You see, life is not a causatum, an X & Y. It is, most of the time, chronological. And in that continuum, it’s the quality that matters. Sometimes, in a span of few moments, we fall in love with strangers. And they become vital part of our lives.
I’m drunk. I consumed 3 bottles of beer and I’m actually surprised that I managed to return to my place without crawling. I tripped 2 times while walking up the stairs, though. Oh details of everyday life — I so love you.
Anyway, this country is hopeless. It’s absurd to watch people who ardently argue about the good and evil of politics — as if that very realm knows any sense of moral. It’s exhausting to witness all these social fragmentations, all these promises of genuine electoral change, all these madness and willingness to slay the vulnerable and the deviants.
It is ridiculous to live with the careerists — both young and old — those who allot more energy in image building than nation building, inane even. Those who do not hesitate to sell this nation for some stupid incentives and titles to attach beside their names. To hell with this endless spiral of insanity and incalculable torment.
It is exasperating, really, to exist with the idolaters who applaud the murderers for roaming free and condemn the indigenous communities and hungry farmers for raising their fists and collective indignation.
And then the deranged writes solicitation letters to the Chancellors and the Lords, removes the larger and historical context of class struggle, and asks for trickles of alms to assist the oppressed and the exploited in this time of El Niño.
Some wannabe progressives, on the other hand, throw motherhood statements from Marx or Mao or Lenin or Guevarra and god knows who else, then post photos with Bam Aquino like what the fuck. The cowards claim social media heroism but is fearful, in actual, to stand up for others and risk their names and personal interests.
This country is demented.
Yes, I am drunk and I tripped on the stairs twice but hey — fuck all the spineless, the specious and the pusillanimous! You’ve been slaughtering this nation in ways you’ve never imagined. You’ve slayed your fellows, even fed on the inconveniences of one another. You’ve robbed the next generations of their futures and sapped the blaze of those who revolt against this dying light.
Yes, I am drunk. But even in my intoxicated state, I still see how the oppressed mimics the oppressor by constructing their individual hierarchy on the broken bodies and dead aspirations of the dreamers of far flung hopes. They are sober and they don’t even realize this.
This is the most disappointing part.
Yes, I should cease doing that. Over-analysis. I should cease worrying about the infinite possibilities that the fluctuations in your voice carry. I should cease replaying our previous conversations, re-assessing where I might possibly have left an error.
I should cease reviewing these hundred ways of rectification for dummies, or rehearsing all these morning greetings. Maybe I should just pull the blanket up, cover us both, watch you sleep and trace your temples, follow the constellations on your chest. Or canoodle.
I’ve never watched anyone this way. You know I’m easily bored. But you, for you I will do it. Write verses, even. Recite lovely poems in low voice. Run my fingers through your hair. Hold you. Hold you close. Hold you closer.
Maybe I’ll wake you up and ask you to drive me around. Windows down, music blaring. We’ll play Beatles. Or Firehouse. Or The Smith. Classic rock bands. We’ll sing and live our lives and make this world adore us.
I would love this.
And I would do this. I’d like to do this. It is almost 4 in the morning and I’m wishing, really really hard, I’m wishing for something to fall that will enable me to love you again.
Until then, I’ll wallow in my over-analysis. You don’t know this, but this, too, is smashing my defective heart. And believe me, darling, you don’t want it broken. It will cut you. You will bleed to death.
So tonight allow me to save you. Let me leave you unscathed.
And I also say yes — when old fellas ask me out. But I wouldn’t be there, no. We’ve ran out of conversations. We’ve exhausted authenticity. We’re all like hostages confined in a room and forced to be cordial and nice for an hour or two.
Funny, I’ve just ended certain friendships tonight. With more or less 10 people. No, I did not just disappear. I gave them my closure. I told them that they, at least, deserve that. And thanked them for the years we’ve been through.
I’m concluding any relationship in my life that lacks profundity. Come second week of April and I will have few friends left. Few, yes. But genuine nonetheless. And that’s sufficient to make this life worth living.
I guess this is it. We’re all ghost stories in the end.
Woke up from a strange dream with vivid details. Thesis was involved and… my roommate.
Data gathering. My respondents were dispersed. I was on a plane heading to the next respondent. My roommate was seated next to me. A show was ongoing in front, probably for entertainment.
Perhaps, it failed to amuse me. I transfered to another seat, the one near the window and looked outside. The plane was going on so fast I could see the details of the wind — some white-ish dashes, perhaps drizzle. The ride was steady but I began to worry that it would, soon enough, end.
I looked at my roommate who was my seatmate in the dream. She was calm. I scanned the other passengers’ faces, they were calm. For some reason, I wasn’t. I fixed my gaze out the window again, expecting turbulence.
Then, it happened: the wind was still strong and in drizzle when the plane rolled on its side. The wing scraped through the brick roofs, pieces of it flying in the air. I know the pilot was trying to regain balance.
Once more, I looked at the others. They were still calm. My roommate who was my seatmate in that ride was eating popcorn. While they were watching the show, in that plane, I already arrived on the brink of panic.
The plane crashed. The pilot crashed it intentionally in some building-like wall. The window next to me was open, and, in panic, I climbed out of it.
Was outside and was already glad when I realised that I was not able to get my bags, so I went to the door and headed back in. Not wanting to join the commotion, I decided to sit and let others do their tasks. Without knowing, I fell asleep.
There was no light when I woke up. It feels like a long time has passed. There were vines and cobwebs inside. There were also litters and broken seats and disorder. There were dust and moss as well. I edged forward and retrieved my bag; luckily, it was still there.
I was alone, and I was, yes, scared.
Holding my bag, I immediately went to the door. It surprised me then: the plane, the thing that crashed on a building wall, concrete, was inside an old, abandoned wood house. There were holes in the roof. Some wood floors were missing. There was no one around.
I walked on till I finally managed to get out of the house. I stood near the door but did not go down the stairs. There were men outside. I know they were peasants, the way they tended to the rice grains.
I was watching them but not long after that, a tricycle arrived and a woman with long, grizzly hair appeared. She went up the ladder, straight to the house, unmindful of my presence near her door.
The tricycle was leaving so I ran and yelled. Maybe the driver heard me; he stopped on the corner. I walked straight to him and asked him to bring me to the plaza. I do not know the place, and panic was welling inside me once more.
The driver stared through me. Confused, but not saying anything back.
It was at that precise moment when I woke up, again. This time in my room. I was groggy and surprised to discover everything in darkness. It feels like, for a moment, I don’t know where I am and I am not certain what I want — coffee, chocolates, or rice meal.
It feels like I am living an extension of the dream. Like my dreams and the other dreams within those dreams are past lives, and I did not survive the fall. And we’re all trap here in a ceaseless cycle of death and life and incarnation.
I can’t shake off the possibilities, but it feels like being transported in various times and various planes, and this exact moment when I am typing this post is simply one of those.
If you would ask me, I am exhausted. Like I never slept at all.
After my data gathering in Olongapo, I noticed certain changes in me. Like I have evolved and I no longer who I was when I left LB last February.
My previous version, for instance, is hard-wired. You would hate her. She’s not the type who would slice her life up to welcome you. She builds walls, lets the world drops dead. You can cry in front of her and I swear she wouldn’t do anything but watch you. Appalled.
My current version, on the other hand, is emotionally receptive. I wouldn’t dare to say you would love me, but I have began unravelling my life for certain people. I dismantled my walls, picked up worlds. You can cry in front of me and I will give you a glass of water or a cup of coffee, but I will let you vent out first. And I will listen.
I may even embrace you, if it’s any comfort. This is odd, especially to those accustomed to who I was — I never hug anyone. Now I know how to hug back. A certain lawyer recently taught me that, and she may not be aware of this, but I am grateful.
Sometimes, it scares me. This shedding of anonymity. This reduction of invisibility. This crossing of proxemics. This getting too close. The possibility of being burnt.
In laying down my masks, I am exposing my very core — hidden selves, patches and scars, frustrations, secret dreams, desire, hesitations, self-doubts, even my demons. But today was a good day. And yesterday too. And the days before that. No, actually better. Life is worth it.
So yes, I will revel in this vulnerability. In this opening up. In this reciprocation.
I realized I like seeing details — the lines on people’s eyes when they pull a smile, the way pain registers on their face upon hearing others’ sufferings, the way they worry, the way they get angry, the way they wave their hands when speaking while driving a car. The way they nod. The way they care. The last crack of their laughter before it disintegrates into thin air.
I’m happy. Those I was with today, and those I was with yesterday, and the days before that — they make this life worth living. Every single battle.
I am happy.