It’s a Monday night and as I am writing this, it is presently a few minutes just before half past nine in the evening. It’s another one of those drizzly July nights, and hours before my midnight shift begins I am already sitting alone inside a gasoline station’s convenience store. I don’t mind. Unlike the Carpenters, rainy days and Mondays seldom get me down. They have a nice little café here, this gas station, although I’m happily drinking chilled apple flavored green tea instead of the warm coffee they serve while sitting on one of their empty tables. I like coffee, too, don’t get me wrong. Especially now that it’s all cold and drenched outside. The strong aroma that fills the air-conditioned store every now and then reminds me it is a pleasure to the senses that’s difficult to resist. It’s just that commercialized bottled tea is so much cheaper than the coffee brewing fragrantly in the café’s kitchenette. I can’t say it’s much more delicious, but yes, it’s cheaper.
Sometimes even I surprise myself. I’m not usually this prudent. I’d rather buy myself that tempting cup of coffee and go home with an empty wallet than start feeling sorry for myself. But lately I’ve become more conscious of my expenses. Especially those that aren’t very necessary. You see, my savings are in big trouble right now. I can imagine my bank account must feel like a poor pig in a slaughterhouse right now, wary of the imminent death that looms ominously in the hands of the butcher nearby. The frequent bank deposits I eagerly made earlier this year to feed my account have stopped. I didn’t really have a goal in mind back then. I was just saving for the rainy days, I guess. But now it seems those rainy days have come. The global economic crisis is felt by everyone around the world, yes, but that’s not what I’m talking about, really. I haven’t bothered to burden myself with dismal issues like that in a while. I simply cannot be burdened any more than I already am.
Old habits, as action star Bruce Willis would fondly say, die hard. Lately I’ve had to withdraw some money from my savings account just to finance my compulsive shopping episodes every other week or so, the same savings account I quietly vowed not to touch months ago. I’ve had a hard time controlling my urges to buy, own and wear the latest styles. Perhaps because I haven’t even really tried controlling them in the first place. It has even reached a point where I have had to disturb my shopping minions in the bigger cities with my quest for possessing the universe’s most eccentric wardrobe when the stores in my beloved province run out of the clothes I want. Still, if there were some form of rehab for this kind of addiction, I’d have willingly volunteered and submitted myself to have the sinful vice purged from my system, to have some sobriety, and to save myself some money. I’m not rich. That’s the problem. I’ve been living beyond my means. I’ve been buying clothes. Too many clothes. And now all my spending has come back to haunt me. Fashion does come at a high price, and I am paying it right now. With my hard-earned savings.
It’s not like I’m desperately out of control. I could stop if I really wanted to. I think. The problem is I don’t want to stop. And I still have the money to spend. In fact I am starting to feel I have come to terms with and have accepted my addiction, giving up completely on trying to resist and curb it. It may sound pathetic, but for me it’s just another way of expressing myself, of finding myself, of creating myself. Instead of spending my money on other destructive diversions, I’d rather spend them on clothes, clothes that help me define who I am and how I want the world to see me, how I feel about things and where I want to place myself in the society. It is in these material things that I now find my own share of happiness in this small earth that we live in, material things that give new meaning to my short, so far insignificant life. All my life I’ve known I wasn’t pretty. People would stare at me and wish they could pry out their own two eyes. Ugly people cannot afford to wear ugly clothes. Otherwise, they’d be the ugliest things this world has ever seen. And that’s really ugly. I’m sure no one wants to be that ugly. I’m sure I don’t. That’s why I resort to covering myself up with all these clothes that I buy, with the hopes of disguising my appalling imperfections and finally belong like the rest. I know I have everything that it takes to stand out, and that fitting in with the homogenous crowd isn’t something to aspire to, but instead something to get away from. But there really are times when standing out isn’t what you want, and you just wish you could also fit in.
See, this ridiculous fascination with clothes isn’t just something I neurotically developed out of sheer vanity and blasphemous worldliness and debauchery. It has a deeper meaning to it, a psychological aspect that most people fail to realize. All forms of addiction spring from some childhood deprivation and feeling of scarcity. Those who didn’t have shoes when they were young buy themselves hundreds of pairs once they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t get to read comic books when they were young buy themselves all the issues they missed when they’re old enough and rich enough to. Those who didn’t live in a decent house when they were young build themselves flamboyant mansions when they’re old enough and rich enough to. In my case, I did have clothes when I was younger, in fairness. It’s just that as a child I’ve always felt like I didn’t have my own identity. Now that I’m old enough to stand up for all that I believe in, I buy myself all these clothes to create an identity for myself, perhaps a way of filling the emptiness inside and seeking to complete myself in all these material things that I surround myself with.
Not to worry though. I am not a victim. This addiction isn’t something that’s going to strip me of all my money. Or at least without me wanting it. I know money doesn’t grow on trees. You can’t just bury a coin in a pot of garden soil, water it, leave it under the sun and happily wait for it to grow and bloom and bear fruit to more coins. Too bad. That’s why I’m trying not to spend too much money now. So that I’d have some to spare to buy me some more clothes.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Night life
In the past, after briefly trying out how it was like to work in an inbound call center (out of boredom, confusion and curiosity), I’ve sworn on my own sweet, pathetic life that I’d never work on night shifts ever again. Never again. I gave it a good try back then, but I guess it just wasn’t for me. I was good at it, it was fun while it lasted, I learned a lot, too, but it almost killed me. After only a few months, I was fatigued, emotionally unstable, and burnt out. So no, never again, I told myself with finality, resolute conviction and self-righteous, obstinate pride, would I allow myself to go through such needless anguish, corporal punishment and torture just so I’d have some money to call my own salary. It’s just a terrible, terrible way of living, scavenging for money and trying to earn a decent living while slowly dying in the excruciating, exhausting process as well. That was it. I didn’t want to die young or live the rest of my life in a depressing mental institution. So I decided to put my corporate night life on permanent retirement from then on.
Well I guess as long as you're alive you can never really say never, because now I find myself eating (and choking on) my own fierce words.
Since last week, the daytime work schedule I’ve been comfortably on for the past year has been changed, and I’m suddenly back to working nights again. Of course if I really wanted to I could have just made a big, explosive, award-winning dramatic scene, resigned and stopped working altogether. Working in an outbound call center is a different, more profound kind of suffering compared to working for one that takes inbound calls. Instead of fighting off sleepiness at dawn, sitting on a swivel chair in a cold air-conditioned office, chit-chatting with seatmates while waiting for calls to be routed to your computer and then resolving irate clients’ issues while smiling quietly at their hurtful insults, you are tasked to make calls and promote a certain product or, say, a company and its services. It is always a struggle, a constant battle to meet expectations and consistently produce output like sad and sick old hens in an egg factory that reeks of noxious ammonia. It’s very tiring. Not to mention now that I’m working nights, where my frail body is forced to realign itself with new, nocturnal concepts of time and space, and my clock has to turn the other way around, unlearning all that it has now mastered over the years. Despite the redundant statements I continuously make about how difficult the job is, especially now, for some reason, I’ve found the courage to just stick around, wait and see how things turn out.
When I started working in a call center years ago I discovered there was so much about the job that I wasn't prepared for just yet, and some things I didn't even expect I’d find myself face to face with. No amount of preparation would have prepared me for what I was going to go through. And I didn’t make any, anyway. I still feel the same way. However, since life has taken me down this path again, despite my efforts to the contrary, I see no wisdom in putting up resistance. And I’m tired of making such a big deal about it, either. Instead of complaining about how horrible working at night is, I’m instead trying my best to see the good in the night life, my newly revived night life. I’m learning to appreciate things the way they are now. And I find there are some good things in this after all. A lot of good things, actually, that I somehow missed the first time around. I guess the gift of hindsight becomes better and better over time.
I find it wonderful how, instead of leaving home as the rest of the world begins a day, you see how the world ends a day as you wake up to begin yours. It is an entirely new experience when you begin to live your life upside down. You begin to see things differently, like turning a detailed portrait on a different angle and seeing another perspective of the beautiful picture. Despite the initial strain of adjusting to the drastic change in the hours when I’m awake, I find that working nights gives me a fresh way of looking at things, a view that I possibly could not even get while I’m up in the day. For all I know it could all just be something brought about by my altered mental chemistry. I don’t know. Still, I find it quite a revelation.
In the morning, just as I go home even before the rainclouds wake up to wring themselves dry and flood the earth with their cold tears, the warm dawn begins to peak from the horizon, bringing with it a bright promise of new beginnings. It’s always great to be reminded that yesterday belongs in the past and with it all the things that happened then are now but memories. Everyday is always a chance to forget and start anew. As I go on the solemn journey home inside an old, rusty and rickety jeepney, I see the clarity of the things around us when they’re not yet blurred and obscured by the hurried traffic of everyday life. I am graced with the serenity of a mind not yet confronted by worry and mundane puzzlements and the lightness of a spirit not yet burdened with the rigorous demands of modern day survival. I feel the freedom from the misleading chaos and confusion we live with everyday, from the unimportant preoccupations that throw themselves at us as the day goes wearily on.
As I look outside, feeling the breeze kindly caress my face, I notice how the path that leads me home seems pleasantly strange, like a foreign insect of sorts that strays into our backyard one summer afternoon, even when I’ve passed the same roads for years. I see how differently things look in the dim light of daybreak, how peaceful this world could be if we all stayed indoors and slept all day. I realize then how there is so much to be happy about, how very little we truly appreciate all the good around us. The gentle early morning sunshine seems to give me a good dose of happiness that lasts quite a while. Even the midday traffic and the noontime heat seem unable to drain or irritate me.
The night life isn’t so bad after all. Especially the morning after.
Well I guess as long as you're alive you can never really say never, because now I find myself eating (and choking on) my own fierce words.
Since last week, the daytime work schedule I’ve been comfortably on for the past year has been changed, and I’m suddenly back to working nights again. Of course if I really wanted to I could have just made a big, explosive, award-winning dramatic scene, resigned and stopped working altogether. Working in an outbound call center is a different, more profound kind of suffering compared to working for one that takes inbound calls. Instead of fighting off sleepiness at dawn, sitting on a swivel chair in a cold air-conditioned office, chit-chatting with seatmates while waiting for calls to be routed to your computer and then resolving irate clients’ issues while smiling quietly at their hurtful insults, you are tasked to make calls and promote a certain product or, say, a company and its services. It is always a struggle, a constant battle to meet expectations and consistently produce output like sad and sick old hens in an egg factory that reeks of noxious ammonia. It’s very tiring. Not to mention now that I’m working nights, where my frail body is forced to realign itself with new, nocturnal concepts of time and space, and my clock has to turn the other way around, unlearning all that it has now mastered over the years. Despite the redundant statements I continuously make about how difficult the job is, especially now, for some reason, I’ve found the courage to just stick around, wait and see how things turn out.
When I started working in a call center years ago I discovered there was so much about the job that I wasn't prepared for just yet, and some things I didn't even expect I’d find myself face to face with. No amount of preparation would have prepared me for what I was going to go through. And I didn’t make any, anyway. I still feel the same way. However, since life has taken me down this path again, despite my efforts to the contrary, I see no wisdom in putting up resistance. And I’m tired of making such a big deal about it, either. Instead of complaining about how horrible working at night is, I’m instead trying my best to see the good in the night life, my newly revived night life. I’m learning to appreciate things the way they are now. And I find there are some good things in this after all. A lot of good things, actually, that I somehow missed the first time around. I guess the gift of hindsight becomes better and better over time.
I find it wonderful how, instead of leaving home as the rest of the world begins a day, you see how the world ends a day as you wake up to begin yours. It is an entirely new experience when you begin to live your life upside down. You begin to see things differently, like turning a detailed portrait on a different angle and seeing another perspective of the beautiful picture. Despite the initial strain of adjusting to the drastic change in the hours when I’m awake, I find that working nights gives me a fresh way of looking at things, a view that I possibly could not even get while I’m up in the day. For all I know it could all just be something brought about by my altered mental chemistry. I don’t know. Still, I find it quite a revelation.
In the morning, just as I go home even before the rainclouds wake up to wring themselves dry and flood the earth with their cold tears, the warm dawn begins to peak from the horizon, bringing with it a bright promise of new beginnings. It’s always great to be reminded that yesterday belongs in the past and with it all the things that happened then are now but memories. Everyday is always a chance to forget and start anew. As I go on the solemn journey home inside an old, rusty and rickety jeepney, I see the clarity of the things around us when they’re not yet blurred and obscured by the hurried traffic of everyday life. I am graced with the serenity of a mind not yet confronted by worry and mundane puzzlements and the lightness of a spirit not yet burdened with the rigorous demands of modern day survival. I feel the freedom from the misleading chaos and confusion we live with everyday, from the unimportant preoccupations that throw themselves at us as the day goes wearily on.
As I look outside, feeling the breeze kindly caress my face, I notice how the path that leads me home seems pleasantly strange, like a foreign insect of sorts that strays into our backyard one summer afternoon, even when I’ve passed the same roads for years. I see how differently things look in the dim light of daybreak, how peaceful this world could be if we all stayed indoors and slept all day. I realize then how there is so much to be happy about, how very little we truly appreciate all the good around us. The gentle early morning sunshine seems to give me a good dose of happiness that lasts quite a while. Even the midday traffic and the noontime heat seem unable to drain or irritate me.
The night life isn’t so bad after all. Especially the morning after.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Uncanny heroes
Last week I was talking to a newfound friend and at one rather dreary point of the conversation (perhaps because I had surprisingly run out of interesting things to say, which isn’t very often, trust me) I asked him if he was into comic books as well. I had not yet read the latest issues released this month (or last month!) so I thought of asking him, just in case he knew what had happened to my favorite team of outlaw mutants, the Uncanny X-Men. He did not. Apparently, like many people I know who used to like them too back in the day, he thought the story of these comic book heroes had become increasingly complicated over the years, and he had lost whatever little interest he had in them then and the complex imaginary universe they now moved in. I might have even freaked him out a bit asking such a silly question. And so the subject died a sad, quiet, natural death and the topic was quickly changed, like an old pen unceremoniously replaced with a new one the moment it runs out of ink and becomes useless.
Later, when all other more important matters had been thought of and worried about, and my mind had loosened up enough to entertain the usual throng of trivial musings that regularly come to visit, the little incident had me thinking about why I continue to read and obsessively collect comic books (among other things) to this day. It’s a very geeky hobby, really. I don’t know. There has always been something uncanny about the X-Men that greatly appealed to me, even as a neurotic little child. Ever since the animated cartoon series premiered on weekend primetime TV back in the 90’s, I have tried my best to follow their adventures, fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. But whereas all my classmates and childhood friends (who, at that time, became my playmates as we each pretended to be one of the superheroes) had now all but forgotten about them, I still pretty much live in the comic book world we all used to play in. Reading the comic books is, like sleeping with the blanket over my head, one of the early childhood habits I have had little success growing out of, an addiction I am yet to fully overcome.
When I was younger, it was nothing more than just an entertaining pastime, like all the others children often find themselves so preoccupied with. The images were vivid, bright and colorful, a source of both admiration and inspiration for my young artistic inclinations. It was in comic books that I saw things I could never see in real life, strange, almost mythical creatures and monsters, villains corrupted by the darkness of greed and hunger for supremacy, and of course, extraordinary people in carnivalesque costumes using their unique abilities and powers to save the world from all evil. Every child enjoys that kind of visual stimulation. I was amazed at all the wonderful things I saw on the pages of the comic books. There were all these interesting characters, people who were different from the rest yet somehow the same as everyone else. There was this bald paraplegic who could read minds, a man who could fire blasts from his eyes, a man with angel wings, a woman who could move objects around with her mind, a man who was all blue and furry but was very smart, a man with claws whose wounds healed quicker than anyone else’s, a woman who could control the weather, a girl who could walk through walls, and so many others. They each possessed a power that set them far apart from the rest of humanity, abilities they either regarded as gifts or curses, talents they either used for good or for evil.
But there was always something different about the X -Men. They weren’t just normal superheroes who saved the world every single day and were worshipped and adored by the people they protected, paraded down the city streets on flowery floats and showered with colorful confetti with people screaming and clapping as they went by. Despite constantly fighting to defend the world from evil, they remained outcasts, outlaws who were feared and loathed because they were different, heroes who remained unsung and unrecognized because some of them looked more like villains. They hid behind underground headquarters, codenames and masks to keep their identities and lives secret, safe from the knowledge of those who were disgusted by their genetic “disease” and those who found it hard to accept that they were of good use to society despite their deviations.
As time passed the comic books began to appeal not only to my childish imagination and hungry mind, but started becoming more and more intellectually meaningful to me as well. I started realizing they not only entertained me and helped me pass idle time, but also left me many lessons about life and how we should live it. Each one of us, in our own odd way, is an outcast, a misfit who constantly struggles to belong. I’m sure at one point in our lives or another we have all known what it felt like to be treated unfairly simply because we were different. Just because you are fat, or poor, or ugly, or uneducated, or black, or blind, or gay, or hunchbacked, the way the world treats you changes. It pains me that the first reaction of most people (who themselves are far from perfect) is to shun and reject something they don’t understand rather than seeking, at least trying, to understand it. They are quick to judge and condemn those who are foreign, those who are unusual, those who are different, those who are unlike them. Many of us often forget that there is something about each one of us, little idiosyncrasies, which certainly set us apart from the rest and makes us different in one way or another. The comic books that I read constantly remind me of the value of unquestioning respect, love, kindness, understanding, and acceptance.
We often choose to separate ourselves from each other for a variety of rather ridiculous reasons, reasons which to me, shouldn’t even be there to be considered in the first place. Religion, sex, race, physical appearance, and all other discriminatory labels we have successfully managed to create for ourselves have all become excuses for forgetting fairness and equality and throwing these values out the door. We all seem to struggle to fit in that we forget we have all that it takes it stand out. Rather than molding ourselves to become our own unique creation, we instead mold ourselves into becoming what everyone else already is. And then those who are unfortunately unable to fit in, despite their hope to the contrary, are left outside the circle, abandoned, scorned, feared, hated, ridiculed, humiliated, and sometimes even stoned to death, fed to the lions and burned at the stakes. Well, it’s been a while since I last heard anyone being stoned to death, fed to the lions or burned at the stakes, but yes, it does happen every now and then.
I don’t think God, in His wisdom and unconditional love, would even judge us the way we do ourselves. It seems to me we are the ones who condemn each other as sinners and criminals, forgetting that at the very end of it all only God can truly tell us who has been good and who has been bad, who deserves His love and who does not. I even think that to Him we all deserve His love. Even those of us who choose to believe otherwise. I pray, for all our sakes, that I’m correct.
These comic books remind me that there is wealth in diversity, that there is nothing wrong with being different. They remind me that in this life, in this world, there should not be a place for hate and prejudice, only compassion and empathy. When you come to think about it, we all have what it takes to be our own heroes. Uncanny, but heroes nonetheless. So go on, read a comic book or two. You might learn a few good lessons, too. And maybe the world will be a better place to live in
Later, when all other more important matters had been thought of and worried about, and my mind had loosened up enough to entertain the usual throng of trivial musings that regularly come to visit, the little incident had me thinking about why I continue to read and obsessively collect comic books (among other things) to this day. It’s a very geeky hobby, really. I don’t know. There has always been something uncanny about the X-Men that greatly appealed to me, even as a neurotic little child. Ever since the animated cartoon series premiered on weekend primetime TV back in the 90’s, I have tried my best to follow their adventures, fighting to protect a world that hates and fears them. But whereas all my classmates and childhood friends (who, at that time, became my playmates as we each pretended to be one of the superheroes) had now all but forgotten about them, I still pretty much live in the comic book world we all used to play in. Reading the comic books is, like sleeping with the blanket over my head, one of the early childhood habits I have had little success growing out of, an addiction I am yet to fully overcome.
When I was younger, it was nothing more than just an entertaining pastime, like all the others children often find themselves so preoccupied with. The images were vivid, bright and colorful, a source of both admiration and inspiration for my young artistic inclinations. It was in comic books that I saw things I could never see in real life, strange, almost mythical creatures and monsters, villains corrupted by the darkness of greed and hunger for supremacy, and of course, extraordinary people in carnivalesque costumes using their unique abilities and powers to save the world from all evil. Every child enjoys that kind of visual stimulation. I was amazed at all the wonderful things I saw on the pages of the comic books. There were all these interesting characters, people who were different from the rest yet somehow the same as everyone else. There was this bald paraplegic who could read minds, a man who could fire blasts from his eyes, a man with angel wings, a woman who could move objects around with her mind, a man who was all blue and furry but was very smart, a man with claws whose wounds healed quicker than anyone else’s, a woman who could control the weather, a girl who could walk through walls, and so many others. They each possessed a power that set them far apart from the rest of humanity, abilities they either regarded as gifts or curses, talents they either used for good or for evil.
But there was always something different about the X -Men. They weren’t just normal superheroes who saved the world every single day and were worshipped and adored by the people they protected, paraded down the city streets on flowery floats and showered with colorful confetti with people screaming and clapping as they went by. Despite constantly fighting to defend the world from evil, they remained outcasts, outlaws who were feared and loathed because they were different, heroes who remained unsung and unrecognized because some of them looked more like villains. They hid behind underground headquarters, codenames and masks to keep their identities and lives secret, safe from the knowledge of those who were disgusted by their genetic “disease” and those who found it hard to accept that they were of good use to society despite their deviations.
As time passed the comic books began to appeal not only to my childish imagination and hungry mind, but started becoming more and more intellectually meaningful to me as well. I started realizing they not only entertained me and helped me pass idle time, but also left me many lessons about life and how we should live it. Each one of us, in our own odd way, is an outcast, a misfit who constantly struggles to belong. I’m sure at one point in our lives or another we have all known what it felt like to be treated unfairly simply because we were different. Just because you are fat, or poor, or ugly, or uneducated, or black, or blind, or gay, or hunchbacked, the way the world treats you changes. It pains me that the first reaction of most people (who themselves are far from perfect) is to shun and reject something they don’t understand rather than seeking, at least trying, to understand it. They are quick to judge and condemn those who are foreign, those who are unusual, those who are different, those who are unlike them. Many of us often forget that there is something about each one of us, little idiosyncrasies, which certainly set us apart from the rest and makes us different in one way or another. The comic books that I read constantly remind me of the value of unquestioning respect, love, kindness, understanding, and acceptance.
We often choose to separate ourselves from each other for a variety of rather ridiculous reasons, reasons which to me, shouldn’t even be there to be considered in the first place. Religion, sex, race, physical appearance, and all other discriminatory labels we have successfully managed to create for ourselves have all become excuses for forgetting fairness and equality and throwing these values out the door. We all seem to struggle to fit in that we forget we have all that it takes it stand out. Rather than molding ourselves to become our own unique creation, we instead mold ourselves into becoming what everyone else already is. And then those who are unfortunately unable to fit in, despite their hope to the contrary, are left outside the circle, abandoned, scorned, feared, hated, ridiculed, humiliated, and sometimes even stoned to death, fed to the lions and burned at the stakes. Well, it’s been a while since I last heard anyone being stoned to death, fed to the lions or burned at the stakes, but yes, it does happen every now and then.
I don’t think God, in His wisdom and unconditional love, would even judge us the way we do ourselves. It seems to me we are the ones who condemn each other as sinners and criminals, forgetting that at the very end of it all only God can truly tell us who has been good and who has been bad, who deserves His love and who does not. I even think that to Him we all deserve His love. Even those of us who choose to believe otherwise. I pray, for all our sakes, that I’m correct.
These comic books remind me that there is wealth in diversity, that there is nothing wrong with being different. They remind me that in this life, in this world, there should not be a place for hate and prejudice, only compassion and empathy. When you come to think about it, we all have what it takes to be our own heroes. Uncanny, but heroes nonetheless. So go on, read a comic book or two. You might learn a few good lessons, too. And maybe the world will be a better place to live in
The lessons Professor Frank taught me
No I’ve never had a teacher named Frank before. I don’t even remember ever personally knowing anyone who goes by the name Frank. Not even someone who uses it as an alias, nickname, or pseudonym. I mean Frank or Fengshen or whatever other meteorological nomenclature it’s designated, the latest tropical storm that entered and left, in all its devastating glory, Philippine shores. Yes, the tropical storm that violently swept through the country during the weekend left me, aside from all the floating debris and human implements and cold corpses, many lessons in its wake. Nature has always been, despite (and maybe because of) its ruthlessness, one of the best teachers of humanity.
While the storm unleashed Nature’s fury upon all of us poor, helpless mortals, I found it had also unearthed many lessons buried deep in the fathomless pits of my mind, lessons I’m sure I’ve been taught before, lessons I’m sure I’ve learned in the past but had somehow unlearned and already long forgotten. Still, finding those lessons again despite the fact that a storm was ripping and tearing the city to shreds was a pleasant gift of knowledge and wisdom from an otherwise vicious force of nature. It was as if the storm dragged me by the hand, made me sit still inside a small classroom in my mind, pulled out some chalk and charts and flash cards, and began lecturing me while scribbling down some very important lessons on the blackboard. I diligently took down notes on my mental pad somewhere, and highlighted them just to be sure.
One would think that witnessing yet another terrifying exhibition of the earth’s power and wrath would scare the hell out of me, remind me not to mess with the sacred balance of nature, and maybe warn everybody else to stop cutting down old trees and do the same. Ironically, lessons on respecting life and nature and throwing one’s garbage where one ought to, never, not even once, crossed my mind throughout the rather fierce tempest. Seeing the storm lash out at everything did not surprise me. To me, we’ve always had it coming, and it was only a matter of time before our irresponsible exploitation of the already dying environment would trigger it to brutally retaliate and give us a tragic taste of our own harsh medicine. We are now merely reaping the putrid fruits of our abusive labor, suffering the consequences of decades upon decades of unrelenting environmental devastation in exchange of seemingly unnecessary industrial advancement. The calamity was merely waiting to happen, a catastrophe waiting to explode. Once again, we’ve no one else to blame but ourselves.
Anyway, the disastrous weather failed to remind me of all that. There was no need to. Instead, it made me think of other things. Last week I worked on a graveyard shift. I was on my way to work one night, and the storm had barely made itself known yet. There was hardly any sign of rain. Shortly after I had boarded an empty jeepney to leave home, however, rain began to pour in a way that it had not in recent months. It was like someone had suddenly remembered we had not had our share of rain in the past few months, and poured the entire bucket of cold rainwater over our heads right there and then. Suddenly, while musingly looking out at the rain through the jeepney’s now plastic-covered window, a little epiphany was born in my mind. The universe always seems able to find its balance. Lately I’ve had problems dealing with loneliness and depression and confusion, the kind of sad dilemmas that typify mid-life crises, tying old people down like heavy manacles and anvils. And to think I’m barely out of adolescence. I’ve had difficulty figuring out my direction in life, the path I want to take in moving on to the future, and I’ve been feeling lost in all the uncertainty as it has been increasingly difficult to keep in touch with people I’ve always had around me until very recently. I found it hard being alone.
That rainy night, however, I was not bothered by it at all. Even while I rode the jeepney alone, loneliness couldn’t creep its way into me, the melodic falling of the rain entertaining me and keeping all petty thoughts out of mind. I was alone with myself, but I wasn’t lonely at all. I was happy by myself, just staring out at ephemeral ripples on the drenched streets and keeping myself wonderfully warm against the chill of the breeze. Indeed, the universe has ways of keeping its balance. While, upon getting home after being stranded in the office for half a day as the storm raged on, I found out that water supply disappeared as power lines, among other things, were toppled down by the furious winds and electricity blacked out, the typhoon brought with it more than enough ice-cold rainwater to meet our needs, filling our tubs and pails and tabos and pitchers to the brim. While the TV, radio, and computer were rendered inert and useless by the widespread blackout, I had new comic books to read and new thoughts to ponder on to keep myself entertained.
Despite the external turmoil, I found inner peace. As the wind bellowed ominously outside, thrashing and beating its strong, hard fists against all that stood defiantly in its way, and the rain fell heavily like angry war era bombs and missiles on the ground, I was quiet on my bed, almost serene. The ensuing disaster did not scare me. It lulled me to sleep, whispering comforting nonsense into my ears. All the ironically pleasant noise the environment around me created drowned whatever troubling mental chaos that was swirling around me, allowing me to think the way I would always like to, clearly and peacefully.
In those rare moments of lucid tranquility, I realized that it sometimes takes as much as a storm to change one’s state of mind. Sometimes all you really need is an entirely new perspective, another point of view, to see the beauty in an otherwise ugly life. Before you can find and appreciate the calm in the eye of the storm, you must first lose it in all the surrounding chaos.
Sometimes you have to lose something before you realize you already had it. I haven’t washed any of the dirty clothes sitting patiently on my hamper the past few days, putting off doing the laundry one tomorrow after another. What monumental difference would one day make in washing off the dirt and dust of everyday life from my clothes anyway? I found better things to do than hauling all that dirty apparel into the washing machine, filling it up with water, pouring in foamy detergent soap, turning the dial and sitting on a stool beside the humming and churning electrical appliance while washing some more shirts by hand inside a plastic basin. I had to it on a weekend, when my time was my own and when life was running at a pace that I alone commanded. Then came the weekend. And the storm. Just like that, I lost a bright, sunny day or two that would have been perfect for doing the laundry. Obviously now I couldn’t wash my clothes, wring them and leave them hanging to dry up on the clothes line under all that wind and rain.
The opportunity had stopped knocking on my door, turned around upset and left stomping its feet heavily on the ground. Good thing some opportunities, like doing the laundry and other household chores, don’t just knock once. They do so persistently every once in a while. But what if it were the last chance I would have ever had to wash my clothes and dry them under the sun? What if the storm had never stopped and the sun didn’t come out ever again? I would have most certainly been stuck with damp, dirty clothes forever.
Never let an opportunity pass you by. Never hesitate to grab it by the neck (or whatever body part you prefer grabbing) the first instant it presents itself. Every moment spent thinking twice about whether or not to take the opportunity is a moment lost forever, a moment that could have possibly cost you the opportunity itself. You never know, the same opportunity might not come your way again, and it would have completely disappeared from your life permanently. In one seemingly harmless moment of hesitation, you could have lost something that was really meant for you in the first place, and sadly, you will never have the chance of finding it again.
Amazing how it took an entire tropical storm annihilating civilization as we presently know it just to make me realize all these things. I guess the storm taught me well. I’ll try and keep those lessons in mind as long as I can. Just in case some substitute typhoon comes and gives a pop quiz.
While the storm unleashed Nature’s fury upon all of us poor, helpless mortals, I found it had also unearthed many lessons buried deep in the fathomless pits of my mind, lessons I’m sure I’ve been taught before, lessons I’m sure I’ve learned in the past but had somehow unlearned and already long forgotten. Still, finding those lessons again despite the fact that a storm was ripping and tearing the city to shreds was a pleasant gift of knowledge and wisdom from an otherwise vicious force of nature. It was as if the storm dragged me by the hand, made me sit still inside a small classroom in my mind, pulled out some chalk and charts and flash cards, and began lecturing me while scribbling down some very important lessons on the blackboard. I diligently took down notes on my mental pad somewhere, and highlighted them just to be sure.
One would think that witnessing yet another terrifying exhibition of the earth’s power and wrath would scare the hell out of me, remind me not to mess with the sacred balance of nature, and maybe warn everybody else to stop cutting down old trees and do the same. Ironically, lessons on respecting life and nature and throwing one’s garbage where one ought to, never, not even once, crossed my mind throughout the rather fierce tempest. Seeing the storm lash out at everything did not surprise me. To me, we’ve always had it coming, and it was only a matter of time before our irresponsible exploitation of the already dying environment would trigger it to brutally retaliate and give us a tragic taste of our own harsh medicine. We are now merely reaping the putrid fruits of our abusive labor, suffering the consequences of decades upon decades of unrelenting environmental devastation in exchange of seemingly unnecessary industrial advancement. The calamity was merely waiting to happen, a catastrophe waiting to explode. Once again, we’ve no one else to blame but ourselves.
Anyway, the disastrous weather failed to remind me of all that. There was no need to. Instead, it made me think of other things. Last week I worked on a graveyard shift. I was on my way to work one night, and the storm had barely made itself known yet. There was hardly any sign of rain. Shortly after I had boarded an empty jeepney to leave home, however, rain began to pour in a way that it had not in recent months. It was like someone had suddenly remembered we had not had our share of rain in the past few months, and poured the entire bucket of cold rainwater over our heads right there and then. Suddenly, while musingly looking out at the rain through the jeepney’s now plastic-covered window, a little epiphany was born in my mind. The universe always seems able to find its balance. Lately I’ve had problems dealing with loneliness and depression and confusion, the kind of sad dilemmas that typify mid-life crises, tying old people down like heavy manacles and anvils. And to think I’m barely out of adolescence. I’ve had difficulty figuring out my direction in life, the path I want to take in moving on to the future, and I’ve been feeling lost in all the uncertainty as it has been increasingly difficult to keep in touch with people I’ve always had around me until very recently. I found it hard being alone.
That rainy night, however, I was not bothered by it at all. Even while I rode the jeepney alone, loneliness couldn’t creep its way into me, the melodic falling of the rain entertaining me and keeping all petty thoughts out of mind. I was alone with myself, but I wasn’t lonely at all. I was happy by myself, just staring out at ephemeral ripples on the drenched streets and keeping myself wonderfully warm against the chill of the breeze. Indeed, the universe has ways of keeping its balance. While, upon getting home after being stranded in the office for half a day as the storm raged on, I found out that water supply disappeared as power lines, among other things, were toppled down by the furious winds and electricity blacked out, the typhoon brought with it more than enough ice-cold rainwater to meet our needs, filling our tubs and pails and tabos and pitchers to the brim. While the TV, radio, and computer were rendered inert and useless by the widespread blackout, I had new comic books to read and new thoughts to ponder on to keep myself entertained.
Despite the external turmoil, I found inner peace. As the wind bellowed ominously outside, thrashing and beating its strong, hard fists against all that stood defiantly in its way, and the rain fell heavily like angry war era bombs and missiles on the ground, I was quiet on my bed, almost serene. The ensuing disaster did not scare me. It lulled me to sleep, whispering comforting nonsense into my ears. All the ironically pleasant noise the environment around me created drowned whatever troubling mental chaos that was swirling around me, allowing me to think the way I would always like to, clearly and peacefully.
In those rare moments of lucid tranquility, I realized that it sometimes takes as much as a storm to change one’s state of mind. Sometimes all you really need is an entirely new perspective, another point of view, to see the beauty in an otherwise ugly life. Before you can find and appreciate the calm in the eye of the storm, you must first lose it in all the surrounding chaos.
Sometimes you have to lose something before you realize you already had it. I haven’t washed any of the dirty clothes sitting patiently on my hamper the past few days, putting off doing the laundry one tomorrow after another. What monumental difference would one day make in washing off the dirt and dust of everyday life from my clothes anyway? I found better things to do than hauling all that dirty apparel into the washing machine, filling it up with water, pouring in foamy detergent soap, turning the dial and sitting on a stool beside the humming and churning electrical appliance while washing some more shirts by hand inside a plastic basin. I had to it on a weekend, when my time was my own and when life was running at a pace that I alone commanded. Then came the weekend. And the storm. Just like that, I lost a bright, sunny day or two that would have been perfect for doing the laundry. Obviously now I couldn’t wash my clothes, wring them and leave them hanging to dry up on the clothes line under all that wind and rain.
The opportunity had stopped knocking on my door, turned around upset and left stomping its feet heavily on the ground. Good thing some opportunities, like doing the laundry and other household chores, don’t just knock once. They do so persistently every once in a while. But what if it were the last chance I would have ever had to wash my clothes and dry them under the sun? What if the storm had never stopped and the sun didn’t come out ever again? I would have most certainly been stuck with damp, dirty clothes forever.
Never let an opportunity pass you by. Never hesitate to grab it by the neck (or whatever body part you prefer grabbing) the first instant it presents itself. Every moment spent thinking twice about whether or not to take the opportunity is a moment lost forever, a moment that could have possibly cost you the opportunity itself. You never know, the same opportunity might not come your way again, and it would have completely disappeared from your life permanently. In one seemingly harmless moment of hesitation, you could have lost something that was really meant for you in the first place, and sadly, you will never have the chance of finding it again.
Amazing how it took an entire tropical storm annihilating civilization as we presently know it just to make me realize all these things. I guess the storm taught me well. I’ll try and keep those lessons in mind as long as I can. Just in case some substitute typhoon comes and gives a pop quiz.
As it is
People say change is always good. I’m not so sure about that. I’ve always been, shall we say, afraid of change, afraid of whatever new and unfamiliar things it would bring and all that would disappear, be pushed aside and replaced by them. I’ve always preferred the law of inertia, keeping things as they already are, maintaining the status quo, and not fixing anything if nothing is broken anyway. But change is something you simply can’t oppose, can you? It’s intricately woven into everything we are, everything we do, everything we wear, say, hear, eat, smell, and feel, something we cannot remove without disrupting the peace and order of this great big universe. It’s something beyond our control, like the forces of nature that constantly remind us there are some things in this life and this world we have no other choice but to wholeheartedly accept. So we’re forced to embrace change, whether we like it or not, like an old long lost relative you don’t really remember or recognize but hug anyway just to avoid hurting any feelings.
Lately a lot of changes have been taking place where I work, and I can say not all of them are good. Not even most of them. Most of the people I’ve known and worked with in the last few months have either been terminated or resigned just before they were terminated, leaving me with four other employees to work with on a newly imposed graveyard shift. Now, working with only four other people in a call center that supposedly seats around fifty after a massive retrenchment is not a challenge to me, as being antisocial and reclusive is a phase that comes to me naturally every now and then. But reversing my circadian rhythm and working under harsh conditions at night when all the world sleeps in peace isn’t as easy as turning back the hands of time on an old watch. Believe me, I’ve tried it before and I almost killed myself doing it, chopping off at least a decade from my already short lifespan. I’m not sure whether I can do it again, whether I’m willing to take on this change and leave home for work in the darkness of the night, when everyone else is wrapping up their day with a nice warm supper on the dinner table with their family. Once again, another dilemma to resolve. If it were up to me, I’d take on this like it were nothing. But my body disagrees. Every fiber of my corporeal being, from my big, fatty brain down to the very minute cells that shape the entirety of me, tells me something is amiss whenever I try to disregard my usual concepts of time and space and stay up all night working in front of a computer, talking endlessly while the air conditioner blows frigid wisps of air all around me. By the time my shift ends I feel like a frozen solid piece of meat, immobile and cold. It has been days since my first graveyard shift in months and still my joints have not forgiven me despite the rest I’ve taken.
Last night, just before falling asleep, when all conscious efforts at contemplation were slowly swallowed by my surrender to exhaustion and slumber, a sudden thought raced across my mind like a rabbit sprinting across a meadow. Life is under a no return, no exchange policy. Even if it’s not exactly what you want, you can’t just come up to God’s customer service lane, reason out it has a factory defect, give it back and demand for a refund or a decent replacement. What you get is made especially for you, something uniquely your own and different from everyone else’s, customized to fit your needs and your personality. It is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Even if it doesn’t exactly fit your taste or style. It’s more of a present than a product you purchased, and therefore even if you don’t like it, you get to keep it and have to be thankful for it. You didn’t shop around and pay for it in the first place. It was just given to you, as it is. And you don’t need to worry either because you’re not stuck with it forever, anyway. When the time is right and you’ve already learned to appreciate it and had your share of fun with it, God will take it back and put it away for good in some stockroom. So enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t be that long.
I’m learning to take life just as it is, as it comes. You can’t force or bend it into becoming something perfect. When life gives you lemons, no matter how sour they may be, you have to make lemonade out of them. Otherwise you’ll just have to throw them away and waste the opportunity, because lemons will always be lemons, and lemon seeds will eventually grow into even more lemon trees that will bear fruit to even more lemons to make lemonade out of, no matter how much you hope and pray and experiment with genetics to turn them into sweet apples. There is no point to resisting change, as it is the only thing that remains constant all throughout. Our lives change whenever they are supposed to, and there is nothing we can do about it but accept the changes and live whatever that remains of our lives with these changes. I’ve realized that no matter how much you complain to God and call His 24 hour customer service hotline to tell Him how badly screwed up your life is, He won’t be sending you another one to replace it. You’ll have to make do with what you have and make the most out of it, because as far as He’s concerned, it’s all you could ever really need and want. I guess the slogan the customer is always right does not apply either.
Lately a lot of changes have been taking place where I work, and I can say not all of them are good. Not even most of them. Most of the people I’ve known and worked with in the last few months have either been terminated or resigned just before they were terminated, leaving me with four other employees to work with on a newly imposed graveyard shift. Now, working with only four other people in a call center that supposedly seats around fifty after a massive retrenchment is not a challenge to me, as being antisocial and reclusive is a phase that comes to me naturally every now and then. But reversing my circadian rhythm and working under harsh conditions at night when all the world sleeps in peace isn’t as easy as turning back the hands of time on an old watch. Believe me, I’ve tried it before and I almost killed myself doing it, chopping off at least a decade from my already short lifespan. I’m not sure whether I can do it again, whether I’m willing to take on this change and leave home for work in the darkness of the night, when everyone else is wrapping up their day with a nice warm supper on the dinner table with their family. Once again, another dilemma to resolve. If it were up to me, I’d take on this like it were nothing. But my body disagrees. Every fiber of my corporeal being, from my big, fatty brain down to the very minute cells that shape the entirety of me, tells me something is amiss whenever I try to disregard my usual concepts of time and space and stay up all night working in front of a computer, talking endlessly while the air conditioner blows frigid wisps of air all around me. By the time my shift ends I feel like a frozen solid piece of meat, immobile and cold. It has been days since my first graveyard shift in months and still my joints have not forgiven me despite the rest I’ve taken.
Last night, just before falling asleep, when all conscious efforts at contemplation were slowly swallowed by my surrender to exhaustion and slumber, a sudden thought raced across my mind like a rabbit sprinting across a meadow. Life is under a no return, no exchange policy. Even if it’s not exactly what you want, you can’t just come up to God’s customer service lane, reason out it has a factory defect, give it back and demand for a refund or a decent replacement. What you get is made especially for you, something uniquely your own and different from everyone else’s, customized to fit your needs and your personality. It is exactly what you need, no more, no less. Even if it doesn’t exactly fit your taste or style. It’s more of a present than a product you purchased, and therefore even if you don’t like it, you get to keep it and have to be thankful for it. You didn’t shop around and pay for it in the first place. It was just given to you, as it is. And you don’t need to worry either because you’re not stuck with it forever, anyway. When the time is right and you’ve already learned to appreciate it and had your share of fun with it, God will take it back and put it away for good in some stockroom. So enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t be that long.
I’m learning to take life just as it is, as it comes. You can’t force or bend it into becoming something perfect. When life gives you lemons, no matter how sour they may be, you have to make lemonade out of them. Otherwise you’ll just have to throw them away and waste the opportunity, because lemons will always be lemons, and lemon seeds will eventually grow into even more lemon trees that will bear fruit to even more lemons to make lemonade out of, no matter how much you hope and pray and experiment with genetics to turn them into sweet apples. There is no point to resisting change, as it is the only thing that remains constant all throughout. Our lives change whenever they are supposed to, and there is nothing we can do about it but accept the changes and live whatever that remains of our lives with these changes. I’ve realized that no matter how much you complain to God and call His 24 hour customer service hotline to tell Him how badly screwed up your life is, He won’t be sending you another one to replace it. You’ll have to make do with what you have and make the most out of it, because as far as He’s concerned, it’s all you could ever really need and want. I guess the slogan the customer is always right does not apply either.
Medusa and I
It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon. It drizzled outside for quite a bit but it had since stopped as abruptly as it had begun. Normally, in the past ten months or so, I would find myself working even on drizzly Saturdays, slouched like a shackled slave in front of my radioactive workstation from the wee hours of the morning until way past noon, making outbound calls to California and suffering from all the subsequent occupational hazards of persistent telemarketing just to earn some money. But not this Saturday. I had had enough, I thought to myself, and I could no longer take the pressure that was part of my monotonous everyday work routine, so I took the day off.
Fine. I was suspended that day so it’s not like it was a willful decision I actually made on my own freedom and volition. Although I must admit lately I had been hatching diabolical schemes of absenteeism in my mind to try and save whatever’s left of me from dying of over-fatigue or sheer boredom. And somehow the universe, ever sympathetic, helped me fulfill those subconscious plans. I guess my disappointing performance of late sent a very clear message to the management that I was very near, if not already, burning out, and a short sabbatical was just what I needed to regroup and recharge myself. Let’s just say I was forced into taking a short leave of absence to give myself some time to breathe. And I happily agreed. I mean complied, as I didn’t have much of a choice, really.
And so that is how I found myself in some big mall that drizzly Saturday afternoon. Dressed to kill in my blazing red denim pants, white graphic tee shirt with Caravaggio’s Medusa’s estranged serpentine head printed on it and a trendy black and white scarf wrapped around my neck, I sipped bittersweet iced mocha frappe in one of the big mall’s coffee shops. Alone. While waiting to rendezvous with friends and spend the night out partying, singing and dancing, I found no one else to brandish the awesome big yellow bag I was toting to but strangers and passersby who couldn’t care any less about the intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details on the bag. There wasn’t much sense to it, I realized then, deliberately wearing such an outfit that made me conspicuously stand out like any standard road sign from the anonymous crowd that roamed the mall and not having anyone I knew to appreciate or even just notice it. Sad, I know. Even Medusa, stuck on my shirt, seemed bored stale.
Like the sharp aftertaste that pierced my tongue with each sip of caffeine, the painful reality of the situation grew even stronger as I continued to sit there with nothing but Medusa and the cold plastic cup of coffee to keep me company in a table made for two, and my big yellow bag with intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details sitting properly on the empty chair beside me. With nothing to do to pass the time but to force myself to be entertained by my cellphone’s obsolete and therefore understandably dreary features and habitually tilt my dark rimmed glasses to snugly rest on my nose bridge every now and then, I watched people hurriedly walk by, living their own lives in their own worlds, at their own time.
In hopes of breaking the silence that loomed over me like the dark clouds that hovered outside, I desperately looked on for people I knew, even in the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I got a headache doing that, although I did find some people I knew. In the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I found familiar faces here and there, people I must have known or met somewhere, maybe in my past life, but didn’t really personally know such that acknowledging their presence was unnecessary (and weird). Although I couldn’t prevent those rudely awkward moments when I met some of them eye to eye, and I had to therefore, out of social graces and politeness, force myself to raise my arm, wave and smile at acquaintances who didn’t even like me well enough to stop by and sit and talk awhile. After the quick hesitant hello was the even quicker goodbye, with them coming and going with the record breaking speed of light. They had their own lives, I guess, and they believed I had mine as well, two distinct pockets of time and space they obviously did not want to collide, even just momentarily. Medusa hissed as no one noticed her at all.
It’s funny how we always seem to find ourselves so lonely despite constantly being surrounded by a noisy crowd of people. On second thought, that doesn’t sound funny at all. Loneliness is a worldwide epidemic, it seems, one worse and more commonly widespread than say, obesity or stupidity. People always seem to find reasons to feel bad about themselves and the lives they lead, utterly consumed by melancholy and despair. We all seem to get depressed at some point in our lives. Some of us get depressed every now and again, while some of us are depressed all throughout.
Nevertheless, just before I had unconsciously pushed myself off the brink of sanity, I was able to snap out of all that, and realized that all that redundant thinking over a cup of iced coffee did me no good. It made me feel like I was sad because in dressing up I was merely seeking attention and social approval, the kind of emotional maturity troubled teenagers were entitled to. Technically, I’m no longer a teenager, so that doesn’t sound too good. I reminded myself that I dressed up for myself and not for anyone else. It didn’t matter if anyone else noticed what I was wearing or not. It didn’t matter if anyone else liked what I was wearing or not. At that moment of cold irony when I was so alone at the center of literally swarms of other people, I realized how dependent I had become on others to find happiness, becoming a parasite that relied on what others had to say for survival and feasted on whatever sense of social security, acceptance and belongingness the people around me could offer me. I had not realized that at all.
As if one of Medusa’s snakes suddenly came to life and bit me, I came to my senses and realized that I had failed terribly in keeping myself happy without the assistance of tools and trinkets and social appendices, and that I was now merely reliant on others to feed me with pleasure and a sense of significance, people and things I treated and regarded much the same way a crippled man would his crutches. Where would I be without those blessed crutches? Would I merely roll over and rot on one dark corner of the street, perpetually squatting like a fire hydrant and begging for alms until I died? Most probably. I could not bear to think I allowed myself to have become so weak.
I realized there was no need to be so needy. Medusa’s screaming face emblazoned on my shirt was all that I had. There was no one else to talk to. But it was enough. Somehow the poor decapitated Gorgon spoke to me, her forked tongue slithering in and out of her scaly reptilian lips as she reminded me: smile and the world smiles with you, frown and you frown alone. You’re the only person who will always be there anytime of the day to make yourself feel better. It made sense to me, I thought, and so I flipped the tail of the scarf that dangled down my neck over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t cover her mouth so much and muffle the wise words that came out of them. None of it sounded Greek to me, in fairness.
No one else but myself could make me happy, I realized, and I had found real happiness somewhere inside me, at least at that time. I was happy even if there was no one else to tell me so. My happiness did not rest on some other entity’s existence. It was mine to create, to find, to discover, and to relish in, within me. No amount of spineless dependence on others would lead me to the path I needed to take towards inner happiness. If it was to be, then it was all up to me. It all pretty much depended on how I chose to look at life, and whether I chose to be happy with it or not. I let out a sigh of relief and comfort. What a revelation.
In the end it was still just beheaded old Medusa and I who went home after the night long party, her mythical stare turning all those who looked at me into stone, devoured by the newfound glory of my presence. I walked with pride and confidence this time, with the knowledge that I did not necessarily need anyone to give me happiness, and that I could make my own healthy bowl of happiness if I needed to. I’m starting to believe that sanity and happiness really are an impossible combination.
Fine. I was suspended that day so it’s not like it was a willful decision I actually made on my own freedom and volition. Although I must admit lately I had been hatching diabolical schemes of absenteeism in my mind to try and save whatever’s left of me from dying of over-fatigue or sheer boredom. And somehow the universe, ever sympathetic, helped me fulfill those subconscious plans. I guess my disappointing performance of late sent a very clear message to the management that I was very near, if not already, burning out, and a short sabbatical was just what I needed to regroup and recharge myself. Let’s just say I was forced into taking a short leave of absence to give myself some time to breathe. And I happily agreed. I mean complied, as I didn’t have much of a choice, really.
And so that is how I found myself in some big mall that drizzly Saturday afternoon. Dressed to kill in my blazing red denim pants, white graphic tee shirt with Caravaggio’s Medusa’s estranged serpentine head printed on it and a trendy black and white scarf wrapped around my neck, I sipped bittersweet iced mocha frappe in one of the big mall’s coffee shops. Alone. While waiting to rendezvous with friends and spend the night out partying, singing and dancing, I found no one else to brandish the awesome big yellow bag I was toting to but strangers and passersby who couldn’t care any less about the intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details on the bag. There wasn’t much sense to it, I realized then, deliberately wearing such an outfit that made me conspicuously stand out like any standard road sign from the anonymous crowd that roamed the mall and not having anyone I knew to appreciate or even just notice it. Sad, I know. Even Medusa, stuck on my shirt, seemed bored stale.
Like the sharp aftertaste that pierced my tongue with each sip of caffeine, the painful reality of the situation grew even stronger as I continued to sit there with nothing but Medusa and the cold plastic cup of coffee to keep me company in a table made for two, and my big yellow bag with intricate skull and heart and diamond and spade and club details sitting properly on the empty chair beside me. With nothing to do to pass the time but to force myself to be entertained by my cellphone’s obsolete and therefore understandably dreary features and habitually tilt my dark rimmed glasses to snugly rest on my nose bridge every now and then, I watched people hurriedly walk by, living their own lives in their own worlds, at their own time.
In hopes of breaking the silence that loomed over me like the dark clouds that hovered outside, I desperately looked on for people I knew, even in the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I got a headache doing that, although I did find some people I knew. In the slightest, shallowest sense of the word. I found familiar faces here and there, people I must have known or met somewhere, maybe in my past life, but didn’t really personally know such that acknowledging their presence was unnecessary (and weird). Although I couldn’t prevent those rudely awkward moments when I met some of them eye to eye, and I had to therefore, out of social graces and politeness, force myself to raise my arm, wave and smile at acquaintances who didn’t even like me well enough to stop by and sit and talk awhile. After the quick hesitant hello was the even quicker goodbye, with them coming and going with the record breaking speed of light. They had their own lives, I guess, and they believed I had mine as well, two distinct pockets of time and space they obviously did not want to collide, even just momentarily. Medusa hissed as no one noticed her at all.
It’s funny how we always seem to find ourselves so lonely despite constantly being surrounded by a noisy crowd of people. On second thought, that doesn’t sound funny at all. Loneliness is a worldwide epidemic, it seems, one worse and more commonly widespread than say, obesity or stupidity. People always seem to find reasons to feel bad about themselves and the lives they lead, utterly consumed by melancholy and despair. We all seem to get depressed at some point in our lives. Some of us get depressed every now and again, while some of us are depressed all throughout.
Nevertheless, just before I had unconsciously pushed myself off the brink of sanity, I was able to snap out of all that, and realized that all that redundant thinking over a cup of iced coffee did me no good. It made me feel like I was sad because in dressing up I was merely seeking attention and social approval, the kind of emotional maturity troubled teenagers were entitled to. Technically, I’m no longer a teenager, so that doesn’t sound too good. I reminded myself that I dressed up for myself and not for anyone else. It didn’t matter if anyone else noticed what I was wearing or not. It didn’t matter if anyone else liked what I was wearing or not. At that moment of cold irony when I was so alone at the center of literally swarms of other people, I realized how dependent I had become on others to find happiness, becoming a parasite that relied on what others had to say for survival and feasted on whatever sense of social security, acceptance and belongingness the people around me could offer me. I had not realized that at all.
As if one of Medusa’s snakes suddenly came to life and bit me, I came to my senses and realized that I had failed terribly in keeping myself happy without the assistance of tools and trinkets and social appendices, and that I was now merely reliant on others to feed me with pleasure and a sense of significance, people and things I treated and regarded much the same way a crippled man would his crutches. Where would I be without those blessed crutches? Would I merely roll over and rot on one dark corner of the street, perpetually squatting like a fire hydrant and begging for alms until I died? Most probably. I could not bear to think I allowed myself to have become so weak.
I realized there was no need to be so needy. Medusa’s screaming face emblazoned on my shirt was all that I had. There was no one else to talk to. But it was enough. Somehow the poor decapitated Gorgon spoke to me, her forked tongue slithering in and out of her scaly reptilian lips as she reminded me: smile and the world smiles with you, frown and you frown alone. You’re the only person who will always be there anytime of the day to make yourself feel better. It made sense to me, I thought, and so I flipped the tail of the scarf that dangled down my neck over my shoulder so that it wouldn’t cover her mouth so much and muffle the wise words that came out of them. None of it sounded Greek to me, in fairness.
No one else but myself could make me happy, I realized, and I had found real happiness somewhere inside me, at least at that time. I was happy even if there was no one else to tell me so. My happiness did not rest on some other entity’s existence. It was mine to create, to find, to discover, and to relish in, within me. No amount of spineless dependence on others would lead me to the path I needed to take towards inner happiness. If it was to be, then it was all up to me. It all pretty much depended on how I chose to look at life, and whether I chose to be happy with it or not. I let out a sigh of relief and comfort. What a revelation.
In the end it was still just beheaded old Medusa and I who went home after the night long party, her mythical stare turning all those who looked at me into stone, devoured by the newfound glory of my presence. I walked with pride and confidence this time, with the knowledge that I did not necessarily need anyone to give me happiness, and that I could make my own healthy bowl of happiness if I needed to. I’m starting to believe that sanity and happiness really are an impossible combination.
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