended to. Third, devise a workable schedule that accurately divides your attention among them. Fourth, don’t make sudden decisions or changes in the schedule without everyone’s approval. Fifth, forgetting about what you want is almost always inevitable. Sixth, if you’re having difficulty, don’t expect them to understand. As long as you keep your concentration, you won’t have any problem.

I’m not exactly sure what rule I broke, but when my life came tumbling down at the wink of an eye, I knew I did something terrible: I took a rest for a while. And now, I’m being punished. Now, those who are left are in a state of fury. Everyone is panicking. Everyone is asking questions. Everyone is expressing their opinions. To keep them pacified, the trick is to pretend that everything is under control. You have to assure them that even with the absence of the other, the machine is perfectly intact and their perfect lives can still be lived with ease.

Of course if you do this, you are given little time to recover. Recently, my dad gave me an 8pm curfew, which means, with intoxication out of the picture, I need to think of more creative ways to wallow in my sorrows. After all, sooner or later, I know I’ll have to stop relying on alcohol to get me through the night. It doesn’t get me anywhere anyway. When I wake up in the morning, when the smiling faces of my support group disappear, sadness creeps back in, reclaiming the empty spaces it once occupied, picking up where it left off. Sometimes though, I’m not even sure if it goes away in the first place.

I wish I can just be like everyone else, like those who can unabashedly say, “kung may gusto akong gawin, I just do it. I don’t let anyone stop me.” I wish I can be like him, someone who can easily turn a blind eye on responsibilities, on the people around him, on the people who care about him, on the efforts and sacrifices made for him, on the promises he made just to pursue something he enjoys doing. Until now, nobody has asked me what I really want. Sometimes I don’t even know what I want. Sometimes I feel I’m just a product of the circumstances, of everybody’s previous decisions. I’m really tired of doing the right thing, of always trying to be correct, of trying to uphold the frigging social order, of being the mechanism that keeps the whole damn thing running.

If I have the money, what I want right now is a one-way trip to the outer space, where I can watch the earth and the human follies with popcorn in hand. Really bad action-packed comedy films make me laugh sometimes (no offense to Jackie Chan fans). But more importantly, I want to understand the big picture, the mysterious “reason behind this” that everybody was talking about. But if this is too much to ask, I think I’d settle for Greece. I think it’s a lovely place considering the people there speak Greek and I don’t. Isn’t it nice to live in a place wherein you have no moral obligation to talk to people? I heard too they don’t smile a lot there so that definitely works to my advantage. Too bad I’m really broke.

I am not ok. Sooner or later, I’ll have to stop lying to everyone.

another tragedy waiting to happen...goodluck sa inyo.

Another summer day
Has come and gone away
In Paris and Rome
But I wanna go home
Mmmmmmmm

Maybe surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
I just wanna go home
Oh, I miss you, you know

And I’ve been keeping all the letters that I wrote to you
Each one a line or two
“I’m fine baby, how are you?”
Well I would send them but I know that it’s just not enough
My words were cold and flat
And you deserve more than that

Another aeroplane
Another sunny place
I’m lucky I know
But I wanna go home
Mmmm, I’ve got to go home

Let me go home
I’m just too far from where you are
I wanna come home

And I feel just like I’m living someone else’s life
It’s like I just stepped outside
When everything was going right
And I know just why you could not
Come along with me
'Cause this was not your dream
But you always believed in me

Another winter day has come
And gone away
In even Paris and Rome
And I wanna go home
Let me go home

And I’m surrounded by
A million people I
Still feel all alone
Oh, let me go home
Oh, I miss you, you know

Let me go home
I’ve had my run
Baby, I’m done
I gotta go home
Let me go home
It will all be all right
I’ll be home tonight
I’m coming back home

one selfish bastard told me that too.
that i'm bigger than his american dream.
a game of poker and a day of shopping later, he realized something profound:
he doesn't have the balls to remain true to his word.

I can watch this movie every day and cry every time

"Gyeon-woo, can you hear me? I'm sorry, I really can't help it. I thought I was different, but I'm just a helpless girl."

To the next guy...according to Gyeon-woo

1. Don't ask her to be feminine.
2. Don't let her drink over three glasses, she'll beat up someone.
3. At a cafe, drink coffee instead of coke or juice.
4. If she hits you, act like it hurts. If it hurts, act like it doesn't.
5. On your 100th day together, giver her a rose during her class. She'll like it a lot.
6. Make sure you learn fencing and squash.
7. Also, be prepared to go to prison sometimes.
8. If she says she'll kill you, take it lightly and you'll feel better.
9. If her feet hurt, exchange shoes with her.
10. Finally, she likes to write. Encourage her.

*******

To the next girl...

1. Don't ask him for directions, you'll both get lost.
2. Let him drink with his friends, he knows his limit. (plus he's scared of having a beer belly)
3. He likes his food fat- and cholesterol-free as much as possible. If you can, cook for him, he'll like it a lot.
4.When he's angry, he doesn't talk. It doesn't happen all the time but when it does, it could last forever.
5. Don't expect him to remember special days.
6. He rocks at every sport so if you want to win, play word games.
7. Also, be prepared to answer all his questions in the middle of a great movie.
8. If he says he's stuck in Japan with a hot Japanese girl, it means his plane has already landed and he's on his way to your house.
9. He's vain, the best way to hurt his feelings is to insult him physically.
10. Finally, he takes good pictures. Encourage him.

after the quake

Week 1 - Anger

In this life, there are no signs, only affirmations of what we want to see.

Today, I’m writing about signs—or the lack thereof.

Today, I’m writing about faded photographs, burnt letters, and stuffed garbage bins.

Today, I’m writing about one stormy night instead of once upon a time. Dark clouds instead of blue skies. About castles being burned and princesses being beheaded. About tragic heroes falling through the pit of darkness or getting ravaged by feisty creatures from the underworld.

Today, I’m writing about black and silver and gray.

Today, I’m writing about sharks in the seat of power, angry rogues raving about prejudice, aimless wanderers going places, songs that don’t rhyme, shoes that don’t fit, deceitful kisses in between sheets.

Today, I’m writing about stars. Dead stars, mourning stars, fallen stars.

Today I’m writing about people. Those who lurk in the murky corners of the social world. Those who wear their miserable past like a glowing emblem. Now I know the price they paid for an ounce of wisdom. The scrap of youth they surrendered for a slice of better judgment.

Today, I’m writing about love—or the lack thereof. About sad truths and awakenings. About bitter endings and even bitter beginnings.

Today, I’m writing about love—the lack thereof. After all the stories I’ve heard, none of it warned me it would hurt this bad. And I can’t believe I’m writing the exact same lines of the men and women of history. Those who loved and fought and lost. Those who gave up their arms and legs only to find their destinies pre-decided and pre-written by some magical hands. I knew them all by heart. I just didn’t understand because the signs told me I was a major actor in the grand scheme of things.

Today, I’m writing about silence.

Or the lack thereof.

Because today, the battle begins. It’s me against this miserable chain of thoughts running through my head.

This is what I go through minutes before you wake up. While monsters creep out from under my bed, you sleep the untroubled sleep in that cozy corner where evenings soothe and mornings inspire. And as you wake up to sunshine, as you contemplate on the exciting possibilities of your day, my hand aches and trembles as I write these lines.


Week 2 – Grief

Where does it go when it dies? Love.

If the law of energy states that nothing in this world can be created or destroyed, where does love go when it goes away?

Does it wane with the dying embers of burnt letters? Or float with the black smoke of boxed memories?

Does it fade with the fading faces in old photographs? Does it disappear with the ink that made up those smiles? Smiles that should have been frozen forever. Silent laughter that wasn't supposed to die down.

Does it silently fall through the cracks and crevices of memory? Like what happens to good dreams when we open our eyes? Or does it just lie dormant in some forgotten place? Like a shiny silver coin in the pocket of your old jeans. A gold locket in a candy jar. Or an old diary in a box of old toys.

Does it change its direction, change its form, change its mind?

When it dies, does it resurrect, does it go to heaven?

When it dies, if it ever dies, does it really die?


Week 3 – Surrender

And so if it must die, let it. But don’t die with it, that’s stupid.

Because you see, hearts are broken every day. And in case you haven’t noticed, the world has already stopped caring. That’s nothing personal.

You can fight hard. You can continue to kick and struggle to remain on the surface. After all, the world loves Cinderella stories. The world applauds stories of unassuming protagonists who fought losing battles and won by some stroke of luck. But when the gritty reality kicks in, you’ll remember that not every prince charming falls in love with a maid.

You can fight hard or you can fight smart. You can pick your battles and channel your energy to that which can give you a better chance of survival. It’s not the way of the coward, just as not all brave men have their own spots on the wall of fame. Not all brave men won the war. You’ve never heard about them because the world doesn’t pay attention to those who simply tried and never made it. Losing by default isn’t the same as dying for a worthless cause. It’s either you lose your pride or your life, it’s really up to you.

So you lose a little pride, and possibly a chance to have a book titled after your name. It will just collect dust in somebody’s shelf anyway. And if you die, you only end up in the obituary. Nobody reads obituaries. Remember, you only get to die once, so unless it's morbidly spectacular then it's not worth it.

And so, must it lose its fire, let it. Dying is the natural consequence of everything beautiful. But then, if it must die, drown it not with a bucket of snow, for it will only give you the greatest shock of your life. Don't even try to extinguish it with your own breath, for a fire has the natural tendency to fight back when its existence is being attacked. If it must really die, give it the dignity it deserves. Let it die a natural death. Let it leave a bright orange hue long after it’s gone. Let it die like the sunset. Slowly... silently... beautifully.